all right, and everything prepared for you. You may rely upon me." Not another word was exchanged between them; the lout plunged his hands into his pockets, and left the room as resentful, sullen, and ashamed as ever, yet with an air of relief. The Squire leaned back in his chair for an instant, and sighed-but whether it was over a household mystery, or the excellence of the wine which he held up to the light, it was impossible to tell, for he resumed what he was saying inmediately, and rounded off a handsome little sentence about the advantages of travel to young men. 66 At this point Joseph entered once more, with looks still more awe-stricken and anxious, on pretence of finding his napkin. "And now that we are alone," said the Squire, calling him, we may as well be comfortable. Take the wine, Joseph, into the oriel. We call it the oriel, though the word is a misnomer; but family customs, sir, family customs, grow strong and flourish in an old house. It has been named so since my earliest recollection, and for generations before that." "And for generations after, no doubt," said I. "Your grandchildren-" My grandchildren!" exclaimed the old man with a look of dismay; "but, my good sir, you are perfectly excusable perfectly excusable," he continued, recovering himself; "you are not aware of my family history, and the traditions of the house. But I observe that you have shown some surprise at various little incidentsunderstand me, I beg-shown surprise in the most decorous and natural manner consistent with perfect goodbreeding. I should be uneasy did you suppose I implied anything more. The fact is, you have come among us at a family crisis. Be seated-and to understand it, you ought to know the history of the house." I took my seat immediately, with haste and a little excitement. The Squire's elbow-chair had already been placed by Joseph on the other side of the small carved oak table-the wine with its dull ruby glow, and the oldfashioned tall glasses, small goblets, long-stalked and ornamented, stood between us; and overhead a morsel of inquisitive blue sky, looked into through the close interlacing of those tremulous delicate lime-tree leaves. The Squire took his seat, paused again, sighed; and then turning round towards the dining-room proper, which began to grow dim as twilight came on, cast a look somewhat melancholy, yet full of dignified satisfaction, upon the array of family portraits, and began his tale. "We are an old family," said the old gentleman; "I do not need to say to any one acquainted with this district, or with the untitled gentry of the North of England, how long and how unbroken has been our lineal succession. Witcherley Manor-house has descended for centuries, without & single lapse, from father to son; and you will observe, sir, one of the distinguishing peculiarities of our race, and the reason of my amazement when you spoke unguardedly of grandchildren, the offspring of every marriage in this house is one son." The words were said so solemnly that I started-" One son!" "One son," continued the Squire with dignity, enough to carry on the race and preserve its honoursnothing to divide or encumber. In fact, I feel that the existence of the family depends on this wise and benevolent arrangement of nature. If I have a regret," said the old man mildly, with a natural sigh, “regarding the approaching marriage of my boy, it is because he has chosen his wife, contrary to the usage of our house, out of a neighbouring and very large family-yet I ought to have more confidence in the fortunes of the race.' Being somewhat surprised, not to say dumbfoundered, by these reflections, I thought it better to make no remark upon them, and prudently held my peace. "We were once rich, sir," continued the Squire, with a smile, "but that is a period beyond the memory of man. Three centuries ago, an ancestor of mine, a man of curious erudition, a disciple of the Rosy Cross, lost a large amount of the gold he had in search of the mysterious power of making the baser metals into gold. There he hangs, sir, looking down upon us, a most remarkable man. I would cal. him the founder of our race, but that such a statement would be untrue, and would abridge our ascertained genealogy by many generations; he was, however, the founder of everything remarkable in our history. In the pursuit of science he was so unfortunate as to risk and lose a large portion of his family inheritance everything, in short, but the Manorhouse and lands of Witcherley-I am not ashamed to say a small estate." I bent my head to the old man with involuntary respect, as he bowed to me over his wine in his stately old Iness; but I made tion, and he immes tale. 2 never happened?" cried I, with eagerness. "It threatened to happen, sir, on one occasion," said the Squire. "My own grandfather married a wife with some fortune, who brought him a daughter. I am grieved to say of so near a relation that his mind was degenerate. Instead of showing any disappointment, he made an exhibi tion of unseemly satisfaction at the thought of escaping the fate of his race. He took down the old gateway, sir, and erected the piece of foolishness in iron which disfigures my avenue. But it was shortlivedshortlived. Providence stepped in, and withdrew from him both wife and child; and it was only by a second marriage late in life that he escaped the terrible calamity of being the last of his line. No, I am proud to say that contingency has never occurred, nor that vow been broken, for three hundred years." "And the vow?" I grew quite ex cited, and leaned over the little table to listen, with a thrill of expectation. The Squire cleared his throat, kept his eyes fixed upon the table, and answered me slowly. It was not nervous ness, but pure solemnity; and it im pressed me accordingly. "Sir," he said, at last raising his head, "the lands of Witcherley are insufficient to support two households. When the heir is of age, and is disposed to marry, according to the regulation of the family the father ceases; one generation passes away, and another begins. Sir, my son is on the eve of marriage; he will be Squire of Witcherley to-morrow." I started to my feet in sudden alarm; then seated myself again, half subdued, half appalled by the composure of the old man. "I beg your pardon," I said, faltering; “I have misunderstood you, of course. You give up a portion of your authority-a share of your throne Oh, by no means unusual, I under stand." "You do not understand me," said the Squire, "nor the ways of this house. I spoke nothing of share or portion; there is no such thing possible at Witcherley. I said, simply, the father ceased and the son suc ceeded. These were my words. these lands there can be but Squire." On one I I could not listen in quietness. rose from my chair again in dismay and apprehension. "You mean to withdraw-to leave the house to abdicate?" I gasped, scarcely knowing what I said. "Sir," said the Squire, looking up with authority, "I mean to cease." It is impossible to give the smallest idea of the horror of these words, spoken in this strange silent house in the dark room, with its line of long dull windows letting in a colourless ghostly twilight, and the tremulous limes quivering at the oriel. I cried aloud, yet it was only in a whisper: "Why-what-how is this! Murder-suicide! Good heaven, what do you mean?" "Be seated, sir," said my companion, authoritatively. "I trust I speak to a gentleman, and a man of honour. Do I betray any unseemly agitation? The means are our secret -the fact is as I tell you. To-morrow, sir, my son will be Squire of Witcherley, and I shall have fulfilled the vow and the destiny of my race." How I managed to sit down quietly again in this ghastly half-light at the domestic table of a man who had just made a statement so astounding, and under a roof where the implements of murder might be waiting, or the draught of the suicide prepared, I cannot tell yet I did so, overawed by the quietness of my companion, in presence of whom, though my head throbbed and my veins swelled, it seemed impossible to say a word. I sat looking at him in silence, revolving a hundred wild schemes of rescue. In England, and the nineteenth century! It was not possible; yet I could not help the shuddering sense of reality which crept upon me. "And your son?" I exclaimed, abruptly, with a renewed sense of horror the son's sullen and guilty shame returning in strong confirmation before my eyes. "My son," said the Squire, with again a natural sigh-"yes. I confess it has hitherto been the father who has taken the initiative in this matter; but my boy knew his rights. I was perhaps dilatory. Yes yes, it is all perfectly right, and I have not the smallest reason to complain." "But what-what?-for heaven's sake, tell me! You are not about to do anything?-what are you about to do?" cried I. "Sir, you are excited," said the Squire. "I am about to do nothing which I am not quite prepared for. Pardon me for reminding you. You are a stranger-you are in the country-and in this quiet district we keep early hours. Do me the favour to ring for lights; the bell is close to your hand; and as our avenue is of the darkest, Joseph will guide to the postern." I rang the bell, as I was desired, with passive obedience. I was struck dumb with amaze and bewilderment, half angry at this sudden dismissal, and half disposed to remain in spite of it; but I was a stranger, indebted to my companion's courtesy for my introduction here, and without the slightest claim upon him. Lights appeared, as if by magic, in an instant, and Joseph lingered waiting for orders. "Take your lantern and light the gentleman to the end of the avenue," said the Squire, coming briskly out of the recess, and arranging for himself a chair and a newspaper at the table. Then he held out his hand to me, shook mine heartily, and dismissed me with the condescending but authoritative bow of a monarch. I muttered something about remain. ing-about service and assistancebut the old gentleman took no further notice of me, and sat down to his newspaper with dignified impenetrability. Having no resource but to follow Joseph, I went out with no small amount of discomposure. And looking back to the placid old figure at the table, with his lamp and his paper, and struck with the overwhelming incongruity of ideas, the mysterious horror of the story, and the composed serenity of the scene, went out after my guide in perfect bewilderment, ready to believe that my senses had deceived me--that my host laboured under some extraordinary delusion-anything rather than that this was true. The avenue was black as mid night; darkness was no description horse's hoofs upon the road, and of the pitchy gloom of this narrow path, with its crowd of overshadowing trees; and not even the wavering light of Joseph's lantern, cast upon the ground at my feet, secured me from frequent collisions with the big boles of those gigantic elms. The wind too, unlike a summer breeze, came chill and ghostly up the confined road, and rain was beginning to fall. I presume the old servant scarcely heard my questions, amid the universal rustle of the leaves and patter of the rain. He did not answer, at all events, except by directions and injunctions to take care. I caught him by the arm at last, when we came to the door. "Do you know of anything that is about to happen-quick-tell me!" I cried, my excitement coming to a climax. The lantern almost fell from Joseph's hand, but I could not see his face. "A many things happen nowadays," said Joseph, "but I reckon master wants me more nor you, sir, if that be all." "Your master! it is your master I am concerned about," cried I. "You look like an old servant-do you know what all this means? Is the old man safe? If there's any danger, tell me, and I'll go back with you and watch all night." 66 Danger! the Squire's in his own house," said Joseph, "and not a servant in it but's been there for twenty years. Thank you all the same; but mind your own business, young gentleman, and ride betimes in the morning, and never think on't again, whate'er ye may have heard to-night." Saying which, Joseph closed abruptly in my face the postern-door, at which we had been standing, and through the open ironwork of the closed gates I saw his light gleam hastily, as he hurried up the avenue. His manner and words excited instead of subduing my agitated curiosity. I stood irresolute in the rain and the darkness, gazing through the iron gate, which now I could distinguish only by touch, and could not see, though I was close to it. What was to be done? What could I do? Just then I heard a turned round eagerly, with the intention of addressing the passenger, whoever it might be. Raising my eyes, though it was impossible to see anything, I cried, "Hold-wait-let me speak to you!" when, with an effect, like a suddenly displayed lantern, the moon broke out through the clouds. My eyes had been straining, in the darkness, to the unseen face; now, when this fitful illumination revealed it, I started back in confusion. It was the same ashamed sullen resentful face which had lowered upon me at the Squire's table-his son-and instead of pausing when he perceived me, the young man touched his horse smartly with his whip, and plunged away, at a heavy gallop, into the night. I think this last incident filled up the measure of my confused and bewildering excitement. I turned from the gate at once, and pushed back towards the Witcherley Arms. Reaching them, I went in with the full intention of rousing the country, and returning in force, to gain an entrance to the manor-house, and save the old man in his own despite. But when I went into the dull public room, with its two flaring melancholy candles, its well-worn country paper, which one clown was spelling over, and another listening to-when, in my haste and heat, I came within this cheerless, lifeless atmosphere, heard the fall of the monotonous slow voices, and saw the universal stagnation of life, my excitement relaxed in spite of myself. In this scene, so coldly, dully commonplace in this ordinary, unvaried stream of existence, it was impossible: there was no room for mysteries and horrors here. Yet within the little bar on the other side of the passage, the landlord and his wife were peering out at me with a half-scared curiosity, and holding consultations together in an excited and uneasy restlessness, something like my own. Stimulated once more by seeing this, I hastened up to them, and though they both retreated before me, and made vain attempts to conceal their curiosity and eagerness, my own mind was too much roused to be easily deceived. I asked queer, that's what they are," said the woman, answering me eagerly, while her husband hung back, and made no response. "It comes strange to the likes of you; for it takes a deal of studyin' to larn Witcherley ways." "Witcherley ways-in the family hastily if there was any constabulary force in the neighbourhood-soldiers, county police, protectors of the peace. The woman uttered a faint exclamation of terror; but the landlord, with a certain stupid adroitness, which I could not help remarking, took up my question. "Polis! Lord a delusion-a monomania," said I a' mercy! the gentleman's been robbed. I'se a constable mysel'." "I have not been robbed; but I suspect you know more than I do," cried I, impatiently. "Your old Squire is in some mysterious danger. If you're a constable, rouse half-adozen men in the neighbourhood, and come up with me to the manor-house -if you're a constable! I should say, if you're a man, make haste and follow me. Do you hear? At this very moment the old man may be in peril of his life." "What's wrong, sir? what's wrong? It cannot be rubbers, for rubbers could ne'er reach to the manor-house," said the wife, interposing. "Bless and preserve us! is't the Russians or the French, or the pitmen, or what's wrong? and if he's off and away to the manor, who'll mind his own house?" "I am sure you know what I mean," cried I. "Your old master is in danger. I cannot tell you what danger. You know better than I do. Can you look on quietly, and see the Squire lose his life?" "I know nought about the Squire's life," said Giles sullenly, after a pause; "and no more do you, sir, that's a stranger to Witcherley ways. The Squire's got his own about him that won't see wrong to him. It's no ado o' mine, and it's no ado o' yours; and I'm not agoing on a fool's errand for any man, let alone a strange gentleman I never set eyes on afore. Do you think I'd go and anger the Squire in his own house, because suminat skeared a traveller? I'm not agoing to do no such foolishness. If the Squire takes notions, what's that to a stranger like you, that'll may be never see him again?" "Takes notions?" I caught at this new idea with infinite relief. "What do you mean? Does the Squire take notions? Is it all a delusion of his? Is that what you mean?" "Sir, it's in the family; they're to myself. Certainly this looked the most reasonable explanation. Yes, to be sure; everybody had heard of such. I received the idea eagerly, and calmed down at once. After all, the wonder was, that it had never struck me before; and then the confusion of the young man the anxiety of Joseph. No doubt, they trembled for the exhibition of this incipient madness-no doubt, they were afraid of the narrative with which the unfortunate old gentleman was sure to horrify a new listener. I became quite "easy in my mind" as I revolved all this. Monomaniacs, too, are so gravely reasonable in most cases, and have so much method in their madness. I returned to the dull public-room with restored composure, and thinking it all over, in the lifeless silence, in this place where it seemed impossible that anything could happen, could almost have laughed at myself for my own fears. By-and-by the house was shut up, and I transferred my quarters to the gable-room, which I was to occupy for the night. It was a well-sized apartment, somewhat bare, but very clean, and sufficiently comfortable, very much like the best bedroom of a humble country inn, which it was. The bow-window-the only window in the room-looked out into sheer darkness, a heavy visible gloom; the night was somewhat wild, and dismal with wind and rain, and, in spite of the homely comfort of my surroundings, I have seldom spent a more miserable night. Dreary old stories revived out of the oblivion of childhood; tales of the creeping stream of blood from some closed door, the appalling pistol-shot, the horror of the death-gasp and cry, forced themselves on my memory; and when I slept, it was only to see visions of the Squire, or of some one better known to me in his place, standing in ghastly solitude with the knife or the poison, struggling with assassins, or stretched |