THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 317, 17 February 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

THE PHANTOM HAND. 1 sat alone in the park at Dcepdale reading a favorite book. Deepdale, the country seat of my uncle, Norman French, was a beautiful place with its | trim lawns and pleasant park. j 1 had come from Cambridge for my Christmas vacation, as usual, and aunt and cousin made me welcome., of (■'onrso; but, after all, 1 felt that something was lacking in their greeting. They were hardly the same as when uncle was living. I thought; yet I could not define the missing feature. An undefinable strangeness had come between me and Deepdaie, however. Uncle bad been tound dead in the park some six months previous, whither i he hail gone for a walk. Ho was lying at the foot of a tree lifeless and cold, \ with his limbs drawn up, his face conI tortod as if in extreme agony, and his | arms thrown over his head, with the I fingers clutching the sere grass. Being J old and somewhat ailing, it is supposed I that he died in a fit.

I was his favorite nephew, he having paid for my. education at college. I also had many reasons for believing that I would be favorably mentioned in his will; but, strange as it seemed to those knowing his habits of order and calculation, "no last wish of his could be found.

Inez, his only child, as a matter of course, became sole heir to his wealth, and I was left out entirely. My cousin was a beautiful girl of twenty, and always seemed very fond of me; indeed, it had been hinted to me by Aunt Cecil before uncle's demise that Inez and I were "born for each other." In the face of this, however, I had the ungrateful audacity to fall in love with an orphaned girl in the city, thus putting a strong negative to aunt's declaration.

I told her of my engagement to pretty Lulu Melville one day a short time before uncle's' death, -and she plainly told me I was a scholar of the school of experience.

Uncle was present at the time, but he only smiled, saying that every one "should be allowed to choose for themselves in such matters." And then j in reference to my finances, he offered to ■help me to the extent of a few thousands when I should be married. With his sudden death and failure of leaving,,a will, this bright forecast of

the future, as a matter of consequence, , fell to the ground. It was not on my own account so much that I cared for , this; but I, lover-like, had planned so many comforts for Lulu when she should become my wife that it made it very hard for me to believe 1 was not remembered. I was seated in the library on Chrisfmas Eve, and had been thinking of all this rather hit-terly, it must be confessed, before 1 opened my book for an hour with my favorite author; but in the interesting story I soon lost the bitter reflections and was enjoying tlie narrative, when suddenly the shadow of a human hand fell across the page I was reading. For a moment I was dumbfounded. Then I thought someone was, perhaps, behind me testing my credulity, and began investigating. To my utter astonishment, not a living thing was visible. Finding no one near, I felt strange, but resumed my book, saying to myself that it was oniy a trick of the vision. In a few moments, however, the shadow came again, this time resting considerably longer on the page, and in addition to the strange manifestation I felt a strong, cold wind go by. Thoroughly mystified, I now arose, put my book in my pocket, went out into j the grounds, and began walking about. I What could it mean? Surely there was a reason—or should I say warning? in this uncanny visitation, i If so, what threatened me, or why should I tnus be disturbed? Then a morbid curiosity seized me. I would go back to the library and invite another visitation. I, had not long to wait. Again the shadow Tested oh my book, and again the icy wind struck my face. By this time I had grown used to the mystery somewhat and watched it more closely. After a few moments' pausing on the page the shadow dropped to the floor, where it continued moving to and fro until it disappeared suddenly. I once more left the house and strolled through the grounds to think the matter over. •'Well!" ejaculated I. feeling' utterly nonplussed, "this is strange; something is' evidently about to happen—perhaps to Lulu." With this I started for the house. Just as 1 was about to enter the door I met the gardener. "Bin out in the grounds, have ye?" Tie said, and before I had time to reply he commenced dwelling on the loneliness of the place •'since Mr. French's cur'us death." "Oh," I replied, "Uncle Gorman would not harm anyone, living, and dead I am sure he could not. But, "tell me about ' him. Was he ill the day he went into the park to die?" "Well, I dunno; seems he must have been, too, for your aunt gave him a stimulant afore he started, 'cause she thought he" might need something, as he was not strong. But I allers thought it kind o' strange, though, 'bout his death." "He was old," I said. "Yes, yes, he war old, but that don't clear up the mystery; not right satisfactorily to my mind. But that's not my business." The man turned on his heel and left

me, and I went into the house. Aunt ; Cecil was reading in the drawing-room, j n and I took a seat near her. i d I had been worked up with the ex- j n citement produced by the phantom Hand 1: and the gardeners words together until ■ I could not help speaking of the subject j further. i "Aunt," I began, "was uncle ill the \ day before he went to the park for the j last time: that is, did he complain of J any pain'/" "Why. no", not in particular," she an- | swered'; but 1 fancied her face grew ! white as sue shut her oook and looked j away from me. I "thought I had touched memory's | chord too roughly, perhaps, and added,', "Forgive me, aunt, I didn't mean to hurt you." 1 She made no answer, and I' continued: ! "I asked because old Simon said you crave him a stimulant before he left the house; I imagined from that he was ailing." j Siie turned on me with the fierceness ; of a tigress' at bay. - 'I want no insinu- j ations from you," she raged, and her , eyes gleamed with a baleful fire. 'To say that i was astonished at her \ unexpected demeanour would be putting it mildly. I was simply astounded, and ] for a moment I had grave doubts in regard to our individual sanity. Wii&t ■ was it I had said to arouse such fierce, wrath? _ ! Had I been saying some insane thing and insulting Aunt Cecil, or was she grieving so deeply over uncle's death that my mention of him had turned her head? No; on second thought, I had not done either. Then why this out-, burst? | Whether she read my thoughts or not. I cannot tell, but she came towards me, with one jewelled hand clutching the heavy crape of her dress, and the other, with extended index, pointing menacingly into my face. j "Do you dare to insinuate anything, you ungrateful, poverty-stricken stripling!" she hissed, in a low, insulting tone. j My blood was up. I sprang to my' feet and faced her. I "I have no idea," 1 exclaimed hotly, I ' "what you refer to; I am innocent of any such base intent. But"—and a ter- . rible suspicion crept into my soul— J : "your fury throws a strong light on j something which, I swear, I never , thought of before. If your self-con- ' demnation saw an Insinuation in my question il was because j r ou areguilty!" I leaned towards her and speSe the last word meaningly. It was a risky ' shot; but, fortunately, it told. She put her hand on the fa'ble, and stood trembling like an aspen-leaf. 1 "0, Maurice, do you think I gave your ! uncle a poisonous draught?" sKe gasped. Her face was ashen pale, and her eyes ' took on an expression of deepest anguish. I stood still; I felt my blood run cold--1 ly back to' its overwrought fount. ' "Aunt Cecil." I began, but could get no 1 further: a faintness came over me, and ' I sajik prone upon the chair. "0 Uncle Norman!" I moaned.

"Maurice, be still," whispered she. "You drive me frantic—frantic—frantic! 0 God, how I have suffered!" She turned and fled through the hall and upstairs, as if the Father of Evil were after her. "My God. can it be that she poisoned 'Jncle Norman?" 1 questioned, as I rose and began to wander aimlessly about the grounds, now gradually becoming covered with snow. How long I walked, half-crazed with my grief, I know not, but when the shadows lengthened across the snowclad lawn and deepened under the trees someone laid a hanu on my arm. "Come into the house," they said, "your aunt is no more." "Dead?" 1 almost shrieked. "Yes'; he calm, for your cousin's sake; she is wild with grief:" Dumb of Tongue and soul, I followed where they led. White and still was the 7ace I had seen a few short Hours before so full of unexpressed hatred. Long I gazed upon the waxen features, but no emotion ot grief or pity stirred my heart Inez hovered over the inanimate form, wringing her hands and wailing out her sorrow, yet I could not feel touched. Some days'lftter the burial I went to my cousin, who. seemingly, could not be comforted. "Don't grieve so," I said, "aunt wished for death." A wild, terrified look came into my 1 cousin's eyes. Sne beckoned me to follow her as she withdrew into the library, then she closed the 'floor carefully. •'Yes," I whispered. "Then you know that "she poisoned father, do you?" I nodded" in the affirmative, and she continued: "I did not know until some time after his death;' never should have known, I think, had not she imagined that she was' haunted by a phantom hand. This hallucination worked upon her mind so much that one day she confessed to me her awful deed." "A. phantom hand?" I asked. I "Yes: she' imagined she saw one in | the pari?, shortly after father's death, ) and that it followed Her' persistently." [ shuddered and left the liurarv. In a week went away from Deepdale. never to return. Some months' after I received a letter from Inez. "I have sold Deepdale," she said, "and am going abroad. I find E cannot live here alone, after all that has happened. •Enclosed find a portion of the money from the sale of the estate. I have no one else to. divide with, and I am sure father would desire" me to share with you, if he were living." In her letter was a draft for a considerable amount, of which I made good use.

I am several years older now; but I never think of Deepdale without a shudder, aim often close my eyes' on Christmas Eve for leaf 1 shafl see a phantom" hand or Aunt Cecil's rigid features.