'False! false as ever!' replied the widow in a contemptuous tone; 'this is not your choice. You have come at a dead man's bidding, haven't you? A pleasant dream you must have had, and a visitor that won't be trifled with, or you wouldn't have been such an early bird. And now let me tell you what I see. The snow is on the ground, and Ben Phillipson is in his coffin. There is a midnight funeral. His two hounds sit at the posts of the churchyard gate, as the bier is borne slowly along, and whine for their master. A widow sits husbandless, then childless, then— Fine lady, depart the way you came, to him who sent you, and say the ban of heaven forbids his gifts.'
Remarkable as these coincidences must appear, they really occurred. The writer attempts no explanation. Possibly it was the very night when the old merchant, hiding in some foreign land, was summoned to his account. Of such coincidences many examples are on record, not in popular experience only, but in the books of medical science and philosophical observation. Certain also it is, that the young merchant endeavoured to ingratiate himself into Mary's good favour from that day, and would have supplied her with money enough to provide for every want, but she refused his assistance, and would never tolerate his presence.
The summer passed away. The snows of winter began to fall; but, bitterly cold and biting as the season was, a dense crowd assembled in Northam Churchyard one frosty night, to witness a funeral appointed for the hour of twelve. The moon shone faintly on the nodding plumes which adorned the hearse, and aided with its sombre light the solemnity of the scene, as the remains of Benjamin Phillipson were borne to their last resting-place. His two hounds sat at the gateway, and howled dismally as the sad procession walked toward the church, and near at hand was a diminutive woman, wrapped in a cloak, who laughed, and thanked them for their funeral ode. She tarried until the coffin had been lowered into the family vault, and then, talking wildly to herself, hasted to her home, and rocked herself into a frenzy.
The day passed, and Mary's door remained unopened. The night followed, but no light gleamed from her cottage window, and when morning dawned again the signs of life were still wanting. The door had been more than once tried by Grace Lloyd, but, becoming alarmed, and having secured the assistance of a neighbour, an entrance was effected through the window.
The high-backed rocking-chair was turned over, so that its top rested against the hatch, and across it, with her head downwards, lay Mary Stauncy, dead. How she came into that position there was no one to tell. The common belief was—and it lingers as a superstition to this day—that she had been roughly handled by the evil spirit with whom she had communion, and that in the struggle she had fallen over and perished. But wiser minds and tenderer hearts knew another interpretation. In a fit of delirium she had torn her garments, and paced the cottage floor a raving maniac. And as her hour came on, and the death-throe troubled her, she had leant for support on that rolling chair, overturning it as she fell. Thus died a woman whose character would have shone brighter and brighter but for the merchant's temptation and the captain's sin, and who perished untimely, as the pitiable victim of AN UNHOLY AND FATAL VOW.
THE FORGED WILL.
CHAPTER I.
In the yard of a third-rate inn, in a large market town of one of the Midland counties, stood a carrier's cart, ready to start for home. In large letters on its side was painted 'John Sparks, Carrier to Parker's Due and Stoney Gates.' Some of the passengers were seated; others were busy arranging their goods ready for transit; some were resting on their empty baskets, till the carrier appeared, talking over the events of the market, and comparing prices. The landlord was in and out perpetually, with a glass for one and a joke for another, looking with anxious (and, of course, benevolent) solicitude around, lest a customer should escape through want of care.
'Will John Sparks go to-night?' asked an old woman peevishly. Her question was not addressed to any one in particular; but the ostler, who was passing, answered, 'He's not in the best company for making haste at this present,' and nodded to a group of men standing at the entrance of the yard, to which group the busy landlord had made frequent visits, never going empty-handed.