LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume V, Issue 544, 16 March 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

FLITTERMOUSE WELL. {From Chamber's Journal.) (Concluded.) Whilst Deborah was circumstantially detailing to me all these events—with that delight in-horrors characteristic of her sex and position in life—a dreadful horror and reproach had been gradually creeping over me, which caused a cold clew to gather on my forehead, and a violent fit of trembling to seize my limbs, Deborah, not being observant, noticed neither of these symptoms, though I could scarce find breath to falter out the question : ' What do you think will be done to the man ?' ' lie will be transported for life,' was the ready answer, ' if he is not hanged.' ' But why ? He was not concerned in the fray.' ' He has been chief leader of many a one before this,'answered Deborah; 'and if he was not concerned in this one, it was because he couldn't be, having broken his leg. If ever a man deserved a sentence,' she added vindictively, 'he will' At these words I turned away with a sick heart, not caring to hear more. The rest of the day I passed wretchedly enough. It was clear to me that my ghosts of the preceding night were Janet Horwood and the smuggler. In my sudden mad violence, I must have caused them both to fall to the bottom of the well, from which they had crawled—wounded as they were—along the subterranean passage to the entrance of the cave. Here, probably, they were overcome with weakness, and were consequently discovered, as had been described. I was not, then, actually a murderer, as I had at first dreaded ; but was not what I had brought on almost worse than death ? Better death than a lifelong disgrace and banishment from home ! Better, far better death than transportation for life! So I owned to myself that I should have thought in my own case.

Even now, I could not rest without having made sure that Flittermouse Well was tenantless. Towards evening, therefore, as it grew dark, I provided myself with a lanthorn and some string, and set out in that direction. All was silence and gloom at that ill-omeued spot. Cautiously and fearfully I lit my lanthorn, and tying it to one end of the string, lowered it gently down the well. Down, down it went to the bottom, shewing the ground strewn with fragments of turf and the rope I had cast there, but nothing more. I returned home with my former convictions strengthened—to rest, but not to sleep. For days and days I was haunted by the thought of Janet Horwood and the smuggler ; the more so when I learned —about a month after the events I have related—that the former had been expelled from her father's house, and that the sentence of transportation had been carried out upon the latter.

It is a curious fact, that in all my wanderings, whilst my mind was thus disturbed, my feet involuntarily led mo each day to Flittermouse Well, whe-e I would stand gazing at the scene of these adventures which had ended so tragically. One day, being drawn there as usual by some irresistible impulse, a circumstance occurred which put a stop to my wanderings on the Dunmoor Hills for many years. I had been gazing into the gloomy depths of the well, _as was my custom, when I became conscious of a presence near me, and looking up, I saw a face which made my heart leap with terror. It was the face of Janet Horwood, but how changed since last I saw it ? It seemed a 3 if a more than human expression of malicious hatred glared now frcm those black eyes, and a livid scar, that had scarce healed, crossed one temple and cheek. I stood fascinated, taking in all these details; I even remember noticing, with an additional thrill of horror, that she wore a long cloak of duffel gray, when she drew near and stood before me, tall and erect. ' What brings you here ?' she asked in a low stern voice. ' How dare you revisit the scene of your cowardly wickedness. Is it not enough that you have ruined two lives, but you must come here and gloat over the remembrance ! Begone ! aud beware,' she added slowly and impressively, ' how you cross my path again.' There was something so dreadful in the sup]tressed anger of her tone, and in the look she fixed on me, that, added to the remorse I felt for the harm I had unintenionally done her, caused me to sink on my knees before ner< ' l —l thought it was the ghost,' I stammered—' the gray ghost. I meant no harm.'

' The ghost, the gray ghost !' repeated Janet in a sneering voice. ' You thought it was the ghost, did you ? You had better beware for the future of the ghost of Flittermouse "Well!' And so saying, she turned, and left me as suddenly as she had come. Before another month had elapsed, I had run away from my home at the manor. 1 felt that I could not stay any longer in the neighbourhood of Flittermouse Well. The events that had occurred had so wrought upon me, that I determined to leave my dreary home and all that could remind me of the past; and, contrary to what might have been expected, fortune befriended me. I managed to obtain money enough before another year had passed to pay my passage to Australia, whither, as it happened, many emigrants were just then bound.

My relations did not trouble themselves much about me, apparently, for years passed without my hearing either of them or of Dunmoor. I tried to banish from my memory all that had happened; and set to work to earn money. Fortune favoured me again; young as I was, I succeeded well in sheepfarming; and at the age of thirty I returned with my young wife to England, a comparatively rich man. On my return, I would not suffer myself to revisit the scenes of my childhood ; and I never mentioned the circumstances I have here related to any one. Years passed on, and I lived happily with my young wife, whom I dearly loved; all the wild imaginations of my youth having been effectually quenched in the prosaic process of gaining a livelihood, My happiness seemed complete when a son was born to me. I had now an heir to my savings, and on this child I centred all my interest. He throve as well as I could desii'e. At the end of that time there fell on me a blow which nearly crushed me. One evening I had just returned from a long journey, and was walking home from the coach-office, eagerly looking forward to the meeting with my wife and child, when, as I neared my own house, I noticed a woman standing by the gate, muffled in gray. I had to pass quite near to her, and as I did so, she uncovered her face and turned it full upon me. It was old and changed, but there was no mistaking that look of deadly hatred, once seen, never to be forgotten, and a glance sufficed me to recognise the face of Janet Horwood. Involuntarily, I hurried through the gateway, and when I ca-t a look behind me, the figure had disappeared. A gloomy foreboding had now come over my heart, which reasoning failed to dispel. I hastily knocked at the door of my house; it was opened, and I learned the fatal tidings that my boy was dead and buried. A sudden attack of illness had come on, the nurses said, and after a few hours of suffering he had died. They had sent an express messenger for me, but I was already on my journey home—a journey of several days, and the message failed to reach me. The foreboding I had felt now was accounted for; but if I had my suspicions concerning the cause of my child's death, I kept them to myself. My wife and I could not bear to live where our darling had died, so we left our home, and removed to a distance. After another year had elapsed, my wife again presented mo with a son, and, freed from old associations, I held up my head once more and rejoiced. Mother and child both did well, and in my joy I kept a jealous guard over my boy, never stirring from the house till my wife was well enough to come down-stairs. Even then it was only urgent business that took me away from home for a few hours. In the evening I returned, and on my way home I was pondering on my new treasure, when I encountered a woman, who turned as I passed, and looked me in the face. It was Janet Horwood again. This time rage mingled with my horror, and I sprang towards her; but she eluded me, and vanished from my sight. My|old forebodings returned tenfold, and I entered my home with a sinking heart. My footsteps echoed like sounds of doom through the silent hall. Breathing thickly, I passed upstairs, and opened the door of my wife's chamber. She was lying on the bed with her back towards me. I approached her. Our baby lay on hor arm. I bent over her, and kissed her. Her face was cold. I listened for her breathing : there was no sound. Mother and child were both dead. Medical evidence was given that they died from the effects of a strong poison; but there was no evidence to disclose the murderer. Suspicion fell here and there, but without proof. I was mjself acensed of having done the deed ; but I was acquitted. 1 believe that every one thought that my mind was deranged by what I had gone through. • I do not know what has impelled me to write this history. The same influence, perhaps, that has caused me, a brokenhearted man, to return to the now deserted manor, and that leads me every day to the brink of Flittermouse Well. I write it in the old oak pannelled dining-room; and some impulse urges me to bring it to a close to-day—the wind in the sycamores moaning a dirge meanwhile. I was at the well this morning ; a heavy rain had fallen in the night, and all was silent and deserted. The willow branches were dripping, and the long grass was soaked and dank. Yet I saw traces of footsteps which must recently have been imprinted ; and close to the well's mouth there lay an old, worn cloak of gray duffel—not sodden by the rain, but as though it had just fallen there. By these tokens, and by a strange presentiment in my heart, I think that Janet Horwood is not far off, and the same presentiment warns me that we shall meet once more. * * * * * * After reading the singular history I have given above, I made inquiries in the neighbourhood respecting the former tenants of Dunmoor Manor ; and was told that they were respectable farmers, who had made it their home for many years. As there was nothing tragical to be told in connection with them, I concluded that the writer of the above narrative must have belonged to a family of older date. I made further inquiries, therefore, and discovered that a family of the name of Roche had possessed the manor long ago ; that the proprietor had died, and the rest of the family had deserted the house, aud gone no one knew whither ; that after this, the house had remained untenanted for many a year, until at length a member of the family—an old man, and reported to be insane—had returned there. ' And what became of this old man ?' I asked of my informant. ' Well, sir,' was the answer, ' the tale runs as how he was found lying dead at the bottom of an old pit hereabouts.' •And the name of the pit?' I inquired eagerly. 'Flittermouse Well.'