LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2259, 25 May 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE DUKE’S HOUSE. [From ‘Chambers’ Journal.] I was born in an old chartered and very picturesque town in a Western county, in ■whose vicinity stood an ancient and ducsl ■ palace, which had not been occupied _ft r many a long year, and, like other buildings left to decay, had the reputation of being haunted. There certainly were strange sights and sounds to be seen and heard sometimes by those persons who were near the (lace at dusk and after dark, bnt it was never looked Into. , . , The uneducated were too superstitious and frightened ; the better class were too busy or too indolent, and we had no rural police in those days to trace out the causes. It was a groat pity for such a fine Elizabethan structure to fall to ruins. I remem* her it as a stroog and beautiful mansion, with its lawns and terrace-garder a. and its many windows as there are days in the year. This I doubted when a child, and often got the nurse girl to walk round the house to count them with me, but we never attained our object; for if the sun got overclouded she would bo sure to see a ghost at some gloomy window, and rush off, leaving me, terrified, to follow. The old residents had died out, the title having become extinct, and around it were sprang up mills and factories, which prevented the aristocracy from living In it. The millownera, too, preferred to be further away from their counting houses and smoky chimneys. Besides, It must have been a very rich man who could pnt it in decorative repair and keep np such an establishment. In those days onr merchant princes wore content with very modest dwellings, such as many a middle-class man now-a-days would deem it derogatory to live in. lam writing of a slow and sure age; we are now living in a fast and reckless one.

But to my story. I had attained an age when ghosts or hobgoblins and snob like rabbish did not terrify or trouble me. I was a married man, the father of several children, when a cousin came to visit us, who was highly delighted with our pretty town; and knowing her to be very clever with her pencil, I asked her to paint me one or two scenes in the neighborhood. This she willingly consented to do, and we sallie I forth to fix on what should be her first picture. She thought the view from the Duke’s House, as it was called, would be the best. I told her she dared not trust herself in there, for it had been uninhabited for the last century, and was haunted. She laughed, and said she did not believe In ghosts ; she was not frightened at the dead In solitary places as at the living ; and her curiosity being excited, she wanted to explore the old building. So, while she went for her easel and materials, I got the keys from an old man who lived in the old court yard of the dncal residence.

We walked through the rooms admiring their old grandeur, the lofty marble columns standing on marble hearths each side of the fireplaces, supporting the grained ceilings, with coats of arms and other devices carved in marble between them. The tapestry round the walla smelled mouldy, but was in a wonderful state of preservation, and no worse than when, a boy, twenty years before, I had pitied the ladies who worked so hard to cover the rough stone walls. My oonsin selected a room for,her first sketch, and, as I was leaving, I advised her to look the door after me to guard against intrusion ; but she objected to this, saying she never locked herself in any room, for fear of sudden illness ; bnt if I would look the door on the outside, and call for her as I came from the bank, she would be much happier to know she was secure from interruption. After some hesitation 1 consented to do this, and with the key in my pocket went to business.

It was just closing time, and I was looking up the strong room when the manager drew my attention to a matter which involved a protracted search of papers—a search, however, which happily proved successful. All other thoughts having been driven from my head by this unwonted piece of business, I reached home, and as 1 mechanically took out mv latch key and went into the house, still In a reverie, I was met by my wife, who asked why 1 was so late for dinner and where Mary was, * Mary !' I exclaimed ; * I forgot all about her,’ and catching my bat off the peg again I rushed oat, speeding as fast as 1 could to liberate her, and bitterly lamenting my folly for locking her in. It was quite dark when I got there, and I had no light ; but I felt out the key-hole unlocked the door, and tramped loudly up the stairs. I called her, but received no reply. Going into the room in which I had left: her I gazed into the recesses, and found her huddled up into a corner. ‘ Mary, my poor dear child,’ I exclaimed, * will you ever forgive me V ‘ Huib, bush I for pity’s sake, hush ” she said in a whisper.

‘Why did you not answer mo when I called you?" I replied, 1 felt her whole frame quiver, and then, as I was assisting her to rise, she fell on me in a fainting fit 1 had no light, not even a fusee in my pocket, and no one was within call. At length I thought of the water she had for her work it might revive her if I could find it. t laid her down gently, and groping about for the water, sprinkled her face, which had the effect of bringing her around

Hurriedly rising, she exclaimed : —‘ Oh, come away. Take me out of this horrid place!’ I began to rally her about the absurdity of her fears, and her telling me in the morning she was cot superstitions. But she Interrupted me by saying :—' I have seen no ghost. We are in a den of horrid thieves and murderers ! I saw two bodies dragged up stairs, stripped of everything with just a shirt around them. Oh, come oat of the place, or we shall be the next. Even now they may have heard us, and they will murder ns.’ I asked her if she had not got drowsy whilst waiting for me in the gloom of the afternoon, for it was November, and dreamed it.

* Oh, no !’ she replied ; 1 1 did not dream ; and horror-stricken as I was, when the ruffians descended the stain again I crept silently up to see if I could find oat anything ; ana, oh horror, I shall never forget the sight. Do let ns go.’ 1 must confess I felt a little creepy and nervous, but was myself again in a moment. Feeling her tremble, and fearing another swoon, I began descending the stairs with her, when a light below shot up to ns. She clutched me convulsively, but was re-assured by hearing my wife’s voice calling oat! * Frank I Mary! Where are you V * Hero,’ I said ; * all right. ’ ‘lndeed,’ she replied; ‘I think it all wrong to give me such a fright.’ We had reached her by this time, and by the light of the lantern she had brought, she caught sight of Mary’s blanched face. To my wife’s interrogatories respecting her illness, the poor girl assured her that she was not iU, but terrified. ‘I will tell you all,’ she added, ’when I got home.’ I was thankful for the light and left them walking on, whilst I ran up to Mary’s painting materials, and, locking the door, I pat the key in my pocket, meaning to retnrn again after dinner and try to elucidate the mystery. When I joined them, Mary was asking my wife how she dared come alone all the way from my house to that place. She replied that she wonld rather do so any hour of the night than to be kept in suspense, and added—- ‘ As soon as the day began to close I looked for you, but as you did not come 1 thought Frank must have called for yon, and was lionising you in the town. But when fully an hoar after dinner was ready, he came back without yon, and rushed off like a madman when I asked for yon. I was for the moment bewildered, but thinking that you must have been taken ill, and that Frank would want help and a light, I hurried to the kitchen for a lantern, and told one of the girls to put on her things and accompany me to the Duke’s house, for yon were there, and must have been taken ill. But wonld you believe it? she flatly refused, saying it served you right for going there ; you wonld never be found, for never a person going near that honse after dark was ever seen afterward. 1 ridiculed her nonsense, and appealed to the others, bat neither would go, so I had no other alternative bat to oome alone. ’ Whan we reached home I went to the cellar and got a bottle of Moselle and made Mary drink off half a tumblerful, and then

we Eat down to dinner. We were just Battled down to dessert when a friend dropped in for a hand of whist, and won dered at our being so late. I told him the reason, and then aoked Mary for her story, as I had forbidden her talking about it until she had got her dinner. She began : ‘ After you loft toe I worked on for a long time until, feeling hungry, I looked at my watch and found it was past two o’clock. I then ate my aandwitches. and after taking a turn through some of the rooms, settled into work again. I had not been long occupied when I was aroused by strange irregular noises which seemed to come from the landing above. 1 then awoke to the consciousness that I had been hearing the scuffiing of feet for some time. The scuffling commenced again, and I got up, moved cautiously to the door, which was ajar, and looked out just in time to see an old hag disappear in a doorway above, and the door closed softly behind her I stepped up and noiselessly opened the door, and peeped in; but to my surprise the room was empty. X walked in to see if there was any other door through which she could have passed ; but there was none ; nor was there a window she could have got out of. I was fairly puzzled, for you know I don’t believe In ghosts. I went down to my room, but could not settle to work. I went up again and again, but could discover nothing, nor could I detect a sound. It was broad day when I saw her, and now 1 found it was getting too dark for me to do any more painting, so I gathered all together and put them In the corner, ready for to-morrow morning, and sat down to wait for you.