Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume II

by M. Y. Halidom

The Waxen Image.—The Hostess's Story.

We have alluded before the commencement of our late story to a clapping of hands proceeding from the club-room, announcing the termination of some tale from our hostess.

It will be remembered that the tale of our landlady had come to an end previous to the commencement of our artist's narrative. Let us entreat our reader, then, to take a retrospect glance, and imagine himself seated in the club-room, in the company of its worthy members and our buxom hostess, whilst the painter was deeply absorbed in his portrait of the fair Helen.

Dame Hearty, after continued pressing, and some diffidence on her part, seemed finally to be collecting her ideas, which process was performed by casting down her eyes and toying with the corners of her apron; then as if suddenly inspired, she abruptly smoothed down her apron on her lap, and dovetailing the fingers of each ruddy hand within those of the other, she hemmed once or twice and proceeded in the following strain.

When I was a girl, gentlemen, about the age of my Helen, I was just such another as she, though I dare say you would hardly believe it, to look at me now; but ask my good man and he'll tell you the same. Look at my Helen, and you will see what your humble servant was at her age. I had the same rosy cheeks, like two ripe apples, the same laughing blue eyes and sunny hair, and as for spirits, why, Lord bless you, the dear child ain't nothing to what her mother was at her age.

Well, gentlemen, I was always for gaming and romping, and folks would say that there wasn't a lass like Molly Sykes for miles round. In fact, I used to be called the pride of the village, though I say it, that shouldn't. At the time I speak of, I was at the village school, and there was hardly a young man in the village that did not come a courtin' after me, but I paid no attention to none of them, as I had been attached from childhood to my Jack, then a spruce lad of some eighteen summers, but I laughed and joked with all, so I was always popular.

The only school friend I ever had was a young girl about my own age—an orphan, one Claribel Falkland, of an extremely delicate and sensitive nature, the sweetest temper in the world, and of a beauty which in my heart I felt surpassed my own, for it was more the beauty of a high-born lady. I see before me now her pale oval face with her large lustrous hazel eyes, her smooth dark nut-brown hair, and her slim graceful figure which seemed to glide rather than walk about. I recollect, too, her low soft voice that had music in the very tone of it, and her sweet look radiant with the innocence of her heart. I know not how two beings of such opposite temperaments should ever have become such fast friends, for Claribel was pensive and melancholy, and of a studious turn, poring over every book she could get hold of, whilst I, on the contrary, was a perfect hoyden, always laughing and playing the fool when I ought to have been at work.

However strange it may appear, it is certain that a sympathy stronger than that generally found between two sisters grew up between us. But let me pass on to describe certain peculiarities in the constitution of my young school friend. In the first place, she had been from childhood a sleep walker, a phenomenon that I soon discovered, for poor Claribel being an orphan and having no home of her own, used to live with us, and we two always slept together.

At first this peculiarity gave me no little alarm, as she would often rise in the middle of the night, light a candle and wander all over the house, and I was afraid that some night she would set the house on fire.

However, no accident ever occurred, and to my surprise I found that she seemed just as cautious in her sleep as if she had been in her waking state, always shading the flame with her hand and using such extreme caution when passing near the curtains or anything else at all likely to catch fire, that I used to doubt sometimes if she really could be asleep.

Being warned by the doctor never to address her or touch her whilst in this state, lest the shock should be too great for her, I, at first, used to follow her with my eyes about the room, and if she left the chamber, I generally used to rise and follow softly after, at some distance, lest an accident should befall her. But finding soon that she was just as certain of her footing in her sleep as in her waking moments, I began to abandon my fears, and thought no more of this peculiarity.

Indeed, as she was in the habit of rising every other night, I soon felt far too sleepy to trouble myself about her. But soon this strange power in her began to develop itself, and to take a stranger and more interesting form.

She would now get up at night, sit herself down at a table, take pen, ink, and paper, and fill sheet after sheet with close writing and elegant composition. This was particularly the case if she had left a task uncompleted during the day. In the morning it was sure to be found finished, and generally better done than if it had been accomplished during her hours of waking; nor was she herself conscious of it until she examined her exercise the next morning.

If I perchance should have an uncompleted task on hand, she would invariably finish mine before her own. But this phenomenon in my young friend, however strange and unaccountable it may seem, sinks into utter insignificance before a far more terrible one which I am now about to describe.

You may think I exaggerate, gentlemen, or that it was the effect of my own over-wrought fancy, produced by sleepless nights of watching over my young friend, but there are witnesses living yet who saw what I saw, and who are ready to give their testimony. The doctor of this village, together with his assistant, the rector, and two women living close by, are among these I speak of, besides others. Let them speak for themselves if you will not believe my word.

The phenomenon to which I have above alluded was the power, if I may so call it, of dividing herself in two, or becoming two separate beings; that is to say, of making a duplicate of herself. This extraordinary and fearful gift had evidently been noticed by others before it fell under my own observation, since for a long time previous to seeing it myself it was reported throughout the village that Claribel Falkland had appeared in two places at the same time.

To this, however, as to all other village gossip, I paid no attention, knowing well how trifles get exaggerated after passing through many mouths, and how sometimes reports are circulated without an atom of truth for their foundation. I can only tell you, however, gentlemen, what I saw with my own eyes, believe it, or not, as you will. One morning, then, after returning home from school, Claribel having been unable to attend from some slight indisposition, I entered the room suddenly where my friend was seated. I remember, too, that I had never felt in better health in all my life, when there, to my utter consternation, was not only my friend, seated as was her wont, in an easy chair, with her head resting on her hand, but another figure, the exact counterpart of herself, a duplicate Claribel, leaning over the back of her arm-chair, exactly in the same position as my friend happened to be at the time.

I remained at the door, my eyes and mouth wide open, in mute horror, unable to advance a step or utter an exclamation, until my friend, looking up and inquiring the reason of my surprise, the figure behind the chair instantly vanished. I then proceeded to relate to her the vision, which she, however, smiled at and affected to treat as a temporary delusion on my part, the result of indigestion or disordered state of my nerves. I persisted that I was in the most perfect health, and that I had seen what I chose to style her "double."

She declared to me that she herself had not been conscious of it, and that, therefore, whatever I might say to the contrary, it was a delusion. She answered even with some irritability—very unusual to her—which made me think that she had long been aware of this phenomenon in herself, but wished to keep it secret from others.

Seeing she was displeased, I said no more, and half persuaded myself that I had been deluded by my senses. She had been living with us for some time previous to the first appearance of the spectre, but after this first visit the apparition repeatedly presented itself, often as many as five or six times in the same day, though sometimes disappearing for a week or a month, and then returning. I observed that the figure always appeared clearer and more defined the more my friend appeared absorbed in some favourite occupation, or when in a deep reverie. In whatsoever way she happened to be occupied, whether in reading, writing, reckoning, or in earnest conversation, the spectre would instantly appear behind her, imitating her every movement with the precision of a looking-glass.

Of course, this peculiarity in her constitution caused no slight terror to myself, as well as to my father, who was then alive, and some intimate friends; yet after a time, finding that the visits of the apparition boded no harm, and getting accustomed to the same, we hailed our spiritual visitant as a welcome guest, cracking jokes in its presence, and even addressing it with so little appearance of reverence, that had it not been a very good-tempered spectre, it must have resented our rudeness. But the double never showed any resentment, unless treating us all with silent contempt may be considered as resentment. Indeed, it had never been once known to utter a sound; neither did it appear to be conscious of our presence.

I remember on one occasion, for a frolic, throwing a heavy book at its head, but this had no further effect than to disturb for a moment the luminous ether of which the spectre appeared composed, and which speedily re-settled itself, while the phantom seemed unconscious of having received injury or insult of any kind. The book passed through its head as if it had been air or smoke, and fell to the ground. I was bold enough once to walk up to it and take it by the arm, and found to my surprise, that there was a slight resistance, like that of muslin or crape, but it melted within my grasp, and I noticed that wherever I placed my hand, that that part of the figure was instantly wanting, and did not right itself until I withdrew my touch.

Sometimes the whole figure would disappear if I came within two paces of it, and it was not always of the same consistency, being sometimes less palpable than at others. This I observed to be dependent upon the greater or less absorption of my friend in her occupation or reverie. It is also remarkable that the more clearly defined and life-like the phantom appeared, the more exhausted and haggard grew my friend, and vice versa.

But I must now return to the second visit of our spiritual companion.

You may well imagine my terror and consternation at its first appearance, yet when the first shock had passed over, I should probably never have related the vision to a single soul, and set down everything to hallucination, had I not shortly after caught a second glimpse of the spectre. This time my friend and I happened to be playing chess together, when, whilst waiting for her to move, I distinctly saw the double leaning over her chair, as if in the act of assisting her in the game.

"Look, Claribel," I cried; "there it is again, you can't deny it this time," whereupon the figure instantly disappeared.

Now, as my friend still persisted that it was nothing more than my delusion, I began to be alarmed for my own health, and acquainted my father with what I had seen. He, too, laughed at me, and called it a silly girlish fancy, but said no more until I had seen it again three or four times, going immediately to my father each time after the vision had presented itself, and describing to him exactly the attitude and the gestures of the apparition on each successive visit.

Then my father became alarmed for the state of my health, and a doctor was sent for, that I might be bled. But on the doctor's arrival, he could detect nothing wrong with me; but just to satisfy my father, ordered me a little harmless physic, and took his departure. Believing that whether the doctor perceived it or not, that I must really be in a very bad state, I took all his medicine in regular doses, and at the times prescribed, carrying out his injunctions to the letter.

Nevertheless, the vision continued, appearing several times a day, and remaining sometimes almost half the day at a visit. Upon hearing all this, my father called for the doctor again, and positively insisted on my being bled this time. I remember that I was averse to the operation, never having undergone it before, and imagining that the pain would be much greater than I found it in reality. I therefore begged—finding my father so determined—that my friend might be present during the operation to give me courage.

This was assented to, and my friend was called into the parlour, looking pale and trembling, as if she fancied herself guilty of the pain about to be inflicted on me. She remained stationary in front of me, with a look of sweet commiseration in her face, but without uttering a word.

Once or twice I thought she was going to speak, but she checked herself, and then I noticed a struggle going on within her, as if she would have said, "Ought I not to prevent this operation, and openly confess that what my friend has seen, is not an hallucination, but a reality; a phenomenon belonging to my constitution? But, no; I dare not."

This was how I read the expression of her face. However, the operation passed over with far less pain than I had expected, when, oh, wonderful! on looking up again at the face of my friend, who was standing motionless as a statue, I perceived once more her double, not this time as usual, standing behind her and imitating her attitude, but pacing up and down the room with rapid steps and wringing her hands, as if in despair.

Feeling somewhat weak from loss of blood, I forbore to cry out, but my wild looks attracted the attention of my father and the doctor to the spot my eyes were fixed upon, when, following the direction of my eyes, both suddenly started in extreme terror, such as I have never seen expressed before or since upon the faces of any two of the stronger sex.

The doctor halted in tying on the bandage, and trembled like an aspen, while my father staggered and fell against the wall. For some minutes not a word was spoken, when my friend probably guessing the cause of our alarm, suddenly turned her head in the direction of their gaze, when the apparition instantly vanished. Each looked at the other, and the doctor declared that such a case had never before occurred in all his experience, nor would he have believed it had he had other testimony than that of his own eyes.

My friend then, her eyes filled with tears, begged of us all present to keep the matter a secret, and not to publish it throughout the village. Upon being questioned concerning the phenomenon, it appeared that what we had all seen was a reality, having as she alleged been seen by others before. She said that she was not conscious of its presence, save by the looks of consternation she saw depicted on the faces of others; that she had no control over the apparition, as it would appear and disappear without her knowledge, and that she had never seen it herself but once—in the looking-glass—when it caused her such a preternatural horror that she never afterwards used a looking-glass without a shudder.

This phenomenon in her nature, moreover, made her very unhappy, as on this account people used to shun her, considering the apparition as the work of the Evil One, and deeming her guilty of some fearful crime, for such a judgment ever to be permitted to persecute her.

The doctor and my father, their first surprise once over, attempted to console her, assuring her that they neither of them conceived her capable of anything like a crime, recommending her to keep quiet and not to worry herself on that account.

The doctor, to console her, further promised to keep her secret; but, in spite of his earnest assurances that he would not breathe a word of it to mortal man, a pamphlet appeared shortly afterwards in the doctor's own name, announcing a new form of contagious nervous disease, in which the visual organs of a healthy individual might become so affected by contact with a person suffering from hallucinations as to cause him to see or fancy he sees the object reflected on the retina of the patient by his diseased imagination. An instance of this was given as having occurred in the village, and though the names of the parties concerned were not given in full, the neighbours had no doubt as to whom was meant by C—— F——.

The pamphlet made some stir at the time, and poor Claribel, my bashful and retiring friend, found herself made the lion of the season, and pestered past all endurance by anxious inquiries and impertinent visits from strangers, who came from far, hoping to have their curiosity gratified by a re-appearance of the spectre. If such was their object in calling, and it undoubtedly was, they one and all of them went away terribly disappointed, for not in one single case did the apparition vouchsafe to manifest itself.

Nevertheless, these continued visits from strangers to one so shy and retired as my friend, made her excessively nervous, and were beginning to undermine her health, which, the doctor perceiving, he gave instant orders that she should receive no visits but those of her most intimate friends.

Visitors still continued to call for some little time afterwards, but were refused admittance on the plea of my friend's delicate health, and their visits grew fewer and farther between, till at length they ceased altogether, and Claribel's health began to improve.

As everything has an end, even the gossip of a little village, so in time people grew tired, both of hearing or retailing what they had heard and retailed so often before, till at length nobody believed a word about the apparition; and because they could not explain the cause of the phenomenon, hushed their minds to sleep by calling it imposture, delusion, ignorant credulity, and the like.

The ghost had never appeared to them or to those who had taken so much trouble as to come from afar on purpose to see it, and the deduction was that as the spirit had refused to manifest itself to such respectable people as these, it was not likely that it had ever vouchsafed to make its appearance to anyone, so the affair was settled.

Time rolled on, and both my friend and I were promoted from pupils to teachers in our school. The gossip of the village had long ceased; in fact, Claribel's spiritual tormentor had discontinued its visits now for so long that she began to hope that they had ceased for ever.

Claribel was now fast ripening into womanhood, and found herself no longer shunned and whispered about as a person guilty of some horrible crime which had called down the just vengeance of Heaven upon her, but passed by like any other, without allusion to the past; nay, more, she began to be courted by people in general, being known as a young woman of most excellent character. Being of an extremely prepossessing appearance, it was natural that she should be made a mark for all the young men of the village to discharge their amorous glances at, and she soon found herself surrounded by a crowd of swains who talked soft nonsense to her, and who would fain make her believe that they were dying with love for her.

Claribel, however, turned a deaf ear to them all. She was not a girl to be wooed by soft nonsense; indeed, you would have said she was a girl not likely to marry at all, she was so retired and showed such indifference to the conversation of young men, and took no pains whatever to set herself off to advantage in their eyes. Nevertheless this did not deter admirers from flocking around her. In fact, I rather think her coldness and apparent negligence of dress and general personal appearance rather incited them the more. I have called her indifferent to personal appearance; not that she was not scrupulously clean and neat; no one could be more so. But there she was content to remain.

She cared not to deck herself out with bows and ribbons, by the wearing of trumpery jewellery, or by any exaggerated fashion of wearing her hair. It is just this simplicity in woman which attracts most men, and it is natural enough that it should do so, as it argues a certain forgetfulness of self, a modest and unselfish nature, which is the basis of every womanly virtue, and therefore to be sought after in a wife. Foolish women imagine that men are to be caught by being run after. They therefore spare no expense in their toilet, study arts and graces, and omit nothing which they think ought to captivate the opposite sex; but as they too often over-step the bounds of modesty, their flimsy designs are seen through, and they find themselves laughed at by those they had hoped to make their prey.

Claribel had known such women in her time, and pitied rather than despised them, for there was nothing harsh in her nature. She was often quizzed in her turn by many a jimp-waisted hoyden for being a dowdy, but she would pass by their remarks with a good-humoured smile, and say little, for she was of few words.

Our school was now well filled with pupils, who, one and all, grew most attached to my young friend—to both of us in fact—but I rather think that she was the favourite.

There was not a person in or out of the school that could say a word against Claribel Falkland; there was something so inoffensive, so modest, and, at the same time, winning about her; such consideration for others, such a looking out of herself, if I may so term it. Then she had the knack of teaching—a rare gift—and was as mild and patient as a lamb, thus endearing all hearts towards her.

One day when giving a lesson in geography to her class (this was about a year after the last apparition of the spectre) I, who was giving a lesson in arithmetic to some younger children in the opposite corner of the schoolroom, was suddenly startled by a scream of surprise from the girls of my friend's class.

"Look! look! oh, just look, Miss Sykes," they cried in terror, "look, there are two Miss Falklands!"

I raised my eyes at the cry, and saw to my dismay, my friend's old tormentor—the double—behind her, as usual, and imitating her action, my friend being at that moment in the act of pointing to a map. I walked across the room to my friend, hoping to drive away the spectre in so doing, but it remained some minutes longer before it entirely disappeared.

I caught the eye of my friend, who looked mournfully at me, and added in a low tone of voice, as I passed her, "Is it not provoking? Could anything be more annoying?"

I did not tell the schoolgirls that I myself saw the figure, and tried to laugh them out of a "silly fancy," as I called it, fearing that I might be called upon as a witness, should this report reach the ears of the school-mistress, and it might prejudice folks against my friend as a teacher, so I affected harshness, and said I begged I should hear no more of such stuff, and the affair dropped for the time; but now that the double had recommenced its visits, it came frequently, and always in class time, to my friend's great discomfiture.

Of course, there was no getting out of it now. The school-mistress was called, and saw the same thing; and I myself was obliged to see it with the rest. The school-mistress was very much bewildered, as well she might be. She declared she did not know what to make of it. She could hardly bring herself to think that it was a messenger of good, and Miss Falkland's character was so unimpeachable that she could still less believe that anything bad should be permitted to torment her. In fact, she did not know what to think, so she called for the rector of the parish, that he might speak with the apparition; and if it should prove an evil one, to exorcise it.

The rector came, but being disappointed in seeing the spectre, came a second, third, and fourth time, with the like success, till at length he went away in a huff, and begged they would trouble him no more.

One Sunday, however, as the rector was in the middle of his sermon, his eyes being fixed on our school, we noticed him suddenly turn pale and tremble. He was unable to go on with his sermon. I followed his eyes, and found, as I half expected, my friend and her double seated close together. The girls shrieked and started, and a commotion was being made in the church; so much so, that Claribel was obliged to get up and walk out, her double following close at her heels.

Fancy poor Claribel, who was like a nun in her love of solitude and retirement, having to walk out of church through a crowd of people all the way home again with a duplicate of herself following in her footsteps!

You must not suppose that the matter stopped here. The remarks of the rustics who met her on the way, the village gossip that now broke out afresh—worse than ever before—the suspicious looks she received on all sides, all contributed to mortify her; but what appeared to completely break her spirit was the sudden falling off of one half of her pupils. Of course, she could make no doubt as to the cause of this. Even the rest of the pupils, she thought, grew colder to her, and they, too, dropped off one by one, until the poor girl had not a single pupil left.

When matters arrived at this point it was hinted to her by the school-mistress that on account of the great damage this unfortunate peculiarity of hers had done the school, that it was better for her on the whole, to leave. The school-mistress added that she was aware that it was no fault of my young friend's, and it was with much regret that she was obliged to part with her; yet what could she do? She could not afford to lose all her pupils; and thus it was my poor friend lost a situation upon which she depended to begin her little savings. Much and bitterly did she weep over her cursed existence, and earnestly prayed that she might be liberated from her tormentor.

Since she had left her position as a school teacher she had led a life of such rigid retirement that it was with the greatest difficulty she could be persuaded to leave the house, even in my company, to take the air and exercise that her health required. She refused to see anyone unless it was the rector, who would occasionally call in the evening to take a dish of tea with us.

It was on one of these visits, when we were seated round the fire, conversing agreeably—the rector was relating some amusing anecdote, to which we were all listening attentively, the rector himself laughing at his own story—when suddenly we noticed that he stopped short in the middle of his laughing, turned pale, and rose from his chair.

The cause of this sudden change immediately became apparent to us all. There, immediately behind the chair of Claribel, who had been listening attentively to the rector, with her chin resting on her hand, was her double in exactly the same position, with its eyes fixed intently on the rector's face. The rector having started to his feet, assumed a tone and manner which he in vain strove to render firm, and conjured the figure in the name of the Holy Trinity, if it were a thing of evil, to come out of her and trouble her no more; but his exorcism fell as upon the wind, the spectre apparently not hearing his words, and departing at its leisure some two or three minutes afterwards, appearing again once or twice in the same evening during the rector's visit.

The following Sunday prayers were read publicly in the church, with the view of dispelling the evil spirit, as it was called, and mention of the phenomenon was made in the rector's sermon, but all to no purpose. The spectre would appear and disappear whenever it chose, its coming being never heralded by any particular signs, and its vanishing just as uncertain.

If anyone particularly wished it to appear, it was as if the spectre took a malicious delight in disappointing them; if, on the other hand, its presence was exceedingly undesirable, it would be almost certain to appear.

Of the numerous admirers of Claribel it will be necessary for me only to mention two. The first was one John Archer, an ardent and virtuous youth, aged twenty-one, whose honest English face revealed the sincerity of his heart. He held the post of gamekeeper on the estate of Lord Edgedown. He was bold and generous, but of a nature so bashful and timid in matters regarding our sex, that he would have allowed himself to be cut out in a love affair by a man not possessing one half his merit or his good looks.

As my father was on good terms with the father of John Archer, John was always a welcome visitor at our house, and thus began his acquaintance with Claribel. I really think if he had persisted in his suit, as a more courageous lover would have done, that he must at last have won the love of Claribel. I know that Claribel had the highest esteem for him, and had learnt to sympathise with him as one noble nature sympathises with another.

They grew to treat each other as brother and sister, but this was all. The other lover was a totally different sort of man. Richard de Chevron was a scion of a noble house, had received the education of a gentleman, and could mix in the highest society; but he was debauched, profligate, a gamester, and a drunkard, of a mean and spiteful disposition, with nothing noble whatever in his character and not even good looking, but he had that persistency in wooing which John lacked, added to a very smooth tongue and plentiful flow of language. Neither was he quite without accomplishments; he could both play and sing well, and dance to perfection; qualities which might have won the heart of a less austere maiden than my friend Claribel. But Claribel retired, as she was, in disposition and a perfect dunce in that education which mixing in the world gives, had yet by nature, by way of compensation, such a marvellously acute perception of human character, that it bordered on the prophetic in many instances. In a word, she was a physiognomist.

On seeing Richard de Chevron for the first time, she had taken an instant aversion to him, without ever having heard anything against his character, and though De Chevron tried hard to dispel the sinister impression with which he could not fail to observe he had inspired her—and I must own that he did his best—yet that impression never left her, but, on the contrary, deepened after every visit.

Now, Richard de Chevron was nephew to Lord Edgedown, and heir-apparent to that earl's fortune and estates; at least, he often used to hint as much, but this was evidently more brag, as he was a younger son, and was known to be no particular favourite with his uncle on account of his dissipated habits. He had also the hopes of coming in for another fortune, so he said; that of Squire Broadacre, a relative on his mother's side, whose estate joined that of Lord Edgedown's; but whether all this were true or not, it made not the slightest difference to Claribel in her estimation of the man. She still saw in him a low, debauched, false, and perjured villain, seeking to hide under a mask of studied courtesy the evil promptings of his reptile heart.

Even had De Chevron succeeded in making Claribel marry him, such a match could have brought nothing but misery to her, even from a pecuniary point of view, for at the time we knew him he had not a penny of his own, and was, besides, head over ears in debt.

Men of the De Chevron class do not often mean marriage when they go a-courting, unless it happens to be particularly to their interest. What they want is a fortune, and not a wife. If the former can be had without the latter, why so much the better; if not, they are content to put up with the latter incumbrance for the sake of being able to pay off their debts.

Now, poor Claribel was an orphan, without a penny in the world. What good could his attentions bode the poor child? Claribel, however, was not mercenary, and had she been capable of loving any man, she would have been contented to live on a crust, and to have worked hard for it; but she appeared not to be destined for earthly affection. The nearest approach she ever made towards that passion commonly called love was the deep friendship she had entertained for the youthful gamekeeper.

Now, to meet with a rival in the person of his uncle's gamekeeper was gall and wormwood to Richard de Chevron. He knew that John Archer was a young man of trust who received a good salary, and was of a rank nearer to that of Claribel's than his own was, and his attentions would be more readily looked upon as earnest.

Besides, John was good looking and noble, and had it not been for his excessive modesty in coming forward, would have been the very man of all men most likely to ensure the love of such a girl as Claribel. The intentions of De Chevron were not honourable, whatever his protestations might have made them out. He could not afford to marry Claribel, nor did he ever for a moment meditate such a thing.

Had an intimate friend asked him in confidence if he really entertained thoughts of marriage towards the girl he so ardently professed to love, he would have burst out laughing in his face, and asked him if he took him for a fool. No; he simply desired to win the heart of Claribel, and succeeding in that, he looked upon his prey as certain. But as yet he had not succeeded; nay, more, he had a favoured rival—a young man of good natural advantages, and in every way qualified to make Claribel happy, even though he were only his uncle's gamekeeper and had not received a gentleman's education. He thought of the difference of Claribel's treatment of this young boor and that of himself—he, the scion of a noble house!

Then jealously began to gnaw his heart, and he found it to his interest that John Archer should be removed for ever from his path. Being perfectly unscrupulous and selfish, he cared not what means he employed to execute his design, as long as no suspicion should be attached to himself.

He could have waylaid and murdered his rival, if he chose; have introduced poison in his cup, or bribed an assassin to murder him, but none of these modes suited De Chevron. The law was vigilant, inquiries would be made, and the murder probably traced to his own door. His reputation would suffer, to say nothing of his own life being endangered. He would have no accomplices, as he knew that no man was to be depended upon; he would trust to no one but himself and his own resources.

Like a wily Jesuit, he would work in the dark, would be the cause of all the mischief that his own atrocious brain could dictate, but himself remain hid. Now, when Richard de Chevron first met John Archer at my father's house, he treated him with coldness, not to say haughtiness. He now completely changed his tactics. He saw that the least show of contempt or dislike towards the young gamekeeper, who was a general favourite—and especially with Claribel—would be construed into jealously on his part; and though this was really the case, it did not suit him that everyone should know it; therefore he entirely altered his conduct towards his rival, and nothing now could be more kind and courteous, more apparently generous than his treatment of his uncle's gamekeeper.

He apologised if by any former brusqueness of manner he had offended him, pleading that he had not had the opportunity hitherto of studying his estimable character, but that after long observation he had learnt to appreciate his noble qualities, and should henceforth entertain for him the highest esteem and friendship. He would pat him playfully on the shoulder, call him his friend, would make him every now and then some trifling present, and even put in a good word for him to my friend Claribel.

All this had the appearance of generosity, as De Chevron designed it should have, and thus avert suspicion from himself. We were all of us at home much surprised and pleased at this extraordinary change, especially as he had ceased for a time to persecute Claribel with his attentions.

Richard de Chevron appeared to be turning over a new leaf. When I say we were all deceived in De Chevron's behaviour, I must not omit to state that there was one exception, and that was Claribel herself, who from the first had behaved with a freezing coldness towards De Chevron, and, little as she knew of the world and its wickedness, had such an instinctive distrust of this man, that when he began to speak favourably to her of John Archer, she trembled violently, and looked into his face with such a searching glance that it seemed to peer into the inmost recesses of his soul.

De Chevron cowered beneath her gaze; he felt himself distrusted, and was probably little flattered at the opinion of himself he saw written in her eyes. Nevertheless, he would not have shown for the world that he was disconcerted; he was a practised dissembler, and instead of being abashed, grew more witty and talkative than ever, more and more friendly to his rival, only I noticed that he avoided the eyes of Claribel as much as possible.

The fact was, he feared her; he, the artful, experienced man of the world, crouched like an abject slave before a simple village maiden. His guilty soul could not brook the chaste glance of innocence. He knew himself to be a false degraded wretch, and quailed before her moral superiority.

However, Richard de Chevron had worked himself into favour with all of us; in fact, we grew delighted with him, still excepting Claribel, who seemed very unreasonably prejudiced against him, as we all thought. She would declare to me in private that from the very first the aspect of De Chevron had been repulsive to her; but of late, so far from having overcome her impression, he had grown perfectly intolerable in her eyes; nay, that she was seized with such horror and loathing when he was in the room as she could not find words to express.

She had a presentiment of evil, and it seemed to her, moreover, as if he were using some occult power over her that she, however, was determined to resist.

I tried to laugh her out of these fancies as being quite unfounded, and attributed them to her nerves being over-wrought from want of sufficient air and exercise; but all without avail; she remained as confirmed as ever in her prejudices. It is now some time since I made allusion to Claribel's spiritual visitant. She had long been undisturbed by its visits; indeed, ever since De Chevron and John had commenced calling at the house, and even before. It is uncertain whether either of them had ever heard of the phenomenon. I rather think not, as De Chevron, who mixed almost entirely in the upper circles, would not easily have come in the way of our village cackle, especially as he was often absent from the village for months at a time; and as for John, being constantly engaged on Lord Edgedown's estate, he knew comparatively little of the world without. But whether they did or not, it is certain that the subject was never broached during all that time.

We have mentioned before that Claribel's spiritual visitor was fitful and capricious in its visits. It might appear at any moment; but then we had been free from its company for so long, that we had dared to hope that it had forgotten all about us and would never return, until one morning new fears arose in my mind from a little circumstance which I shall now relate to you.

Observing that my young friend rose from her couch looking poorly, I inquired into the cause of her jaded looks.

"Oh, Molly," she replied, "I've had such a dreadful dream about poor John. I am sure that some danger threatens him."

"What danger do you imagine threatens him, Claribel?" said I. "Tell me your dream."

"I really do not know if I can," she replied; "it was so very confused. I thought that John Archer stood in danger of his life at the hands of Richard de Chevron, and yet it was not Richard de Chevron, but another; then, again, it was. I remember something about a murdered man, and fearing it was John Archer, but on examining the corpse it was another. Then I remember seeing John Archer handcuffed, and in great agony of mind, and I thought him guilty of the murder, and then he was not guilty. Then the dream began to change in such a manner as it would be impossible to relate it; but throughout I remember the fiendish face of Richard de Chevron. I was seized with an inexpressible horror, and could bear it no longer; then I awoke."

"My dear Claribel," said I, "pray do not disturb yourself for such a ridiculous dream. You ought to know that all dreams are mad, the offspring of impaired digestion or——"

But she impatiently cut me short by a wave of the hand, as if she were determined to believe in the warning character of her dream, despite all my sophistry.

However, I attempted a second time to account for the dream by the aversion she had taken to Richard de Chevron at first sight and her constantly brooding over her unfounded impressions. I tried argument, I tried ridicule; but finding her proof against either, I held my tongue and took up a piece of work.

Claribel had thrown herself into an arm-chair, and there sat listlessly, without occupying herself or hardly exchanging a word with me. Once, indeed, she gasped out to herself "Oh, that I could save him!" and then relapsed into her usual silence.

About five minutes after, chancing to look up, I observed that my friend appeared to be more languid than ever. She was dreadfully pale, her lips colourless and slightly parted, the eyes half-closed. I thought she was in a swoon, and now somewhat alarmed, I rose and advanced towards her.

"Claribel," I cried, "what ails you—are you unwell?"

She waved me away with her hand, so imagining it was nothing more than a little weakness, I withdrew myself and resumed my work. Soon afterwards she appeared to rally, and sat up in her chair. Her colour had returned somewhat, and her eye seemed brighter, but her voice was still weak as she muttered, "I have seen him. Oh! why did you disturb me?"

"Seen him!" I exclaimed. "Seen whom?"

"John Archer," she replied.

"Nonsense," said I; "you have been dreaming."

"I tell you, Molly," she replied, rather pettishly, "I have seen him, and would have warned him had you not disturbed me."

"Silly child," said I; "you have been dreaming; but you looked so very ill that I grew alarmed, for I thought you were in a swoon."

Just then my father entered the room and commenced talking on household matters, so our conversation dropped; nor did I give it a further thought until the evening, when John Archer made his appearance, as he frequently did, to take his tea with us.

"Good evening, Mistress Claribel," said he. "You were in a mighty hurry to quit my company this morning after paying me such an unexpected visit. Methinks you are chary of your presence. It is a mystery to me how you appeared and disappeared from me without my perceiving either the coming or the going of you."

"How say you, Master John?" said my father, pricking up his ears. "Do you say that our Claribel paid you a visit this morning?"

"Ay, sir," replied John; "at about nine o'clock this morning, as I was walking along with my gun, on his lordship's estate, I suddenly saw Mistress Claribel coming straight in front of me. She looked as if she were about to speak to me, when all of a sudden—I'm sure I can't tell how—she disappeared. I looked round about me, and called her, but there was no one.

"Then I began to be alarmed, thinking something must have happened to Mistress Claribel, and that I had seen her ghost. I could not let the day pass by without dropping in to call to see if she were all right."

"You must be mistaken, John," said I. "I assure you that Claribel has not left the house all day. She has felt rather unwell."

"Not left the house!" exclaimed Archer. "Why I saw her quite plain this morning."

"You must have been dreaming," said my father.

But I noticed that he gave a glance of peculiar meaning at my friend and self. I knew what was passing in his mind. I, too, shared the same apprehensions. John Archer must have re-encountered Claribel's second self, her much dreaded double. I then recalled the words of Claribel that morning.

"I have seen him. Oh, why did you disturb me?"

My poor friend, I observed, was dreadfully confused as my father's eye rested on her. The colour mounted to her cheeks, then vanished again, leaving her deadly pale, and she seemed desirous to escape notice. Her restlessness became extreme when John began persisting that he had not been dreaming, that he could vouch for what he had seen, etc., etc.

"You should get yourself bled, Master Archer," said my father; "you can't be well."

"I assure you I am in the very best of health," persisted John.

"And I assure you, Master Archer, that Claribel has not quitted this house to-day, to my certain knowledge," said my father.

"What, not for a moment?" went on Archer, most annoyingly. "How say you, Mistress Claribel, was it not you I saw this morning on Lord Edgedown's estate as I was walking along with my gun over my shoulder?"

Claribel grew red and pale by turns, and her lips began to move, as if she felt herself forced to give some answer; but at that moment my father seemed troubled with a violent fit of coughing which drowned her reply. John waited quietly until the coughing was over, and then began again.

"Do you mean to say it was not you I saw this morning?"

The coughing was resumed, and strange enough, always returned just as John Archer began to open his mouth. John looked in wonderment, first at Claribel, then at my father, then at Claribel again, and finally at me. He had unwittingly touched upon a sore place. This he seemed to be aware of; but how he had been to blame was a mystery to him.

He suddenly changed the conversation, and began discoursing on indifferent topics. The coughing ceased for that evening. As he rose to go we followed him to the door, and I observed that Claribel, who was the foremost, whispered something secretly into his ear at parting. I myself was immediately behind her, and overheard the hurried words, "John, you have an enemy. Beware!"

Then she put her finger quickly to her lips, to prevent him giving any outward expression to his wonderment, and the door closed upon our guest.

"You silly girl," said I to my friend as we were undressing that evening, previous to retiring to rest. "What nonsense of you to try and infect that young man with your own ungrounded fears. Do you think I did not overhear what you said?"

She looked a little downcast at this, but then instantly recovering, by way of consoling herself, she ejaculated, "Nevertheless, I have warned him," and she clasped her hands above her head enthusiastically.

No further word was said about John Archer that night. On the following morning I had occasion to call upon a neighbour who lived some four or five miles off. I rose early, and started off on foot. As I was returning home it came on to rain in such torrents that I was forced to take shelter under a little shed that was annexed to a small hut standing alone upon a hill, far from any other human dwelling.

It was the only place at hand, and had it not been for the excessive inclemency of the weather, I might have thought twice before choosing such a place of refuge, for this was the abode of Madge Mandrake as she was called—a personage feared by all, far and wide, both young and old. She was renowned in the villages round about for her skill in telling fortunes, in concocting drugs of every description, from love philtres to the deadliest poisons, not less than for malice in bringing to pass all sorts of trouble upon those who had had the misfortune to offend her. If a cow died, it was Madge's doing; if the milk turned sour, or the crops were blighted, Madge was accused of it; if a person died suddenly, or an accident happened to anyone, Madge likewise had the credit of it. Her dwelling, therefore, was shunned by all, and when she ventured to walk abroad and to mix in crowded thoroughfares, she had but to lift her crutch to send the whole populace flying helter-skelter, for fear of being enchanted into unclean beasts, reptiles, and other loathsome things.

You may imagine then, gentlemen, my feelings; though naturally courageous at finding myself obliged to seek shelter near the house of so formidable a personage, I did my utmost to make no stir, so as not to betray my whereabouts.

There was a small window that looked from the cottage into the shed, but so begrimed with dirt that I should not have been able to take a peep into the house, had it not been for a pane of glass that was wanting. Through this I was enabled to see the interior of this unhallowed dwelling without being perceived. Before I ventured to peep through it I heard two voices conversing together.

I held my breath, and listened. The former was the harsh, cracked voice of the crone herself; the latter was evidently that of a man, and appeared to belong to a person of culture, for the tones were soft and modulated. I began to fancy I recognised them; nor was I mistaken, as you shall hear soon.

"Well, Master de Chevron, and how have you been progressing in your work since I saw you last?" said the crone.

"Satisfactorily enough for my purpose, my good Madge," replied the other voice. "I have brought it with me for your approval."

Here the speaker, whom I could now recognise as no other than Richard de Chevron, drew from under his cloak something carefully wrapt up in tissue paper. Having unwound the paper, he discovered a small statue of a man, about a foot in height, apparently in wax.

"Why, you have got it as like as could be!" exclaimed the crone. "Yes, that is John Archer, sure enough; there is no mistaking him."

My curiosity began to be roused, and Claribel's apprehensions for John's safety rushed across my mind. Though I was not near to the figure, I could see plainly that it was intended for a likeness of John Archer, and that it carried a gun over one arm. The hag seized the image in one hand with a sort of fiendish glee, and commenced mumbling some inarticulate sounds.

I trembled from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, for I had heard of this way of working mischief on one's enemies from afar, and I feared lest some dreadful harm should happen to poor John, so I offered up a hasty prayer for his safety.

"The charm is said," croaked the witch. "Now let the work begin."

Here she set the image upright, and taking a long sharp pin she seemed about to transfix the waxen image with it; but I noticed that her hand trembled violently. I still continued to pray fervently, whereupon the witch was seized with such a fit of sneezing and wheezing that she was unable to proceed in her work.

"Why, Madge," said De Chevron, "what is the matter? How have you managed to catch such a cold all of a sudden?"

"Odds blood! I know not," answered the beldam; "it is as if I was in church."

At the word "church" the wheezing came on again.

"Ah! I see," said De Chevron; "It is the wind that is howling through that broken pane of glass," and he pointed to the very pane through which I was peeping.

I thought my last hour was come, for I was sure to be discovered. However, I ducked down in a corner, whilst De Chevron stopped up the missing pane with a filthy rag without even catching a sight of me.

Rising again to my feet, I managed to open the little window the least bit ajar, but just enough to see and hear all. My fright was so great all this time that I had unwittingly slacked a little in my prayer, and just at that moment Madge made a desperate plunge with the pin, which appeared aimed at the heart of the image; but as I had now recommenced my prayers, alas, somewhat too late, the pin missed its mark, but pierced the barrel of the gun, which, together with the thumb of the figure, fell upon the table.

"Better next time, Madge," said De Chevron. "Try again."

She made another essay, and then another, but missed the figure altogether.

"I am not as young as I was," she said, by way of apology, "and neither my eyesight nor my hand are to be relied upon as of old."

However, she aimed again and again at the figure, but with the same result.

"Why, you are getting old, Madge!" said De Chevron, surprised at her repeated failures. "Come, let me put the pins in."

Seizing the image with one hand and a long pin with the other—(here again my breath failed me through fear, and I omitted to pray)—he first pierced the arm of the figure that supported the gun in one place, and then in another higher up. He then took a third pin and seemed about to pierce the image in the region of the heart, when I, now really alarmed for the victim, again offered up a short and fervent prayer.

De Chevron instantly dropped the pin, as if it had been red hot; but immediately taking up another, he made a furious thrust at the body of the image, but his hand went off widely from the mark, leaving the image unscathed.

"Why, how is this?" exclaimed De Chevron, in astonishment.

"Ha! ha! Master de Chevron," laughed the witch, "you are no better than old Madge after all."

"Well, this is strange!" muttered De Chevron to himself, after having tried once or twice more and failed.

"Are you quite sure you have repeated the charm aright, Madge?"

"Quite sure," replied the crone; "but, beshrew me, if I don't think there is some hostile element at hand that counteracts the charm. Just look at the way Grimalkin arches his back and ruffles his fur."

I now noticed a huge black tom cat, of a size that I never remember to have seen before or since, whose luminous eyes flashed red and green by turns from an obscure corner of the hovel.

"There! there! there!" cried De Chevron, furiously, accompanying each word with a thrust, but missing each time.

Then, in his rage at being foiled thus, he raised the image in order to dash it to the ground; but the wax having melted somewhat in his hand, it stuck to his fingers like pitch, and he was obliged to disengage it gently and place it on the small table just underneath the window through which I was peeping.

"I'll tell you what it is, Madge," said he, "there is more witchcraft in this countercharm, whatever it is, than in all your skill. There must be, as you say, some contrary influence at work. How else should it be possible for me to fail every time, as if I were smitten with the palsy? Let us go out and see if anyone is lurking near the hut."

So leaving the image on the table, he strode towards the opposite door, which he opened wide, followed by the beldam.

Not a moment was to be lost. The instant their backs were turned I cautiously opened the window, and introducing my arm until it touched the table beneath, I secured the image, re-closed the window noiselessly, and flew as fast as my feet could carry me through the pelting rain with the image under my shawl.

I had hardly reached home, quite out of breath, when Claribel came running to me, pale and trembling, and wringing her hands.

"Oh! Molly, dear," she cried, sobbing, "what do you think has happened to that poor young man John Archer?"

"What is it?" I asked, anxiously. "Anything in connection with Richard de Chevron?"

"I cannot exactly say that," she replied. "It seems to have been purely an accident. This is how it was. His gun suddenly burst in a most unaccountable manner whilst he was carrying it over his arm, and carried off one of his thumbs. No surgeon could be procured at the time, and the wound appears to have gangrened and to have infected the whole arm. The surgeon, who has only just arrived, says that it will be necessary to remove the arm to save his life."

"Not for worlds!" cried I, with animation. "I'll be responsible for his life. There," said I, producing the waxen image and hastily withdrawing the two pins still sticking in the arm of the figure, and which in my hurry I had omitted to extract till now. "There, now the mortification in the arm will have stopped. Send directly to the surgeon that the operation will be no longer necessary. Nay, I will go myself."

"What does all this mean?" asked Claribel, astonished beyond measure.

"No matter now," I answered. "I am off at once. If you like you may come with me; but first let me lock up this image in a place where it will not be touched."

So saying, I put on my bonnet and shawl again, and dragging Claribel after me, we ran with all our might and main to the cottage where poor John lay stretched on a pallet, the surgeon with his knife ready sharpened for the operation, standing over him, about to commence. Another second would have been too late.

"Hold your hand, doctor!" I cried, suddenly. "The mortification has ceased, and the operation will be no longer necessary. I will be answerable for this young man's life without his losing his arm."

I spoke with an authority that completely astonished the doctor, for he looked bewilderingly first at me and then at my friend; but at length said, "I understand nothing of all this. I have been called here by this young man's family to give my professional opinion, and I say that unless he submits to lose his arm, his life will be endangered."

"But the mortification has ceased. Would you amputate a limb without necessity for so doing?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, then, look for yourself. Where is the mortification?"

Here the surgeon glanced at the arm, and looked wondrous wise.

"The mortification has ceased beyond a doubt," he said at length. "Well, I never saw such a thing in all my life. What! am I dreaming," he muttered. "I do not understand all this. How came you, Miss Molly, to—to——"

"Hush!" said I.

Then lowering my mouth to his ear, I whispered a few words, and put my finger to my lip, to enjoin silence. The doctor arched his eyebrows till they nearly touched the roots of his hair, screwed up his mouth to the size of a buttonhole, and gave vent to a prolonged "wh-e-w!"

He soon after left the house, and we were left alone for a while to comfort the sufferer. During the few moments that we were left alone together I recounted briefly the whole of my adventure.

Both John and Claribel were completely thunder-struck at my recital, and Claribel muttered half to herself and half to me, "And to think that it should be Richard de Chevron, after all. I knew he was a villain."

John speedily recovered. He had received no further injury than the loss of his thumb. He often called at our house afterwards, and upon seeing the waxen image immediately recognised it as a likeness of himself. It being now beyond a doubt that Richard de Chevron, out of jealousy, had conspired against the life of John Archer and being equally certain in my own mind, from a knowledge of De Chevron's character, that he would not let his victim slip so easily through his fingers, but, foiled in his first attempt, would lose no time in employing some other means of removing his rival from his path, I began to rack my brains in search of some scheme to thwart the machinations of this villain.

"What if he should make another waxed image, and shutting himself up in his own house, carry out his infernal spells without interruption?" I said to myself. If so, what could I do?

John Archer should have our constant prayers; beyond this there was no impediment to De Chevron's evil designs. The law would give us no redress. I was very sure of that. Witchcraft had ceased to be believed in, and the case would be dismissed. One thought, indeed, crossed my mind for a moment, which I mentioned to Claribel, and this was to pay back De Chevron in his own coin by converting the image of John Archer into a likeness of De Chevron and experimenting upon the villain from afar in the same manner as he had designed to practise against John Archer.

It was but a momentary thought and a sinful, and the proposal was rejected by Claribel instantly and with horror.

"Should we," said she, "put ourselves on a level with a murderous villain, using against him the same unhallowed means that he himself had not hesitated to use against his victim?"

But besides the light in which my friend had put my proposition, there was another argument against the scheme that perhaps had more weight with me. In order to change the image from the likeness of John Archer into a likeness of De Chevron it would be necessary to destroy the image altogether first, and this, for what I knew, might put John Archer's life in peril. This last argument decided me, and I resolved to guard the image as jealously as possible, and to proceed against De Chevron by natural means solely. An idea flashed across me that there might be some countercharm against evil spells if we could only find it out. Indeed, I remembered to have heard that there was, and musing thus within myself, I suddenly recollected to have heard a couplet in my childhood that ran thus:

"Vervain and Dill
Keep witches from their will."

These two herbs, then, were countercharms. I was resolved to try the experiment, so procuring some of each without more delay, I gave them into the possession of John Archer, who promised me to wear them always about him; and whether or no De Chevron ever made any further attempt against the life of his rival by means of magic I know not, but if he did he must signally have failed, as for ever so long afterwards Archer enjoyed the most perfect health and remained free from any further accident.

Whether De Chevron suspected that John Archer possessed some countercharm against which his evil spells were vain, or if he again essayed his magic after his first defeat, we know not, but certain it was that he still cherished hatred against his rival, upon whom he was determined to bring trouble, if not by necromancy, at least by natural means.

For some time past he had not been near us. This was evidently to ward off suspicion from himself and check the village gossip. However, soon after the disappearance of the image—whether or no he suspected it was I who purloined it and wished to brave the matter out—he called and informed us that he was going to London on important business, and had come to take leave of us for a time. There was nothing in his manner that appeared the least constrained or abashed. On the contrary, he seemed more lively and witty than usual, asked kindly after all our family, and even John Archer, whom he said he had not seen for a long time, although he had heard of his misfortune, for which he professed great sympathy, and hoped the poor fellow would not take his loss too much to heart; adding that it was lucky that they had managed to save his life without amputating his arm.

Throughout all his discourse his manner had so much of frankness and sincerity that I could hardly bring myself to believe that he was the same villain whose infernal plot against the innocent John Archer, I had accidentally unravelled. I began to think that somehow or other I must have been under a delusion, until chancing to glance towards a glazed cupboard in which the wax figure stood upright and was easily discernable from where I stood, the whole of my recent adventure came back to me forcibly. Yet there sat the author of this unhallowed deed, this would-be murderer, smiling and chatting and paying compliments with the easy grace of a courtier, with a countenance frank and open as a spring morning. How could a girl of my age, ignorant of the world and its wickedness, possibly imagine that a heart so black could be concealed underneath so smooth an exterior? Had I not had positive proof of his villainy within reach, I should certainly never have believed him capable of such a deed. Even as it was I was obliged to gaze frequently at the cupboard in order to reassure myself that I was not dreaming and to prevent myself from being won over by his tongue.

De Chevron was a quick observer, and noticed our furtive glances towards the cupboard. Then fixing his spy-glass in his eye, he looked in the same direction; but either saw or affected to see nothing. Afterwards he got up and walked about the room, conversing the while, and in so doing passed several times in front of the cupboard, looking in casually as he passed.

I felt sure that he must have seen the image, though there was nothing in his manner that I could discover at all confused or unusual. I believe he would have braved the matter out if I had told him to his face that it was I myself who had stolen the image after I had overheard with my own ears this villainous plot against poor John. He was just the sort of man who would have looked me full in the face and denied ever in his life having been in Madge Mandrake's cottage.

He would have tried to make me believe that I had been the victim of some fearful delusion from my over-excited fears or what not, that the image was not of his making; would have denied ever having set eyes on it before. Nor would, in all probability, have seen any likeness whatever to John Archer, and would have treated as nothing more than a coincidence the fact of John's gun and the loss of his thumb occurring at the same time that the gun and thumb of the waxen figure were damaged by old Madge's pin thrust.

He would have asked me if I thought him capable of believing in such trumpery, and would have tried to laugh me out of my superstition. All this I should have expected from him, such was his amount of assurance. Once I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he thought of the image, and if he knew anyone it resembled; and would have done it, too, as I was anxious to observe what effect a sudden allusion to the image would have had upon him, but at that moment my father, who knew nothing of the affair of the waxen image, entered the room, and the conversation took another direction.

Shortly afterwards he left the house, promising to call again after his return from London. As he had been so particular in telling us of his intended visit to London, of course, I believed him. What reason could I have had for not doing so? Nevertheless, it proved to be all a falsehood. He never had any intention of going to London at all; and never left the village.

But why this deceit? you will naturally ask. Listen, and tell me if you could have imagined a scheme so diabolical as the following ever entering into human brain. To carry out his base designs he hired a certain pedlar, one Michael Rag, well known to be a shady character, and envious of John Archer's comparatively easy circumstances, so having talked him over, if not by bribery, at least by instigating him in a manner suggested by his own natural cunning as calculated to excite the covetous disposition of the tool he intended to use for his own purposes, to purloin John Archer's silver watch, a present he had received from his master for his faithful services.

This watch De Chevron represented to the pedlar as being one of superior workmanship, and far too good for a man of John Archer's position to wear. He blamed his uncle for lavishing handsome presents upon undeserving hangers-on. Who, after all, was John Archer? He (De Chevron) could remember him in worse circumstances even than the pedlar himself. Whence his good fortune? From his merit? Pooh! It was easy enough for any man to keep a good place when he had once got it, if he wasn't quite a fool. Then as to his getting it in the first place, mere luck. Why, as if there were not many a better man than John Archer for such a post. Was he more honest than any other? Bah! every man is honest until he is found out to be the contrary.

Thus, first by raising the pedlar's cupidity by a vivid description of the watch, then by giving an additional stimulant to his envious nature by representing the owner of the watch as unworthy of such a present, he finally wound up by insinuating, rather than broadly stating, that the pedlar himself was a man of merit and deserved being in a better position than John Archer, if all men had their rights.

In fact, such was De Chevron's power of persuasion, that he at last, by dint of subtle arguments, made irresistible by the courteous grace by which they were set off, and, moreover, making it appear that he himself could have no object in giving such advice, that he at length succeeded in making the pedlar believe that he was a very ill-used man, and that as fortune had been so niggardly to him, considering his merits, whilst she squandered her favours on the undeserving, that it was quite excusable in him; nay, it was his duty, and nothing more than what he owed to himself to seek his own fortune by appropriating a portion of that superfluous wealth unjustly held back from him by the capricious goddess and given into unworthy hands.

It was not difficult for De Chevron to ignite the already too inflammable cupidity of the pedlar. A hint was enough. From that hour the watch was doomed. Seeing that his words had had their effect, he applauded the determination of the pedlar, and added that though he had no interest in mixing himself up in such affairs, yet he liked to encourage enterprising men, and he himself would furnish him with the means of making his booty doubly sure, and without which he represented it would be madness to make the attempt.

He showed him that John Archer always carried a gun with him, that he was a hot-tempered young fellow, and would shoot him as soon as look at him if he attempted and failed.

"One must use all one's resources, in case of need," he added, and suggested that the securest way to obtain the watch would be to administer to Archer a glass of drugged wine, which he might easily induce the unsuspecting youth to accept. This drug (which De Chevron had in his possession and which was probably concocted by his friend and ally, Madge Mandrake) produced instantaneous sleep for full five hours on the person partaking of it. It was agreed then that the pedlar should carry in his coat pocket a bottle of the said drugged wine, together with a wine glass, that towards evening he should wander about a certain unfrequented road which bordered on Lord Edgedown's estate, and near which Archer was sure to be at a certain hour.

Should he catch sight of John Archer, he was to accost him civilly, invite him to converse, then after a time produce the bottle and glass and say that he had some dozens of very choice wine which if he (John Archer) could only induce his lordship to buy that it would be the making of his fortune. He would then pour out a glassful, which he would offer the young gamekeeper to try himself; should he refuse, he was to press him so urgently that he would at length be forced to comply.

When Archer should have once tossed off the glass, Mike would wait some moments until he was in a perfectly sound sleep, when he would be enabled to steal not only his watch and what else he might have in his pockets, but also his gun.

The pedlar jumped at the proposition, and armed with his bottle of drugged wine, he set off the selfsame evening for the spot agreed upon, followed at a distance by De Chevron himself, just to give the alarm, as he suggested, by a sharp shrill whistle, should anyone approach to interrupt their design.

Backed up by the help of De Chevron, the pedlar knew no fear, nor did it ever enter his head, so blinded was he by greed, that De Chevron could possibly have any object in thus lending him his help.

The evening arrived. It was now about a week after De Chevron's supposed departure, and so close had been his confinement to the house all this time, that I do not believe there was a soul in all the village but believed that he was absent on business in London at the time.

As the evening agreed upon drew in, De Chevron, disguising himself as best he might in a large loose cloak that he never had been seen to wear and a hat unlike that he was known by in the village, set out in the dusk towards the lonely road, following the pedlar at a considerable distance. The pedlar advanced towards the spot singing.

"Good morrow, Master Archer," he said, as the young gamekeeper made his appearance from behind a hedge, "and how does the world go for you? Easily enough, eh?"

"Well enough, for the matter of that," replied Archer, carelessly.

"Ah! you lucky dog, your bread and butter's cut for life. Wouldn't I like to be in your shoes without doing you any harm!" said the pedlar.

"Would you?" laughed Archer. "Why, I'm sure you have no reason to complain of your lot. A pedlar's is a good business."

"Well, I don't exactly complain," replied the pedlar, with proud humility; "but—but——"

"But," interrupted Archer, "we all like to be a little better off than we are. Isn't that it?" asked the gamekeeper, with a laugh.

"Well, I dare say you are not far wrong, Archer my boy," said the pedlar, wheedlingly. "It's natural you know, ain't it? By the way, Johnny old fellow, do you think you could do an old friend a great favour? It won't cost you anything. I'm not going to ask you to lend me any money."

"Well," said John, "what is it?"

"Why, the fact is," said Mike, "that I have got some fine stuffs that will do for curtains or to cover chairs with. I've got carpets, mattresses, and I don't know what all. Besides which I have got some excellent wine, superfine quality, which if you could induce your master to buy, my fortune would be made."

"It would be useless," answered John Archer. "His lordship never buys either stuffs or wine from country hawkers, but has up everything from London."

"Well, I suppose he would, you know, a great man like him. Still, when a good thing comes in your way, something unique, like this wine of mine, why, it would be madness to let it slip through your fingers without even giving it a trial. Look here now." Here he produced the bottle. "This wine I am in the habit of always carrying about with me as a sample. Here, just taste it. It'll do your heart good." Here he poured out a glass.

"Thank you, no," said Archer.

"Nonsense, man," said the pedlar, "what are you afraid of?"

"Nothing," replied Archer, "only I don't care about it, thank you."

"Drink, drink, man. What's the matter with you?"

"Drink it yourself, I won't rob you of it," said John.

"Oh, as to that, Jack my boy, I'm not niggardly in offering my wine, especially when I meet old friends, you know, besides, I am interested in your tasting this, because, you see, when you have once drunk this little glassful you will be better able to speak well of it to your master, and he might honour me so far as to purchase a dozen. But, interest apart, take a glass for old friendship's sake, or I shall take offence. Come, no excuse; here you are!"

John Archer, wearied out by the pedlar's importunities, could resist no longer, and suspecting nothing, tossed off the glass at a gulp.

"Good, indeed," he had barely time to say, as he gave back the glass. "Gramercy! how is this? My head swims. I—I——"

He was unable to finish his sentence, but fell like a log to the ground. The pedlar's eyes glistened as he witnessed the speedy effects of the drug. In another moment his fingers were fumbling in the waistcoat pocket of the prostrate John Archer, and he had succeeded in transferring the watch from the gamekeeper's pocket to his own.

He then began rifling his other pockets, but there was little else worth taking on poor John's person—a few loose coins, perhaps, nothing more.

At this moment De Chevron came up, and lifting the gun from the ground, said, "This gun is yours, Mike."

Then, retreating a few paces behind the pedlar, he levelled the gun at his head, but not being quite correct in his aim, the bullet lodged in the man's shoulder. Mike gave a yell of agony on finding himself wounded, but he still might have imagined that the gun had gone off accidentally and had thus hit him in the shoulder, had not De Chevron immediately come up and with one tremendous blow on the head from the butt end of the gun, felled him to the ground.

"Treachery!" feebly gasped out the wretched man.

Then followed a second blow, a third and even a fourth, until the unhappy dupe spoke no more. To drag the body to a ditch thickly overgrown with nettles and brambles which completely concealed it from view was the work of the moment, having previously despoiled the corpse of its recently acquired treasure and restored the same to the pocket of its owner, who still lay in the arms of Morpheus. Then replacing the gun by the side of its sleeping master, and bedaubing the gamekeeper's clothes with blood, he first poured out the contents of the pedlar's bottle on the grass, then started homewards.

No one appears to have met him, either before or after the murder. Circumstances seem to have been peculiarly favourable to him that evening, for chancing to be excessively windy at that hour, and the road being of loose white sand, not a single footprint was to be discovered the next morning. It was somewhere about midnight when John Archer woke up from his trance. His first wonderment was how he got there. He imagined that he must in some way or other have become intoxicated. Then he thought of the pedlar. It was strange, he did not remember having drunk more than one glass, but it was not until he reached his cot that he was aware of the plight he was in.

Where did all that blood come from? he asked himself. He must be wounded he thought. However, he examined himself all over and could discover nothing. The barrel of his gun was discharged, too, and the butt end of it stained with blood. He was more bewildered than ever. He then related the whole of the circumstances to his parents, who, however, could not bring themselves to believe otherwise than that their son must have been intoxicated, although his character for sobriety was well known.

The blood stains, however, and the discharged barrel still remained a mystery and became the subject of much conjecture amongst his friends. The blood, as he owned himself, did not proceed from any wound he had received. Whose blood was it then? The butt end of his gun being stained with blood would argue violence used against some person or animal.

John was known to be an honest and humane man—the very last man in the world to commit murder; still, under the influence of intoxication he might have committed a rash act. When questioned as to whether he remembered anything, he shook his head, and merely related his interview with the pedlar, from whom he felt confident of not having accepted more than one glass of wine. His manner throughout all this questioning was open and frank, and everyone agreed that, mysterious as the affair appeared, they were quite sure that young Archer was innocent of murder.

The day after, however, a waggoner's dog passing by the scene of the murder was observed by its master to be sniffing and burrowing in a certain ditch. The waggoner took no notice of the circumstance at first, until the dog set up a howl and refused to leave the spot. It then seemed to be tearing or dragging some heavy substance with its teeth, and finally succeeded in leaving bare the body of the pedlar. The pedlar had already been missed in the village, and the waggoner at once recognised the body. He lost no time in rousing the neighbourhood, for he dreaded being discovered near the corpse, lest he should be implicated in the murder.

The body of the pedlar was removed to the nearest cottage, and a surgeon sent for immediately to examine it. Contrary to everybody's expectation, the surgeon pronounced that life was not yet extinct, though he held out no hopes at all of ultimate recovery.

He did all he could do under the circumstances, gave his instructions to the inmates of the cottage, and said that he would call again. Then arose the question, who could be the perpetrator of the deed? Suspicion immediately attached itself to John Archer.

Witnesses came forward and deposed that they had met John Archer with blood on his clothes and the butt end of his rifle also stained with blood. The wounds on the head of the all-but murdered man appeared to have been inflicted by the butt end of a rifle, therefore this was strong evidence; but there was yet stronger. The bullet having been extracted from the dying man's shoulder, was at once recognised by all as belonging to John Archer, his bullets being marked always in a peculiar manner, added to which it fitted exactly into the bore of Archer's rifle.

This last evidence was considered conclusive, and John Archer was conducted off to prison to await his trial at the next assizes. Imagine the grief and dismay of poor John's aged parents, who had looked forward to his being the prop of their old age, at hearing that their only son had been arrested on a charge of murder. Imagine the shame and confusion of John himself, the surprise and indignation of his intimate friends, including ourselves, who still believed in his innocence.

As for poor Claribel, she was struck completely dumb at the news; she could not believe her ears. It was not for a considerable time that she could realise the fact; but when she did, she neither fainted, burst into tears, nor behaved in any way extravagantly. Her grief was too deeply seated. She moped about the house with her eyes fixed, as if she were walking in her sleep. It was just this calm, in a nature like hers, that I dreaded far more than any violent transport of grief, for I feared that the shock had been too great for her, and had turned her brain. What made the affair doubly painful to her was that the village people had already begun to couple her name with John Archer's.

Folks speaking of the arrest would say that it was Claribel Falkland's young man that had been arrested for murder, although there had never been anything like an engagement between them.

When she recovered herself somewhat, she said, "Molly, depend upon it, that De Chevron is at the bottom of this."

Now, although I knew De Chevron to be a hardened villain and capable of any atrocity, I did not see myself how he could possibly be connected with the murder, he being absent from the village at the time. Neither did I for a moment believe John Archer capable of the crime. The evidence against him was singularly unfortunate, it is true; but no one who knew the man as intimately as we did could really have believed him guilty. It was clear that someone must have committed the murder. Who, then, was likely to have done so?

De Chevron was a villain, we knew, but that was no proof that he was the murderer. However, I excused this seeming unreasonableness in my friend, considering the state of her mind at the time, and merely suggested:

"But he is in London, my dear."

"I tell you he is mixed up in the affair," persisted Claribel. "I was warned of this in my dream."

"I fear that would have little weight in a court of justice," I replied.

"De Chevron is the murderer, and no one else," she persisted, doggedly.

"But, my dear Claribel," said I, soothingly, "allowing that he is a wicked, heartless villain, just think for a moment how you would support your accusation in a court of law. A pedlar is found murdered in a ditch, and a gentleman of De Chevron's condition now in London, where he has been for the last week, is accused of the murder. Consider the absurdity of the idea."

"How do you know he has been in London all the time?" asked my friend.

"Well, I grant you, I did not see him go," said I; "but when a man gives out that he is going away from a place, and has not been seen by anyone since, especially when it is in a little village like this, where everybody knows everybody else's business, the probability is that he has left."

"Do not be too sure," said Claribel. "We must examine into the affair."

"Oh, that is easily done," said I; "but even should he not have departed, if he should have changed his mind and remained here, what does that prove? Besides, what motive could a gentleman have in taking the life of a poor, unknown, itinerant pedlar?"

"To lay the blame on John Archer, his rival, and get him into trouble," was my friend's reply. "Do you not think him capable?"

"I think him capable of anything that's bad," said I; "but that's not the point. You must, first of all, have reason enough on your side to prove that he did, which you have not. Look, now, at the evidence against young Archer. A young man returns home to his family after midnight, his clothes disordered and bloodstained, his gun discharged, and the butt end of it clotted with blood. When questioned, he is unable to give any satisfactory account of himself. Says he remembers nothing but having accepted one glass of wine from a pedlar. He relates that he woke up towards midnight and discovered that he had been sleeping for hours in the open air, near to the spot where the body of the pedlar is found on the day following.

"His friends do not believe him guilty because, forsooth, he has earned a reputation for truthfulness, steadiness, and sobriety; yet might not the opposite party contend that it was not impossible that he might, once in his life, have broken through his custom of rigid abstinence, and in a moment of intoxication, picking a quarrel with the pedlar, first discharged his gun at him—for, remember that the bullet extracted from the pedlar's shoulder has been recognised as Archer's bullet—and afterwards, finding his adversary not mortally wounded, had hastened his death by knocking out his brains with the butt end of his rifle. That he had afterwards himself fallen into a drunken sleep and entirely forgotten the events of the preceding evening is not at all impossible. This would be the more charitable way of looking at the affair; but, alas, there is another circumstance that puts it in a more serious light, and that is the hiding of the body. The body has been discovered in a ditch, carefully concealed from view by weeds and brambles. This argues reason. Is it probable that a man who commits homicide in a drunken brawl, being so drunk at the time as to fall down on the damp ground and sleep there the whole night through, that he should have been sufficiently master of himself to drag off the body of his victim and successfully conceal it from view in an overgrown ditch?"

"I cannot and will not believe him so base as to be guilty of wilful murder, neither will I believe that he committed homicide in a fit of intoxication. If he took the pedlar's life at all—I say if he did—why, then I lean towards the belief that he did it whilst under some evil spell of Richard de Chevron's. What do you believe, Molly?"

"No matter, dear, what I believe," said I; "I am a woman, like yourself, and too likely to be influenced by my feelings. I do not wish to believe him guilty, and should be very much surprised and horror-struck if he really were so, after the good opinion we all have had of him. But all that goes for nothing. I merely tell you how the world will judge him."

Poor Claribel could not help seeing that it was likely to go hard with John.

"Oh! if they should condemn him unjustly and execute him!" she cried, in agony.

Poor child! It was all I could do to comfort her. I told her the law was not rash in condemning anyone to death; that inquiries would be made, that the real perpetrator of the deed could not fail to be discovered, sooner or later, when he would suffer the penalty of the law, and the innocent man be acquitted. I had attempted to excite hopes in her that I myself dared hardly entertain, and that she, poor child, I could see, looked upon as poor consolation.

We both retired to rest that night with heavy hearts, but the next morning Claribel woke up with a smile on her face, although she looked very pale and worn.

"Molly, dear, I saw him last night," she said.

"Did you, really? What, John Archer?" I asked, for I no longer now doubted her word when she spoke in this manner.

"Yes," she replied, "and I promised to call again to give him consolation."

"How did you manage to speak to him?" I asked.

"By signs only; but he understood me."

"Was he asleep?" I asked.

"No; he was tossing restlessly on his pallet."

"Then he could not possibly imagine he had been dreaming."

"I think not, as this is the second time I have appeared to him in the spirit."

"I remember you told me once before that you had seen him, and he himself confirmed it, although I know that you never left the house that day. But, tell me, did no one see you enter?"

"What matter if they did? Bolts and bars are no obstacles to a spirit."

"And you passed through prison walls and bolted doors without opposition?"

"I did, and I promised that I should be with him again in his cell as the clock struck two, so that he might be quite sure that he had not been dreaming."

"You will keep your appointment, of course?" I said.

"If I do not, I do not know who it will be that will prevent me."

Here our conversation ceased, and we passed our time as usual until it drew towards two o'clock in the afternoon, when my friend suddenly stopped in the middle of talking and said,

"Do not disturb me, Molly dear, or allow anyone else to. I am going to John."

Then throwing herself back in an arm-chair, she appeared almost immediately in a sound sleep, resembling a swoon. I then observed, as it were, two outlines to her form, for a cloudy substance like a halo began to envelop her, which, widening as it rose upwards, from the body began to solidify or partially so, and to assume the exact form and features of Claribel. Having separated itself from her person, it passed rapidly before my face like a gust of wind, causing my hair to stir and crackle as if singed with a candle,[20] and passing head foremost through the window with inconceivable velocity was instantly lost to my view.

An indescribable feeling of horror passed over me at being left thus alone with what appeared to be the corpse of my friend. The next moment my father entered the room, and fearing lest he should wake my friend in the middle of her trance by his talking, I ran to the door and begged he would not enter, as Claribel felt rather poorly and he might awake her, so he prudently retired to another room, when I gently turned the key of the door and kept watch close to the clay of my friend until the spirit should return to re-animate it.

Let us now take a peep at John in prison. Poor fellow! He had not slept a wink all night. He rose worn and languid. Disdaining his frugal breakfast of bread and water, with arms folded, eyes fixed and head sunk upon his breast, he paced dejectedly up and down the narrow limits of his cell.

"Is this John Archer?" he soliloquised. "Is this the man once surrounded by friends, the hope and pride of his parents, the favoured servant of Lord Edgedown, honoured and respected by all, now handcuffed and led off to prison on a charge of murder to await an ignominious trial, and probably be condemned to hang by the neck till he is dead in the presence of a jeering rabble? It cannot be. I must be transformed. I must be dreaming. This is not John Archer. Is John Archer a murderer? Can I really have committed a murder in a state of delirium which has obliterated all recollection of the crime committed? It must be so. How else could I have slept all night on the bare ground and on awaking find my gun discharged, my clothes bloodstained, and even the butt end of my rifle besmeared with blood?

"How is all this to be accounted for? I must have committed murder. Who will believe me if I assert my innocence, or how will the law be brought to look upon the crime as committed during temporary insanity? No; I shall be found guilty, condemned, and executed. I do believe that the vision of last night that appeared to me bearing the form and features of Claribel was my guardian angel come to apprise me of my doom.

"Oh, Claribel, Claribel! must we then for ever be parted? But what was that vision? Claribel in the flesh? For so it appeared; for sure it was no dream, yet how could that be? Could she herself have broken through bolts and bars or obtained a pass to speak to me alone? Impossible! Was it, perchance, some fiend having taken upon himself the likeness of those divine features in order so to mock me? Or was it merely an hallucination of my distempered brain? Whatever it was, I would that it were here again so that I might feast my eyes once more upon its lovely features ere I die."

He paused suddenly, for now, whether it were some trick of the senses, some hallucination conjured up by his over-excited brain, in the opposite corner of his cell something like a bluish vapour appeared, which seemed to grow denser, to solidify until it grew into the semblance of a human form, bearing the features of—whom?

"Claribel!" gasped out the prisoner, hardly above his breath, for his voice died within him and he remained awe-stricken. "What! Do I rave? Oh, beauteous image! Claribel! Claribel! Tell me, oh, my guardian angel, hast thou come to announce my doom, to solace my last moments? Oh, if it be thou indeed, Claribel, in the flesh and no delusion of my senses, come to me, let me feel the pressure of thy hand."

At this moment he sprang forward and attempted to seize the hand of the figure, which he had no sooner touched than it melted in his grasp, causing him to feel such a supernatural terror that he staggered backwards and gave an involuntary shriek.

The figure put its finger to its lip, the forefinger of the very hand that had vanished into thin air at the material touch of John Archer, but which had immediately resumed its previously defined form upon the withdrawing of Archer's hand.

"Angel or fiend!" he exclaimed. "Whatever thou art, that comest to me in this lovely guise, declare thy mission, unveil to me the future, and spare not mine ears if my doom be sealed. If there be hope——"

Here the figure again put its finger to its lip in token of silence, for Archer, now somewhat over his first surprise, spoke no longer in a husky whisper, but in a loud voice.

"Tell me, tell me," continued the prisoner, lowering his voice, "thou who seemest no being of this world, and who doubtless art cognisant of secrets beyond our ken, tell me in pity how I have deserved this fate. Say, have these hands really been dyed in the blood of one of my fellow-men during the lapse of some passing insanity? Say, why am I here? Dost thou, O spirit, think me guilty?"

The phantom answered not, save by a look of commiseration and a slow shake of the head.

"I see that thou thinkest me not guilty. I thank thee for that. Mine innocence may yet be proved."

The spectre's features lighted up with a look of hope, as if it would answer "I wish it may."

"Angelic being!" he pursued, "vouchsafe me but one word. Say, will the true murderer be found?"

Another look of hope lighted up the spirit's features.

"He will, he will; I feel he will!" exclaimed the prisoner, enthusiastically. "Thank Heaven! But one word more. Dost know the criminal?"

The same look again, accompanied this time by a slight inclination of the head.

"Ah! thou knowest him? His name, his name; tell me!" Here the figure appeared somewhat confused, as if struggling to speak; then gliding rather than walking up to the wall of the cell, it traced with its finger the letters of a name in characters that appeared burnt into the stone, during which operation a crackling sound was heard similar to that before alluded to, and Archer, who had watched the movements of the figure with straining eyeballs and in breathless silence, gave a yell of surprise and agony as he read the name Richard de Chevron, and sank on the floor of his dungeon in a swoon.

A jingling of keys in the passage was now audible, and the next moment the jailor had entered the cell. Hearing the voice of the prisoner discoursing loudly, curiosity had led him to the door of his cell, but what was his dismay and consternation at finding the prisoner in a swoon on the floor, whilst over him, as if to protect him, lent the fair youthful form of a maiden, who after fixing her eyes intently for a moment, pointed to the writing on the wall.

The jailor, perfectly dumbfounded, would have asked her in surly tones, how she came there, and who let her in, but the presence of the figure filled him, in spite of himself, with such awe that he could not utter a word. Then glancing at the writing on the wall and then again at the figure of the maiden, who looked at him in a manner that made him feel he knew not how, as he afterwards declared, he observed her rise to her feet, retreat one pace, and pointing once more to the writing on the wall, gradually dissolved herself into a mist and disappeared from his sight.

The jailor's courage now fairly left him, his knees knocked together in a panic, and he dropped his bunch of keys on the ground. At length recovering from his first surprise, he gazed around him, and found himself alone with the prisoner, who was still in his swoon. The first thing that he did was to secure the door of the cell, then walking up to the prisoner, shook him roughly, and assailed him with questions.

"Beautiful vision!" cried Archer, now awaking from his swoon, "thou has saved my life by denouncing the true murderer. Were it not for thee I might—— But where art thou? Gone—Fled? Has it, then, been all a dream? Oh!" he groaned, as his eyes caught the jailor bending over him.

"Come, be of good cheer, young man," said the jailor, kindly. "It was no dream, or if it was, we have both been dreaming, and had the same dream. I, too, saw the lady. I'll swear to that in any court of justice. Well, I never believed in ghosts before, young man. I never did, upon my word, but after what I have just seen with these eyes——"

"What! you saw her, too?" interrupted Archer. "You? Then it was no dream, but a divine vision sent by Providence to preserve the innocent. Look, there is her writing on the wall."

"What means that name, young man?" asked the jailor, gravely.

"She traced it with her own finger. I asked her to reveal to me the name of the true murderer, and that was the name she traced upon the wall."

"You are not imposing upon me, young man?" inquired the jailor, suspiciously.

"Not I," answered Archer, frankly. "Did you not see her yourself?"

"True, true," quoth the jailor; "I remember that she pointed to the writing and then vanished. Well, upon my soul, I do not know what to think of the matter. I have been here thirty years come Michaelmas, but what I have seen to-day passes all the experience of Miles Gratelock. I'll inform the authorities of what has taken place at once, and I'll yet hope to see you out of this place; for to tell you the honest truth, lad, I don't think you capable of the murder, and never did; yet appearances," he added, "appearances, you know, must be taken into consideration, and they are often against us. However, we'll hope for the best."

Here the kindly jailor left the cell, and locking the door after him went straight to the authorities and laid the whole matter of the vision before them. As may be anticipated, the story was ridiculed. Some said that the jailor had been bribed by the prisoner to concoct such a narrative; others declared that the jailor must have been drunk, and having forgotten to lock the door of the cell some young female may have found admittance, and to cover his negligence he had trumped up this improbable story.

They, however, took the trouble to visit the cell of the prisoner and to examine the writing on the wall, which they all declared themselves to be at a loss to guess with what material the prisoner himself could have written the name. The prisoner was questioned and cross-questioned, but was not found to contradict himself in anything. A piece of chalk was then put into the prisoner's hand and he was ordered to write the same name underneath that supposed to have been written by the spirit, but the handwriting was perfectly dissimilar. The jailor was then called, and had to do the same, but neither in this case did the writing at all resemble the burnt characters on the wall.

Now, however mysterious this affair might have appeared to the authorities, yet to convict a gentleman of De Chevron's standing, or indeed any man upon such evidence as this, would be as absurd as it would be unfair; nevertheless, the story of the apparition in the prisoner's cell and of the writing on the wall spread like wildfire through the village, and had the effect of shaking the belief of many who had hitherto believed Archer guilty, and confirming more than ever in their previous belief those who still maintained him innocent.

The general currency of this story, too, gave rise to inquiries as to the intimacy that had existed between John Archer and De Chevron. A certain amount of intimacy it was proved had existed between them, but so far the evidence was rather on De Chevron's side, as witnesses came forward to prove that De Chevron had always shown himself most friendly towards young Archer, and had occasionally made him some trifling present.

There was no evidence that they had ever fallen out together, and therefore there was no reason at all to suspect De Chevron of the malicious conduct attributed to him of committing a murder himself in order that an innocent man should be convicted of it. To strengthen the absurdity of the supposition, it was alleged that De Chevron had been absent in London at the time of the murder, thereby proving an alibi. Others not being satisfied with this statement, desired that it should be proved beyond doubt that De Chevron was in London at the time. Upon examination, however, the evidence was not quite so favourable to De Chevron this time. More than one witness deposed to having seen him at the window, although he had not been seen out of doors. It was proved that he had never quitted the village, although he had given out to his friends his intention of going to London; but he sought to exculpate himself by saying that he had announced to his friends his intended departure for London in order that he might avoid visits and enjoy the strictest seclusion for a time, as he was studying for the law.

This excuse was deemed sufficient, and might have satisfied all parties, had not still more startling evidence turned up. In the meantime the all but defunct pedlar had sufficiently recovered in order to give a detailed account of the occurrences on the night of the murder, and of De Chevron's duplicity and treachery, although he owned himself at a loss to conceive the motive of the attempted murder.

He acquitted John Archer of being implicated in any way in the crime, and denounced De Chevron as a double-dealing murderous villain. His evidence was taken down in writing by the surgeon who attended him, in the presence of several witnesses, and it was proposed that both John Archer and De Chevron should be confronted with the dying man.

This was accordingly done. The half-murdered pedlar managed to sustain life by an almost preternatural effort until the arrival of the two individuals. Upon the appearance of De Chevron his eye kindled with an incredible animation, considering his dying state, and although his utterance was now difficult, he succeeded in denouncing him as his murderer in sufficiently plain terms to be understood by all present. When his eye caught John Archer, the dying man stretched forth his hand to him, craved his pardon for the evil he had done him, but adding that it was all at the instigation of De Chevron, for the carrying out of some private scheme of his own. De Chevron endeavoured to justify himself, alleging that the man raved and that such testimony could not be depended upon. The pedlar, however, had given his evidence so clearly and concisely that it was accounted valid, after which he sank back and expired.

Now, whilst the evidence of the pedlar that had been taken down was being read out mention was made of the bottle of drugged wine said to have been given to the pedlar by De Chevron in order to carry out his base designs. A search was accordingly made for the bottle, which, being found, though empty—or, rather, nearly so—it was taken to a chemist, who found sufficient of the liquor left to analyse, which, when done, it was pronounced to contain narcotics of the most potent sort.

The house of De Chevron was next searched, and in a secret drawer of his desk was discovered a powder which upon being examined proved to contain similar ingredients to those discovered in the dregs of the wine at the bottom of the bottle. Besides this powder were found at De Chevron's lodgings sundry bottles of wine, all bearing exactly the same label as that found in the ditch close to the murdered man.

This evidence was considered conclusive, and De Chevron was seized for the purpose of being conducted to prison; but, despairing now of ever getting acquitted, and dreading to fall into the hands of justice, the miserable man suddenly drew out a pistol from his pocket, and holding the barrel to his forehead blew out his brains on the spot.

This last rash deed of De Chevron's caused even more sensation in the village and the parts adjacent than the mysterious murder of the pedlar. The wretched suicide was interred without obsequies in the centre of two cross roads, with a stake driven through his body, according to the usual custom.

I need not say that John Archer was freely acquitted, and welcomed once more among us with hearty cheers. Even those who had been the most bitter against him at first now came forward to extend to him the hand of friendship.

How the poor lad seemed to enjoy his liberty after his incarceration! But yesterday imprisoned for murder, shunned by all his friends and hated by everybody, with the prospect of an ignominious death before him. To-day openly acquitted, restored to the bosom of his family, surrounded by his friends, and receiving their congratulations. In an instant he had forgotten all his past woes, and thought himself amply compensated for all his suffering by being again allowed to visit his lady-love.

I will leave you to imagine, gentlemen, the joy of us all, and especially of Claribel, at John's acquittal, as well as the importunate questioning of the neighbours concerning the apparition of Claribel to John within the prison cell.

There are many people who profess to know their neighbours' business better than they do themselves. According to this sort of people—and there are many in the village to this day—John Archer's marriage with Claribel Falkland was a thing already settled. The day had been fixed upon, and all was in order—in fact the kindly neighbours had made everything as easy as possible for the young couple, whereas John had never yet opened his lips in the way of love to the idol of his heart, being, as I have before mentioned, of a shy and reserved temperament. Yet so sure were the neighbours of John's private affairs, that one of his friends said jocularly that when their banns should be published in church that he would stand up and forbid them, as in marrying Claribel he would be committing bigamy, seeing that she could make herself two persons at once. Would that the neighbours had been in the right as to the future of this pair, for a couple better suited for each other could not have been found; but, alas, who is master of his fate? Who can pry into the secret ways of Providence? It little boots to speculate on what the future of these two amiable and ingenuous natures would have been if everything had gone well, for a dire fate was in store for them. But let me not anticipate.

It was a winter morning, but remarkably fine for that time of the year, when Claribel and I went out together for a ramble in an adjacent wood. We had been laughing and chatting by the way, when suddenly I observed the features of my friend to become overcast. When I inquired the reason of her sadness, she replied,

"I know not how it is, Molly, but somehow or other I feel as if some danger were threatening John."

Now, I had long ceased to laugh at her for what I used to look upon as mere nervous fancies, so many of them having proved well founded, but I merely suggested to her that perhaps she did not feel well, and that we had better return home.

"Yes, yes, Molly," she said; "for Heaven's sake let us return at once, as I feel more and more sure that poor John is in some danger. You remember my presentiment about Richard de Chevron, which you laughed at. Was that well founded or not? Well, as I felt certain then that some harm was in store for John, so do I now. Come, let us hasten our steps."

"God forbid," said I, "that poor John should fall a victim a second time to treachery or witchcraft," and we hurried home, never halting until we reached my father's house.

On entering the parlour Claribel gave a hasty glance at the glazed cupboard where she had placed the waxen image intended as a likeness of John Archer, and which she had not looked at for ever so long. It was wanting.

"Molly!" she cried, in great anxiety, "where is the waxen image? What can have become of it? Just ask your father if he has removed it."

Now, being winter time, there was a blazing fire in the room, and my father, who was at this time laid up with the gout, would draw himself up to it and smoke his yard of clay. He was absent from the parlour when we entered, but we found his chair ready placed for him.

"Good heavens! Molly, what's this?" cried Claribel, in alarm, as she touched the mantelpiece over the fireplace. "Can it be? No; yes, it is—the waxen image molten away! Who can have done it? Oh, wretched being that I am! Go, and at once, to the house of John, and inquire after his health."

I was preparing to execute her commission, and was just upon setting out alone to John's house, which was not far from our own, when one of the neighbours, a woman—one of the most notorious gossips of the place, whose sole delight was to be the first to deliver bad news—met me at the door as I was just going out.

"Oh, Molly my dear, have you heard the sad news? Lack-a-day! who'd have thought it? Oh, lauk-a-daisy-me! poor Claribel! how she will take on about it to be sure!"

"Speak out, woman!" cried Claribel, from the parlour, for she had heard every word through the open door. "Speak out. What has happened?"

"Oh Lord! my dear, that poor young man John Archer, as you appears to have been so fond of well, my dear, he's gone—yes, dead, struck down by a sudden fever, they say—in the very spring-time of his youth; it's hardly a quarter of an hour since, so I thought I'd come at once to tell you."

This communication, partly interrupted by sobs and partly by want of breath, for the bearer of the sad news had set off as fast as her legs could carry her, in order to be the first to communicate it, had a terrible effect on the nervous system of my poor friend Claribel. Forgetting her usual self-composure in her extreme anguish, she gave utterance to a shriek so piercing and doleful, that it seemed to shake the very house to its foundations, and sank back into the nearest chair in a swoon. The scream brought my father to the door to inquire what was the matter, while the good neighbour—for in spite of her mania for delivering bad news, she was still a woman at heart—bustled about to procure restoratives and to sprinkle water on my poor friend's face until she recovered.

The news we had heard was only too true, for, sad to relate, poor John Archer, who up to that very morning had been the picture of robust health, suddenly fell the victim of a violent fever that carried him off within a few hours. The doctors were at a loss to account for the disease, as there was no fever at that time in the neighbourhood. It was an isolated case. During his delirium he was heard to give vent to certain incoherent ravings, frequently calling out, "The waxen image! the waxen image!" He was heard to couple the names of De Chevron and Madge Mandrake together, but the bystanders, his parents, understood nothing of his meaning.

There remains little more to relate. It appears that my father when left alone in the house had been prying into every nook and corner of it for his snuff-box, which he had lost, until he stumbled upon the little waxen image in the glazed cupboard, of the history of which he knew nothing, but which he instantly recognised as intended for a likeness of John Archer, imagining that either myself or Claribel had been amusing ourselves with endeavouring to represent the lineaments of our common friend in wax, and thinking it very good and clever, he thought it would make a pretty chimney ornament, and accordingly placed it on the mantelpiece when the fire was yet low. Afterwards, he had heaped on fuel, being very cold that day, and shortly afterwards had been called away by a neighbour on business. In the meantime the fire had blazed up and so heated the room that before he returned to the parlour there was nothing left of the effigy of John Archer but a shapeless heap of wax.

On recovering from the swoon my poor friend reproached herself in the severest terms with not having foreseen such a contingency, adding that she alone had been the cause of John's death, as she ought to have locked the cupboard and taken away the key. I strove to reason with her and comfort her, but she was deaf to all consolation. The sad event of John's death had cast a gloom over us all. As for Claribel, poor soul, it was a shock from which she never recovered. She drooped and pined away from that hour, and outlived young Archer but one month. Peace be to their ashes!

---

On concluding her affecting narrative, our worthy hostess thrust a corner of her apron into her eye in order to staunch a rising tear called into existence by tender recollections of her poor deceased friend and her unfortunate lover, but she was soon cut short in the indulgence of her grief by the boisterous applause that simultaneously ensued from all the members of the club. This was the cheering and clapping of hands before alluded to that had attracted the attention of our artist while painting from the fair Helen in the opposite room, and which, as our reader will recollect, was the signal for the young portrait painter to commence his Italian story of "The Three Pauls."

"And so that rascal De Chevron cheated the gallows after all," broke in Mr. Oldstone, during the pause that succeeded the tumultuous cheering that greeted the relation of Dame Hearty.

"But what became of Madge Mandrake? You have not told us that. She didn't escape scot-free, surely?"

"Well, you see, sir, the law had no actual hold on her," replied the hostess; "but I have every reason to believe that she died hard. She was discovered dead one day on the floor of her hovel, in her day clothes, her eyes fixed and starting from her head, her features distorted, and her fingers extended like claws, as if grasping the floor. Some thought she had died in a fit, but, whatever the cause of her death, it is certain she must have suffered great agony, and I cannot look upon the mode of her death otherwise than as a judgment for her many sins. She had never been known to enter a church within the memory of man, and though she had led a notoriously bad life, it seems that the parish could not deny her a Christian burial, and she was interred in the old churchyard yonder with all due ceremony, but report said at the time that she had frequently been seen since by those who happened to be passing through the churchyard late at night or thereabouts, and that should a thunderstorm burst over the head of the benighted traveller, as he wended his weary steps past this abode of the dead, a shadowy form with a steeple-crowned hat and astride on a broomstick might be seen riding through the murky air, and behind her a black tom cat with a pair of flame-coloured eyes. Yells and groans, mingled with demoniacal laughter, were said to have been heard, as if proceeding from beneath the ground by those who happened to pass through the churchyard close to her grave after nightfall. Owls, bats, carrion crows, and other obscene birds would be found perched on the head of her grave, and, scared at the footsteps of a stranger, would fly screeching away.

"At least, this is what the country folk would say; but never having seen nor heard any of these things myself, gentlemen, I cannot vouch for their authenticity, yet there are few folks in the village to this day but would not put themselves much out of the way in order to avoid passing through that same churchyard on a stormy night."

"In fact," remarked Mr. Crucible, "there is every reason to believe that the old lady was d——"

A storm had for some time past been gathering overhead, and just then a terrific clap of thunder prevented the conclusion of Mr. Crucible's sentence from being audible.

"Lauk-a-daisy-me! what a peal!" exclaimed Dame Hearty. "It was enough to shake the house down. I'm terrible frightened of thunder. It makes me feel alloverish like."

"I shouldn't wonder," suggested Mr. Blackdeed, "if old Madge on her broomstick should be riding overhead. Just go out and see, Dame Hearty, will you?"

"Not I, sir, not for the world," quoth our hostess. "And pray don't talk of that horrible person in such weather, or I shall go off in a fit. Already I begin to fancy I see her before me, with her nose and chin meeting like a lobster's claws, with hardly room enough between them for a decent-sized hazel nut.

"How I can call to mind, too, her grizzly beard, like a well-used scrubbing brush, that left you in doubt as to whether she really could belong to our sex! Then her beetle brows overhanging her sockets like a dragoon's moustache, and all but concealing her small deeply-sunk and viperish eyes, which gleamed with envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness."

"There, did you see that flash!" exclaimed Dr. Bleedem. "Just wait a moment; here it comes."

A second tremendous crash resounded, causing the window panes to revibrate and the whole house to rock to its foundations.

"Lord have mercy upon us!" cried the hostess in extreme terror.

"That is a judgment sent on you by old Madge for speaking ill of her," said Professor Cyanite.

"Oh! hold your tongue, naughty man, do," said our hostess, half playfully, half in terror. "Here comes the rain in torrents. How it pours! Well, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I've got to attend to the house."

"Certainly," cried several members at once, "and many thanks for your very interesting story."

Our hostess curtseyed, said they were very welcome, and left the room.