CHAPTER XXI.—THfi STONE GAHBEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 658, 9 July 1864, Page 19

the butler's behaviour at leisure. I think, however, he could scarcely have expected me to stay at home with my books, while such doings as he had directed were on the point of taking place. Euripides was doubtless in his day a sensation dramatist, but the atrocities of Medea could not enchain me, with so much dreadful mystery afoot in my immediate neighborhood. Her departure through the air in a chariot drawu' by winged dragons, was indeed a striking circumstance ; but how much more wonderful was the disappearance of Sir Massingberd, who had departed, no man knew how.

The news had spread like wildfire through the village. Numbers of country folk were hanging about the great gates of the avenue, drinking in the imaginary information of the lodge-keeper ; but they did not venture to enter upon the forbidden ground. The universal belief among them was, I found, that their puissant lord would soon reveal himself. Doubting Castle, it was true, was for the present without its master ; but it was too much to expect that he would not return to it. The whole community resembled prisoners in that fortress, who, although temporarily relieved of the tyrant's presence, had little hope that he was only gone forth upon a ramble, and would presently return with renewed zest for human flesh. The general consternation, however, was extreme, and such as would probably not have been excited by the sudden and unexplained removal of a far better man. The rumour had already got abroad that there was to be an immediate search in the park, and that Oliver Bradford had been empowered to select such persons as he chose to assist in the same. There were innumerable volunteers for this undertaking,, principally on account of the excessive attraction of the work itself, which promised some ghastly revelation ; and, secondarily, for the mere pake of getting into Pairburn Chase at all — a demesne as totally unknown to the majority of those present as the Libyan Desert. The elders indeed remembered the time ■when a public footpath ran right through the Chase, "close the Heronry, and away under the Wolsey Oak, and so through Davit's Copse, into the high road to Crittenden," said one, "whereby a mile and a half was wont to be saved." " Ay, or two mile," quoth another ; " and Lawyer Moth always said as though the path ■was ours by right, until Sir Massingberd got his eon made a king's clerk in London which shut his mouth up and the path at the same time."

"Ay," said a third mysteriously, "and i it ain't too late to try the matter again, in case the property has got into otlier hands" < . This remark brought back at once the immediate cause of their assembling together, and I began to be made the victim of cross-examination. To avoid being compelled to give my own opinion (which I had already begun to think a slander) upon the matter in hand, I took my leave as quietly as could be, and escaped, whither they dared not follow me, through the griffin-guarded gates. All within was, as usual, silent and deserted. A few leaves were ttill left to flutter down in eddies from the trees, or hop and rustle on the frosty ground, but their scarcity looked more mournful than utter bareness would have done. It was now the saddest time of all the year ; the bleak east wind went wailing overhead; and, underneath, the soil was black with frost. Instead of pursuing the avenue to the front door of the Hall, where, as it seemed, I was not wanted, "l took a foot-track to the left, which I knew led to that bowling-green whither I had been previously invited by Sir Has3ing'benl, although I had not taken advantage of his rare courtesy. If he did now appear, no matter in what state of mental irritation, he could scarcely quarrel with Ime for doing the very thing he • had asked me to do. Had I known, however, the character of the place iv which I found myself, I should have reserved my visit fer a less eerie and mysterious occasion.

The time of year, it is true, had no unfavorable influence upon the scene that presented itself, for all was clothed in garments of thickest green. Vast walli of yew shut in on every side a lawn of perfect smoothness; everything proclaimed itself to belong to that portion of the Hall property which was "kept up*' by subsidy from ■without, The quaint oak-seats, though old, were in good repair; the yew-hedges dipped to a marvel. Still nothing could exceed the sombre and funereal aspect of the spot. It seemed impossible that such a sober game as bowls could ever have been played there, or jest and laughter broken that awful stillness. The southern yew-screen was in a crescent form, at the ends of which were openings unseen from within the enclosed space. Passing through one of these, I came upon what was called the Stone Garden. It took its name from four stone terraces, from the highest of which I knew that their must be a very extensive view. This space was likewise covered with yew-trees, clipped •ndcutin every conceivable form, after

the vile taste of the seventeenth century. There was something weird in the aspect were of those towering Kings and Queens — easily recognisable, however, for what they intended— and of those maids of Honor, with their gigantic ruffs and farthingales. One was almost; tempted to imagine that they had been human once, and been turned into yew-trees for their sing. The whole area was black with them ; and a sense of positive oppression, notwithstanding the eager air which caught me sharply whenever I lost the shelter of one of these ungainly forms, led me on to the top terrace, where one could breathe freely, and have something else than yews to look upon.

Truly, from thence the scene was wide and faif. I stood at that extremity of the pleasure grounds most remote from the Hall, and with my back to it. \ Before me lay a solitary tract of wooded park, thickly interspersed with planted knolls and cop-* pices. Immediately beneath me was the thicket called the Home Spinney, the fa vorite haunt of hare and pheasant, and the spot in all the Chase most cherished by Sir Massingberd. lie would have resented a burglary, I do believe, with less of fury than any trespass upon that sacred ground. Beyond the Spinney, and standing by itself, far removed from any other tree, was the famous Wolsey Oak. Why called so, I have not the least idea, for it had the reputation of being a vast ideal •lder than the days of the famous Cardinal. Many a summer had it seen — " When the mpnk was fat. And isuing shorn and sleek, Won'd twist nia girlie tight, and pit Tim girls upon the check; Ere yet, in scorn of Piter's Pence, And numbered beai and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the sppnue, And turricl tht> cowls adrift." Yet still was it said to be as whole and sound as a bell. It was calculated to measure over fourteen yards in circumference, and that for so many feet from its base ; while its height, although it had lost some of its upper branches, still iar exceeded that of any other of its compeers. Beyond this tree, but at another great interval, was the wood known as the Old Plantation, where Oliver Bradford had last seen his master alive. I was looking down then upon the very route which Sir Massingberd had been seen to commence, but which he had never ended. It was to the Home Spinney he had been apparently bound when Something— none knew what — had changed his purpose. He would probably have passed through it, and come up by that ; winding-path yonder to the spot where I now stood ; it was the nearest way home for him. Perhaps he had done so, although it was unlikely, since the watcher had not seen him. Perhaps those very yews behind me had concealed his murderers. Shut in by those unechoing walls of living green, no cry for aid would have been heard, evqn if Sir Massingberd had been the man to call for it; he would most certaialyjiave never asked for mercy. But, bark! what was that sound that froze the current of my blood, and set my heart boating and fluttering like the wings of a prisoned bird against its cage ? Was it a strangled cry for "Help!" repeated once, twice, thrice, or was it the wintry wind clanging and grinding the naked branches of the Spinney? A voice had terrified me in Fairburn Chase once before, which had turned out to be mere fancy ; but there was this horror about the present sound, that I seemed to dimly recognise it. It was the voice of Sir Massingberd Heath, with an awful change in it, as if a powerful hand were tightening upon his throat. It seemed, as I have said, to come from the direction of the copse beneath, and yet I determined to descend into it, rather than thread again the mazes of those melancholy yews. The idea of my assistance being really required, never entered into my thoughts ; what; I wanted was to escape from this solitude, peopled only with unearthly cries, and regain the companionship of my fellowcreatures. How I regretted having: left the society of those honest folk outside the gates ! To remain where I was, was impossible ; I should have gone mad. Fortunately, the Spinney was well-nigh leafless, and a bright but wintry sun penetrated it completely. I fled over its withered and frosted leaves, looking neither to left nor right till I ' leaped the deep ditch that formed its southern, boundary, and found myself in the open ; then I stopped indeed quite short, for before me, not ten paces fi om the Spinney, from which he must have ju3t emerged, lay the body of Grimjaw. It was si ill warm, but lifeless. There was no marks of violence about him ; the struggle to extricate himself from the ditch, it is probable, had cost the wretched creature his little remaining vitality, weakened as he must have doubtless been by his previous night's lodging on the cold stone steps. But how had he come thither, who never moved anywhere out of doors except with Sir Massingberd or Gilmore ? and whither, led perhaps by some mysterious instinct, was he going when Death had overtaken him— an easy task—- and glazed tUat soli-

tary eye, which had witnessed so much which wa3 still a mystery to man ? .

Was it possible that he had perished in endeavouring to obey his master's cry for aid? that terrible " Help! helo !" which rang in my ears a while ago as I stood in the Stone Garden — and which rin^s, through half a century, in them now ? ■

(To he continued!)