LITMIR.BIZ

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lavender; and warm in winter, when the logs burnt merrily all day long.

      I opened the door softly and went in. Mrs. Marjorum was dozing in a high-backed arm-chair by the glowing hearth, dressed in her state gown of grey watered silk, and with a cap that was a perfect garden of roses. She opened her eyes as I approached her and stared at me with a puzzled look for the first moment or so.

      “Why, is that you, Miss Sarah?” she exclaimed; “and looking as pale as a ghost, I can see, even by this firelight! Let me just light a candle, and then I’ll get you some sal volatile. Sit down in my armchair, miss; why, I declare you’re all of a tremble!”

      She put me into her easy-chair before I could resist, and lighted the two candles which stood ready upon her table, while I was trying to speak. My lips were dry, and it seemed at first as if my voice was gone.

      “Never mind the sal volatile, Marjorum,” I said at last. “I am not ill; I’ve been startled, that’s all; and I’ve come to ask you for an explanation of the business that frightened me.”

      “What business, Miss Sarah?”

      “You must have heard something of it yourself, surely. Didn’t you hear a horn just now, a huntsman’s horn?”

      “A horn! Lord no, Miss Sarah. What ever could have put such a fancy into your head?”

      I saw that Mrs. Marjorum’s ruddy cheeks had suddenly lost their colour, that she was now almost as pale as I could have been myself.

      “It was no fancy,” I said; “I heard the sound, and saw the people. A hunting-party has just taken shelter in the north quadrangle. Dogs and horses, and gentlemen and servants.”

      “What were they like, Miss Sarah?” the housekeeper asked in a strange voice.

      “I can hardly tell you that. I could see that they wore red coats; and I could scarcely see more than that. Yes, I did get a glimpse of one of the gentlemen by the light of the lantern. A tall man, with grey hair and whiskers, and a stoop in his shoulders. I noticed that he wore a short waisted coat with a very high collar—a coat that looked a hundred years old.”

      “The old Squire!” muttered Mrs. Marjorum under her breath; and then turning to me, she said with a cheery resolute air, “You’ve been dreaming, Miss Sarah, that’s just what it is. You’ve dropped off in your chair before the fire and had a dream, that’s it.”

      “No, Marjorum, it was no dream. The horn woke me, and I stood at my window and saw the dogs and huntsmen come in.”

      “Do you know, Miss Sarah, that the gates of the north quadrangle have been locked and barred for the last forty years, and that no one ever goes in there except through the house?”

      “The gates may have been opened this evening to give shelter to strangers,” I said.

      “Not when the only keys that will open them hang yonder in my cupboard, miss,” said the housekeeper, pointing to a corner of the room.

      “But I tell you, Marjorum, these people came into the quadrangle; the horses and dogs are in the stables and kennels at this moment. I’ll go and ask Mr. Chrighton, or my cousin Fanny, or Edward, all about it, since you won’t tell me the truth.”

      I said this with a purpose, and it answered. Mrs. Marjorum caught me eagerly by the wrist.

      “No, miss, don’t do that; for pity’s sake don’t do that; don’t breathe a word to missus or master.”

      “But why not?”

      “Because you’ve seen that which always brings misfortune and sorrow to this house, Miss Sarah. You’ve seen the dead.”

      “What do you mean?” I gasped, awed in spite of myself.

      “I daresay you’ve heard say that there’s been something seen at times at the Abbey—many years apart, thank God; for it never came that trouble didn’t come after it.”

      “Yes,” I answered hurriedly; “but I could never get anyone to tell me what it was that haunted this place.”

      “No, miss. Those that know have kept the secret. But you have seen it all tonight. There’s no use in trying to hide it from you any longer. You have seen the old Squire, Meredith Chrighton, whose eldest son was killed by a fall in the hunting-field, brought home dead one December night, an hour after his father and the rest of the party had come safe home to the Abbey. The old gentleman had missed his son in the field, but had thought nothing of that, fancying that master John had had enough of the day’s sport and had turned his horse’s head homewards. He was found by a labouring-man, poor lad, lying in a ditch with his back broken, and his horse beside him staked. The old Squire never held his head up after that day, and never rode to hounds again, though he was passionately fond of hunting. Dogs and horses were sold, and the north quadrangle has been empty from that day.”

      “How long is it since this kind of thing has been seen?”

      “A long time, miss. I was a slip of a girl when it last happened. It was in the winter-time—this very night—the night Squire Meredith’s son was killed; and the house was full of company, just as it is now. There was a wild young Oxford gentleman sleeping in your room at that time, and he saw the hunting-party come into the quadrangle; and what did he do but throw his window wide open, and give them the view-hallo as loud as ever he could. He had only arrived the day before, and knew nothing about the neighbourhood; so at dinner he began to ask where were his friends the sportsmen, and to hope he should be allowed to have a run with the Abbey hounds next day. It was in the time of our master’s father; and his lady at the head of the table turned as white as a sheet when she heard this talk. She had good reason, poor soul. Before the week was out her husband was lying dead. He was struck with a fit of apoplexy, and never spoke or knew anyone afterwards.”

      “An awful coincidence,” I said; “but it may have been only a coincidence.”

      “I’ve heard other stories, miss—heard them from those that wouldn’t deceive—all proving the same thing: that the appearance of the old Squire and his pack is a warning of death to this house.”

      “I cannot believe these things,” I exclaimed; “I cannot believe them. Does Mr. Edward know anything about this?”

      “No, miss. His father and mother have been most careful that it should be kept from him.”

      “I think he is, too strong-minded to be much affected by the fact,” I said.

      “And you’ll not say anything about what you’ve seen to my master or my mistress, will you, Miss Sarah?” pleaded the faithful old servant. “The knowledge of it would be sure to make them nervous and unhappy. And if evil is to come upon this house, it isn’t in human power to prevent its coming.”

      “God forbid that there is any evil at hand!” I answered. “I am no believer in visions or omens. After all, I would sooner fancy that I was dreaming—dreaming with my eyes open as I stood at the window—than that I beheld the shadows of the dead.”

      Mrs. Marjorum sighed and said nothing. I could see that she believed firmly in the phantom hunt.

      I went back to my room to dress for dinner. However rationally I might try to think of what I had seen, its effect upon my mind and nerves was not the less powerful. I could think of nothing else; and a strange morbid dread of coming misery weighted me down like an actual burden.

      There was a very cheerful party in the drawing-room when I went downstairs, and at dinner the talk and laughter were unceasing—but I could see that my cousin Fanny’s face was a little graver than usual, and I had no doubt she was thinking of her son’s intended visit to Wycherly.

      At the thought of this a sudden terror flashed upon me. How if the shadows I had seen that evening were ominous of danger to him—to Edward, the heir and only son of the house? My heart grew cold as I thought of this, and yet in the next moment I despised myself for such weakness.

      “It is natural enough for an old servant to believe

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