LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2612, 21 August 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE LEGEND OF GOBIE GRANGE,

I em not superstitious, and I flatter myself that I am not weak-minded ; In faot, I do not believe I am deficient in either moral or physical oourage. Show me my foe, and I am always ready and willing to grapple him. Still, there is with moat of us, I fancy, a shrinking from anything supernatural, and I am not altogether free from the failing myself. Yet I would have you to understand that I am not a bit of a coward. I wish most especially to impreis this upon your minds. lam not a coward—l repeat it; but lam short. Yee, I mast confess It, I am altogether a small man, and therefore, although my courage ii of the best quality, I am placed sometimes at an unfair disadvantage. However, what I laok in size I make up for in conversation. Everyone knows Anthony Hare Is a great talker. I am not a rich man, neither am I a very poor one What I have Is a certainty ; besides which, I have prospeots. My three paternal aunts are very fond of me. I am their only masculine relation, and in oonsequence they think a good deal of me. They are cheery old. damsels, above middle age, marvels of juvenility in dress and manneis, and sprightly as kittens. They resided, generally in au o!d red brick honse which they had inherited from their mother's family, and which had, like most old country houses, a legend attached to it. Bat to unravel the truth of the story was more than my aunts had been able to do, there were so many varieties in Its tilling. It ran something to this effect:—The great great maternal grandfather of these old ladies had owned property In the West Indies, and when returning to England ha brought home with him his negro servant, and went down into Blankshire to reside In the very red brick house now i habited by the Miss Hares—Gorie Orange. It was said that their great-great-grand-father, whose name was Kowe, had brought home with him untold wealth, but his style of living certainly proclaimed n-> tuoh thing. It was moreover asserted that Mr Kowe was a miser, and had bidden his money bags where he believed no one would think of looking for them, but that his servant, with a black man's cunning, had ferreted out the secrat. These money b»gs were much talked of In the neighborhood, but no signs of wealth became visible in Mr Bowe's mode of life. He had chosen his own rooms in a wing which was almost detaohed from the rest of the honse, and there he lived a most isolated life. No visitors were invited to the Grange, and the old man had only bis servant Sambo and an ancient housekeeper to wait upon him. Mr Bowe was about seventy years of age, and had for many years been a widower. His only son he had left attending te the West Indian property, so be might almost be said to be alone in the world. One morning, about twelve months after Mr Bowe's arrival |at the Grange, finding that her master did not oome down to breakfast, and seeing nothing of Sambo, the antiquated housekeeper crawled up the stairs, as well as her ' rheumatic j ' would let her, and tapped at Mr Bowe's bedroom door. There was no reply. Again and again she knocked, but with no result, and then she essayed to open the door. To her surprise it yielded at onoe, and as she had used some force, expecting resistance, she went in much more quickly than was at silicon.fottable to her rheumatic limbs, and feel heavily against the bottom of the four post oaken redstead, which filled up a large space in the room.

Whether she was stunned she hardly knew ; bat as she lty there, unable to rise, a great horror came upon her. She felt that she was in the pretence of a terrible scene, acd yet she had not the sense to understand it, or take it wholly in. She crept from the room like a stricken animal, never attempting to rise, bat crawling away, looking back over her shoulder from time to time as [if she feared to be followed by—something. In this way the must have regained her kitohen, for there the gardener tound her tome hoars later, coiled up before the dying embers of the fire, crouching almost against the bars of the grate. He shook ber by the shoulder, and she started violently, and began to shiver. That some deed of •borror bad b-eu enacted in the house he at once perceived, but of what nature he could not gsther from the terror stricken old woman. He went away and obtained assistance. The report that a tragedy had taken place at Gorie Grange soon spread, and even as the horrible has great powers of attraction, the garde aer quickly found volunteers in plenty to accompany him in his voyage of discovery round {the old house. In Mr Rone's bed room a dreadful sight met their view. The old man was lying upon the flcor with his throat cut. From all appearance the fearful act must have been committed while he was in bed, probably when he was asleep, but it had failed to kill him at otce. Trie eld man was powerful and not easily subdued, nor easily killed. To judge by the distuib-sd state of the room, even after he had received bis death wound there had been a severe struggle. That Mr Bowe had been murdered seem d certain, and so the inquest pronounced. Some few there were who averred a belief that he had committed sulc'de, but all the evidence, medical and otherwise, pointed to murder. The old housekeeper told what little she knew, and little indeed that was, as we have already seen.

One of tho most strange features of the case was that Sambo had never been seen or heard of after this shocking event had taken pl&ce, and neither dead nor alive was he to be found. Had he killed his matter and absconded with his gold, or had he shared the same fate ? If so, what had become of him t The police were not then what the police are now. Still, they appeared to do their utmost to find a olue to the mystery, but without success; and from that time only the legend was left of the great-great-maternal grandfather of my aunts. Mr Howe's son in the West Indies never came home at all, and Gorie Grange was shut up. Tears afterwards his son claimed the property, and no one appeared to hare any desire to dispute his right to It. In due course he settled there, but from what I can learn, the wiag where the tragedy had been enacted had been used by him only a lumber rooms. Whether this was in consequence of the gfcastly story attached to them or whether he had plenty o" ro:ms without them I cannot say. 'J his gentleman was the grandfather of my three aunts, and he had no sons. He left the place to his only daughter, and from her (their own mother) the Miss Hares had inherited it, with the legend attached thereto. But the effects of such stories waned with age, and my aunts thought and cared little about their great-great-grand-father, and probably gave small oredeooe to the blood-stained tale. So long as their motber lived (and a very long time tha 1 , was) there was no talk of awaking the echoes of those unused rooms, shut off a> they were from the rest of the house. The old four-post bedstead stood there. It was too massive to decay and too handsome to destroy, with its rich and r&ro carving, and too unwieldly to move; so they left it alone. My aunts had lived much at the Orange, and a little in London. I had sjent a portion of my time with them yearly, in one plaoe or the other, but I gave the preference to their 00-y London residence, small though it was As I have and before, I was a favorite with my aunts ; I did my best to amuse them, arid I suppose I succeeded, I was what is commonly, but surely erroneously, called *an idle man,' And yet no man ouuld be more busy. What is it I do ? Well, really, the things are so numerous that I cannot exactly say. But one faot I will mention ; I never have a moment to oall my own. And yet everyone dubs me 'an Idle man.' It is a little annoying, but it oan't be helped, I suppose, as I oannot proclaim that I am a baker, or a butcher, or a lawyer, or aclerk in the Admiralty, or that I belong to any other definite trade or profession. My »unts, however, seemed rather proud of the faot; and the dear old eouls set to work, as scon as the Grange became their own property, to give me a home with them. I knew nothing about it at all; but they sect for painters, plasterers, and whitewashers, who were followed by decorators and upholsterers, and the discarded wing was restored and refurnished.

Tkere was on'y one article of the old furniture left, and that was the large anolent bedstead. Its carving waß eo beautiful that they thought I should like to retain it. It looked like one of the old State bedsteads from Hampton Court stranded among the pretty modern furniture. The suite of rooms, thre? in number, was prepared for '«ne. I knew I ought to be grateful to my aunts for their kindness, and yet I mußt confess I felt uncomfortable. First, I preferred being my

own master; secondly, I hated the country, Lamp posts were far more congenial to my tssfce than trees ; pavements to green fields ar>d muddy lanes. And thirdly, as the door of communication w!th the old wing olosed after we with a spring, the story of the murder (which I had not thought of for years) rushed into my mind, with all its horrors crowding fast and thick one upon the other. But there stood my Broiling annts, and what could I say ? except how kind this surprise of |°theirai was,, and how pretty I thought all the things they had selected for my use, and how little I deserved all they had done for me. I made my small speeches cheerfully, but there was a dull weight at my heart. I did not like at all being the first sleeper in these apartments. I vowed |to myself that at least that spring {door should not close me In. I would drive a staple Into the wall and fasten It baok—a faot I accomplished before hed time ; after which I felt happier. I |took great pains to prevent my aunts fancying that I had any dislike to my new quarters. In fact, as the evening wore on, I had almost ceased to think about it. I ate a good dinner at teven o'clock, my aunts bringing some of their best wino from the collar in honor of the occasion, and I drank freely, Never was I more brilliant. I kept them, and a few friends whom they had invited to meet me in oonstant roars of laugher. I made myself agreeable and amusing to all, as I can do when I like. The dinner and evening were both a success. Some of the departing snests of the sterner sex prepared themselves for a cold drivo by a glass of hot brandy and water, In which I joined them. After they had all gone, I t ok jnst one more for a 'night cap;' kissed my aunts all round, and amidst their reiterated kind wishes that I might have a good night and be comfortable, <xo., &c, I lighted my candle and went off to my solitary wing. I looked at the door cf communication and saw, to my satisfaction, that it was fastened baok quite safely. 'lf it had been open thus the night that poor old man wag mnrdered,' I thought, 'his screams could easily have been heard all over the house.'

And then I wont into my room and. shut the door. A fire was burning in the grate and the window curtaics were olosed. Now, if there is one thing I dislike, it is to sleep in a darkened room. In strange houses I often indulge in a night light, but on this occasion I had not one. bo I went to the window, opened the curtains, drew up the blind, and looked into the starlight night, and saw with joy the promise of a rising moon, I inspected the furxiture of my rsom minutely. {To be continued )