LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2146, 11 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERY OF LORD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B, EDWARDS, Author of “ Barbara’s History,” Debenbam’s Vow,” &e. ( Continued . They had forgotten it in the suddenness of their terror ; but now - His first impulse was to undo the door of communication ; but the bolts were rusty and the key gone; so they had no resource but to turn back by way of the courtyard, and tho courtyard—all driving mist under a canopy of dark in which there was no sign of dawn—was, as Lancelot said, ‘alabyrinth of pools.’ *ln such a night !’ said Winifred, shiveringly. *ln such weather Oh, Lancelot! it is impossibla,’ * I fear it is only too true,’ he said. * Give me the light—see there!’ The door of the old banqueting hall was ajar—tho key was in the look—the threshhold was splashed and streaked, as by the trailing of wet garments. These streaks went all along the floor, getting fainter towards the upper end, and ceasing upon the narrow stairs leading up to the gallery. At the top of the stairs Winifred hung back, trembling ; but Lancelot pushed open the door and went in. She was either there, or had been there. Her lamp stood on the floor, about half-way along the gallery flickering low, and all but out. Beyond it, all was dark, 1 Aunt Hester ! —dear Aunt Hester, where are you ?’ Her voice teemed to wander down the gallery and lose itself in whispering echoes, desitatingly they went forward, Lancelot holding high the light, Winifred following. All at once they stopped. What was that ? It sounded like a low chuckling laugh. Seized with an inexpressible dread, the girl clung to her companion and uttered an involuntary cry. * Hush ? —she is there ! She must not be startled. Steady, dear—you need all your courage.’ She was there—half-lying on the floor, half sitting, between the last window and the raised dais at the end of the gallery. Her head was uncovered, and her eyes glistened from under a tangle of wet grey hair. She had on a loose dressing gown of some dark stuff, outside which she had rolled herself in the quilt, as if conscious of the cold. As they drew near, she looked away, and laughed again, and mattered to herself.

‘ We must make haste,’ she said, * or wo shall not be ready in time. It’s a pity the flowers are all over; bnt there are plenty of evergreens. Bridget remembers how we decked the walls when he came of age—bat that was in May, and now it is November. Where’s Winifred? Why Is she so long dressing ? Does she know that that the Queen is coming, and that her uncle has won his lawsuit ? ’

‘ Dearest Aunt Hester, I am here.’ Miss Langtrey looked at her vaguely, ‘ No, no—not you. ’ she said. I want Winifred —I sent for Winifred. Her mother Is gone to Jamaica, yon know. ... Be sure they don't forget the lights this time in the musicians gallery. Bid you hear the bells ? They rang just like that the day he came of age. . . . We sent the ringers a banel of beer to drink his health, and they must have the same to-day.’

'Her hands and feet are like ice,’ said Winifred, the tears running down her cheeks. * How shall we get her back ? What is to be done ?’

‘Done?’ she said, catching np the last word. * There’s is a great deal to be done yet . . , there's an ox to be roasted whole, and we have no red cloth to lay down, when the Queen comes into the hall. They say it was strewn with rushes when she was here before; but that was in the olden time before yon and 1 were born!’ Then, with a sadden change of mood, she moaned and wailed, and rocked herself to and fro.

• Poor Stephen! poor Stephen ! Yon come too late to save him ! I have pat off the mortgage ; bnt it is of no nse now. He is dead and gone—dead and gone—the last of his name !’

•Where is Bridget?’ cried Winifred diapairingly. * Why doesn’t she dome ?’ 4 1 called to her to bring some warm wraps,’ replied Lancelot. 'I thought she was following us. Will yon be afraid to stay hero a few moments while I Ah, thank heaven, here is Ur. Saunders. ’

Dr, Sannders. pulling off his great coat as he came along ; Reuben splashed from head to foot; Bridget with an armfnl of shawls ; J oan, the dairy wench, pale and frightened, and carrying a lantern—they were all there. Miss Langtrey shrank .back, and pushed away the shawls which Winifred tried to wrap round her. ‘ I don’t know him!’ she whispered, cowering. ‘ I don’t like his eyes. Tell him to go away—tell him he is not invited !’ Then, plucking at Bridget’s sleeve—‘Hush!’ she said, ‘this is a great occasion ! 'Tis a pity we sold the plate ; bnt we have the Queen’s tankard still. Yen’ll find it in the oak chest In your master’s bed-room. Will she remember it, do you think ? That was two hundred and fifty years ago, and no one has drunk from it since.’

They had laid her now npon a pile of rugs, Winifred, sitting beside her on the floor, supported her head, while Joan and Bridget chafed her hands and feet.

* Had we not better carry her back to her own room, and get her into bed?’ asked Lancelot, taking the physician apart. Bat Dr. Saunders shook his head. * It la naeless to torment her,’ he said. * But the cold of this place will kill her ? ’ ‘ My dear Lord Brackenbnry, the poor lady is dying.’ Dying ! Lancelot could not believe it. That she should have had strength to get np and come all this -way, and yet be dying, seemed to him impossible. * Von may see how she has changed within these last few minutes,’ said the physician. The fictitious energy of delirium is already spent. Her voice is perceptibly weaker ; her pulse more feeble at every teat.’ She was lying back now, exhausted, but mattering always. Then she closed her eyes, but waked with a start, and bade them seat her on the throne. * I am too ill to dance,’ she said, * but I will look on. Why don’t they bring more lights? Yes, the music may begin. Where is my lord of Leicester ? We know your motto. Sir Marmaduke — 4 Langtrey : Loyaultd.’ The Langtreys were ever loyal; but they are fallen—fallen—fallen.’ She shivered murmured something about its being 4 a cold welcome for a Queen,' — smiled —waved her hand fantastically—leaned her head against the back of the chair—closed her eyes again—sighed twice or thrice —then moved, breathed, signed no more. 4 Water I water 1 the is fainting,’ cried Winifred. 4 Has no one thought of to bring any water 1 ’ Then, wildly wringing her hands — 4 Why do you all stand doing nothing ? Why don’t yon help her P ’ * She has passed beyond roach of help from ns dear lady,’ said Dr Saunders gently. ‘ She is dead.’ Chapter XXXI. Winifred’s resolve. * Mnn I speak to you a minnut, please, Miss ?’ The voice outside the door was Reuben s. The curly head so cautiously thrust in, so quickly withdrawn, was also Reuben’s. Of the instinctive delicacy which prompted him to start back, he was as unconscious as a savage. He only felt that he ought not to see what he saw on looking in, and that he must feign not to have seen it. Yet it was no such extraordinary sight. Only a lady at the breakfast table—a lady dressed in deepest black ; her breakfast nntasted ; her arms thrown forward on the table; her head down; sobbing—sobbing—sobbing as if her heart would break Six days had gone by—the last six mournful days of November. Days when the home was dark within, and the skies wore dark without, and the rain fell unceasingly. Days of seclusion and the melancholy preparation, ending with one more sad than all its forerunners—a day when the last Lang*

trey of that ancient name was borne across the threshold of the old honse in which her life had been spent, and which thenceforth would know her no more. Mrs Pennefeather had been much with Winifred all through this trying time, and having remained that last day till quite late, left her with anxious reluctance. * But for baby and the children, nothing should induce me to go home,’ she said. ‘it wrings my heart to leave you alone.’ ‘ But 1 must learn to be alone.’ * My dear Winifred i’ ‘ Yea—it is a hard lesson ; but the sooner I begin to master it the better.’ * Ah, but yon cannot go on living in this hnge old place all by yourself! You would die of melancholy.’ ‘I don't think so,’ Winifred replied with a wan smile, I love every stone of it. ‘I am happier here than I could be anywhere else.’ Mrs Pennefeather shook her head. ‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘it is too soon as yet to make plans for the future.’ So, with many entreaties that Winifred would not break down when she was gone, the curate’s wife took her departure. (To he continved on Saturday.)