Lock and Key Library: Old Time English — The Closed Cabinet, part 1

I

It was with a little alarm and a good deal of pleasurable excitement that I looked forward to my first grown-up visit to Mervyn Grange.

I had been there several times as a child, but never since I was twelve years old, and now I was over eighteen.

We were all of us very proud of our cousins the Mervyns: it is not everybody that can claim kinship with a family who are in full and admitted possession of a secret, a curse, and a mysterious cabinet, in addition to the usual surplusage of horrors supplied in such cases by popular imagination.

Some declared that a Mervyn of the days of Henry VIII had been cursed by an injured abbot from the foot of the gallows.

Others affirmed that a dissipated Mervyn of the Georgian era was still playing cards for his soul in some remote region of the Grange.

There were stories of white ladies and black imps, of bloodstained passages and magic stones.

We, proud of our more intimate acquaintance with the family, naturally gave no credence to these wild inventions.

The Mervyns, indeed, followed the accepted precedent in such cases, and greatly disliked any reference to the reputed mystery being made in their presence;

with the inevitable result that there was no subject so pertinaciously discussed by their friends in their absence.

My father's sister had married the late Baronet, Sir Henry Mervyn, and we always felt that she ought to have been the means of imparting to us a very complete knowledge of the family secret.

But in this connection she undoubtedly failed of her duty.

We knew that there had been a terrible tragedy in the family some two or three hundred years ago--that a peculiarly wicked owner of Mervyn, who flourished in the latter part of the sixteenth century, had been murdered by his wife who subsequently committed suicide.

We knew that the mysterious curse had some connection with this crime, but what the curse exactly was we had never been able to discover.

The history of the family since that time had indeed in one sense been full of misfortune.

Not in every sense.

A coal mine had been discovered in one part of the estate, and a populous city had grown over the corner of another part; and the Mervyns of to-day, in spite of the usual percentage of extravagant heirs and political mistakes, were three times as rich as their ancestors had been.

But still their story was full of bloodshed and shame, of tales of duels and suicides, broken hearts and broken honor.

Only these calamities seemed to have little or no relation to each other, and what the precise curse was that was supposed to connect or account for them we could not learn.

When she first married, my aunt was told nothing about it.

Later on in life, when my father asked her for the story, she begged him to talk upon a pleasanter subject; and being unluckily a man of much courtesy and little curiosity, he complied with her request.

This, however, was the only part of the ghostly traditions of her husband's home upon which she was so reticent.

The haunted chamber, for instance--which, of course, existed at the Grange--she treated with the greatest contempt.

Various friends and relations had slept in it at different times, and no approach to any kind of authenticated ghost-story, even of the most trivial description, had they been able to supply.

Its only claim to respect, indeed, was that it contained the famous Mervyn cabinet, a fascinating puzzle of which I will speak later, but which certainly had nothing haunting or horrible about its appearance.

My uncle's family consisted of three sons.

The eldest, George, the present baronet, was now in his thirties, married, and with children of his own.

The second, Jack, was the black-sheep of the family.

He had been in the Guards, but, about five years back, had got into some very disgraceful scrape, and had been obliged to leave the country.

The sorrow and the shame of this had killed his unhappy mother, and her husband had not long afterwards followed her to the grave.

Alan, the youngest son, probably because he was the nearest to us in age, had been our special favorite in earlier years.

George was grown up before I had well left the nursery, and his hot, quick temper had always kept us youngsters somewhat in awe of him.

Jack was four years older than Alan, and, besides, his profession had, in a way, cut his boyhood short.

When my uncle and aunt were abroad, as they frequently were for months together on account of her health, it was Alan, chiefly, who had to spend his holidays with us, both as school-boy and as undergraduate.

And a brighter, sweeter-tempered comrade, or one possessed of more diversified talents for the invention of games or the telling of stories, it would have been difficult to find.

For five years together now our ancient custom of an annual visit to Mervyn had been broken.

First there had been the seclusion of mourning for my aunt, and a year later for my uncle; then George and his wife, Lucy,--she was a connection of our own on our mother's side, and very intimate with us all,--had been away for nearly two years on a voyage round the world; and since then sickness in our own family had kept us in our turn a good deal abroad.

So that I had not seen my cousins since all the calamities which had befallen them in the interval, and as I steamed northwards I wondered a good deal as to the changes I should find.

I was to have come out that year in London, but ill-health had prevented me; and as a sort of consolation Lucy had kindly asked me to spend a fortnight at Mervyn, and be present at a shooting-party, which was to assemble there in the first week of October.

I had started early, and there was still an hour of the short autumn day left when I descended at the little wayside station, from which a six-mile drive brought me to the Grange.

A dreary drive I found it--the round, gray, treeless outline of the fells stretching around me on every side beneath the leaden, changeless sky.

The night had nearly fallen as we drove along the narrow valley in which the Grange stood: it was too dark to see the autumn tints of the woods which clothed and brightened its sides, almost too dark to distinguish the old tower,--Dame Alice's tower as it was called,--which stood some half a mile farther on at its head.

But the light shone brightly from the Grange windows, and all feeling of dreariness departed as I drove up to the door.

Leaving maid and boxes to their fate, I ran up the steps into the old, well-remembered hall, and was informed by the dignified man-servant that her ladyship and the tea were awaiting me in the morning-room.

I found that there was nobody staying in the house except Alan, who was finishing the long vacation there: he had been called to the Bar a couple of years before.

The guests were not to arrive for another week, so that I had plenty of opportunity in the interval to make up for lost time with my cousins.

I began my observations that evening as we sat down to dinner, a cozy party of four.

Lucy was quite unchanged--pretty, foolish, and gentle as ever.

George showed the full five years' increase of age, and seemed to have acquired a somewhat painful control of his temper.

Instead of the old petulant outbursts, there was at times an air of nervous, irritable self-restraint, which I found the less pleasant of the two.

But it was in Alan that the most striking alteration appeared.

I felt it the moment I shook hands with him, and the impression deepened that evening with every hour.

I told myself that it was only the natural difference between boy and man, between twenty and twenty-five, but I don't think that I believed it.

Superficially the change was not great.

The slight-built, graceful figure; the deep gray eyes, too small for beauty; the clear-cut features, the delicate, sensitive lips, close shaven now, as they had been hairless then,--all were as I remembered them.

But the face was paler and thinner than it had been, and there were lines round the eyes and at the corners of the mouth which were no more natural to twenty-five than they would have been to twenty.

The old charm indeed--the sweet friendliness of manner, which was his own peculiar possession--was still there.

He talked and laughed almost as much as formerly, but the talk was manufactured for our entertainment, and the laughter came from his head and not from his heart.

And it was when he was taking no part in the conversation that the change showed most.

Then the face, on which in the old time every passing emotion had expressed itself in a constant, living current, became cold and impassive--without interest, and without desire.

It was at such times that I knew most certainly that here was something which had been living and was dead.

Was it only his boyhood?

This question I was unable to answer.

Still, in spite of all, that week was one of the happiest in my life.

The brothers were both men of enough ability and cultivation to be pleasant talkers, and Lucy could perform adequately the part of conversational accompanist, which, socially speaking, is all that is required of a woman.

The meals and evenings passed quickly and agreeably; the mornings I spent in unending gossips with Lucy, or in games with the children, two bright boys of five and six years old.

But the afternoons were the best part of the day.

George was a thorough squire in all his tastes and habits, and every afternoon his wife dutifully accompanied him round farms and coverts, inspecting new buildings, trudging along half-made roads, or marking unoffending trees for destruction.

Then Alan and I would ride by the hour together over moor and meadowland, often picking our way homewards down the glen-side long after the autumn evenings had closed in.

During these rides I had glimpses many a time into depths in Alan's nature of which I doubt whether in the old days he had himself been aware.

To me certainly they were as a revelation.

A prevailing sadness, occasionally a painful tone of bitterness, characterized these more serious moods of his, but I do not think that, at the end of that week, I would, if I could, have changed the man, whom I was learning to revere and to pity, for the light-hearted playmate whom I felt was lost to me for ever.

II

The only feature of the family life which jarred on me was the attitude of the two brothers towards the children.

I did not notice this much at first, and at all times it was a thing to be felt rather than to be seen.

George himself never seemed quite at ease with them.

The boys were strong and well grown, healthy in mind and body; and one would have thought that the existence of two such representatives to carry on his name and inherit his fortune would have been the very crown of pride and happiness to their father.

But it was not so.

Lucy indeed was devoted to them, and in all practical matters no one could have been kinder to them than was George.

They were free of the whole house, and every indulgence that money could buy for them they had.

I never heard him give them a harsh word.

But there was something wrong.

A

constraint in their presence, a relief in their absence, an evident dislike of discussing them and their affairs, a total want of that enjoyment of love and possession which in such a case one might have expected to find.

Alan's state of mind was even more marked.

Never did I hear him willingly address his nephews, or in any way allude to their existence.

I should have said that he simply ignored it, but for the heavy gloom which always overspread his spirits in their company, and for the glances which he would now and again cast in their direction--glances full of some hidden painful emotion, though of what nature it would have been hard to define.

Indeed, Alan's attitude towards her children I soon found to be the only source of friction between Lucy and this otherwise much-loved member of her husband's family.

I asked her one day why the boys never appeared at luncheon.

"Oh, they come when Alan is away," she answered; "but they seem to annoy him so much that George thinks it is better to keep them out of sight when he is here.

It is very tiresome.

I know that it is the fashion to say that George has got the temper of the family;

but I assure you that Alan's nervous moods and fancies are much more difficult to live with."

That was on the morning--a Friday it was--of the last day which we were to spend alone.

The guests were to arrive soon after tea; and I think that with the knowledge of their approach Alan and I prolonged our ride that afternoon beyond its usual limits.

We were on our way home, and it was already dusk, when a turn of the path brought us face to face with the old ruined tower, of which I have already spoken as standing at the head of the valley.

I had not been close up to it yet during this visit at Mervyn.

It had been a very favorite haunt of ours as children, and partly on that account, partly perhaps in order to defer the dreaded close of our ride to the last possible moment, I proposed an inspection of it.

The only portion of the old building left standing in any kind of entirety was two rooms, one above the other.

The tower room, level with the bottom of the moat, was dark and damp, and it was the upper one, reached by a little outside staircase, which had been our rendezvous of old.

Alan showed no disposition to enter, and said that he would stay outside and hold my horse, so I dismounted and ran up alone.

The room seemed in no way changed.

A mere stone shell, littered with fragments of wood and mortar.

There was the rough wooden block on which Alan used to sit while he first frightened us with bogey-stories, and then calmed our excited nerves by rapid sallies of wild nonsense.

There was the plank from behind which, erected as a barrier across the doorway, he would defend the castle against our united assault, pelting us with fir-cones and sods of earth.

This and many a bygone scene thronged on me as I stood there, and the room filled again with the memories of childish mirth.

And following close came those of childish terrors.

Horrors which had oppressed me then, wholly imagined or dimly apprehended from half- heard traditions, and never thought of since, flitted around me in the gathering dusk.

And with them it seemed to me as if there came other memories too,--memories which had never been my own, of scenes whose actors had long been with the dead, but which, immortal as the spirit before whose eyes they had dwelt, still lingered in the spot where their victim had first learnt to shudder at their presence.

Once the ghastly notion came to me, it seized on my imagination with irresistible force.

It seemed as if from the darkened corners of the room vague, ill-defined shapes were actually peering out at me.

When night came they would show themselves in that form, livid and terrible, in which they had been burnt into the brain and heart of the long ago dead.

I turned and glanced towards where I had left Alan.

I could see his figure framed in by the window, a black shadow against the gray twilight of the sky behind.

Erect and perfectly motionless he sat, so motionless as to look almost lifeless, gazing before him down the valley into the illimitable distance beyond.

There was something in that stern immobility of look and attitude which struck me with a curious sense of congruity.

It was right that he should be thus--right that he should be no longer the laughing boy who a moment before had been in my memory.

The haunting horrors of that place seemed to demand it, and for the first time I felt that I understood the change.

With an effort I shook myself free from these fancies, and turned to go.

As I did so, my eye fell upon a queer-shaped painted board, leaning up against the wall, which I well recollected in old times.

Many a discussion had we had about the legend inscribed upon it, which in our wisdom we had finally pronounced to be German, chiefly because it was illegible.

Though I had loudly professed my faith in this theory at the time, I had always had uneasy doubts on the subject, and now half smiling I bent down to verify or remove them.

The language was English, not German; but the badly painted, faded Gothic letters in which it was written made the mistake excusable.

In the dim light I had difficulty even now in deciphering the words, and felt when I had done so that neither the information conveyed nor the style of the composition was sufficient reward for the trouble I had taken.

This is what I read: "Where the woman sinned the maid shall win;

But God help the maid that sleeps within."

What the lines could refer to I neither had any notion nor did I pause then even in my own mind to inquire.

I only remember vaguely wondering whether they were intended for a tombstone or for a doorway.

Then, continuing my way, I rapidly descended the steps and remounted my horse, glad to find myself once again in the open air and by my cousin's side.

The train of thought into which he had sunk during my absence was apparently an absorbing one, for to my first question as to the painted board he could hardly rouse himself to answer.

"A board with a legend written on it?

Yes, he remembered something of the kind there.

It had always been there, he thought.

He knew nothing about it,"--and so the subject was not continued.

The weird feelings which had haunted me in the tower still oppressed me, and I proceeded to ask Alan about that old Dame Alice whom the traditions of my childhood represented as the last occupant of the ruined building.

Alan roused himself now, but did not seem anxious to impart information on the subject.

She had lived there, he admitted, and no one had lived there since.

"Had she not," I inquired, "something to do with the mysterious cabinet at the house?

I remember hearing it spoken of as 'Dame Alice's cabinet.'

"So they say," he assented; "she and an Italian artificer who was in her service, and who, chiefly I imagine on account of his skill, shared with her the honor of reputed witchcraft."

"She was the mother of Hugh Mervyn, the man who was murdered by his wife, was she not?"

I asked.

"Yes," said Alan, briefly.

"And had she not something to do with the curse?"

I inquired after a short pause, and nervously I remembered my father's experience on that subject, and I had never before dared to allude to it in the presence of any member of the family.

My nervousness was fully warranted.

The gloom on Alan's brow deepened, and after a very short "They say so" he turned full upon me, and inquired with some asperity why on earth I had developed this sudden curiosity about his ancestress.

I hesitated a moment, for I was a little ashamed of my fancies; but the darkness gave me courage, and besides I was not afraid of telling Alan--he would understand.

I told him of the strange sensations I had had while in the tower--sensations which had struck me with all that force and clearness which we usually associate with a direct experience of fact.

"Of course it was a trick of imagination," I commented; "but I could not get rid of the feeling that the person who had dwelt there last must have had terrible thoughts for the companions of her life."

Alan listened in silence, and the silence continued for some time after I had ceased speaking.

"It is strange," he said at last; "instincts which we do not understand form the motive-power of most of our life's actions, and yet we refuse to admit them as evidence of any external truth.

I

suppose it is because we MUST act somehow, rightly or wrongly; and there are a great many things which we need not believe unless we choose.

As for this old lady, she lived long--long enough, like most of us, to do evil; unlike most of us, long enough to witness some of the results of that evil.

To say that, is to say that the last years of her life must have been weighted heavily enough with tragic thought."

I gave a little shudder of repulsion.

"That is a depressing view of life, Alan," I said.

"Does our peace of mind depend only upon death coming early enough to hide from us the truth?

And, after all, can it?

Our spirits do not die.

From another world they may witness the fruits of our lives in this one."

"If they do," he answered with sudden violence, "it is absurd to doubt the existence of a purgatory.

There must in such a case be a terrible one in store for the best among us."

I was silent.

The shadow that lay on his soul did not penetrate to mine, but it hung round me nevertheless, a cloud which I felt powerless to disperse.

After a moment he went on,--"Provided that they are distant enough, how little, after all, do we think of the results of our actions!

There are few men who would deliberately instill into a child a love of drink, or wilfully deprive him of his reason; and yet a man with drunkenness or madness in his blood thinks nothing of bringing children into the world tainted as deeply with the curse as if he had inoculated them with it directly.

There is no responsibility so completely ignored as this one of marriage and fatherhood, and yet how heavy it is and far-reaching."

"Well," I said, smiling, "let us console ourselves with the thought that we are not all lunatics and drunkards."

"No," he answered; "but there are other evils besides these, moral taints as well as physical, curses which have their roots in worlds beyond our own,--sins of the fathers which are visited upon the children."

He had lost all violence and bitterness of tone now; but the weary dejection which had taken their place communicated itself to my spirit with more subtle power than his previous mood had owned.

"That is why," he went on, and his manner seemed to give more purpose to his speech than hitherto,--"that is why, so far as I am concerned, I mean to shirk the responsibility and remain unmarried."

I was hardly surprised at his words.

I felt that I had expected them, but their utterance seemed to intensify the gloom which rested upon us.

Alan was the first to arouse himself from its influence.

"After all," he said, turning round to me and speaking lightly, "without looking so far and so deep, I think my resolve is a prudent one.

Above all things, let us take life easily, and you know what St. Paul says about 'trouble in the flesh,'--a remark which I am sure is specially applicable to briefless barristers, even though possessed of a modest competence of their own.

Perhaps one of these days, when I am a fat old judge, I shall give my cook a chance if she is satisfactory in her clear soups; but till then I shall expect you, Evie, to work me one pair of carpet-slippers per annum, as tribute due to a bachelor cousin."

I don't quite know what I answered,--my heart was heavy and aching,--but I tried with true feminine docility to follow the lead he had set me.

He continued for some time in the same vein; but as we approached the house the effort seemed to become too much for him, and we relapsed again into silence.

This time I was the first to break it.

"I suppose," I said, drearily, "all those horrid people will have come by now."

"Horrid people," he repeated, with rather an uncertain laugh, and through the darkness I saw his figure bend forward as he stretched out his hand to caress my horse's neck.

"Why, Evie, I thought you were pining for gayety, and that it was, in fact, for the purpose of meeting these 'horrid people' that you came here."

"Yes, I know," I said, wistfully; "but somehow the last week has been so pleasant that I cannot believe that anything will ever be quite so nice again."

We had arrived at the house as I spoke, and the groom was standing at our horses' heads.

Alan got off and came round to help me to dismount; but instead of putting up his arm as usual as a support for me to spring from, he laid his hand on mine.

"Yes, Evie," he said, "it has been indeed a pleasant time.

God bless you for it."

For an instant he stood there looking up at me, his face full in the light which streamed from the open door, his gray eyes shining with a radiance which was not wholly from thence.

Then he straightened his arm, I sprang to the ground, and as if to preclude the possibility of any answer on my part, he turned sharply on his heel, and began giving some orders to the groom.

I went on alone into the house, feeling, I knew not and cared not to know why, that the gloom had fled from my spirit, and that the last ride had not after all been such a melancholy failure as it had bid fair at one time to become.

III

In the hall I was met by the housekeeper, who informed me that, owing to a misunderstanding about dates, a gentleman had arrived whom Lucy had not expected at that time, and that in consequence my room had been changed.

My things had been put into the East Room,-- the haunted room,--the room of the Closed Cabinet, as I remembered with a certain sense of pleased importance, though without any surprise.

It stood apart from the other guest-rooms, at the end of the passage from which opened George and Lucy's private apartment;

and as it was consequently disagreeable to have a stranger there, it was always used when the house was full for a member of the family.

My father and mother had often slept there: there was a little room next to it, though not communicating with it, which served for a dressing-room.

Though I had never passed the night there myself, I knew it as well as any room in the house.

I went there at once, and found Lucy superintending the last arrangements for my comfort.

She was full of apologies for the trouble she was giving me.

I

told her that the apologies were due to my maid and to her own servants rather than to me; "and besides," I added, glancing round, "I am distinctly a gainer by the change."

"You know, of course," she said, lightly, "that this is the haunted room of the house, and that you have no right to be here?"

"I know it is the haunted room," I answered; "but why have I no right to be here?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said.

"There is one of those tiresome Mervyn traditions against allowing unmarried girls to sleep in this room.

I believe two girls died in it a hundred and fifty years ago, or something of that sort."

"But I should think that people, married or unmarried, must have died in nearly every room in the house," I objected.

"Oh, yes, of course they have," said Lucy; "but once you come across a bit of superstition in this family, it is of no use to ask for reasons.

However, this particular bit is too ridiculous even for George.

Owing to Mr. Leslie having come to-day, we must use every room in the house: it is intolerable having a stranger here, and you are the only relation staying with us.

I pointed all that out to George, and he agreed that, under the circumstances, it would be absurd not to put you here."

"I am quite agreeable," I answered; "and, indeed, I think I am rather favored in having a room where the last recorded death appears to have taken place a hundred and fifty years ago, particularly as I should think that there can be scarcely anything now left in it which was here then, except, of course, the cabinet."

The room had, in fact, been entirely done up and refurnished by my uncle, and was as bright and modern-looking an apartment as you could wish to see.

It was large, and the walls were covered with one of those white and gold papers which were fashionable thirty years ago.

Opposite us, as we stood warming our backs before the fire, was the bed--a large double one, hung with a pretty shade of pale blue.

Material of the same color covered the comfortable modern furniture, and hung from gilded cornices before the two windows which pierced the side of the room on our left.

Between them stood the toilet-table, all muslin, blue ribbons, and silver.

The carpet was a gray and blue Brussels one.

The whole effect was cheerful, though I fear inartistic, and sadly out of keeping with the character of the house.

The exception to these remarks was, as I had observed, the famous closed cabinet, to which I have more than once alluded.

It stood against the same wall of the room as that in which the fireplace was, and on our right--that is, on that side of the fireplace which was farthest from the windows.

As I spoke, I turned to go and look at it, and Lucy followed me.

Many an hour as a child had I passed in front of it, fingering the seven carved brass handles, or rather buttons, which were ranged down its center.

They all slid, twisted, or screwed with the greatest ease, and apparently like many another ingeniously contrived lock; but neither I nor any one else had ever yet succeeded in sliding, twisting, or screwing them after such a fashion as to open the closed doors of the cabinet.

No one yet had robbed them of their secret since first it was placed there three hundred years ago by the old lady and her faithful Italian.

It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, was this tantalizing cabinet.

Carved out of some dark foreign wood, the doors and panels were richly inlaid with lapis- lazuli, ivory, and mother-of-pearl, among which were twisted delicately chased threads of gold and silver.

Above the doors, between them and the cornice, lay another mystery, fully as tormenting as was the first.

In a smooth strip of wood about an inch wide, and extending along the whole breadth of the cabinet, was inlaid a fine pattern in gold wire.

This at first sight seemed to consist of a legend or motto.

On looking closer, however, though the pattern still looked as if it was formed out of characters of the alphabet curiously entwined together, you found yourself unable to fix upon any definite word, or even letter.

You looked again and again, and the longer that you looked the more certain became your belief that you were on the verge of discovery.

If you could approach the mysterious legend from a slightly different point of view, or look at it from another distance, the clew to the puzzle would be seized, and the words would stand forth clear and legible in your sight.

But the clew never had been discovered, and the motto, if there was one, remained unread.

For a few minutes we stood looking at the cabinet in silence, and then Lucy gave a discontented little sigh.

"There's another tiresome piece of superstition," she exclaimed; "by far the handsomest piece of furniture in the house stuck away here in a bedroom which is hardly ever used.

Again and again have I asked George to let me have it moved downstairs, but he won't hear of it."

"Was it not placed here by Dame Alice herself?"

I inquired a little reproachfully, for I felt that Lucy was not treating the cabinet with the respect which it really deserved.

"Yes, so they say," she answered; and the tone of light contempt in which she spoke was now pierced by a not unnatural pride in the romantic mysteries of her husband's family.

"She placed it here, and it is said, you know, that when the closed cabinet is opened, and the mysterious motto is read, the curse will depart from the Mervyn family."

"But why don't they break it open?"

I asked, impatiently.

"I am sure that I would never have remained all my life in a house with a thing like that, and not found out in some way or another what was inside it."

"Oh, but that would be quite fatal," answered she.

"The curse can only be removed when the cabinet is opened as Dame Alice intended it to be, in an orthodox fashion.

If you were to force it open, that could never happen, and the curse would therefore remain for ever."

"And what is the curse?"

I asked, with very different feelings to those with which I had timidly approached the same subject with Alan.

Lucy was not a Mervyn, and not a person to inspire awe under any circumstances.

My instincts were right again, for she turned away with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"I have no idea," she said.

"George and Alan always look portentously solemn and gloomy whenever one mentions the subject, so I don't. If you ask me for the truth, I believe it to be a pure invention, devised by the Mervyns for the purpose of delicately accounting for some of the disreputable actions of their ancestors.

For you know, Evie," she added, with a little laugh, "the less said about the character of the family into which your aunt and I have married the better."

The remark made me angry, I don't know why, and I answered stiffly, that as far as I was acquainted with them, I at least saw nothing to complain of.

"Oh, as regards the present generation, no,--except for that poor, wretched Jack," acquiesced Lucy, with her usual imperturbable good- humor.

"And as regards the next?"

I suggested, smiling, and already ashamed of my little temper.

"The next is perfect, of course,--poor dear boys."

She sighed as she spoke, and I wondered whether she was really as unconscious as she generally appeared to be of the strange dissatisfaction with which her husband seemed to regard his children.

Anyhow the mention of them had evidently changed her mood, and almost directly afterwards, with the remark that she must go and look after her guests, who had all arrived by now, she left me to myself.

For some minutes I sat by the bright fire, lost in aimless, wandering thought, which began with Dame Alice and her cabinet, and which ended somehow with Alan's face, as I had last seen it looking up at me in front of the hall-door.

When I had reached that point, I roused myself to decide that I had dreamt long enough, and that it was quite time to go down to the guests and to tea.

I

accordingly donned my best teagown, arranged my hair, and proceeded towards the drawing-room.

My way there lay through the great central hall.

This apartment was approached from most of the bedrooms in the house through a large, arched doorway at one end of it, which communicated directly with the great staircase.

My bedroom, however, which, as I have said, lay among the private apartments of the house, opened into a passage which led into a broad gallery, or upper chamber, stretching right across the end of the hall.

From this you descended by means of a small staircase in oak, whose carved balustrade, bending round the corner of the hall, formed one of the prettiest features of the picturesque old room.

The barrier which ran along the front of the gallery was in solid oak, and of such a height that, unless standing close up to it, you could neither see nor be seen by the occupants of the room below.

On approaching this gallery I heard voices in the hall.

They were George's and Alan's, evidently in hot discussion.

As I issued from the passage, George was speaking, and his voice had that exasperated tone in which an angry man tries to bring to a close an argument in which he has lost his temper.

"For heaven's sake leave it alone, Alan; I neither can nor will interfere.

We have enough to bear from these cursed traditions as it is, without adding one which has no foundation whatever to justify it--a mere contemptible piece of superstition."

"No member of our family has a right to call any tradition contemptible which is connected with that place, and you know it," answered Alan; and though he spoke low, his voice trembled with some strong emotion.

A first impulse of hesitation which I had had I checked, feeling that as I had heard so much it was fairer to go on, and I advanced to the top of the staircase.

Alan stood by the fireplace facing me, but far too occupied to see me.

His last speech had seemingly aroused George to fury, for the latter turned on him now with savage passion.

"Damn it all, Alan!"

he cried, "can't you be quiet?

I will be master in my own house.

Take care, I tell you; the curse may not be quite fulfilled yet after all."

As George uttered these words, Alan lifted his eyes to him with a glance of awful horror: his face turned ghastly white; his lips trembled for a moment; and then he answered back with one half- whispered word of supreme appeal--"George!"

There was a long- drawn, unutterable anguish in his tone, and his voice, though scarcely audible, penetrated to every corner of the room, and seemed to hang quivering in the air around one after the sound had ceased.

Then there was a terrible stillness.

Alan stood trembling in every limb, incapable apparently of speech or action, and George faced him, as silent and motionless as he was.

For an instant they remained thus, while I looked breathlessly on.

Then George, with a muttered imprecation, turned on his heel and left the room.

Alan followed him as he went with dull lifeless eyes; and as the door closed he breathed deeply, with a breath that was almost a groan.

Taking my courage in both hands, I now descended the stairs, and at the sound of my footfall he glanced up, started, and then came rapidly to meet me.

"Evie!

you here," he said; "I did not notice you.

How long have you been here?"

He was still quite white, and I noticed that he panted for breath as he spoke.

"Not long," I answered, timidly, and rather spasmodically; "I only heard a sentence or two.

You wanted George to do something about some tradition or other,--and he was angry,--and he said something about the curse."