Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 44, 25 November 1871, Page 15

Tales and Sketches.

B 88. [From Chambers’s Journal.] I was on duty as head-guard of the up north train when what I am about to tell you took place. It happened one wet and stormy autumn evening just about dusk. How well I remember the time! My journey for the day was over, and the train was just drawing up to the platform at Park End Station —Park End is a very busy place now, as I daresay you are aware, and it was a busy place even then — when I heard a sudden sharp cry of “ Man down !” from some of the porters. The very same moment, as it seen ed, my van, which was at the tail end of the train, gave a strange sort of jolt, as though the wheels had been lifted off the metals and had gone over something soft. I tinned cold from head to foot, and letting go the handle of my break, was out of my van in a couple of seconds. There the poor fellow was, sure enough, lying about a yard away from the hindmost wheels, a heap of clothes and broken bones. In attempting to get out before the train had come to a stand-still, lie had slipped down between the carriages and the platform. One carriage and my heavy break-van had gone over him. I was the first man that leaped down on to the line to lift him up. We got him on to the platform as tenderly as we could ; a ring of porters, guards, and passengers formed round us. A couple of lanterns held aloft lighed up the ghastly scene. He whom I held in my arms was a man between fifty and sixty years old; his sandy hair andj his sandy beard were fast turning grey. He has a sharp foxy-looking face, like that of a man keen at a bargain, and well able to take care of his own interests. He was plainly dressed in black and grey, but with a certain stamp about him which showed that he was both a gentleman and a man well to do. Poor fellow! he was very near his end. He had given utterance to no cry when he first fell, and one of two low moans were all that now told his agony. His lips moved as though he wanted to speak to me, but only a faint murmur came from them. I bent my ear close to his mouth, but even then I could not make out what lie wanted to say. He groaned and shut his eyes, and I thought he was gone; but in a moment or two his eyes opened, and again he tried to speak, but in vain. Then, for about as long a time, as it would take me to count twenty, his gaze met mine with an expression in it of such yearning anxiety and terrible despair as I have never seen since, and hope never to see again. I hen a sudden spasm crossed his face, changing its whole expression ; he flung one arm out quickly, liis head fell back, and he was dead. A stretcher was brought, on which the body was carried to the dead-house at the hospital, there to await the inquest. The dead man had no luggage with him but a small black hag ; but there were papers about him sufficient to prove his identity. His name was Muxloe, and he lived in London. He was a bachelor, and had chambers in the Temple ; and his business, as far as I could make out, seemed .a sort of cross between that of a lawyer and a money-lender. After the inquest, at which I was called as one of the chief ivitnesses, the body was claimed by the relatives, and I thought that I had seen and heard the last of Mr Muxloe. I went about my work as usual, but I could not get out of my memory that look of terrible despair which had flashed from the dead man’s eyes into mine during that last minute of his life. It haunted me by day, and it haunted me by night when I was at work and when I AA-as asleep. Do what I would I could not get that ghastly face, with its strange yearning gaze, out of my mind. Poor as I was, I would have given much to know what it was that Mr Muxloe was so despairingly anxious to tell me. A month or more passed away, and although the poor dead gentleman was often in my thoughts, I had quite recovered my cheerfulness, Avhen the strangest thing happened to me. I was acting as guard that week to the 9 a.m. down express. We had stopped at ClayAvoods, a station about thirty miles north of Park End: I had got out of my van as usual to see after the passengers ; I had made everything right, and was just about to give the starting signal with my whistle, when, as I Avalked alongside the train, glancing into a compartment here and there, whom should I see sitting in one of the carriages, as plainly as ever I saAV anything in my life, hut the dead man, Mr Muxloe! You might have knocked me doAvn with a feather, as the saying is. My blood turned cold to see in his eyes that same strange look of which I have already spoken. It Avas a look that went through me, and chilled my heart with horror. How I contrived to give the signal for the train to start, and got back into my van, I never knew ; but aa*c had got half a dozen of miles from ClayAvoods before I seemed to come to my proper senses. All that I could do, as soon as I Avas fit to think more calmly, was to doubt the evidence of my own eyes. I was an utter disbeliever in ghosts or apparitions of any kind. I would not believe that I had seen anything out of the common way in the present case ; I chose rather to think that I had been a victim to some freak of my imagination. I had quite persuaded myself that such must be the case by the time Ave di’eAV up at our next station; still, it was not without a little shrinking of the nerves that I walked quickly past the carriage where I had seen the ghost, or Avhatever it Avas. There Avas no ghost there now —and I laughed a little spiteful laugh to myself. In fact, tAvo old ladies had just had the door of the very compartment opened for them, and Avere being thrust in with their boxes and bundles. I saw the old ladies comfortably seated, and shut the ,door on them myself; and as I did so, I unthinkingly read off the number of the carriage in which they had taken their places—that number was B 88. There seemed to me a familiar ring about the words B 88, and I kept repeating them over

to myself after the train was fairly under way again, puzzling my memory to think where I had heard them before. At last it all flashed across my mind ; B 88 was the number of the carriage from which Mr Muxloe was in the act of alighting when he missed Ins footing and fell' The number had been brought up among other evidence at the inquest, and had there impressed itself on my memory. There was something odd about the affair that I didn t half like; perhaps the apparition was my death token, and had been sent to warn me. For the remainder of that day my thoughts were far from comfortable. Next day, I was ordered away in charge of a special, and 1 did not go out any more that week with the 9 a.m. express. The week following, it was my turn to go out with the 9.15 p.m. mail; it was a train that, as a rule, carried very few passengers. White Ash was one of the stations, and at it we stopped for three minutes to pick up and set down post office bags. We were just on the point of starting again, and I had just taken my usual look along the length of the train to see that everything was secure, when —as you will already have guessed —I was again startled by seeing the ghost of Mr Muxloe sitting all alone in the middle compartment of a first-class carriage. That carriage was the hateful B 88 ! The light from the roof shone down full and clear on the dead man s face : it was stony and expressionless, except for the vivid light ip those deep-set eyes, which gazed into mine with that same terrible yearning of which I have spoken before, as though it had some dread secret on its mind, and could obtain no rest till it had revealed it to me. I was still looking —breathless, spell-bound —and I seemed to have been looking for minutes instead of seconds when it slowly uplifted a lean forefinger, and beckoned me to go to it. This was more than I could bear ; I fainted clear away on the platform. When I came to myself, the train had been sent forward in charge of another guard, and I was lying in one of the waiting-rooms, where the stationmaster and his daughter had been doing their best to bring me round. Well, my nerves were so upset that it was almost a week before I was fit to go on duty again. I had plenty of time, while sitting at home to turn the whole affair over and over again in my mind. I came to the conclusion that .it was very likely I should see Mr Muxloe again —perhaps often again. But arguing from all I had heard and read about ghosts, they had no power given them to harm one; all that they could do was to appear unexpectedly at strange times and places, and so make themselves as unpleasant as possible. The upshot of it was, that having made up my mind that I should see Mr Muxloe again, I tried to so nerve myself as to be able to look on him without being overmuch afraid. After I got to work again, you may be sure that I looked carefully before starting on each journey to see whether that confounded B 88 formed part of my train. I had got an idea that I should never see Mr Muxloe except in connection with that particular carriage, and, as the event proved, I was right. The first time that I found B 88 formed part of my train was about five days after my recovery. There it was one morning, when I went on duty, staring at me as brazen as you please. I seemed to pick it out instinctively from all the other carriages. I won’t say that my heart didn’t flutter a little when I first marked it. I kept my eye on it, and was not a little pleased to see a gentleman and his two sons get into it about two minutes before starting. A glance at their tickets showed me that they had booked through to a point about fifty miles beyond where I gave up charge of the train. Not being able to have the carriage to himself, Mr Muxloe did not, on that occasion, put in an appearance. Two days later, B 88 was again included in my train. This time, the middle compartment remained unoccupied. From the moment that fact was clear to me, I felt sure that I should see Mr Muxloe before the end of my journey. Knowing this, you might, perhaps, ask me what need there was for me to go near that particular carriage at all —or even, if I had to pass it why I could not keep my eyes turned another way. If such questions were put to me, my only answer would be, I couldn’t, for the life of me, keep away from the carriage. As often at the train came to a stand my feet seemed to drag me past it against my will, and then my eyes would turn and look whether I wished them or not. Well, I did see Mr Muxloe several times before the end of that journey. We stopped at four stations the train was an express one —and four separate times did I see him But if I had seen him a thousand times, I felt I coidd never become familiar with him—never regard him with anything but a mixed feeling of the deepest awe and aversion—a feeling too intense for me to decribe to you in any words. He seemed to be always on the look-out for me, and for nobody else. The moment I came in sight of him his terrible eyes would meet mine, and then my heart would slunk within me, and every nerve in my body would quiver with dread unspeakable. Always, too, he beckoned me with liis long lean forefinger —but I took good care never to obey the summons. I don’t want to trouble you with too many details. It is enough to say that every time I took out B 88 as a part of my train, and every time the middle compartment was unoccupied, so sure was I to see the ghost of Mr Muxloe. You see, it was a thing I dared not talk about, for fear the company should say that a man who was in the habit of seeing ghosts was not fit to be guard of a train, and should send me about my business in consequence. I did, however, talk about the ghost once or twice to my wife, and got called a fool for my pains. But what else could a married man expect? Wives, as £t rule, don’t like other people to call their husbands fools, but they don’t object to make use of that objectionable little word themselves. Well, sir, time went on, and my life almost became a burden to me. I was a haunted man,

and I had no means of getting rid of my tormentor. I went off my feed. I no longer enjoyed my dinners as I had been used to do. My evening pipe no longer soothed me. I began to go more into company, and to frequent the bar parlor of an evening oftener than was good for me. You see, I could not bear the company of my own thoughts. I never liked to sit by myself after dark. Even my sleep was broken, and disturbed with dreams of that terrible ghost. It was soon after Mr Muxloe first began to trouble me in this way that I made up my mind to ascertain whether he could be seen by anyone besides myself. One day, when he had travelled with me all the way from Park End to the end of my journey, and we had drawn up for the collection of tickets, says I to one of the collectors, who had passod his compartment as though it were empty, and having my eye on the ghost all the time —says I: “ Bill, you have forgotten to collect that old gent’s ticket in the middle compartment of B 88.” “ Have I ?” says Bill, and with that he goes back and opens the door of B 88. “ Why, you duffer, the compartment’s empty,” says he next moment, giving the door an extra bang. “Emptyisit?” saysl, innocent like. “Ah! now I recollect, the old gent got out at the last station.” But the dread that was upon me deepened when I found that the apparition could be seen by no one but myself. Four, or it may be five, months had gone by from the date of Mr Muxloe’s death, when my health broke down—so much so, that I was ordered away for a month to my native air. Change of air and rest, the doctor said, would probably make a man of me again. I had not given him the least hint as to the real cause of my illness : I was afraid I should only be laughed at for my pains. Well, I went away down north, and there I picked up appetite and strength wonderfully. Mr Muxloe never troubled me once ; indeed, I had not expected that he would do so, B 88 being far away from me. So it fell out that by the end of my holiday I had grown so strong and hearty as almost to be able to laugh at myself as a whimsical fool who had allowed himself to be frightened by a shadow. I fully made up my mind that rather than let myself get into such a low nervous way again, I would give up my situation as guard, and set up in some other line of life. So the end of my holiday came, and I started back home one cold frosty afternoon in early spring-time, looking forward with pleasure to seeing my old woman and the two lads again, and wondering how my mates at the station had been getting on while I had been away. It was eight o’clock and had long been dark, when I reached Carnliope Junction —that is, the junction with our own line, a place eighty miles from Park End. The guard who had charge of the train from Carnhope was an old mate of mine. For the first twenty miles I travelled with him in his break, and we had a quiet smoke and a chat together. Then, feeling inclined for a snooze, I left him and got into an empty second-class compartment. Here I wrapped myself well up, and was asleep in three minutes. I must have slept for about an hour, when I awoke with a start, and could not make out for a minute or two where I was. I was still rubbing my eyes and looking round with a gape, when I saw something that brought me to my senses with a shock as if I had been suddenly thrust overhead in ice-cold water —inside the door of the carriage in which I was sitting was marked up the fatal number B 88 ! All the feelings and fears which I had flattered myself had vanished for ever came back in a rush as I read over the number to myself in a frightened whisper. The thoughts that B 88 would form part of the train in which I should travel back home after my holidays had never entered into my calculations. I had never thought to look at the carriage before getting into the train at Carnhope Junction, and, in consequence of this neglect, a strange fate had led me into the very place of all others where I would least have wished to be. B 88 was a composite carriage—that is to say, the middle compartment was a first-class one, while the two end compartments were second-class. It was in one of these latter compartments that I was now sitting. The middle first-class compartment was the one haunted by the ghost of Mr Muxloe. I hardly know how to describe to you the feeling that now took possession of me. It was neither more nor less than an intense longing to leave the compartment in which I was sitting and make my way, by means of the foot-board outside the carriage, as far as the window of the next compartment then peep in, and see whether the ghost were already there waiting for me. I tried to fight against the insane desire —I did fight against it with all my strength, but in vain. There was some power within me that I found it impossible to resist. I was like a man walking in his sleep, whose actions are beyond his own control; except that I knew quite well what I was about and, in all respects but one was as collected, and as much in my proper senses, as ever I had been in my life. I coidd not stop to argue with myself; I could not stop to reflect. The impulse that was upon me grew stronger with every moment’s delay. I had opened the carriage-door and was on the footboard, with the cold night air blowing keenly around me, almost before I knew that I had stirred from my seat. We were going along at a tidy pace —about thirty miles an hour —but I had no fears as to my safety—l had passed along the footboards when the trains were at full speed too often for that. Very few steps brought me close to the window of the middle compartment. The window was open, and I could see everything inside as plainly as I can now see you who are sitting beside me. There was only one passenger in the compartment —Mr Muxloe. Yes; there he sat, with his dreadful eyes staring straight into mine—looking bluer, colder, more ghost like than ever. Then his long lean forefinger was slowly raised beckoning me to enter. All power of resistance had been taken from me. Slowly I opened

the door, and slowly I got inside—never taking ray eyes from off his for a moment —then I shut the door behind me, and sat down opposite to him. The night was a cold one, but I was strong and hearty, and had scarcely felt it; but the moment I sat down opposite the ghost I became conscious of a coldness far exceeding any that I had experienced before. I became chilled to the very marrow. The air of the compartment seemed as though it had swept over a thousand icebergs. My hair seemed to lift, and my whiskers to crisp and tangle, with the intense cold; and I found afterwards that my watch had stopped at the very moment of my entering the carriage. I sat down and waited for what might happen next. My companion’s hand had gone down on to his knee when I opened the carriage-door. He now sat opposite to me, neither stirring nor speaking, doing nothing, in fact, but gazing with mournful intensity straight into my very soul. The cold grew more extreme, if such a thing were possible. A numbness that had begun with my feet was now creeping slowly up my body; I could feel it creep and spread little by little, stealing gradually upward to my heart, and slowly freezing the life out of me. I had no power to move a muscle ; I sat like a man turned to stone. At length the cold touched my heart, or seemed to do so.. A deathlike faintness crept over me. The light in the roof grew dimmer; the figure opposite me lost its sharpness of outline, becoming faded and indistinct. But through everything I could feel those piercing eyes fixed immovably on mine, till at length life itself seemed to be rubbed slowly and softly out, and I knew nothing more. I knew nothing more —that is, till I came to my senses in a dream, and strange to say, I knew from the first moment that my dream was nothing more than a dream. I found myself in an old-fashioned, oak-panelled room, which, years gone by, had evidently been a state apartment in some aristocratic mansion. It was now, however, furnished in a spare and meagre manner with a few articles of common-place furniture. In the huge fireplace, the sides of which were inlaid with blue and white Dutch tiles, a few dying cinders had been raked carefully together. It was night, for the wide window-place was curtained, and the large room was dimly lighted by a couple of candles, each of them held by a griffin’s claw in bronze, that protruded from the wall, one on each side of the chimney-piece. But all these were details that I seemed to feel rather than to see. My attention was at once concentrated on the occupants of the room —two in number. One of them, was a young man about five-and-twenty years old, withsandyhair and beard, and a keen foxy-looking face—none other, in fact, than Mr Muxloe himself as he must have apoeared when a young man. The other inmate of the room was a man both younger and handsomer than Mr Muxloe, but he was at that moment lying dead across the hearth, with ghastly face and wide staring eyes, with a ragged wound in his forehead. Close by the dead man lay a heavy riding-whip. Mr Muxloe, was down on one knee, with one hand clasped tightly in the other, gazing with a sort of frenzied horror at the terrible piece of work before him. It was a look that has come back to me in my dreams many a time since then. “ My friend —the only friend I ever had,” I heard him mutter, “ and yet I, of all men must be his murderer!” He pressed his hand to his eyes, and great sobs shook him from head to foot. After a time he grew calmer, and then he rose sadly to his feet. “ There is no help for it,” he said ; “ I cannot face the world—l dare nob risk the gallows.” He went out, but returned presently with a spade, a pickaxe, and one or two other implements from the garden. Then he turned back the faded carpet, and proceeded with workmanlike dexterity to take up a portion of the oaken flooring. In the ground thus exposed to view, he dug a deep and narrow trench, throwing up the earth on to the boards as he did so. It was a work that took some time, and long before he had done it, great beads of sweat rolled down his haggard face. But they fell unheeded, and he never ceased digging till the hole was to his mind. Then he got out of it, and rested for a little while. But presently he was up and examining the contents of a dusty old box that lay neglected in one corner of the room. From this box he produced a sheet of parchment, and, going to a table on which stood pen and ink, he proceeded slowly, and with much deliberation, to write out a statement, which, having finished, he signed and dated. Next from a cupboard he brought a small tin canister. As soon as the writing was dry, he folded the parchment, and shut it up in the canister. Next from the same cupboard he brought a large travelling-cloak, which he proceeded to spread out at the bottom of the trench. Then, but not without some inward shrinking, as I could see, he went up to the body and raised it in his arms; but before placing it in the hole he had dug, he kissed it tenderly on the forehead twice. “ O Arthur! O my friend,” he murmured, “ if by the sacrifice of my life I could bring back a smile to those white lips, I swear to heaven that I would gladly die this minute. To think that I should make a murderer of myself for any woman’s sake—least of all, for her !” In three minutes more the body was in the rude grave that had been dug to receive it, the canister and the riding whip had been laid beside it, some folds of the travelling cloak had been thrown over the whole, and Mr Muxloe, spade in hand, was standing with anguished face, gazing his last on the man whom his fierce passions had blotted so suddenly out of existence. I saw no more. I think it must have been the loud whistling of the engine as we shot into Fellside tunnel that awoke me so suddenly. Anyhow, at this point I did awake, and found myself still sitting in the middle compartment of B 88, but with no Mr Muxloe opposite to me —I was alone. My limbs were so numbed and stiff with cold, that for a few minutes I seemed to have no use in them. Gradually * some warmth crept back into my veins, and as

soon as I felt my strength and nerve were equal to the task, I made the best of my way back to my own compartment. We were but five miles from Park End by this time. A few minutes later I was on the platform with the old woman and the youngsters, all shaking me by the hand at once. It is almost worth one’s while to leave home for a time, just to see how pleased the missis and the bairns are to get one back again. I said nothing to anybody about what I had seen and gone through in B 88. I kept it shut up close in my own mind, but I could not help thinking it all over at least twenty times a day. That scene in the oak-panelled room was so deeply impressed on my memory, that, after all these years, I can l’ecall every feature of it as clearly as if it had happened but yesterday. Had it been a scene in real life, I should doubtless have half forgotten it years ago ; but the surrounding circumstances were so strange, and out of the common way, that, if I should live to be a hundred, it would all be as fresh iu my memory as it was the morning after it happened. A week came and went without my seeing or hearing anything more of Mr Muxloe. Gne evening as I was going off duty I was met and stopped by a gentleman dressed all in black. “ Can you tell me,” said he, “ whether your Company has a guard of the name of Preston in its employ ?” “My name is John Preston, at your service, sir,” answered I. “ Then you are probably the man I want,” said he. “My name is Keppel, and I am a nephew of the Mr Muxloe who was so unfortunately killed at this station about six months ago. I was out of England at the time, and was obliged to depend on a brief newspaper report for the details of the occurrence. lam greatly desirous of having full particulars from some one who was on the spot at the time. If you be the man I take you for, it was you who lifted up my uncle from the spot where he fell, and it was in your arms that he died.” “I am the man you mean, sir; and to any information I can give you, you are quite welcome.” “ Then here is my address ; and if you will come to my house for an hour this evening, you shall have no cause to regret having obliged me.” I promised to be at his house by nine o’clock; and with that we parted. I was there to my time. The house was in the outskirts of the town, and stood in its own grounds. It was too dark for me to see much of the outside, but the moment I got indoors, I saw that the whole place was very old, I was admitted by a servant, who, after telling me that Mr Keppell would be down in two or three minutes, threw open a side door, and showed me a long, low, old-fashioned room — into no other room, in fact, than the oakpanelled room of my dream ! I knew it again in a moment, although it was now furnished very differently, and I sank into a chair all of a tremble. Yes, there was the very oak-panel-ling, with its quaint, zigzag, carved pattern ; there the wide old fireplace, inlaid with blue and white Dutch tiles ; there the huge window place, in which half a dozen people might have sat with comfort. I recognised them all. I could not describe to you the cold, sickening feeling that crept over me as I looked round. Had that gruesome tragedy, as seen by me in my dream, ever been really enacted in that room ? Did the murdered man’s bones still lie uncoffined under the boards of that old floor ? I shuddered like a frightened child as I put those questions to myself. Fortunately, I had time to pull myself together a bit before Mr Keppel came into the room. He was very kind and affable, and had the decanters and a cold fowl brought out before ever he asked me a question. Just then I could not eat, but a stiff tumbler of brandy and water helped me to get my nerve back again. After that, Mr Keppel began to question me, and I gave him a full, true, and particular account of all the circumstances, so far as I knew them, in connection with his uncle’s death. He was greatly interested. But when I had got through everything that he wanted to know, and he had nothing further to ask me, I plucked up heart of grace and determined to tell him how Mr Muxloe had appeared to me several times since his death, and of my strange dream in B 88. I never saw any one more astonished than Mr Keppel was by the time I had finished my story. For a little while he seemed almost too overcome to speak. At last he said : “ If what you say be true —and I have no reason to doubt your word —it apparently points to one of those mysteries which seem purposely sent now and then as if to baffie the utmost exercise of human reason. This house, which now belongs to me, was certainly my uncle’s property for a great number of years. Although he lived for the most part in London, he used to come down here for one or two days almost every month, ostensibly for the sake of the excellent fishing with which the neighborhood abounds. He would never let the house, although he might have had tenants by the score. One old woman had the sole charge of it wUen he was away, and waited.upon him when he was here. There is one fact in connection with my uncle's residence here which seems in some measure to bear out the most singular point of your narrative : this very room in which we are sitting —in which, according to your account, a dreadful tragedy took place many years ago — was never, so long as I can remember, made use of by my uncle. It was always kept locked and shuttered ; and often as I was here during my uncle’s lifetime, I never saw inside the door of this room till after his death. Enough, however, for the present. I must have time to think this strange story of yours carefully over. Come and see me at eight the evening after to-morrow, if you have no better engagement.” Punctual to the time, I was there. I was shown into the oak-panelled room. There I found Mr Keppel, two gentlemen, and Donald, the gardener. “ I have told these two gentlemen, who are particular friends of mine,” said Mr Keppel, “ all that you told me the other evening. We have consulted together,,

and have decided, not without hesitation, to investigate the matter, so far as it is in our power to do so after so great a lapse of time. As a matter of course, our first step is to ascertain whether anyone has been buried in the way described by you. under the flooring of this room. Donald here, who is discretion itself, will proceed to make the necessary search. Be good enough to point out the exact spot, a 3 nearly as you can remember it, whore you saw the body put away.” I had no difficulty in doing this, everything was fixed too clearly in my memory for that. So Donald set to work under my directions. I took off my coat, end gave him a helping hand, while the three gentleman looked quietly on. I need not trouble you with details. It will ba sufficient to say that before long we came upon a skeleton, intermixed with some fragments of clothing and some rusted jewellery. Near at hand were the remains of what had at one time been a riding whip, loaded with lead, while no great distance away was the rusted tin canister which I felt certain from the first that we should not fail to find. Mr Keppel opened the canister, and drew from it a strip of parchment. We all crowded round the table. After glancing through the paper himself he proceeded to read aloud what was there written. This is what was written : Park End, November 9, 18— ;11 p.m. I, John Muxloe, of the Inner Temple, bar-rister-at-law, having this night done a deed which, if made public,, would in all probability bring me to the gallows, hereby solemnly depose to the truth of the undermentioned facts : At nine o’clock this evening, being at that time busy over my law books, I was disturbed by a knock at the front door. My servant having left me to attend the death-bed of her mother, I was constrained to open the door myself. The person who knocked was my friend, Arthur Clevedon, the dearest friend I had on earth. He had his riding boots on, and was splashed with mud. In one hand he canned a heavy whip. He walked past me without a word of greeting into the oakpanelled room, and I followed, wondering what Gould possibly be the nutter with him. His first words to me were : “ John Muxloe, you are an infernal villain !” 1 was thunderstruck. ** Those are very hard words, Arthur,” I said. “ You must be either crazy or drunk.” “Neither one nor the other,” J he answered. “ I repeat that you are an iufernal villain, and I have come here to horsewhip you.” I laughed a little soornfully. “It is possible for two people to play at that game, amigo mia I said. He was poising his riding whip in his hand, and his eyes looked as if they would burn me through. “ Arthur, my friend,” I said, suddenly softening, “ what is it ?—what is the meaning of these hard words ? As true as there is a heaven above us, I do not understand you!” “Liar and scoundrel, you understand me but too well!” he answered. Then he gave vent to a wild torrent of words, in which he accused me of having surreptitiously stolen away the affections of a certain lady, whose name need not be mentioned here. I being aware at the same time that her troth had already been plighted in secret to him. Never was there a more unfounded accusation ! It is true that the lady had promised to become mine, but—and I swear it here most solemnly—l had not the remotest idea that Arthur Clevedon had ever been anything more to her than an ordinary friend. She had deceived him and hoodwinked me, for what purpose was known to her own false heart alone. All this I tried to tell Arthur, but he would not hear me. Once again he called me a liar, and as he cid so he lashed me across the face with his whip. With a cry of rage, I sprang at his throat. I know scarcely auything of what followed till I sawffiim lying dead at my feet, with the blood streaming from a great wound in his forehead. I had smitten him down with his own heavy whip. All this happened but one short hour ago, but what an hour has that been to me! and what other terrible hours has the future in store for me! But I dare not look forward. Another thing I dare not do: I dare not let the world know the deed I have this night done. My story would never be believed. They would say I had murdered him; they would hang me! No ; I must keep my own counsel; I must lock up the secret for ever in my own breast. I have dug a hole under the flooring of this room in which to dispose of the body. By its side I shall place this document, so that, in case this night’s dark deed should ever be brought to light in time to come, all dispute and inquiry may be obviated. Should it ever be brought to light during my lifetime I shall have but one resource I should kill myself. O Arthur! dearest friend that man ever had, how I But I can write no more for tears. My eyes are blinded, my heart weeps tears of blood. In that world beyond the grave where all that is dark here is made clearer than day, we may perhaps meet again. Then will thy hand clasp mine in friendship as of old —only ib will be a friendship that will last for ever. Then wilt thou know how innocent I was of wronging thee in thought, word, or deed. Till that time shall come —Farewell ! John Muxloe. The reading of this strange document filled every one present with horror and surprise. It was of course considered a confirmation of the statement I had made to Mr Keppel. Nothing more was done that night. Mr Keppel said he must have time to consider what steps it would be most advisable to take under such peculiar circumstances. The result may be stated in very few words. The bones were taken up, placed in a coffin, and interred with the customary solemnities in consecrated ground. The world was never told that it had been discovered whose bones they were, but I think it not unlikely that Mr Keppel made some private communication to the friends of Mr Clevedon. But be that as it may, the affair was quietly hushed up, and the real facts of the case never spread beyond a very limited circle. I need scarcely add that Mr Muxloe nerer troubled me again; but, on the other

hand, Mr Keppel did not lose sight of me. He has been a good friend to me in twenty different ways between then and now. And so ends this full, true, and particular account of the only ghost I ever saw, or wish to see, till the time comes when I shall bo a ghost myself.