THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 972, 5 September 1889, Page 29

THE NOVELIST.

THE HOUSE IN THE FELLS, OR HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER.

By FABIAN BELL. Author of " Stella," " After Long Years," " The Letter in Cypher," &c.

There's a Divinity doth shape our ends, rough hew them how we will.— Shakbspeabb.

folk. It was just the spot for lingering, old - world superstitions. The belief in fairies had become extinct cnly within, the memory o£ man, and grandsires seated in the ingle nook still told tales that made the young blood creep and curdle round the hearts of their hearers.

And now the witch of Hortlemere, the fairies of the Force, and the ghost of wild Tom Yorke, who was supposed to hannt the upper waters of the Linn, among which he had perished some half century before, all gave way and faded into insignificance before the veritable, -well-established, undeniable ghost which had taken up its abode at We3tmeath Grange. Its presence had long been suspected, and denied ; — suspected by the credulous, denied by the strong-minded, among whom we must number the two Knightons; but now all denial was at an end, and the ghost- believers had it all their own way.

Chapter XXII.

The Ghost Again.— lsmayjFinds the Papers.

H many an inward laugh and chuckle did the shepherd listen to the wild eerie tales which fled like wildfire through the Fells, awakening a strange terror among the quiet country

The spectre had been seen. .• After this it was of no use to hint at rats or talk of the effect of imagination in an old house at midnight.

The spectre had been seen. That fact was incontrovertible, for had not half the servants left the next day, and had not Miss Enighton been ill from the fright ever since. Yes, the latter was certainly true. Judith was ill and changed ; the defiant look had given place to an awesome, weird gaze, as if the wild black eyes could see something which to all the rest of the world was invisible. She pever told anyone what it was she had seen in those old rooms, but she grew strangely anxious about her child ; and it was only after many years, when it had pleased God in His infinite mercy to take the stricken one to himself, that she confessed her bslief that she had then seen her son's wraith or double, supposed by the Northcountry folks to be a sure death-warning for him whose spirit walks the earth while its owner is still in the body. But though Judith did not speak of them, her changed manner and Jcountenance were very sufficient witnesses as to the uncanny nature of her experience ; and the imagination of the neighbourhood thus excited, thus let loose, soon strung together a pretty catalogue of horrors, which varied acoording to the taste of the narrator, from Hugh Glare as in life to Hugh Clare as in death, with gaping woundsand the corruption of the grave upon him. For beit observed although Judith declared that what she had seen was not Hugh Glare, or in any way like him, her protestations were treated with contempt and met by the very natural "remark :

" Was it likely anyone else would walk those rooms save he who had so foully met death in them ? Did not every one know that murdered men could never rest in their graves until someone was hung for the deed ? and whether Robert Glare was guilty or not, it was quite clear that no one had been hung for Hugh's murder yet."

To all these tale? Reuben listened in silence, and could not but be amused at the ridiculous and conflicting accounts which reached him, and marvel at the fear-distorted fancy that had formed of his fair young mistress so horrible a monster, and had given to a natural if unpleasant reconnoitre so spectral a meaning.

Meanwhile the accounts daily increased in absurdity as each teiler of the marvellous tried to outdo his fellow, and would by no means suffer him to relate a more horrible story than himself. ' Some of the least painful of these tales the shepherd repeated to Ismay, who was indeed infinitely distressed by them.

" Oh, Reuben," she cried, " I am sorry — very sorry. I wish I had not gone. But do you think thsy really took me for a ghost ? " "Aye, indeed, did they — yon sun is not more clear in the heavens. It's the talk of a' the Fells fra' here to Rysdale."

" I am sorry — oh 1 lam sorry. Ido not love that woman-— I have no cause to love her, for she has been a cruel enemy to me and mine ; but I would not give her needless pain, and still less would bring a scandal upon my old home, the safe abiding place of many a'century of Glares ; I would not have it shunned as haunted, and all through me. I am grieved that I went, or rather I am grieved that she saw me." "My bairnie, dinna feh yersel; they'll a' forget it, and the old house be no ill thocht o'."

" I hope so," and Ismay bent her head upon her hand in painful thought. But for the urgent, the resistless command which she dared not disobey, this strange mistake would have put a bar between . her and the House in the Fells for ever, But so it could not be now. -Despite the shrinking of her woman's heart from a subject so painful, despite her loathing horror of the murder and all connected with it, she felt she must go on, even though she ran the risk of being again taken for the restless spirit of her wretched and unfortunate. cousin.

"I am sorry," she said again — " lam sorry." " My bairnie, it was her am conscience," replied the thoughtful shepherd reflectively. " Had not her heart been o'er burdened wi' the fear and the dread of her sin, she wouldna' ha' started and rin frae a wee bit lassie, but would just ha' waited a bit, taken tent it was naething to fricht."

" It was well for me, Eeuben, that she did not wait," replied Ismay ; "so that on the whole I owe some debt of gratitude to her bad conscience, even if your remark be correct. But after all I was nearly as frightened of her as she was of me, and I do believe if she had waited one moment longer it was I who should have screened and fled, saying I had seen a ghost ; and indeed she looked so wild and terrible that I half deemed hex some visitant of another world." "May be so." "Yes, indeed, I was never so frightened in my life. Poor Judith 1 I cannot but pity her now, though she would not care for my pity. I wonder whether many ghost stories spring from such mistakes "

Keuben was inclined to doubt this, for although well disposed to smile at the present story, he was a true believer at heart, and by no means ready to give up the time-honoured legends of the hills to obliquy and contempt.

" Ghosts', and witches, and warlocks are a' spekit of i' the Beuk," he said, "and I dinna doubt there's a' many things as are no fish, flesh, and bluid i' this braw world o' ours," "Perhaps so," said Ismay; "and now, Eeuben, I would ask you something. Do you think after what has passed I should run much danger if I went to Westmeath again T and she looked fixedly and anxiously at him. The shepherd turned upon her quickly. v Oh, bairnie, bairnie ! canna ye let the dead rest 1 " " The dead 1 " " Yes. Isna' the past dead ? and why will ye rake it up again 2 " "Because I cannot rest ; because my whole life is a trouble and a burden to me ; because in that house are papers which I want — • papers which I must have. My father bid me get them with his dying breath, and I must obey him." " Oh ! my lady, do not go," cried Jessie, who formed one of the party, and to whom that "House in the Fells " appeared'a place of ill omen — a place from which nothing but evil ever reached her mistress — " do not go." " Foolish girl, I must."

"Bairnie, ye will repent it— ye will repent it ; dinna be sa wrong-headit. Ye ha' tried it oft enow ; it's a feckless doing, na fit for the Leddy Dyer an' the mistress o' Elmsleigh. Ah, lassie 1 ye ha' minded . me mony a time when ye wur young and wild; will ye na mind me noo though ye be a great leddy. Bairnie, ma am bairnie, I say dinna gang — dinna gang." . Lady Dyer clasped her hands over her brow. Was this action which she meditated indeed so unworthy of her and her position as her old friend thought ? Would Clement perhaps be angry when he knew all, and wish that she had waited for his advice 1 She did not know — she could not tell ; but what she did know was, that the anxiety and unrest were making her every day less fit for the work of the day, and less capable of judging what was right and what was wrong. She lifted up her face — she was growing confused.

" I do not know, I cannot see — oh, why will they not let me ask Clement ? I don't believe such a thing as that would hurt him, but the doctors say we must not risk it, and if it were to throw him back I could never forgive myself — neveT ; but I promised Robert —my father wished it. Ob, I wish I knew— lavish I knew."

Reuben stood doubtfully before her. He could not say more than he had done; she must decide for herself. He knew it as well as she did. - No one could take that responsibility from her. " Why don't you advise me, Reuben 1 " " I ha' done so, bairnie — dinna gang." "Do you think I shall be found out, then 1 "

" I said na sa bairnie ; but that tale of the ghost is ower weel believt ; ye will na be fasht wi' questions ; i' that noose ye may go or come till the day of doom, and the folk will be mair frichted ilka time. But ah, bairnie, for the sake of your am peace dinna gang." " Oh, Reuben, do not think me ungrateful or unkind. Dear friend, I would not willingly vex you ; I would gladly please you, but for the very reason that you give — for the sake of my own peace — I must go." " Ah, madam." "Ah, bairnie."

And the two humble friends looked at her sadly, as one should be looked at who, of her own free will, signs the death warrant of her happiness. " Do not reproach mejeither of you," cried Ismay. " I may be wrong— perhaps I am — but do not reproach me, and I will promise you solemnly to make but one more visit and that ah all be the last. If I find out what I want, all well and good'; if not, I will try and dismiss the subject from my mind ; at any rate I will take no further steps until Sir Clement is well."

Wjtth this promise they were fain to content themselves — those two who loved their mistress so well, and who yet were compelled to stand by powerless while she blindly and wilfully prepared to dare a danger which, if their fears deceived them not, was like to be a very fatal one.

"How sorrowful you seem, Jessie — Reuben ! Your looks accuse me, though your tongues aTe silent. Ab, believe me, my heart is sad enough— do ,not depress^ it yet more by your gloomy forebodings, or I much fear it will never hold out to the end." Bub in vain did the listeners strive to obey her ; their grief was too deeply seated to be lightly thrown off or hidden, for was not a great cloud of future sorrow, coming down upon the house they loved, and did they not even then shiver and grow chill in its shadow 2

Ismay's heart sank yet more hopelessly at sight of their averted faces, and with ahasty movement she dismissed them both. " How they love me 1" she thought, " and yet how sad my heart is — how it aches and throbs and beats, as if it would never be quiet any more 1 I ought to be happy when I am so well loved, and perhaps I should be if I had those papers." And so her mind lingered still upon the old subject; her resolution grew stronger than ever. She had ample opportunity to put it into practice, for Clement fancying— what indeed was the fact— that she had grown paler and more easily tired of late, insisted that her share of nursing should be very light, that she should only sit with him for a few hours each day, taking plenty*of time for rest and exercise, and above all that she should have quiet and undisturbed nights. Poor Clement! The very means he took to ensure her peace led to its destruction.

" I must take care of you, my darling, my life," he would say — " double care of you ; and you must take care of yourself for my sake."

Ismay said "Yes," and clung fondly to him, pleading that she was nob tired, and wished to remain.

" No, no I I will not have it. You must go out and walk upon the terrace, Aye — what I — shivering, You are not cold, my own?"

No, she was not cold, but she could not forget the last time she had visited the terrace when Reuben had found her there on the night her father died. How long ago that seemed to be, and yet it was only 10 days. " I am not cold, Clement, and I like this room. Let me stay with you this one evening, and we shall be so happy together " "I am selfish to consent. You ought to have exercise and fresh air, and not sit here in a sickroom."

" But it will not be a sickroom long. You will soon be well, Clement— will you not 1 "

" I hope so. lam getting rather weary of this constant pain; but I ought not — I ought to be very thankful." " Oh, Clement ! — thankful."

"Ah, yes, Sunshine. I should be thankful and happy, too. I have bo many mercies, I should not grumble at a little ailment which is only of the body, I try to rejoice. I hope I am not ungrateful." " Nay — that I am sure you are not," and tears rushed to the bright eyes. "Would I were like you, Oh, Clement, why cannot I trust as you do ? " " But you have faith, Ismay." " I try — I try to have it." "It will come in time, my darling; be patient. Ah, there is the doctor's' ring. He is coining upstairs. Dry your eyes, or he will think you are worrying yourself ill, as he hinted yesterday." "I wish he would let me alone," said

Ismay, pettishly, and rising from the sofa she shook oiife her flounces and smodthedTher hair before the glass. " I don't half like your favourite doctor; Clement," and- then she turned round only just in time to greet the new-comer, who, with the freedom of an old acquaintance, came in unannounced. "Good evening, Clement, my boy. How have you been after all the rain. Good evening, Lady Dyer." The doctor, like all the folks hereabout, was brimful of the" Westmeath ghost. So full of it, indeed, that H6e plunged into the particulars, or what he fancied to be the particulars, at once, cautiously concealing the matter underj^feigned names and in a feigned locality, Beginning with how a murder had been committed in a house years before, and how the dead man's ghost had haunted itever since, &c, &c, Doctor Melluish made light of the whole story and laughed at the ghost, and Clement joined him, saying gravely: "He could not think how Christians- who believed in a God could so doubt • His justice and mercy as to believe He would permit restless spirits to wander over the earth merely to frighten its inhabitants." When the physician's visit was over> and she accompanied him ' out of the room, Ismay asked why he had told her husband the story. " Aye — what 1 You know who the real characters are, then ? " Oh, yes 1 " replied Ismay, ' adding in her own mind, "probably I know them better than you do." " And you believe the story, I suppose 1 " " What 1 that my ' cousin Hugh's ghost frightened Jtfdith Knighton almost out of her senses the] other night? Certainly not." "I am glad of it. I am glad you are so sensible, my dear ; and now I can confess to you what I have not dared to tell any one else— that it is my belief the whole affair is a hoax, played eff probably by one of the servants just for fun, or to frighten Miss Knighton, who, for all her daring, is morej superstitious than any country lass I evei] knew." | "But who would dare?" faltered Ismay,. trying hard not to look conscious andj guilty. j " Ah, that remains to be proved. If I can find Knighton I shall tell him my suspicion, and put him on his guard. I don't like the fellow, but still one would not see him made a fool of in this way, and I am rather inclined to fancy it's one of the grooms. Bulj he must look to that ; once warned, it will be his own fault if he does not take measures to prove the identity of his nocturnal visitant| But, my dear, how white you look 1 What is the matter 1 " , "Nothing, doctor, nothing. I believe the ghost has frightened me after all. Do you think you shall see Mr Knighton to-day ? " | "No, to-morrow morning probably. Are you better now 1 " ! "Oh yes ; there is nothing the matter ; I am quite well, thank you — and you will speak to Mr Knighton to-morrow 1 " \ " What, still harping on the ghost ? " j ".It is very foolish ; I will think of it no more. How soon will Clement be well, Dr Melluish?" j " That is a hard question." "How soon do you think ? " "Oh, in a few weeks, I hope. That pain in his leg is very obstinate. Once get rid of it and we shall have him downstairs and about in no time, and then you will be able to talk to him as much as you like." , " Ah, hoW thankful I shall be I It is not wise to love people very much — one feels a separation so bitterly." J " But you do not call this illness of Clement's a separation." ' " No, no ; when I think how much worse it might have been I ought to be grateful, I suppose. Are ~ you going now ? Good night." "Good night." He went to his carriage. She scarcely waited until it had rolled from the door before she ran down the steps into the garden, crying " Reuben, Reuben." And Dr Melluish, from the turn in the avenue, saw her flying down the gravel path with her delicate white dress and nut-brown hair waving in the wind. " She is a pretty creature, and wonderfully fond of my good old Clement, whom I thought no woman would ever have sense enough to appreciate as he deserves. But 'tis strange how much the thought of this ghost story affected her, though she pro- 1 fessed not to believe it; but I suppose wompn are all alike— they ca"n't withstand a bit of the marvellous. Anyhow, Clement has certainly drawn a prize in the matrimonial lot Itery. Meanwhile. Ismay, ignorant of the flattering opinion expressed by the doctor, whose worth I am afraid she did not then quite appreciate, was hurrying from path to lawn, and from lawn to terrace, in search of her recreaDt squire. "Reuben, Reuben?" " Aye, bairnie ; what's the matternoo ; ye shouldn't fash yourself a' this way," as she leaned against a tree and put her hand upon her side. " Oh, Reuben, I have hunted for you till I am quite out of breath." " Aye, I'm thinking satoo £ye shouldn't do it, bairnie." "Oh, it does not matter; T shall be all right in a moment. Reuben, Dr Melluish has been here." , " Oh, aye, I kent that, lassie ; I saw his braw carriage the noo. And what does he say anent the maister ? " " B.e is better ; but, oh, Reuben, he has frightened me so." , " The maister ? " "No no ; Dr Melluish. He has been talking about that ghost business, you know. He~thinks it's all a hoax, and he is going to set Shade Knighton on the watch." Reuben looked by no means so disconcerted as his mistress expected. ■ "Ah weel, lassie, it's a' for the best ; ye will na gang noo." " Indeed will I ; I have made up my mind, and I shall go." " T?«t if they speer ye ? " "I !-!ip11 not be caught; Dr Melluish will not .-iv E-iighton before to-morrow morning, and I shall go to the Grange to-night." " To-night I " echoed Reuben, macla tastlsd. " Yes, to-night. Come, my good Reuben, do not scold j do not be cross. I will foe sc

, obedient to you all my life long if you "wil ■ only obey me this, .once, and without grumb- • ling. It is for the last time, you I?now,.' , " Guid be praised." , - ] "You will come?" .' . "Aye, ye mundree yer weird, I guess, and ha yer ane way until the time come when ye would that ye ha' deed first, and that , time winna be lang a' coming, lassie, I fear " me." " Oh, Reuben, dear old Reuben, do not say so ; if there's some more trouble coming for me I suppose I must bear it, aud if you scold me all night it won't make it any easier, you know," With which self-evident truth Lady Dyer fixed the time for their departure, and then I returned to the house. ! It was not necessary to prepare Jessie, so : i she went to her husband at once, and they | j spent the evening together ; and though one' ;of the two had to bear her secret burden of ; sorrow and trouble, and carefully conceal its | evidence from the other, yet that evening ' was so bright a spot in the dark , times thatj followed that the recollection of it was, as a gleam of sunshine in an artic winter, a fair reflection of a joy that had been or, perchance a f oretasteg of that which was to come. But all bright things must end. The French clock on the chimneypiece struck 10, and ' Ismay, who had watched the hand furtively ■ for some time, expecting yet dreading the ' ; signal, reluctantly resigned her. place, to the , housekeeper and prepared to, depart. , i " Good night, dear Clement, good night," [ J she said, and on the' threshold she turned f • back once more for a last kiss and a la^tj t blessing; and as she tore herself away her' : farewell had a " sound of sorrow " in it, re- J 1 membered— ah, how bitterly I—in1 — in after days. • She went to her room, and when the house ' was quiet for the night prepared to leave it.; | One thing, however, troubled her, and had' ! done so all day— the key of the oak cabinet. l j Where wasit to be found, and how could she t > obtain it? She felt persuaded- that in thej I quaint old drawee lay the object of heri | search, which' she must find thi3 night,! 1 or abandon for ever. , I Suddenly, in the midst of her difficulty, a! bright idea struck her She thought — nay, 1 she was sura — that in her father's dressing case she had once seen an antique brass key! which he had told her belonged to this very! cabinet. She remembered the whole seene 1 now as vividly as if it had occurred only yesterday — the carelessness with ,which she' had turned over the contents of the box ; and, more for the sake of something to say than from real curiosity, had asked to what the key belonged ; Mr Clare's start, and the strange earnestness with which he answered! " It is the key of the oak cabinet in the East Room's: Remember it, child ; you may want it some day." : Yes, there could be no doubt of it now • the -papers were in the cabinet and the key was in the dressing case in Mr Clare's room. You will observe she never doubted thajt the key was where she had seen it, for the Knightons could have no object or interest in moving it. She was therefore contented,; the only difficulty was to penetrate so far intp the house, and even that did not seem to her eager spirit impossible. Still, even to secure her wish, she shrank from the idea of playing the ghost a second time. She had po desire to frighten anyone, even her old enemies the Knightons, and there was something very painful to her in the thought of being sup,posed to personate her unhappy cousin. N6t to alarm, the inmates, but to learn what wafs of vital consequence to herself, did she pay these nocturnal visits to her old home ; and very fervently [she hoped to •do so unobserved. " ' With these feelings she put on the cloak and went downstairs, Jessie following. Poor Jessie J she was going against her own convictions, against her own instincts, and would, T verily, believe, have followed her mistress with less reluctance had she been about to throw herself into the lake — for then the hardy Cornish maiden, : who had been familiar with- water from her babyhood, would have sprung in and tried to rescue her. But now they were bound for that "House in the Fells," the very name of which she had learned to detest, and her only consolation was that Ismay had promised this visit should be the last. So they walked on, each wrapped in her thoughts, until Reuben joined them, and he too, being in' a taciturn mood, they formed a very silent ' trio gliding in the dark night along tbiat unfrequented path. ' Heavy rains had fallen for two days, and in some places the mud was ankle deep. Ismay, who had fortified herself with goloshes, soon found them worse than useless, and in crossing some rough, swampy land one of them stuck fast in the soft clayey soil, and refusing to be extricated she was obliged to throw the other away also ; while to add to their difficulties the sky became overcast, and a misty rain filled the air. Reuben held up his fine old face. "We'll ha' a wet nicht, bairnie. The wind is i' the west, and the clouds areldrifting." " . " Well. Reuben, it is only sugar that melts in the rain, or salt, and we are neither, I think," returned Ismay, drawing her waterproof round her, without turning her head. " Bairnie, bairnie ! there's mair things that take hurt i' the rain than they twa." " I'll lend you my cloak, Reuben, if you are afraid," was the sole reply. • " Ah, weel, bairnie, ye ken better nor that. It's no mesel' that would tremble at a' the clouds of heaven. Mony's the worst nicht I've been out wi' the sheep, puir feckless j creatures, when the snaw and the rain ha' beat again me, and I couldna see the hand afore me face. It's no for mysel' I fear." " Then do not fear for me. lam as strong as one of our ponies ; besides, this cloak is weatherproof, and would resist a torrent of water. I feel quite snug and dry. Doc't , you, Jessie ? " "Yes, madam," lesponded the girl, who, i after hor experience of Atlantic storms, could afford to make light of a Scotch mist. " That's right. Now, Reuben, I hope you are content. We are not sugar, so we shall not melt ; we are not nervous, so we shall I not catch cold ; and, to crown all, we have , come more than half way, and should be the greatest cowards in the world if we turned i back now." After this the shepherd prudently made , no further objection. "Let her dree her » <> wierd," he muttered to himself j and so she

did—and so mtfst wealF— and-all the love and advice in the world cannot help us, or" alter our fate one iota. ' „:■•:" ; The rain was very, determined. Before 'they reached Westmeath the water had .begun to drip from Isiriay's cloak into her boots, and from her hood over her face. A delicate, town-bred lady would have expected consumption, or at least a fever, as a natural i consequence of such an expedition ; but our ;brave-hearted country girl merely shook herself like a Newfoundland dog emerging from his bath, and declared she felt as well as ever. This might be, but the hectic flush that burned on her cheek when Reuben gave • the lantern into her hand struck the old man with a new suspicion and a painful fear ; ' but before he could express it she was gone, ■ having bidden him and Jessie shelter themselves in the toolhohse until her return. 1 Gone I all alone once more, and for the last time to enter those fatal rooms.

For the last time 1 Ah, well 1 she would have no need to go again when the mischief was done.

She found the door even more easy of access than on her last visit, for the Knightons, strong in their supernatural belief, had strangely enough neglected all those precautions which would have defended this portion of th^ir dwelling from any flesh and blood marauders. Perhaps they considered its ghostly tenants well able to defend themselves, or believed that its evil reputation was a sufficient protection, and after all they were not far wrong. Save Ismay herself (and she only under the present circumstances), I doubt whether a single human being within the circle of many miles would willingly have entered those, rooms alone after nightfall.

Even brave Ismay felt a shudder of fear as again the chill and clammy air blew upon her face, and swept past her with a sigh. On one " side the rain fell persistently, dripping from the trees and from the eaves of the house with a weary,, tiresome monotony that seemed so far away from human change and life that it might have belonged to another world and another state of being. Oh the other side— she, trembled when she 1 thought of what lay on the other side ; in the fatal rooms, in the yet more fatal papers ! But though she trembled she pushed the door wide open and went in.

How dark the room was, without one ray of moonlight or starlight to display its dusty, worm-eaten floor, tattered, and tumble-down furniture, remnants of a splendour long since departed, when the ghostly and deserted chambers had been gay with bright faces and sweet voices, now passed away into a decadence yet more terrible than that of their some-time home 1 But that was in the far past. Traditiononly recorded those happier times, and' since then how much of horror and pain had those straight -backed chairs and rickety tables seen 1 how much of suffering, how much of sin, had been enacted there, unwitnessed and unknown, even before that last dreadful scene in her own day, which Ismay hated to think of, and yet could not forget. She crossed the floor in the darkness, for the lantern was coverd by- her cloak, and she thought it safer not to use it until the last extremity. She found the door and opened it, entering thus upon still greater dsukneßS in the corridor beyond.

She stole noiselessly along, touching the wall at intervals with her hand, and with a weight upon her heart that scarcely permitted her to breathe. At last, after a space which seemed at least three time's as long as it really was, she came to another door, and wh«>.n this was passed, she found herself once more in a free, natural, inhabited atmosphere ; the gloom here appeared less dense, or perhaps she knew herjvay better. At anyrate, her progress, though stealthy and cautious, was much swifter than before, an,d she reached what had been her father's room

in safety, undisturbed and undisturbing.

The door was latched. That was but 'a momentary obstacle quickly overcome, then she drew asi.le her cloak and suffered the light to precede her in her search. To the details of the apartment she paid no attention, and saw without seeing that the bed and window curtains were closed ; but, making her way to the toilet table, she nearly uttered a cry of delight — for there, indeed, was the object of her search.

She lifted the ornamented lid, and among many a stray relic and old-world jewel sought eagerly for the brass key. It was quickly found, just where she had expected it to be, and she had already grasped 'it firmly, when a low sound by her side froze the very blood at her heart. A 6ound as of some poor forest animal in mortal pain. She turned quickly round, and who shall describe her alarm when, scarcely two yards distant, she beheld a little slender figure clad in a long white nightdress, with a tiny, pale face, and a pair of the strangest, blackest, most wistful eyes in the world, fixed upon her. Ismay drew back shuddering. A minute at least elapsed before she recognised the son of Judith Knighton, the poor deaf and dumb child who, in right of his grand inheritance, had been put to sleep in this chamber, never occupied save by the master of the Grange.

The child, startled by the light, had arisen from his bed, and now, stretching out his arms to Ismay, uttered the low, painful, scarcely human moan that had alarmed her.

But the sound did worse than frighten her now — it awoke his mother ; and Judith coming quickly to his side beheld a strange, never-to-be-forgotten sight. Two figures in the centre of the room, one all in white, the other all in black, both with pale faces and wistful, wondering eyes ; both surrounded, as it seemed to her, by a sfcrange and mysterious light, which vanished even as she gazed, the tall spectre being absorbed into the darkness of the room, while her little son moaned and shivered and sobbed on her bosom.

This time she did not shriek or faint, but crept back to her bed a broken-hearted and despairing woman, watching through all that weary night the stricken face in her arms, • and wondering how long it would be suffered to lie there, and how long her treasure would be her own.

Ismay meanwhile, trembling from the danger she had escaped and expecting at each moment to hear the house roused behind her, hurried swiftly' on with terror -winged feet^caping, as it were, by a miracle all the obstacles in her^ath, and reaching the East Room without one nntoward accident. Here she paused breathless, and. finding herself un-

-pursued, once more drew forth her lantern "and" proceeded to the oaken cabinet. -The key fitted as she knew it would. : Eagerly and earnestly she ransacked the drawers ; papers were .there and relics of all kinds, but not those she sought. Again and again, tremb-> ling with eagerness, she turned out each receptacle, but in vain;' old deeds, old letters ,were there in' plenty, but not one which bore her father's name or was written in her father's hand. ' What if after all she had been mistaken, •and it was but a silly fancy of her own. "In the East Rooms," he had said, and she had only looked in one of these rooms, and in ' only one place in that room.

" How .foolish I am," she murmured. " I thought I had done so well, and I have done nothing — nothing." In a sort ot despair she proceeded to thrust back the drawers into their places, and in so doing caught sight of an inequality in the wood, and upon' pressing it strongly with her hand the slip of oak fell back and revealed a small cavity in which lay the object of her search. '

She knew that it was so, for the few words outside were in her father's handwriting, and it was addressed to herself. It was more bulky indeed than she had expected, and seemed to enclose some substance of a hard and heavy nature.

As she took it up a shock of fear seemed to run through her frame. What new terrors this packet might contain she knew not ; she would no*", attempt to examine it then, but thrusting it amid the folds cf her dress she hastily shut and locked the cabinet, dropping the key into the rusty grate, and with a sigh of thankfulness quitted for ever the haunted, blood-stained chamber.

Fast, fast she walked through the night and the rain, feeling and heeding them not ; thus she crossed the liver, the moor, and the wood. Like one in a dream who neither feels nor understands ought, she bade her companions adieu, Reuben in the , garden, Jessie at her own door, which she would not permit her to pass, despite her pleading entreaty.

" Let me undress you, madam. lam not tired."

" No, Jessie, no. Go to bed and leave me. I want no help," and she went swiftly on, locking the barrier behind her.

A moment she hesitated and looked around. The fire was still burning. Though it was getting late in the spring, she heaped it up with wood, threw off her wet cloak and boots, lighted two candles, set them upon the table, and sat down beside it with her bare feet upon the hearthrug. Then she drew forth the packet of papers, and having broken the seal; which fastened them, unrolled and read them one by one.

(2T> be continued.')