LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1961, 7 June 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

GHOSTS AT CHATELOUS3E. [A. Story By a Canadian Traveller.] Talking about ghosts (said Jack Scott), the toughest time I ever had with gentry of that sort was when I was travelling up in Canada. We were in the far line, yon know, and I happened to fall in with a gentleman by the name of Flint, who agreed to go across the country with me. He was no* at all the sort of fellow one would choose for a travelling companion, being extremely taciturn and grim; but apart from sharing expenses, there was the necessity for some sort of sympathy and affection in such a confoundedly bleak and forbidding country. Our sturdy team of Canadian horses took us further and further from civilisation ; hoatelriea of any sort were few and far between : but an honest sheep-dog would have been a jollier companion than Flint—his thin lips ccn'.dn’t seem to take the ikape of a healthy laugh. Without divulging any commercial secrets, I told Flint what I could of my errand into the wilderness, hoping to get some confidence in return. He did go so t- r as to hint that ho also was connected with hunting and trapping, but ha was extremely close-mouthed and reticent as to particulars, and after little spurts of chat on my part, the conversation languished. The third morning of our journey we had a little controvery, Flint and I, about our route for the day. We wanted to get on to Chatelousae, where I had letters of introduction, and where Flint hoped to find out the whereabouts of a Monsieur Barnard, in whom I was also interested, as Flint had told me he had been a dealer in skins. We were told there was a short cut across the country, but it would be safer perhaps to take the public road. Flint was rather in favour of the latter plan, being of a cautious and prudent temperament; but, although the words of our senior partner came into my head, they only seemed to push me the other way. * Never take a by-path when you can get a highway, ’ were the parting words of Mr Frost; but I considered them some of his oracular old fogyisms. ‘lt’s only twenty miles, Flint,’ I said. * Twenty of these Canadian miles,’ he added.

‘ With fresh horses,’ I went on, * and our host here has pointed ns out the way.’ ‘Yes, yes,’said the innkeeper, ‘straight ahead, gentlemen, till you see a big cross set up at the end of a three-cornered field. Turn to the right, and you’ll soon see a forest of fir trees ; that is the beginning of Chatelonsse, and close at hand lines Adrian Bernard. There is a house a little this way, messieurs, that is all black and empty, and has about it the melancholy air of the grave, It is, pardon me, messieurs—it is given over to the devil. They say it is haunted.’

‘ Yes, yes, ’ broke in Flint, craning hia neck eagerly forward; ‘ what is it about this house ? ’ ‘lt is that a crime has been committed there, messieurs—that lights are seen, queer noises are heard, groans and shrieks of terror. I have it for a fact that night after night the tragedy is repeated, over and over again. ’

_ * Let us go on,’ said Flint, ‘in the direo tion of this house,’

Six hours later we had reached a big bar of wood that had fallen, and was plunged fathoms deep in the snow. As for roads, there were none, neither to the right nor to the left. That imbecile of an inkeeper must have known that at this season of the year ordinary landmarks were obliterated. We had long since been gliding over an unbroken surface of snow ; but, dimly shadowed upon the horison, I had seen the forest of firs, and I pushed the jaded beasts onward. It was weary work, as we were perceptibly going uphill. The short Canadian day was drawing to a close. If you want an idea, my friends, of complete and utter desolation, take a campagna of that sort when day is expiring at the hands of a pitiless and unrelenting night, the vast sheet of white, unbroken by fence or forest, becomes in the shifting and fading light like a pall drawn over a dead world. From early morn we had not passed a roof or seen a living creature. The bitterness of cold was somewhat ameliorated, but this was another source of anxiety, as it hinted at snow, and to think of this was to shudder ; a snowstorm would be utter and irretrievable ruin. To add to my alarm, I conld no longer distinguish the line of fir trees.

1 This must be snow-blindness,’ I said. ‘ Can you see those fir trees, Flint ?’ ‘No,’ he replied, calmly; ‘I have not seen them for some time. They’ll probably come in sight when we get to the top of this hill.’

But having reached the summit, and beginning to descend, I said again, * Can you see them now, Flint ?’ * No, he replied, I reined in the horses, and got upon my feet. One unbroken, glittering desert of snow surrounded us. In the yellow light of the western sky it glistened like the folds of a snake; further on, under the stormy clouds that scudded along, it grew livid and steel-colored, and looked more horrible to me than the wildest and blackest of seas. At that moment a flimsy particle, as soft as down, touched my cheek. In an instant we were enveloped by the soft, white, accursed lakes.

‘MyGod, Flint!’ I cried, sinking back in the sled, * we are lost!’ ‘ I’m afraid so,’ said Flint.

‘Great heaven!’ I exclaimed, ‘our bones will lie bleaching here for months. Our families won’t even know what has become of ns.’

* I haven't any family,’ said Flint. ‘ Neither have I, for that matter,’ said I. * Bat that doesn’t make it any pleasanter, does it, to die here like dogs ?’ ‘ Of course not,’ said Flint. ‘ Yon’d better take some brandy, Scott. It’s unfortunate. I’d like to hunt out that Bernard, but it can’t be helped.’ He took a pull at the brandy flask and handed it over to me. He was as cool as the climate, my friends. In the meanwhile the horses, feeling the reins falling loosely from my fainting hands, trotted rapidly on. Heaven help those egotists that hold the human intellect supreme. The ponies chose the right direction. In less than ten minutes those blessed ponies took ns in sight of the line of fir trees. I was transported by the felicitous view of some honest smoke wreathing up between the scraggy branches which sheltered a long, low, straggling building, red-roofed, with diamond-shaped panes in the windows, through which we could see the red lights of the household fire. The squawk of a fowl suggested its speedy conveyance to a neighboring spit ; the grunting of pigs near by was more melodious to my ears than the music of the spheres yonder in the storm-tossed, blinding snow. * We’re saved, Flint, my boy !' I cried. * Thank God, we are saved !’ •This must he Bernard’s,’ said Flint, looking about him with his keen grey eyes ; •and over yonder I think I can see the outlines of the haunted house.’ Five minutes after we sat in a long, lowcelled apartment that covered half the ground. The oaken rafters almost touched the head of a tall trapper who was lodging with Monsieur Bernard. He had a long blonde beard and singularly melodious voice. There was quite a number of guests there—all of them trappers ; so Monsieur Bernard said ; but this tall fellow they called Cameron had the shoulders of a Hercules with the face of an Apollo. I suppose I was something dared by the sudden relief and rescue, for it appeared to me that the young woman who sat by the fire paring carrots, the very colour of her long braids of hair, was as beautiful as an angeL Her eyes were soft and luminous, her forehead low and white, and an indescribable air of tender melancholy shadowed her face. The chemisette she wore was as white as the snow upon which it was bleached ; her bodice was of homespun; the knots in her knitted stockings must have been made by her own little hands ; the big buckles on her shoes could not hide the pretty arch of her instep. She sang_ under her breath a little couplet, of which the aefrain was * Jamais, jamais !’ Hungry as I was, I could scarcely touch the fine-grilled fowl prepared for us. but my soul devoured the daughter of Monsieur Bernard. The tall trapper and his companions were supplied in a neighbouring room; we could hear their glasses rap upon the table or ohink against each other; scraps of songs and disjointed sentences reached our ears. Flint picked the chicken to the bone, in the meanwhile talking in a low tone to Monsieur Bernard, who basked in the heat that poured from the crackling sides of

the sheet iron stove, and blinked at FUntr like an ancient lizard, He was a little, dnel-up man, with a close cap upon hi» head; a warm, furry jacket, high woollen stockings and wooden sabots completed bis costume. An hour or two went by ; the trappers in the neighbouring room hadfinished their meal, and apparently gone to bed. Flint and the little Frenchman pursued their conversation. As for me, I had drawn close to the beautifnl woman, who was washing some quaint yellow mugs at the end of the long oak table. Her name was Marie. In this primitive region conventionalities were set aside—an earnest passion glided along like snow shoes. I got over a good deal of ground iu a very short time. I began to believe that this journey was marked out for me. I told Marie so, and lifted one of her long braids to my lips. I was just thinking what a sensation that peculiar colored hair and her remarkable beauty would create in cur circles at home, when Flint called out to me that he had resolved to go over and sleep in the haunted, house.

* Don’t you want to go along, Scott,’ hesaid, ‘or are you afraid ?’ The latter part of his sentence had a peculiar, sneering intonation. I said I wss not afraid, but thought it a very absurd and. infernally uncomfortable thing to leave a warm fireside and go plunging over there in the snow and the freezing air for a freak of curiosity.

Marie clasped her hands and besought ef us, for the sake of the Redeemer, not to go; that in that room upstairs, upon that very tsallet of straw, the murdered man had been found, and nobody had slept there since, or staved in the house.

‘Except the ghosts of Chatelonsse,’ said her father, in a dry wheezy voice. But Flint got his lantern ready. Of course I had to go. If one man ventures upon a foolhardy freak, another must follow, or rest under the imputation of cowardice. Monsieur Bernard helped us on with our overcoats. I looked into the sweet eyes of Marie ; they were dilated with the expression of terror one seas in the eyes of a fawn, t took her cold hands in mine.

‘Best tranquil, my sweet child,’ I said, for I was touched by her tenderness ; ‘ I will return to you.’

(To be continued .)