THE MYSTERY
OF
MARTHA WARNE,
(^j/k TALB OF ydONTRBAL)
/.^
'■"?-■
.t-»
C.-.
:>^^ 6"iL
BY
-^^I^TH-CTR OJ^3^r'B:BX..Xi.
1 . T
< . • • • o
Eateved according to Act of Farliimens of Canada, ia the fmr ati'
IdbouMnd eiy;ht huadrad asid eighty -eight, by J. Tnuo. Robiksom,
ia the office <^the Minister ol Agrieitlture.
Montreal :
J. THEO. ROBINSON, Pubosker.
PS
^
i,^;*'
THE
MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
CHAPTER I.
I do not believe in ghosts ; I am not superstitioas.
If I were I shoald be a miserable man. All stories of
apparitions, visions, and that sort of thing I have al-
ways ignored ; I look upon them as merely so msmy
idle tales, having noV'eai foundation in fact Spirit-
ualism I have ever r eliaved to be a fi'aud ; and I
have no patience with those who seek to unravel the
secrets of the future. But let those who have studied
this subject, and who, like me, regard all such things
as idle and unprofitable delusions, endeavour to ex-
plain what I am about to relate. As for myself I
shall never attempt to give an explanation ; it would
be worse than useless for me to try to do so. When
I think of all that has happened to me, my brain be-
comes confused and my head swims ; it was only to-
■day that I stood still for a moment in the street, and
asked myself if it were not impossible that such
things should be. I could not answer the question ;
I cannot answer it. I shall not trv.*'Bufc I shall
tell thf3 very truth ; I shall not change, nor add, nor
conceal, a single item in the record of this, my won-
derful experience.
711586
4 THE MYaTEEY OF MAETHA WARNE.
I have not told my wife. If I did ahe would not be-
lieve me. If she thought that I was serious she would
become alanned lest I be about to lose my reason.
When she reads this she will have no idea that it
was I who wrote it. I have not told my friends. I
have told no one. I do not even hope to be be-
lieved. Yet it is absolutely necessary for my own
peace of mind that I should take the world into my
confidence. By doing m I am well aware that I
shall only succeed in making a very mysterious cir-
cumstance seem yet more mysterious. I cannot help
that. I believe that it is my duty to tell what I have
to tell in as few words as possible, and be done with
it. I do so. Those who scoff at it as fact may relish
it as fiction. In either case myi mind will be re-
lieved of an almost intolerable burden.
Of myself I need say little. I am a physician, and
have a large practice. I reside in the city of Mont-
real, the commercial metropolis of the Dominion of
Canada. I have lived there for over twenty years.
I am married and have a family. I know that I am
generally respected and esteemed, both by my pro-
fesaionsU brethren and by the different classes of so-
ciety. I have, during the twenty years or more that
I have lived in this city, accumulated a considerable
fortune, saved out of the return^ which a good and
ever-increasing practice has brought in to me. I
think I need ssjy no more of myself nor of my posi-
tion ; they but very slightly affect the story which I
have to tell. Let me proceed.
w
CHAPTER II.
One night in January of last year I was sitting in
my library. It was a little after ten o'clock. I had
been out lecturing to some medical students, and
had come in feeling a little fatigued I was making
myself verj^ comfortable, and had taken off my boots
and placed my feet upon a chair m front of a blazing
fire. I held in my hand a magazine, and was lei-
surely turning over the pages. Beside me, on an-
other chair, was a glass of hot whiskey and water,
which I had mixed before sitting down. I was thus
prepared to enjoy myself after the labours of the day
and of the evening.
I was turning over the leaves of tlie magazine, as
I have said, very leisurely, and was preparing to sip
my whiskey and water, when the door opened and a
maid entered to announce that a person was waiting
to see me in the offiqe.
Doctors are accustomed to be interrupted ; but 1
do not think that we ever grow quite indifferent to
the fact that our rest is about to be disturbed. I
know I do not. " What sort of a person is it ?" I
asked.
" A young girl, sir, and gave no name."
"A young girl—very well, Anne," I replied, **I
C niE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WA1NK.
suppose I shall have to go down ; I will be there in
a minute." Then I looked at my feet and at the fire»
and felt that I might just as well remain wliere I
was, and let the girl come to me. " No — tell her—
ask her to step up here. Stay — is it a lady ?"
"A lady ? No sir, just a plain girl I think." said
the servant.
" Just a young girl. Very well, tell her to come
upstairs ; I am tired to-night."
I am a man of method, and this was very irregu-
lar on my part. However, a man of methodical
habits may sometimes permit himself to indulge in
the luxury of a small irregularity. But I do not re-
member ever having done this before.
Anne took her departure. I laid the magazine
aside, and sat up straight in my chair in order that
I might be able to rise when the young woman was
ushered in. But I waited several minutes and no
young woman came, T stin-ed the whiskey, I raked
the fire ; still no sign of my visitor. I was angry at
this ; what could Anne mean ? In my disgust at
this very unnecessary delay, I determined that I
would go and fetch her myself. I was resolved that
she should come up into the library. Having once
made up my mind to see her tMere, I was not going
to be baulked. So I picked up my slippers, which
had been merely lying on the lioor beside my chair^
and, putting them on, went out into the hall.
I had hardly crossed the threshold when I met
Annie coming back in no small perturbation. I
stopped her at once. " Annie, what does this mean?
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNR. 7
It seems to me you have been a long time. What
does it mean i^"
" Sir — she is gone, sir, gone."
*' Gone ? — who ? — where ?"
" The girl. I don't know where she's gone, sir ;
she was in the office when I went in, sir, standing
by the window. I told her how you would see her
in the library, and asked her to step up.*'
" WeU."
"Well sir, before the words were out of my mouth,,
away she went, out the door into the street, like a
wild thing."
" like a wild thing, eh ? Did she show that she
heard you ?"
" No sir, she didn't appear to hear, but she must
have heard me. Just went ofV like a shot, out of the
door. I went out and waited for a minute, thinking^
she might have somebody else waitini; outside ; bat
there wasn't anybody, and she hasn't come back
again.
" She may go to the that is, never mind any-
thing more about it, it doesn't matter," I said, going
back to the fire and taking a sip of the whiskey.
*' Come to consult me, I suppose, and lost heart at
the last minute, though they don't usually do that
when they once make up their minds to come,** I
thought to myself.
So ended my first — I cannot say interview* with—
I may say experience of — the girl whose strange
story I am telling.
mmm'm'^^
CHAPTER III.
A few weeks passed, I cannot exactly say how
many, when this circumstance, which in the me&n-
ti ^3 I had wholly forgotten, was recalled to my
mind. Dr. Brant, an old friend of mind, and I, were
sitting together one evening in my library; and
during the course of our conversation he mentioned
incidentally the number of visitors he had had the
evening before. There were, he said, thirteen.
*• Thirteen !" I replied ; " then my practice, doctor,
is larger than yours. I had fourteen. I counted
them over this morning. I go one better than
you."
It is very hard, as the Americans say, " to get
Ahead " of Dr. Brant. '• You do, do you V said the
old gentleman, smiling. " Well my friend, now that
I come to think of it, I also had fourteen. But as
it happened, one of them, a young girl, was in too
much of a hurry to wait and see me; however, I
may as well count her in, and, counting her, I make
up the number fourteen." And the doctor smiled as
much as to say that he was even with ma a^in.
A young girl. Rather absurd it was, but I made
up my mind that this was the same girL " YHiat
aort of a girl was she ?" I said.
8
THE MYSTERY OF MABTHA WARNK. 9
" Very modest, and apparently respectable,'* said
Dr. Brant ; " at least so my assistant said ; why ?"
^ 0, nothing," I replied ; " only it was a strange thing
to do." *
The doctor did not pursue the subject, nor did I
tell him of my experience of, perhaps, the same
person. We discussed other matters, smoked
our pipes, and drank our whiskey. After his
departure, however, I thought ov^r the matter.
It might be the same girl ; if so, it was a strange
thing : then again it might be an altogether different
person ; if so, it was a matter of no moment. , For
two or three days the occurrence lingered in my
mind, and I found my thoughts returning to it at
odd moments. Then, as my time was very much
taken up with professional work, I forgot about it
Again it passed out of my mind completely.
CHAPTER IV.
It was some time later — I remember that it waa
on Ash Wednesday, and Ash Wednesday was late
last year— that, coming in from a sleigh drive, I was
met by Anne in the hall. She followed me up to
the door of my room and knocked. I called out to
her to come in. Putting her head inside the door
without entering, she said with a certain suggestive-
ness of awe and importance, " the girl, sir !*'
Tliegirl. asked, "what girl ?" — but I recoil j^ated
in a moment, and kr.ew very well what Anne meant^
This was the girl who had come to see me before,
and who had gone away without giving me a chance
to speak to her. This was the girl who had played a
similiar trick on Dr. Brant. I had not a doubt of it»
I did not hesitate a moment. I straightened my
collar in order to impose upon Anne, and succeeded
in getting it awry. Then I rushed downstairs to my
office. I must say that I was disappointed. On
entering, I saw no one ; and I was about coucluding
that the girl had again left the office in the same
precipitate manner as before, when I heard a slight
sound, as of some one drawing a short breath, behind
the door. I turned round, and there, in the shadow
of the door, holding on to the handle with one hand
10
THE MYSTEaV OF MARTHA WARNE. II
and swinging to and fro a small woollen niuflf with,
the other, stooil the girl.
She was quite a young girl, I sliould think of
about eighteen or twenty yeai's of age. And 1 may
as well say at once, that a more oixlinary looking
person I have never seen, nor expect to see. Siic
had queer little ]>lack eyes, like beads, set deep in
her head, a turned-up nose, and a small moutli ex-
pressive of nothing in particular. She was ratliev
poorly, though not meanly dressed, and wore a hriglit
scarf of red and yellow, or some other gaudy mix-
ture of colours, round her neck. As far as comfort,
went, she .seemed to be quite prepared f jr any in-
clemency of the weather, either of wind, rain, or snow.
Her jacket was thick, her scarf was no less amph'
than it was conspicuous, and slie wore overshoes.
Such was the girl.
I motioned to her to sit dt>vvn, and remarked that
as it was rather cold she had better sit near the fire.
She took a chair. Then I made some more remarks
on the weather, for a doctor is nothing if not so-
ciable. At first she did not answer any of my ques-
tions ; but, after a little persuasion on my part, she
managed to frame a few sentences. When she spoke,
her voice at once attracted my attention. Some peo-
ple are better physiognomists than others ; dwtors
have rare opportunities to study character ; and if
they do not do so successfully, to a certain extent at
least, are not likely to obtrtin much prominence in
their profession. But some men are much quicker
in reading faces than others ; one will look at the
■
tpil^
12 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
nose, another at the eye, and another at the fore- I
head, while I have known acquaintances of mine to
form an opinion with regard to a stranger simply by
looking at his mouth. Physiognomy never was my
forte. I have judged men by their;^faces again and
again, as we must all of us do sometimes; and I have
often been mistaken. I have, however, my favourite
way of forming an opinion of new people : I always
pay particular attention to a person's voice.
This girl had a matter-of-fact voice. Those who
are more or less gifted with imagination usually be-
tray it by a richness or mellowness of tone, as well
as by a variety of accent, when speaking. Of any-
thing like imagination I would say this girl was ut-
terly destitute. She spoke in a monotone, and her
voice was thin and hard. As will be seen presently
we discussed, during our interview, matters of the
most absorbing interest ; yet she neither raised nor
lowered it, from beginning to end ; except, indeed,
when she told me what I knew to be untrue, when
she did lower her voice a little. Let me try to re-
member our conversation. As to the first part of it,
it was wholly on the subject of headaches and sleep-
less nights, and I will not weary the reader by de-
tailing it. Passing on to the more important mat-
ters, it was somewhat as follows.
" You tell me," I said to her, after thinking over
what I had heard from her for a minute or two ;
^'you tell me that you are living alone. How long
hare you lived alone ?"
" I have lived by myself — for two months — more
— ever since December."
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 13-
" For two months ; ever since December, You say
you are an orphan, that your father and mother are
dead. With whom did you live previous to the time
you mention, previous to last December ?"
This question she did not seem disposed to an-
swer ; but X pressed it. " You must not mind me
making these inquiries," I said. " The fact is you
seem to be the victim of nervous despondency. I
can only suggest a remedy when I know what is ti)e
cause of this depression of spirits. Where do you
Uve r
She hesitated—and when she answered,, I knew
she was telling a lie. ** On^ — Bleury street."
" Bleury street. Well, will you tell me this ; with
whom did you live up to last December ?"
'* Who did I live with ? I kept lodgers in my
house."
" How many ? Who were they ?"
" One femily."
" Only one family. How many people were there
in that family V
" There was — a man, his wife, and two children ;
four persons."
" How long did they live with you ?"
" For four years ; they moved into the house
shortly after my father died."
" How old are vou ?" I said.
" Twenty-three," she replied.
" Twenty-three ? You hardly look that." I en-
deavoured to be as agreeable as possible, and thought
it wise to pay a compliment now and then. " Ho?/
14 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
was it that your friends — for I presume they were
friends, after living with you for such a length of
time — how was it that your friends came to leave
you ?"
" Yes, they were friends of nn'ne," she said, an-
swering a (question which she was nut asked; "they
were good friends to me for a year or more."
" They were ; then why did they leave you ? Was
it a matter of business merely ? Were they better-
ing their position in the world ?"
"Yes sir."
I did not believe her. She was only answering my
(juestions for form's sake. I am an obstinate man.
When I once begin to ([uestion a patient, I do not
leave off without learning what I wish to know, if
patience and perseverance are likely to end in suc-
cess. I was not making much headway ; but I per-
severed.
" I^ your house a large one ?" I asked.
" Yes sir, quite large.''
"Then why do you not take in new lodgers ? it is
not wise for you to live alone."
" That is true, sir. But no one will come."
*' No ? How is that ? Have you tried ?"
" Yes sir, I have. Two people have moved in and
moved out again. They wouldn't stay any time. I
can't do anything. I have tried and tried and
thought and thought, but 1 don't know what will
become of me !" ^
" Ah 1 Then there is something of which you
have not yet told me," I said, feeling a certain relief.
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WAUNE. 15
** Now toll me, without any more beating about the
bush, what it is that is the matter ?"
The girl look at me for a moment in a doubtful
way, and then closed her lips tightly. I was about
to address her again, when, all of a sudden, she let
her hands which had been folded in her lap, fall to
her side ; and burst into tears.
At this I was deceived. I immediately bethought
me of a story of sin and shame, of weakness and
betrayal. And yet, no ; the more I looked at her
as she sat there sobbing in a half convulsive way,
the less I was inclined to rank her as one of those
erring ones of whose sad story the world knows so
much and yet so little. She had several times, I
felt confident, told me what was not true, and tried
to deceive me ; but from the very fact that she had
not deceived me, and that her efforts to hide the
truth were too plain not to be noticeable, I implied
that she was not false by nature. It now remained
for me to discover the real cause of these tears.
I waited for some little time, for no wise man will
ever seek to deprive a woman of her right to have a
good cry if she wants one, and then began my ques-
tioning again. I was wise enough, also, not to begin
where I left off. •
" This weather," I said, " is very severe, and does
not suit everyone's constitution. I fancy, from your
appearance, that you feel the cold very much ; am I
right?"
" No," she replied ; not as I know of. The weather
doesn't hurt me ; it isn't that !"
16 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
" It is'nt ? And yet you shiver now in this warm
room. What am I to infer ? Are you sure you are
not suffering from cold ?"
" Cold ? 'No, no, no, nothing like that, my head
aches, my eyes ache, my heart beats. Can't you help
me?"
" My poor girl, help you, willingly."
" Then what will you do ?"
This she said eagerly, and I felt rather non-
plussed for an answer. Before speaking, I got up
and drank a glass of water. This gave me time to
think.
" The first tning," I said, sitting down again," —
" the first thing I will do is to offer you good advice.
I think you need that more than anything else.
And I will begin by saying that it is absolutely
necessary that you should live no longer alone. You
must have friends, or at least acquaintances of some
sort or description, in the same house with you. You
have not told me why your lodgers left you as they
did ; perhaps it doesn't matter ; I cannot judge : but
you must endeavour to get some new ones. You
seem to be rather sad or reserved ; I am very sorry
for you; but I do not see my way clear to suggesting
any particular remedy for this. I would like to help
you in this matter, but it is difficult to do so unless
one is very familiar with the life and character, and
I may also say, the circumstances, of the person one
is treating. With regard to you, I cannot pretend
to any such familiarity, and therefore am obliged
to content myself with vague generalizations. Do
you understand me ?"
MYSTERY OF MA.RTHA. WARNE. 17
No ; she did not. It was perfectly plain that she
was not attending to what I said. She was moving
her foot backward and forward on the Hoor, making
a pattern on the carpet. This naturally displeased
me.
"You are not attending to what I say," I said ;
" do you not think it would be better for you to do
so ? You have come to me as a patient ; now the
first thing for you to do is to listen to my directions,
even if you do not follow them in the future."
Thus appealed to, the girl looked me straight in
the face. " Your directions, sir, are very good in
their way, perhaps ; but they are of no use to me."
I was astonished, and no wonder. " Wtlat do you
mean ?" I said.
" I mean, sir, it is no use, you cannot help me.
I will die in the end. I know I must ; I must nob
keep you any longer. No, nothing can be done."
The tone of utter despair in her voice touched
me much. There was no make-believe about it what-
ever. As she spoke, she rose from her chair, and
put her hand into her pocket. Evidently she was
going to pay me a fee. I arrested her, however,
feeling that I had in truth done nothing deserving
of remuneration.
" Before you pay me," I said, " I should like to
be able to feel that I have done something for you.
This I cannot feel as yet. No — I cannot take your
money, not without I know what I am taking
t for."
" Your are very good, sir, very good, I — I should
B
^
18 THE MYSTRRY QF MARTHA WARNE,
not have come ; I knew it would be no good ;-—
but "—
I was faiifly roused. It is not often that I lose
my temper, buit this was more than I could stand.
I was tired of being spoken tQ in enigmas, tired of
vague generalities ; I spoke out.
" Girl," I said, planting myself in front of her,
and fixing my eye upon her. " tell me at once, what
is the matter with you ?"
" Sir r
"I demand, I ask, I. must know, before you leave
this oflice — what is there the matter with you, what
is troubling ypu ? Why have you come to see me ?
I insist upon your telling me, and I will permit no
more evasions of the truth."
At this peremptory question, her colour rose a
little. She stepped back a short distance and
seemed to consider the matter.
" Well — I am waiting for an answer !"
" Yes, sir. I will answer you ; but don't be hard
on me, will you ?"
" No — I will not. Only tell me the truth."
" I will. You wish to know what troubles me."
" I do."
" Well ; I don't know what to say ; you will
laugh, or you will tell me go to some other man ;
or — or" —
" I will do nothing of the kind. Tell me your
troubles, and, as I have said before, if, I can, I will
help you. If I cannot, I cannot."
" Oh, Dr. Thorburn 1 How can I make you
THT MYSTERY OF MARMHA WA^fNB. 19
understand it ?— I can't It is impossible — impossi-
Ue. It cannot be true ; but it is true. Tell me,
Dr. Tliorburn, is it possible that, when people ar«
dead "—
" Yes."—
" When people are dead, they ever come back ?'
" Come back where ?"
" Come back again. Is it possible ? Tell me."
I shook my head, this was not what I had
"bargained for. I felt rather incredulous, 1 suppose
I looked so. I was little prepared for what was to
follow.
" You say they cannot come ?"
I shook my head again.
" No, they cannot — they cannot ; it is impossible !"
At these words I attempted to speak, and raised my
hand as if to ask her to pause. But in vain ; rising
from her chair with her face flushed and her eyes
burning with a fire that I should not have believed
.possible in such a person, she waved me off, and com-
menced to tie her scarf in a double knot. " No, of
course not ; of course not. The dead cannot come
back again ; they cannot, and therefore they do not.
Yes — yes — and yet — they tio come ! Yes, I under-
stand it ; it cannot be, and, if it cannot be, it must
not happen. Yes, you are right, you cannot help
me. You could not help me, as you said, unless you
knew my case. You were right. You do not know
it ; you never will know it. I must go home again!
No, I will not offer you money ? Why should I ?
Have you done anything for me ? Have I got any
90 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
good from coming ? Have I learned anything that
will help me ?"
" Stay," I said, " let the money question be waived
altogether ; let us not consider it at all. Let us have
a little moie conversation on this subject. I may be
able to help you yet ; I may be able to help you to
get rid of these — these — these illusions."
At the word " illusions" she interrupted me. "Il-
lusions ? Yes ; perhaps so ; I wish to God they
were ! The trouble is they are not ; they cannot be.
You do not understand. I might try and explain to
you what it is, but you begin by taking for granted
that I am deluded."
" My dear girl," I said, " do hear me. It is not a
common thing in our practice to meet with such
cases as yours, but we do so occasionally ; and in
every such case I have seen good results flow from
the fact that the patient began, although in some
cases it may be with reluctance, by acknowledging
that the ghosts of the dead or whatever it happened
to be that he or she was troubled with in the way of
apparitions and visions, were the creatures of a dis-
ordered imagination. Now I want you" —
" No, I won't ! I shall not begin by telling a lie
or trying to deceive myself. I know better. As I
said before, I am not going to pay you ; I have noth-
ing to pay you for. But I will not take up your
time longer, for it would be of no use to do so. You do
not believe in me, I do not believe in you ; I shall
thank you and leave."
" As you please," I remarked. " If you have no
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARN!. 21
faith in me, and would not value my advice, I sup-
pose it would be loss of time for you to remain. I
would have been very willing to do what I could for
you, but if it is useless — "
"It is quite useless," she said, drawing her shawl
over her shoulders ; " quite useless ! I may thank
you, Dr. Thorburn ; I wish you would believe me ;
perhaps some day you will : if I should ever want
^ou; if I should ever send for you; would you
come ?"
As she said this she gave me a piercing glance : I
felt a conviction of her sincerity overpower me at
that moment.
•' I will surely come."
" You will — thank you — then that is all !"
•' All — yes. Except — would you mind giving me
your name ?"
" No ; my name is Warne — Martha Warne.
Good- light."
" Good-night," I said ; and in another moment
the door had closed behind her.
'^S^
CHAPTER V.
A ghost-seer ! Such had been my. visitor. Not a
gaunt mysterious personage with a hectic liush or^
ghtteiing eye, such as we are accustomed to associ-
ate with the seeing of visions and dreaming of
dreams, but a plain matter of fact young woman, of'
whom it might without disparagement be said that
she was common-placeness itself personified. And
I had spent half an hour trying to discover what
bodily ailment she had been suffering from, I, who-
of all things iu this transitory world, have the great-
est contempt for ghost-seers and visionaries. Some
men, I know, like to investigate such things as ap-
paritions and visions, going from effect to cause, and
from one cause to another, until at length they dis-
cover the origin of what seems, at the outset, a su-
l)eruatural interference with the ordinary laws of
existence. Bui 1 have never had either the taste or
the time for such studies. Tiiey do not interest me.
Martha Warne should have gone to some other phy-
sician, to me, of all people in the world, her
case would seem the most unworthy of serious con-
sideration.
I will, however, go so far as to say that I felt a
eertain amount of curiosity regarding her. I did
22
Tlift MYSTERY OF MARTHA WAKNE. 23
wonder what mariner of ghost it was that condemned
her to sleepless nights and joyless days ; I was al-
most Sony that I liad not asked her for some par-
ticulars concerning it. But I have such a dislike of
pretending to entertain serious opinions regarding
such things, that I felt I could not h ive done it.
Looking back, and reflecting upon our interview,
felt that, on the whole, I had done what was right.
A little curiosity was, I thought, natural ; but it was
just as well unsatisfied, seeing that, to satisfy it, it
would have been necessary to ask the girl to tell a
story which I was sure beforeliand was a farrago of
nonsense and best left untold. Taking it altogether
I had done wisely in letting her go as she did.
In this frame of mind I went up to my room and
got ready for dinner. In this state of mind I con-
tinuetl for some time. But I have now to relate a
series of circumstances, in the face of whicli all my
opinions, theories and principles, vanish into smoke.
^
CHAPTEK VT.
It was a very wet night about the first of April
Everywhere in the city the streets were full of melt-
ing snow, mud and slush, and streams of water were
running one way or another, according as there was
more or less room for them, without regard to the
gutters. The wind Mew steadily from the south-
east, and, at intervals, the rain fell in torrents like a
thunder shower ; which, altera while, would subside
again into a mist and sometimes cease altogether,
and allow the dull giay clouds overhead to be seen,
hurrying across the sky.
It was during one of the intervals between the
showers that I went out ; and the light of the street
lamps was sufficient to enable me to keep on the
dryest part of the sidewalk, and avoid the muddy
pools. I had a long way to go, up over the hill,
through the dirtiest part of the city, and a good
piece beyond ; but 1 am comparatively young, and
am blessed with a goodly share of physical strength
and powers of endurance ; so I did not look upon
the long tramp ahead of me, inclement as the night
was, as a very great endeavour.
My wife was anxious that I should drive ; but
there are certain seasons of the year when I make
24
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 25
it a rule to drive as little as possible. To plod along
in a buggy, with the horse sinking knee deep in the
mud one moment and splashing it up in one's face
the next, with the wheels dragging painfnlly on, the
one on your right being almost up to the axle in
water and the other grating on a piece of frozen
ground, while the rain is beating down on the dash-
board, in your face and on your person, wetting
everything, even your feet, is to me the most un-
pleasant of all sensations. Part of the day I am
compelled to drive ; but I invariably take to my
heels before the day is over. Any one who knows
what the streets of Montreal are in April will read-
ily understand my preference for footing it, even on
a stormy night such as I have described.
I need not say that I know the city well, that I
know all the peculiarities of the different parts of
it. No one knows it better. I know all the civic
authorities and the functionaries dependent on them,
I know the magistrates, whom to look to for justice,
whom to look to for injustice, whom to avoid alto-
gether if you wish to keep out of the newspapers.
I know with whom it would be wise to consult with
regard to educational matters ; and what man has
the greatest recommendations to fit ium for the con-
trol of the Sanitary Board. I know all the alder-
men ; I know all the policemen, and where to find
them. And, notwithstanding my repugnance to driv-
ing when it is possible for rae to walk, I think I may
say that I know all the streets, both up town and
4owD town, as well as any cab-driver.
26 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARljrK
My way, as I said before, lay up a steep hill
through the least inviting part of the city. In fact,
I had to walk the whole length of St. Urbain street.
This street, according to some authorities, divides
the English part of Montreal from the French ; part.
I cannot say that I fully coincide with this asser-
tion. No street, to my mind, can be said to do this ;
if it is necessary to name one street or another as a
dividing line, however, I suppose St, Urbain street
would do as well as any. But a mixed population
of French and English inhabit this and a dozen
other streets in the vicinity. One part of the city
is distinctly English, another part French, but there
cannot, in strictness, be said to be a dividing line. *
St. Urbain street is in no way remarkable except
that it is always very dirty. As every street in the
city is in a more or less wretched condition about
the first of April, this street at that season of the
year loses its sole claim to distinction. This night
it fully sustained its reputation. Water was run-
ning down the middle of the street in a furious
manner, two or three different streams of it, some-
times coalescing, sometimes dividing into as many
more. The sidewalk w^ in a much better condition.
It was paved with brick, and was very uneven ; the
slush was mixed with ashes which had been put out
to prevent people from slipping when it was icy, and
in the darkness it was not always possible to tell
whether a black spot ahead was a piece of brick
pavement, a heap of ashes or a pool of water. But
it was very much better there than in the middle oi
THE MYSTERV OF MARTHA WARNE. 2T
the street, and T made my way along without mucK
discomfort, *
I met, considering the kind of night it was, a good'
many people. No one would have ventured out, I
am sure, unless it was absolutely necessary. But in
a large city, I have often observed, there are always
to be found persons as unfortunate as oneself ; it
will be a very inclement night indeed that one will
not find companions in misfctune as one trudges
wearily through the streets in the dark hours of
evening. Men with umbrellas struggling, not always
successfully to keep them from blowing inside out,
boys with their coat-collars turned up and their
hands in their pockets, girls in waterproof cloaks
and girls without any protection whatever but their
ordinary clothes, children, even old women, I met
coming down the hill. Business, necessity, one thing
and another, had forced them to come out in the rain
and wind like myself.
When I reached the top of the hill I stood still
for a minute to rest. The other side of the street,
just opposite to where I was standing, a rather dis-
reputable lane ran at right angles to the street up
which I had come. At the comer, opposite to me,
there stood a large brick building used as a public
school, although I believe that it was not for that
purpose that it was built. Leaning against the brick
wall, and in the full light of the street lamp at the
corner of the street, I saw a policeman. It. was tha
figure of a man of gigantic size, and was encased in
the usual policeman's uniform, except that he had
2S THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
changed his ordinary hehnet for a broad brimmed
cap like that of a sailor, as some of the police do
•on rainy days. As the broad brim of his cap, drawn
over his forehead^ threw his face into shadow, I did
not recognize who it was ; but I noticed that he
stood as motionless as the brick wall behind him,
and that, instead of h)oking up or down tlie street
or straight before him, his face was turned upwards,
as if he were engaged in contemplating the roofs of
the opposite houses.
Quite fascinated, though why I did not know, I
stood still for several minutes and gazed at him-
Then, bethinking myself of my errand, I turned and
Aiontinued my tramp. After half an hour's steady
walki*ig I reached my destination ; and was soon
seated in front of a comfortable fire with a glass of
brandy and water in my hand.
What my business was it matters not. It was of a
purely professional nature, and could be of no pos-
sible interest to any one but myself. Let it suffice to
say that after a consultation of two hours or more
with a brother physician whom I had come to meet,
it was successfully accomplished, and I set out to
return the way I had come. On my way back, as it
was very late, being in fact after midnight, I met no
•one. I was very busy, thinking over my errand and
its result. It was raining, but not heavily ; it had
been pouring in torrents while I was under cover,
but now, fortunately for me, it had slackened con-
siderably. I went doggedly on, going over some calcu-
lations in my mind, and mentally adding up figures.
THF MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 29
I fancied that I had made a mistake in some import-
ant statements I had written out in the course of
the evening, and went over a lot of statistics in order
to satisfy myself whether I had been right or wrong.
At length I succeeded in convincing myself that
I had been right.
When I arrived opposite the school-hoi^e, I
glanced instinctively across the street ; what I
expected to see, if I expected anything, I do not
know ; but there, leaning against the brick wall,
still gazing up at the roofs of the houses on the
other side of the street, was the gigantic form of the
policeman, as motionless as ever. I started : — it was
a terrible night and lonely, and I had been three
hours gone : — yet there he was ; and he had not, to
all appearance, moved an inch since I had passed
before.
I stopped for a moment or so, looked incredulously
at him, and started to cross the street. But the street
was a rushing stream of water ; it was late ; I knew
that I ought to be at home ; and I reflected that if
he chose to stand there all night, it was no business
of mine : — so I retraced my steps, and continued my
course down the hill.
Half way down the hill, however, I paused. I
felt a great, a very great desire to go back. I hesit-
ated, I reasoned with myself, laughed at the idea of
running about to look at policeman at such an hour
of the night and in such a storm. But to no purpose;
back I felt myself impelled to go. Making a frantic
dash, and wetting both feet in the attempt, I forced
-^0 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE,
my way across the street, and re-ascended the hilL
I found the policeman in the same place, nor did he
move nor make any sign whatever that he was
conscious of the approach of a stranger. Far from it •
the closer I got to him, the more immoveable he
seemed to be. I walked up to him and stood before him.
He di(jl not seem to be aware of my presence. Placing
myself directly in front of him, so close that the
buttons of his coat rubbed against my waterproof, I
looked up — for I am a short man myself — into his
face. I knew the face very well. It was the face of
Policeman Logan who was buried at tlw close of the
year !
CHAPTEE VII.
Here for a moment I pause. What shall I say ?
What can I say? I can say nothing, absolutely
nothing. If I had any explanation to offer, any
reason to give, it would be well ; but I have none to
bring forward, none to offer. I say nothing. I will,
however, explain, in a few words, who Policeman,
Logan was, and what I knew of him.
At this distant date, persons will hardly re-
member a sudden death that took place in the
city of Montreal towards the close of the year 1 886.
Early one morning about the hour of five, country
milk-men coming into town discovered the body of
a man lying dead on the pavement. The dead man
was Policeman Logan. An alarm was given, enquiries
were made, and the body was taken in charge by
the authorities. As is customary in such cases, a
post inortem examination was held at the Montreal
General Hospital, in the room set apart for that
purpose. I was one of the doctors whose duty it was
to assist at the investigation, and well remember
with how much interest it was regarded by all who
had any share in the task. A more finely developed
man than the deceased I do not think I ever saw.
He was fully six feet three inches height, straight in
31
32 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WA.RNE.
as an arrow, and of almost perfect proportions. Every-
one who was present expressed admiration at his
well developed physique, and more than once since
I have heard some of my brother physicians refer-
ring to the subject. There was no doubt whatever
that his sudden death was caused by heart disease ;
and, when this became known, public interest in the
occurrence died out.
I cannot say that I had known anything particular
of Policeman Logan during his life. Slightly ac-
quainted with him I was ; but I had never met him
in a professional way until — let me be pardoned the
remark — I found him on the dissecting table. I may
add, however, for it is not a thing to be lightly
regarded, that he bore a good character and was a
man of temperate habits.
/
CHAPTER VIII.
My feelings, as t gazed upward into his face, can
better he imagined than described. And yet no one
who has not experienced similar sensations can
imagine them. I do not say that I was afraid ; fear
is no word for the sensation I experienced the mo-
ment I became aware at whom I was gazing. I am
no coward ; I am not .superstitious ; I never saw a
spectre or a ghost before, and I hope that I never
may again : but a sick feeling came over me, my
throat grew dry, and a strange cold sense of horror
seemed to overwliolm me. I felt a sharp stinging
under my eyelids, a horrible sensation which I can-
not describe. I would have moved away if I could
have ; but I seemed to have lost the power to do so.
What did I do ? What could I have done ? I was
fascinated. I stood looking at him, looking at the
buttons on his coat, looking at his great thick neck,
looking up into his face, shuddering as I did so. I
tried to speak. I thought that, if I could say some-
thing, the spell under which I seemed to lie
would be broken. But it was in vain that I tried to
articulate) a syllable , the sound died in my throat;
I could not speak. I could not move ; I could hariUy
even control my power of thought ; I could only
stand and gaze, fascinated,
33
I
34 THE MYSTERY Of MARTHA WARNE.
If, on the otlier liarul, the figure of the policemau
had moved only in the slightest degree, I should
have felt at liberty to turn which way I would. But
it did not. He seemed to be us much a fixture as
the brick wall behind him. The light from the street
lamp was beating on him, and showed ofi" in strong
relief against the black darkness of the night his blue
coat and cape of India rubber. The lower part of
his face also was in the full liglit ; the upper part,
including his eyes, was thrdNvn into shadow by his
broad-brimmed cap. To all appearances utterly un-
conscious of my existence, let alone my close prox-
imity to him, there he stood, gazing steadfastly up
at the roofs of the houses across the street. I, quite
fascinated and, I am bound to confess, under a sort
of spell, stood gazing as steadfastly at him.
How long 1 stood there in the same position I do
not know. It seemed a very long time ; possibly it
was not many minutes. The rain, which for a while
had been holding up, began to fall again heavily. I
was, as it were, protected a little from it by the brick
building alongside, and even perhaps by the im-
mense form of the policeman himself. At least I
did not mind it. I knew that it was raining ; I knew
that it was raining hard ; but I did not even try to
move. I could not turn my head ; 1 could not help
looking at him. Had he glanced at me, had he
moved a muscle, had he given me any intimation
whatever that he was aware of my presence, I think
I could have moved away ; but lie did not. He
stood rigid, firm, fixed, immoveable.
THE MYSTEUY OF MAKTHA WAUNE. 85
At last, fioni stamling in the same position so
long, and perhaps also from staring so fixedly in t>ae
direction, I began as it were to lose myself and lie-
come completely absorbed in one idea, as people are
supposed to do wlien they are under the influence
of a mesmerist. 1 have always despised, and do
still despise, all persons who allow themselves to
become the dupes of mesmerism, spiritualism, or
anything of the kind ; but 1 confess that on this oc-
casion ni}' power of will seemed to be concentrated
on one idea ; and that idea seemed to be something
separate and apart from myself and beyond my con-
trol. In otlier words, after a time — how long a time
I do not know — my fear, which had been so great at
first, lessened, until it was t[uite gone ; and I simply
waited in expectation of — what ?
Tlie policeman, as I have befofe remarked, kept
his eyes fixed steadfastly on the house opposite.
While I stood gazing at him abstractedly, I remem-
ber that the thought crossed my mind, "what was
he lookino; at ?" I felt at first a va^ue, then a
stronger, tlien an absorbing desire to know. After
a few minutes, forgetful of everything else, forgetful
of the fact that a little while before I had lost the
power of motion, I turned my back to him and be-
gan to gaze in the same direction as he.
At first I saw nothing at all. The street lamp
that I have mentioned was not three yards away
from us and it had been shining, as X have said, full
on tlie policeman's face. On the other side of
the street there was no light ; for a minute or two I
seemed to be peering into the thick darlyjess only.
36 THE MYSTEKY OF MAMHA WARNE,
Then gradually I made out the outliiK*?' of a house:
There were, just opposite to us, three hou£es, all
similar in appearance, and not in tlie least remark-
able or singular. Higli wooden structures, once, I
imagine, inhabited by the wealthy, now abandoned
to thcpoorer classes, there was nothing about them to
attract attention. Yet I confess that I gazed with
no ordinary interest at the middle of the three.
I looked at the roof ; I saw the dim outline of
chimnies ; I saw the line of the roof distinct from
the gray sky behind it. I saw the dark shadows
under the projecting eaves. I saw the windows ; I
counted them ; there were five in the second siorey
and four in the first. One thing oidy struck me as
singular. The door was open !
Why should it not be ? What was there remark-
able about an open-door ? Perhaps some one was
just coming out ; perhaps some one had just gone in ;
perhaps it had been left open by mistake, or had
blown open ; there might be a hundred reasons for
it being open.
Yet I was not satisfied to think so. The idea that
there was somethim; peculiar about a house which
leaves its door open at night and in such a locality,
took possess^ion of my mind, and was not to be dis-
lodged. What could it mean, this house with the
open door ? What could it mean ? Was it possible to
find out ?
The thought fascinated me. I am usually, and, I
think, with reason, considered a very careful, pru-
dent man, one who is not liable to be excited at any
ir'E MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARXF. 37
time or i kW any circumstances. Yea, T am usually
cautiuus. If I acted differently this time from what
I usually do, I do not know why ; I do now know
tliafc I did. I am simply relating facts which are
present to my mind. Let me continue.
] crossed the street, not even turning in my haste
to take a last look at the policeman. I believe that
I auiain got my feet well soaked for my pains. But
I did not mind that. I crossed over, looked up the
street and down the street and around, to see if there
was any one near ; and then mounted the two wooden
steps that led up to the door.
1 will not say that I was not a little apprehen-
sive. No man likes to play the part of a house-
breaker if he is not accustomed to it ; and I own to
a feeling of shame ac ray presumption as I passed
trn-ough the doorway. But pass through I did ; my
-curiosity overcame every other feeling. I walked de-
liberately in at the open door, and stood in the halL
I wondered, as I did so, what prompted me ; surely
something did. I went reund the hail carefully,
groping about in the darkness, feeling my way. It
seemed to be quite empty. It was a very ordinary
hall as far as I could make out. At last I came to
the staircase. It was 'of wood, and uncarpeted.
Somethiug impelled me forward, and forward I went,
one stair after another ; and every time that I put
my foot down, it seemed to me as if the sound
reverberated through the house.
At the top of the stairway I paused. Where was
I ? Was I in an empty house ? It seemed as if it were
o8 THE^MlttTEUY OF MARTHA WAKKE.
indeed so. And what was 1 doing there, 1, a married
mall with a family, and thereibre bound to be all the
more scrupulous with regard to my actions — 1,
standing at the top of tht stairway in a strange
house, at the hour of one in the morning — how would
it be if some one were to discover me ? For a mo-
ment, these considerations weighed heavily with me;
for a moment 1 felt like dashing downstairs, out and
away, as quickly -as possible. But 1 did nothing of
the kind. Having got so far, 1 made up my ndnd
that 1 must see something before I left.
1 stepped along the upper hall. Like the hall
below it was empty. There was no carpet, and every
step 1 took seemed to echo through the darkness, i
could just discern a window at the further end.
Slowly, very slowly and carefully 1 made my way
to tlie window and looked out.
The window looked into the street ; it was, in fact»
directly over the front door, and therefore looked
towards the place where I had been standing. As
1 looked out, I could see, through the pouring rain,
the lamp at the corner, shedding its light amid the
darkness around, and the form of the policeman
behind it. I shuddered at the sight ; lor, now that I
had got across the street and into the house, he
seemed to be looking straight at me. indeed I ima-
gined that he was actually conscious where I was
and fancied that 1 could see the gleam of his eyes
under the brim of his cap, distant as it was.
This must have heen imagination, but it held me
for a time impassive. I looked out from the window
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 39
of this apparently empty house into the street under
much the same spell-bound feeling as I ha*d expe-
rienced before. And in the same way I mentally
noted several small details which at a time of such
unusual excitement would naturally be ov^erlooked.
I noticed that the glass of tiie window was clean as
if it had been lately washed or rubbed, that the floor
was clean and not dusty, that there were no cobwebs
or any other appendage, denoting neglect or decay,
and that the air of the hall was fresh and pure.
These things seemed to me to go far to prove that
this house into which I had wandered, was, although
empty, not deserted.
I was pursuing this course of retiections, having
lost once again, as 1 did in the street, my sense of
fear, when, all at once, my heart seemed U' stop,
and my hair stood up on end. In the hall below,
there was a sound ; the street door through which I
had entered closed !
Was it a step ? Was it a tread ? Was it a cry, or
a rustle, or a fall ? Nofte of these. The door closed
iirmly but not- loudly, and then something seemed
to move. It was not a tread, not a foot-step, not a
rustle. I cannot describe the sound. The sound of
the wind blowing gently in at an open window con-
veys the best idea I can give of it. Something was
moving below, something was coming upstairs, some-
thing was passing througli the house ; what T knew
not.
I did not exclaim, I made no sign with my lips
to see or to hear I endeavored not. Fallina; on my
40 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE
knees, with my eyes closed ond my handa clasped ia
horror, I cowered in the da. kn ess b" fort- :<u unknown
presence. 1 confess my extreme fear ; I adu)it my
utter loss of self-control ; how many, after such an
experience as 1 had just gone through, would have
done otherwise! In that desperate moment the
thought of my lashness and folly fille«i me with an
overpowering sense of sluune. Whatever exposure
might be impending, whatever punishment might
€nsue, I felt that 1 deserved it all. 1 was hopeless.
How long I lay there, crouching on the lioor by
the window, I cannot .say; it could not have been
long. Wlioever or whatever it was that was moving
in the hall and upon the stairs, did not come near
me I heard something moving: I could swear that
some one passed within a few yards of me ; but that
is «11. No one t^uclied me, no one approached me.
I was still in an agony of apprehension as to what
was about to happen, wiien a sharp, sliort cry rang
through the house. It was not a cry of pain ; I am
an old experienced })hysician,»and I can distinguish
in a moment a cry produced by pain or ])hysical
suffering from an exclamation of fear or surprise.
But neither was this n cry of fear nor of surprise.
It betokened neither : it was an exclamation of
despair.
That cry brought back my courage. IMost men
in the presence of the unfamiliar and the unknown
become cowards. Brave bailors and soldiers, if placed
outside of their own spheres of action, not unfre-
<iuently become overcautious or even, timorous. Thus
THE MYSTERY OF MAHTIIA WARNE. 41
it had been with me. Dut the cry of the suffering,
the sight of the despairing inevitably brings back to
a man whatever courage, whatever manhood he has
ever been possessed of ; and arouses to his mind the
will to help, to succour, or to cheer. In another mo-
ment I was on my feet once more, ready to turn and
profer my assistance to whomsoever it uas of avail.
Sound is very deceptive, but I was sure the cry
which I had heard had come from a room on the
very flat on which I was standing ; it was not a
loud cry, and I was confident that it would take but
a few steps to lead me to the room whence it had
proceeded. I stood up and looked around. I had
come straight along the hall from tlie stairway ; I
woul(Viow examine the rooms one by one, until I
found the person who was in need of help. That I
was about to render a service, I did not for a moment
-doubt, for what else had I come ?
1 was already two or three steps from the window,
when it crossed my mind that I had not looked out
after regaining my feet to see if the figure of the
policeman still remained a sentinel or watcher on
the corner opposite. I retraced my steps and looked
-out again. There had been a strong conviction in
my mind that I would find him gone ; and, sure
enough, gone he was. The street lamp still shed ita.
light around the corner, and shone bravely amid the
rain and mist^ but the stalwart figure leaning
against the brick wall, with the dark coat and broad
brimmed hat, was no longer visible. I was glad that
it was so ; it seemed to me to indicate that I was to
42 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
have no more to do with spectres or ghosts, but
was henceforth to meet with human beings and
minister to their needs. With this agreeable pre-
sentiment, I started again.
I cannot very well describe the way the house
was built. It was a plan common in buildinji;s of an
early date. This house, 1 presume from its size, had
once been inhabited by wealthy people, as there
were rooms on each side of the hall, and the ceilings
were high. On the second floor, where I had been
for some time, theie was a narrow passage-way
which separated the rooms at the front from the
rooms at the back. Half way between the window
and the stairs, therefore, I stood at the beginning of
this passage-way. Looking along the passage-way,.
I saw a faint light streaming thiongli a door which
must have been open only a crack.
The house, then, was inhabited. When I found
that it was so, I felt a new sensation. I felt alarmed,,
not so ujuch lor myself as on account of theoccui»ants.
I can hardly help smiling at the idea, but I really
seettied to feel myself more than half a house-breaker,
and I thought how frightened the pe;'Son or persons
in that room would probably be if they knew that a
strange man had entered the house, and was stand-
•ing within a few yards of them. On the other hand,
the cry that I liad heard did not tend to re-assure me;.
I began to think about it, and stopped a moment to-
consider what it was best to do.
Now was the time to turn back and leave
the house. 1 felt that if I did right I would go*
THE M^'STEUV OF M\UTIIA WAKNE. 4.?
But it is not in my nature to start on a tour of in-
vestigatitm and leave off just when there is some hope
of gettiuf,^ to the root of the nuitter to be inquired
into. I listened ; there was not a sound. I could
hear nothing, not even the wind and the rain out-
side. No groans, or nioanings, or sighs, nor any
manifestations such are usually met with in haunted
houses were apparent to my senses.
I made up my n^nd what I would do. I would
go very cautiously along the narrow hall, and take
one look in at that open door. Then, my curiosity
satisfied, 1 would go home and tell my wife a lie
as to my late whereabouts, and endeavour to forget
all 1 had seen and done . I felt that if she were to
be told the truth, she would without dmibt, infer
that my mirid was affected. Better I thought to
tell one's wife a lie than let her suffer so painful an
apprehension.
1 crept along. Every time that 1 put my foot to
the floor it seemed to me that 1 made so much
noise that I must perforce be heard over the entire
house. Half a dozen times I stopped to listen, and
held my breath. Two or three minutes I must have
waited just beside the door, summoning all my
courage to take the last step. I half expected some
one to rush out an d knock me down ; it seemed to
me that the inmates of the house, whoever they
might be, must be aware of my presence.
At last I took coui*age and advanced a couple of
steps to a position from which 1 could see the room.
The door opened in such a manner that I was
44 THE MYSTERY OF MARTH.V WARNE.
obliged to stand at the further side of the doorway,
in order to look through. As I glanced, with some
trepidation, though the half-open door, I could nob
forbear uttering an exclamation aloud.
The room was of moderate size and dingy. The
floor was bare, the walls were bare, there v re no
curtains to the windows. A small iron bedstead
stoop opposite the door. Near the bed was a
wooden table on which, in a bra»6 candlestick, stood
A lighted candle. The most noticeable article in the
room was a trunk, open, and apparently half full of
clothes, which stood near the table. On the side of
the bed sat a young girl. Her face seemed familiar.
In a moment I recognised her; it was Martha
Warne 1
CHAPTER IX,
I have said that I uttered an exclamation ; I did.
I do not believe in ghosts ; I did r.ot expect to see
ghosts. I cannot exactly say that 1 expected to see
robbers, cut-throats or assassins ; but I confess that
when I saw the interior of the room, with this young
girl as its sole occupant, I could not help giving ut-
terance to my surprise. It v/as not only that I recog-
nized her; had I recognizad, in the young person
who sat on the side of the bed in this room, any
other acquaintance, it would'not hr /y so startled me.
In a moment came back the recollection of her
visits, of her hesitation, of her confession, of my con-
tempt, and of her abrupt departure, leaving me in
complete ignorance of the facta of the case which
was to have been presented to me. Would to God
I had listened to her ! And yet, liad I done so, would
I have given any credence to her story ? No ; I could
not have believed a word of it ; I could not have be-
lieved a word of it. And now, wha: had happened !
As I found myself looking at her my brain seemed
to be all in a whirl ; I felt like one in a dream.
Martha Warne, as I once before remarked, was
neither beautiful nor the reverse. There was noth-
ing in her personal appearance to excite remark.
But if, when I had seen her before, she had failed to
interest me, I now made ample amends for the cal-
lousness of the past. Never, to my dying day, shall
45
46 THE MYSTERY OF iMAUTlIA ^VAK^'E.
1 forget her, as I saw lier at that inoiiient, sitting on
the side oi' the bed, beside the table. Although it
was cheii long past midnight, she had not begun to
undress. Her hair, long, straight, and of a light
brown colour, hung down over her shoulders. Her
elbows were resting on her knees, an<l her chin was
resting on her hands. But it was the expression of
her face that startled me. I have seen people an-
noyed, amazed, excited, agonized, but this young
girl's face expressed neither annoyance nor surprise,
excitement nor pain ; her expression was one of
blank despair.
How shall I tell it ? How sliall I describe the
feelings which overwhelmed me as I stood there
gazing at her, while the minutes wore away and the
hours of the night rolled slowly on ? She was quite
unconscious of my presence ; she neither moved nor
looked around her ; her eyes seemed to be staring,
and yet seeing nothing. If she had looked up in the
direction in which I stood, I think she must
have seen me ; but she did not. The time passed
slowly. Long as I had been in approaching the
room, it seemed to me that the time had been short
in comparison with the period I spent at the door.
My feelings once more underwent a complete
change ; I had been fearful, anxious, nervous ; now I
was nothing of the kind ; the only sentiment which
remained and which pervaded my whole nature, was
one of pity. What her trials were I could not, of
course, know ; but such a look of helplessness, de-
spair, despair past all words, I had never seen on
any human face. The opinion that I had formed
CHAPTER X.
We stood face to face. We had parted in my
study, this .i,nrl and I, she full of contempt and dis-
pair, 1 pitiful and half compassionate, yet withal
cold and luisympathic. We were again face to face.
Wliat chanjjies the events of the last few hours had
brought in the opinion which each had then formed
of the other ! What oceans of experience I seemed
tcf have crossed ! With what interest and awe I
gazed at her ! What her foelings were I cannot
say ; but with no little emotion must she have be-
held the scornful physician coming to her rescue, at
this fateful hour when death seemed so near and all
hope gone.
For a little while we looked in each other's eyes
in silence. I was the first to speak.
" Martha Warne."
" Dr. Thorburn."
Her voice trembled. The hard, desperate look on
lier face relaxed, and iier lips moved nervously. She
clasped her hands, and, looking down to the floor
where lay the shattered fragmentsof the little glass
bottle, shuddered at the danger from which she had
escaped. Placing my hands on her arms, I moved
her gently backwards, and without speaking to her,
motioned her to be seated. Then, for some minutes
49 D
50 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
•
I busied myself with picking up the pieces of glass
and obliterating as best I could the stain on the
floor. From the smell of the liquid I knew that it
must have been a dose of such narcotic power that,
after taking it, she would have gone to sleep never
to awaken. I spent some time in this way, knowing ■
thatjin the state of nervous excitement in whioli I had
found her, it was best fo ' her to have time to collect
her thoughts. While I was engaged in this work
she sat with her face hidden in her hands. When
I had 'finished, I sat down beside her, and asked to
be allowed to feel her pulse. She gave me her hand
with a child-like submission.
" The first thing I must do for you," I said, " is ^o
get you a nurse. You are in a fever, and you want
rest and care. You shall have both. Now, to-night,
while you are suffering and oppressed by so much
physical and mental distress, it will be best for you
to say as little as possible to me. Some other time
we will talk of your troubles ; not now. Before,
when I' met you, I let you leave me witliout doing
anything to help you. Providence has sent me to
help you to-night, and I will do my best to aid
you."
She turned her face towards me and burst into
tears. I felt that, in the state of mind in which she
was, nothing could do her more good, and for a little
while I kept silent. Then I resumed.
" I wish you," I said, " to place yourself entirely
under my care and guidance. I want you, for the
present, to let me think and act for you. I want you
THT MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 47
of her before, that slie wtis a <.jirl whose character
was beyond and above reproach, a girl whose life was
untinged by the gaudy lights and fitful shadows of
au evil career, was strengthened. So much was, as
it were by intuition, perfectly plain to me, and I felt
a deep and absorbing interest in her, a yearning
anxiety to know what had been her misfortunes and
trials -o have brouglit her to such a pass.
I waited ; 1 waited long. Still she sat there in
the same position, moving not a muscle. 1 felt that
I nuist sooner or later, in some way or other, make
my presence known to her. I felt that I nmst, be-
fore I left, endeavour to help her, if help were in my
power to give. I thought over the strange circum-
stances which had induced me to enter the house at
such an unseemly hour, of the vision of the police-
man, and its strange effect upon me, how I had
passed and repassetl him, how I had gone back to
take a closer look at him, and how I had been spell-
bound at the sight when, at last, I stood before him,
face to face. I tliought of my strange entry into the
house, of m}' hesitancy and apprehension, and of the
fatality which had seemed to urge me forward, I
thought of the wild sharp cry of despair which had
suddenly rung out in the stillness of the night while
I was on my knees l)y the window, awaiting I knew
not what. I thought it all over, and once or twice
I pressed my hand to my forehead to make sure that
I was not in a dream. It seemed more like a dream
than a reality : it seems like a dream now.
But to continue. While I was wondering whether
48 THK MYSTKRY OF MAUTIIA WAKNE.
an all -^^atch fill Providence or a mere freak of chance
i.ad induced nie to follow up this strange series of
adventures, the girl made a faint motion with her
hand. She seemed to be feeling for soniething.
At first I thought she was looking for her hand-
kerchief, and paid but little attention to her move-
ments. Her eyes she did not move. She put her
hand behind her, then bent forward and reached it
to the floor, then drew it back again into her lap.
Her head now rested only on one hand. She did
this again and again like one in a dream, as if hardly
conscious of her own actions. The third time she
did it she found wliat she sought for, and drew forth
from behind her a small bottle or phial, which ap-
peared, as far ns I could judge, to be full of a colour-
less fluid. Immediately the thought burst upon me
wit'i lightning-like rapidity ; this girl was contem-
plating self-destruction !
It was no chance ! Men may call it chance, or
they may call it fate, they may call it providence.
Some unseen power had surely led me thither. I
had arrived in time to save a young girl from taking
her own life, a life which I felt sure, from looking
at her alone, was one of innocence. I had come in
time. I was not a minute too soon. Innocent
though she might be, she was resolute, this girl, and
full of determination to accomplish her dire resolve.
If I had waited for half a minute, I would have
been too late. She pulled the cork from the bottle,
and was raising it to her lips, when I rushed for-
ward ; and, without saying a word or making any
pretence of accident, dashed it to the floor.
. THE MYSTERY OP MARTHA. WARNE. 51
just to feel thai 1 am takinfj care of you, that I am
your guard iau, your protector. I want you to place
implicit confidence in me. Will you ?"
She did not answer.
" I am not going to do anything strange," I con-
tinued, thinking of the reserve she had maintained
during our interview in the study, and wondering
whether, after all, it would not be better to let her
talk to me a little and relieve her mind; — "I am
not going to do anything unusual, I often take sick
people under my care, and act for them as if they
belonged to me. Will you not let me do this for
you."
She shook her head, but T persevered none the
less.
" I can see for myself," I went on ; "I can see
for myself that very strange and, as far as I am con-
-feerned, inexplicable things are happening from time
to time in this house. I can see that when you
apoke to me of ghosts and dead men coming back
again, you were not, as I thought, a victim of hallu-
cinations :—- or, if you are, then I am also." —
At .these words she started to her feet. Her
eyes sought mine, with a strange look of fear not
unmixed with triumph, which soon, in its turn,
changed to pity.
** You — you have seen him ! You have seen him
— is it not so ? Have you see him ? Can it be
possible ? Oh, Dr. Thorburn !"
I motioned to her to sit down again. I felt my-
self no longer a ghost-seer. The presence of a single
52 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
other human being had done away with the
effect of my previous experience. I was again a
physician ; and determined that, for the time being,.
I would ignore aught but physical maladies.
" Do not," I said, " think any more of what you
or I or anyone else huj seen to-night. We will
discuss the subject fully in a day or two, when you
are better able to do so."
" I — I shall never be better — never ! You do not
know what you ask."
A doctor hears this said fifty times a day. I paid
no attention to it. " What perplexes me now," I
continued, " is, who is to remain with you while I
go away to procure a suitable nurse for you. You
ought not to be alone."
At this she burst into a laugh.
" Alone ? I, alone ? 0, Dr. Thorburn ! what else
should 1 be ? What else shall I ever be ? Who
would stay with me, to see what I see, and hear
what I hear ? Some of them think I am mad and
others say the house is haunted ; who would come
here, do you think, to keep me company ?"
" Who ?" I said ; " now that is just what I wish
to say to you. I am not going to ask any of your
friends to come and stay with you ; I know that
would not answer my purpose at all. What 1 pro-
pose is that I should get a nurse, a woman whom I
can trust, to come and take care of you, for a few
days at any rate. I have determined, with your
permission, to investigate these mysterious circum-
stances, and I shall assume for the present the en-
tire charge of you. Will you agree to this ?"
THE MYSTERY OF MA.11TH\ WARNE. 53
" Oh I — useless to try'" she said sighing, and her
face resuming the old expression of despair ; " you
•do not know what you ask ; you do not know what
I am ; you do not know what I have done — "
" I do not," I replied ; " hut it does not matter
now ; you need help ; I can supply it ; is not that
■enough ?"
" Yes, — but, Dr. Thorburn, do not you wish to
know all about this fearful — this fearful — "
A sob prevented her from finishing what she was
going to say. " Stop," I said ; " to-morrow — an-
other time — tell me all. To-night, nothing. I want
to know nothing now. I am going away to bring
back a responsible woman to look after you, and
•every thing that requires looking after in this house.
Are you afraid to stay alone ?"
" Afraid ?— Oh, God, I afraid ! Afraid ?— "
*■ I mean," I said, " will you mind waiting alone
until I come back ? If I mistake not, you are al-
ways alone, so you will not be afraid ; am I ,not
right?"
" Alone ; if I could only be alone — 0, Dr. Thor-
burn, Dr. Thorburn ! why did you come ? Why did
you come ? I might have been safe now, safe now
from it all, and it would all be over. Oh ! do you
know what you have done ? There is no hope for
me, no hope for me until I die ; then there will be
rest ! And you have driven away my last hope —
my last hope !"
" My dear girl," I said, pressing her hand as I did
so, " my dear girl, you are mistaken ; believe me,
54 THE MYSTEliY OF MARTHA WARNE
there is hope, always hope. Without hope one
might well be driven to despair. But God has sent
me to you, and you nmst try and take courage. Will
you remain quiet and wait for me until I come
back?" .,.
She nodded, but did not speak. I saw that she
was going to do as I wished, and rose to go. As I
turned to the door she called me back.
" Dr. Thorburn, here; you will want the key."-
" The key ; what key ?"
" The key of the front door ; where is it ? Yes,
in my pocket." As she spoke, she felt in her pocket
for the key, and, having found it, handed it to me.
" The key of the front door ! The front door is
open." Then it flashed across my mind tliat I had
heard it close while I was waiting in the hall. '* Give
me the key, all the same ; I may be mistaken."
But I was too late ; she had started to her feet
again. " Open ? — open ? — Then — you did see him !'^
I hesitated, and mumbled somethiiig under my
breath. - " ' i
" You saw him — tell me, you saw him V '
" Saw him," I said, looking at her very earnestly
as I said it — " saw whom, the policeman ?" . i
" Eh ? — the policeman ; — the policeman ; — who
does he mean? What is it — what do vou mean? —
what policeman?" • ■ ' '
Here was a ra}'stery. I would have given much
to have sat down then and there and asked for en-
lightenment, but duty forbade. " Never mind," I
said, " I will tell you all about it again — to-morrow.
^,
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WAKNE. 00
Only let me have my way to-night. Do you retire
to bed while I am away. Let me find you there
when I return. I will come back in an hour ; only
be patient."
She came forward, however, to where I stood, and
laid her hand on my arm. " Dr. Thorburn — I will
do as you wish — only, before you go, listen — listen
to what I say to you ; listen to me and promise me
what I ask you. Dr. Thorburn, I believe in you ; I
believe every word you have said ; I know you will
do what is right ; I know that you will tell me what
is best, and will tell me the truth. Will you make
me a promise ?" , . ; \ ,
" A promise? Yes, I will. You tmst me ; I will
trust you ; let us have confidence in each other."
Her eyes filled with tears, and I felt her hand
tremble as I took it in mine. r .
"Dr. Thorburn — you know nothing about it, I
can see that ; you know nothing. 1 can see that
you have had som.ething strange bappen to you or
you would not be here ; but you really know noth-
ing, do you?"
"No," I said; "I do not."
" You do not " — she breathed more freely—" you
do not. But you must know it all. I want you to
promise me this : Will you come again, here, to-
morrow night at the same time to see me, and come
alone ? Whoever you bring to stay with me can
stay if you like also ; but I wish you to come your-
self. AVill you?" -
"To-morrow?**
m
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA. WARNE.
" Yes, to-raorrow night, at thfi same time, a quar-
ter to twelve or about that. Say you will come ;
promise me — " , ■
" I promise."
A sad smile that went to my heart fluttered over
her face for a moment and then was gone. She
withdrew her Iiand from mine. " Thank you, Dr.
Thorburn. thank you. Another day, another night,
iind it will all be over. It will all be over. Thank
you, Dr. Thorburn, thank you — thank (Jod!"
Her enrne-^tness, her intensity, the thrilling tone
of her voice all impressed me, and inspired me with
a feeling I had never known before. It seemed as
if I were just on the threshold of some unseen
world, on the point of some great discovery. Some
terrible secret was to be laid bare. I cf»uld hardly
bring myself to turn away. In spite of myself I
trembled.
:''*■■
■ (V
i CHAPTER XL ' ' -
I left her standing in the middle of the room, and
made my way to the door. I dared not look around,
lest I should be prompted to ask questions which
had better be left for the morrow. I passed out into
the hall ; there, at the end, was the grim light of the
window ; here was the passage-way by the side of
the staircase ; here the stairs. I felt my way down ;
there was a balustrade, and I held on by it ; I could
not see the lower hall ; all was dark. Then it flashed
upon me that I should have provided myself with a
candle, I had not thought of it ; neither apparently
had Martha Warne, I might have gone back for
one, but, by this time, no doubt, the girl was pre-
paring to retire to bed, and 1 would only alarm her-
At any rate, I thought, I can strike a match, and
that will do.
I am a smoker and always carry matches. I found
•one and struck it. It burned slowly, but at last the
blue light of the sulphur died out and the wood
caught tire. Then I could see the hall. It was very
grim and bare. There seemed to be nothing on the
floor, nothing on the walls. The front door was
•closed. I tried it; it was locked, I looked around
me for a moment with an uncanny feeling, remem-
t)eriug how it had been wide open when I first saw
57
58 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE,
it. Who, thought I, had entered since then ? Evi-
dently not the policeman, for the girl upstairs seemed
to know nothing whatever of him. When the light
shone I could see no trace of anyone. Yet some-
body had shut the door, somebody had gone upstairs
after me. And it was not Policeman Logan. Were
there, then, more ghosts than one ? But who spoke
of ghosts ? — who believed in such things ? — In
strange thoughts indeed was I indulging !
While 1 was looking about me the match went
out and I was forced to ligl^t another. When it was
half-burnt I put the key in the lock and turned it.
The door opened. I stepped out into the street ; my
heart gave a great thump, for I was free once more
Free — in the open air — ah, it was indeed refresh-
ing ! I remember how I stood on the pavement and
drank in the moist air. Moist it was in truth for the
rain was falling in torrents, pouring down straight
in large drops, flooding the street, flooding the gut-
ters, running down over the side- walk like a brook.
But I felt free, free of the mouldy atmosphere of the
house, free from the dread surprises that were always
in store within,free of the girl's calm look of supreme
despair. I felt free even though soaked through and
through, free and full of nerve.
I had before made up my mind what 1 would do.
I would start at once for one of the Roman Catholic
sisters of mercy who I knew would be willing to-
come and nurse my newly- found patient. I am a
Protestant, a Presbyterian in fact ; but I know whom
to trust and whom not to trust with a case like that
of Martha Warne. Trained nui-ses are invaluable
• THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 6f
but these sisters of mercy are trained in two ways ;
they are not only good, kind and capable women,
able to watch by a sick bed and to attend a patient
with care and skill, but their life teaches them to
maintain a strick reserve and a non-interference with
things tliat do not concern them, to which all other
women are stran^jers. I have seen much of them
very much ; and I cannot speak too higlily of them.
I had a mile and a half to go, and could not .^nd
a cab except by going a mile out of my way. This
I was not willing to do; time was too precious. So
I walked the whole distance. It seemed to me that
the water was running in at the toes of my boots
and out at the heels. As I had rubbers on my feet
which were new and could therefore liave had no
holes in them, I suppose this was impossible ; but it
seemed so. I am sure that the water ran in a stream
down my back and that there was not a square inch
of dry clothing on me.
• In a wretched plight indeed was I, when I at
length reached my destination. Anywhere else I
should have felt ashamed, but here I knew there
would be no surmises, or, if there were, that I would
never hear of them. It is one of the supreme merits
of these women that they ask no questions ; if they
know you, they trust you ; if they don't, not a word
is wasted ; the door is shut in your face.
They know me well, and it was not long before I
was seated in a cab with a nurse beside me, driving
ofi to St. Flavie street. As T jmssed along, or rather
as we passed along, I looked at my watch. It \^^s
four o'clock in the morning. i
^ CHAITER XIL
It is not necessary for me to describe in detail
how we anived at our destination, how we found
Martha Warne in bed, how I gave my nurse charge
concerning lier, and took my leave. Just l)efore I
left, she put up her hand, and, drawing my head
down, said in a whisper " at lialf-past eleven this
next night ; " and I answered, " 1 will be here." In
another minute I was gone.
The day was dawning when at last I reached home
and got into bed. Of course no one in the house had
been nmch exercised about my absence. I did;
indeed, tell one little lie. When mv wife said " dear,
what kept you, I thought you said you would be
liuuic ttu cicvcii, 1 aiiisv\Cieu, ou i ftiiuiim ilftvc 0661!
if T hadn't met with some one who required my
services, as T was coming hnvk ;" that was all.
Day was ahnost dawning wiien 1 got to bed. As
for sleep 1 got none. I turned over and over, reos
from my bed, drank some brandy, took a few whiffs
from my pipe, did everything 1 could think of to
induce sleep ; but in vain. I would have taken a
<lose of chloral only that 1 was expected at the
Hospital at ten in the morning, and I must first
dress and breakfast,* wliich would leave but little
time for sleep. I spent the night, what there was
60
ll.'E MYSTERY OK MAUTHA WARNE. 61
left of it, in misery. As often tis I closed my eyes, I
saw the great form of the dead policeman, standing
in the glare of tlie gaslight. Jf I succeeded for a
moment in driving the thought of him from my
mind, 1 saw, instead of it, Martha Warne's face with
its agonized expression of despair, as I had seen it
uliei making my way to the door of liv-r room. After
awhile I fell into a sort of doze, when the shrill cry
which I had heard seemed again to ring in my ears
and 1 awoke with a start. I looked for the full light
of day to drive away thesephantoms and recollections
thinking that I would be able to snatch a few hours
of repose before my daily duties called me to rise
and go to work ; but no ; the darkness faded away,
the sun rose, and the gray light of an April morning
grew stronger and stronger, and the forms that had
haunted me from the beginning still stood at my
bedside. I could not get rid of them. I even went so
far as to reason with myself aloud, to try and fancy
that I had been the victim of nightmare : but I only
got the more confused ; and the recollection of all
that I had seen only got the more vivid, the longer
I thought of it all. For me there was no rest.
The hours wore on and my head began to ache.
As the daylight increased, so did my discomfort ; I
could hardly remain in bed. At last T rose and went
to a looking-glass ; I seemed to liave lost my own
identity. The face I saw retlected in the glass f light-
ened me : not a vestige of colour was left in my
cheeks ; the pallor of deatli seemed to have spread
itself over mv face. I was horror-struck. ^
62 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA VVARNE.
To go about the labors of tlie day was iiuvv impos-
sible. I resolved to go back again to bed. Kinging a
bell, I summoned my wife, and telling her that I
had a very severe head ache, requested that I might
not be disturbed during the day. This done, I took
an opiate and retired to bed. Ere long I was sleep-
ing soundly.
It must have been many hours before I awoke*
When I did, I, for a long time did not think of
looking to see what the hour was. I was no sooner
awake than it all caiue back to me ; and with a
clearer brain and a lighter head I was able to medi-
. tate for a while on what I had gone through, Alas !
many times since I have meditated, thought, dreamed,
fancied, reasoned ; and I am as far to-day from arriv-
ing at a solution of the questions which puzzled me,
as I was when 1 lay on my bed that afternoon-
It must have been a couple of hours after waking
that I rose and called for food. I was too impatient,
too anxious for the night to come, when I could
hurry to the bedside of Martha Warne, to be able
to cccupy the intervening hours with any profes*
sional business. I refused all callers ; I answered n o
summons ; I told my wife not to bother me ; I left
my letters unopened on the table. I ate very little.
I drank copious draughts of water, fearing to indulge
in anything stronger, for my brain was already so
excit;ed that I was obliged to calm myself as much
as possible. Let no one think that I am by nature
an excitable man ; far from it ; I am of a phlegm itic
temperara9nt, and have seldom known real nervoas-
ness.
THT MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 63
And yet I think I was more excited than many
persons would have been of a different nature from
mine. There is a theory in medicine that spasmodic
attacks of asthma vary in intensity accordinf; to
their greater or less frequency. If one should not
occur for a longer time than usual, it is likely to be
more severe when it does come. So with people of
iny temperament ; nervousness as a rule is a word
for us without meaning ; but let our sluggish nervous
system once be aroused to undue activity, and we
suffer tenfold the pain which would fall to the lot
of a man of what is called nervous temperament.
My pulse beats as a rule slower than is customary
for a man. On this occasion I felt as if my veins
would burst if I did not keep moving around and
<irinking in deep draughts of water.
(CHAPTER XIII.
Time will pass. Time does ]>ass always, though
sometimes we feel that the present will never end.
I have sometimes counted the seconds in a minute
wondering if a minute is always as long as it is while
I am counting it. 1 thought that day would never
end, that night would never come ; yet it did ; after
a weary, weary watch, tlie sun began to get lower in
the heavens, and the dusk began to creep on. As it
grew darker, I grew calmer, my step got firmer, my
pulse got slower, I began to breathe more delibe-
rately and to think more clearly. I even went so far
as to go down to the dining-room and take dinner
with my family. I sat at the table like an auto-
maton, carved, ate, like a machine. I was asked how
my head was and if i was going to bed early to get
more sleep. I answered that I had a case of pecidiar
interest to attend to, and it was in order that I might
be able to attend to it that I had stayed in and
rested all day. At this no one remarked. My wife
did, indeed, tell me to be careful of myself ; but this
she does on an average of once in every twenty-four
hours ; so I was sure that in her mind, at least, there
were no suspicions of what I was going to do, I did
not see, either, how anyone but myself could know
anything of what was transpiring ^,t the house on
64
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA ^VARNE. 65
St Urbaiii street. But when oue's mind is full of one
subject the air seemy overcharrjed with rumours and
suspicious ; it seemed to me as if 1 must liave been
watched. Now I know that I had no partner in these
wild and unfathomable experiences. Now I know
that no one but I saw, no eye save mine j^a/ed on
these {.^iiostly forms of men laid to rest in tlie yrave
moutl)« before. Had others seen such strange sights,
I must have heard of it. Not having reasons such as
mine for secrecy, tl»e story must have been told and
retold a hundred times. But 1 alone, save her of
whom 1 have spoken, the unfortunate Martha Warne,
and whose sad story I have yet to tell, am tlie only
man who has witnessed this, the strangest scene
perhaps, ever known in ibis old and romantic city.
After dinner I retired to my room and spent a
couple of hours in solitude. As the hour for my
departure approached I grew calmer and calmer. I
reasoned with myself and succeeded in gaining some
of my habitual self-control. I was now about to see
or hear, so I said to myself, things which it would
never be my lot prc^bably again to come in contact
with, things such as few men ever meet with and in
which the world at large either totally disbelieves or
has little faith at best. To do this I must start with
a clear head, an unprejudiced mind, and a composed
body. I began to feel that I was prepared for it. I
felt strong, ready to grapple alike with foes mental
or corporeal, to meet the shadows of the dead, the
arm of flesh, or an intricate physiological problem
At ten o'clock I put on my boots and brushed my
66 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE,
hat It was hardly time to start, and I did not wish
to be on hand too early ; I knew that, once in the
street, I would walk at a very rapid pace and would
reach my destination in fifteen minutes ; so I linger-
ed. Then I played a tune on the piano. I know
nothing like music to reduce one's feelings to a
state of equilibrium. The story of Saul and his evil
spirit, driven away by the melodies of David, has al-
ways had a fascination for me. I have struggled oc-
casionally with evil spirits, myself, in the same
fashion ; and have found the method efficacious. I
advise persons of an irritable disposition to try it. I
am, however, passionately fond of music : those who
are not would possibly derive no benefit from the
trial.
I played a piece of Chopin's, a prelude. There
was no light but the fire-light, and the room was
getting shadowy and ghostly. Again and again I
played over the lust few chords ; and left the piano,
as I always leave it in fact, with a sense of regret. I
went to the mantel-piece ; on it was a bronze clock ;
the gilded hands pointed to hall-past ten. It was
time to start.
Another moment and I was on the way. How
different a night from the last ! The storm had
ceased ; clouds were still hurrying across the sky,
but the rain had stopped some hours before. In-
stead it was now turning cold, and tlie frost was
stiffening the mud under my feet as I passed on.
Ever and anon the clouds parted and the blue sky
appeared. There was no moon, but the stars shone
; i::. ■' ■
THE MYSTERY OF MARTKxi WARNE. 67
bright and clear. The wind liad also changed, and
was blowing from the north. The frosty air raised
my spirits still more and I felt a peculiar exaltation
of mind, something that I have frequently observed
in others, but never before experienced myself. I
thought of my walk the night before ; wondered if I
should see the policeman. I knew very well that
I would not . who ever saw a ghost when he ex-
pected to see one and was prepared to see one ? No
one I felt sure ; though I had always disbelieved in
ghosts, I know enough about them to know that.
But still I felt that something was going to happen,
and I felt a childish sense of eagerness. A new case,
some very peculiar disease or strange complication,
something out of the ordinary run always inspires a
medical man with an absorbing interest that a lay-
man views with feelings of mingled wonder and con-
tempt. I am always enthusiastic ; bj.t this was
something so strange, so unlocked for tiiat I hardly
knew how to restrain my feelings withm due bounds ;
yet so peculiar, and, on the face of it, so unnatural was
it that I dared not take anyone into my confidence.
Eveu as I walked alon^, with the recollection of all
that had happened the night before absorbing my
mind to the exclusion of every other thought, I once
or twice stopped and asked myself — •" is this true
— am I not; dreaming? — did it all really happen ?—
will I, indeed, find this house and this girl of whom
I hive dreamt all the day long?" So do these things
which impress us most deeply seem after a short
lapso of time.
68 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
St. Urbain street ! I turned the corner in such
haste that my foot slipped on a piece of ice, and I
almost fell over on my nose, liighting myself, I
resolved to be more cai'eful, lest any untoward acci-
dent should disable me. Then I pressed on more
rapidly than ever. It took nie no more than five
minutes to walk up the street. I strained my eyes
as I went. Yes, there was tlie high brick building,
there was the street lamp, there the lane, and there,
opposite, the three tall houses : yes, I was there at
last.
., The policeman was not to be seen ; but then I had
not expected him ; he had already served his pur-
pose ; he had directed me, as it were, to the room
where the hapless girl had been preparing to escape
from this world of trouble, and nothing more was
necessary. As to what his connection with her diffi-
culties had been, I expected to find out what it all
meant shortly. I was satisfied so far.
I opened the door and went in. A lamp was
burning in the hall ; I was expcQted. Taking a
hasty survey of the hall, I passed on, without stop-
ping, upstairs.
CHAPTER XIV.
The door of the room was open. I looked in.
The first glance re-assured me ; they were waiting for
me.
The girl was in bed as I had left her. I could not
see her face : but, from the position in which she
was lying, as well as from the general state of quie-
tude pervading the apartment, I knew that she was
in a comparatively composed state of mind. The
nurse, with her white scarf falling over the side of
her face, was sitting at tlie bedside with a book in
her hand ; her l)eads were lying on the bed a few
feet away from her. One caudle only was burning,
standing in the brass candlestick on the table, the
same as the night before. The face of Martha
Warne was turned from me. She did not appear to
be paying any attention to the devotions of her
nurse, who was not, indeed, reading aloud.
I rattled the handle of the door, so as not to alarm
them by breaking in upon them suddenly, and
entered. When the nurse .saw me, she rose and
advanced. The sound aroused the girl, and she
turned around in bed. Our eyes met. Greeting the
nurse with the usual respectful encjuiries as to how
she had passed the day, I passed on to the bedside
and bent my head.
69
70 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
*' You have come." " ' '^
This was all she said. Slie looked the better for
her rest during the day. Her iiair was brushed back
neatly from her forehead, and her lips were redder
and less lirmly compressed. Her eyes, however,
seemed to be larger, and brighter than ever, and full
of eagerT^ess. For the moment I almost felt sorry
for having promised to allow her to talk ; but, after
a moment's consideration, I pressed her hand and
answersd — " yes, I have come."
" Thank God !"
" How do you feel to-night ?" I asked.
" How do I feel ?" — happy ; happier than I liave
felt for — oh, for months. 1 feel as if, at last, it is all
coming to an end, as if," — " Hush !" 1 said, looking
in the direction of the nurse, "you have not told
her?"
" Told her ? No, I did not, Dr. Thorburn ; I could
not tell anyone. If one could see for himself, well ;
but I never could tell anyone what was killing me.
No," she added in a lower tone, " poor, good woman,
don't worry her ; she need never know. " You may
be sure of that," I said, " tell no one, except me if
you think it best, I am ready. Let me first, however^
speak to the nurse."
" The other room is ready for her," said the girl.
" Come, nurse, the doctor is ^'oing to send you off for
a sleep ; 1 have something to say to him, and he will
go out aa he came here, without troubling you, after
I have finished talking to him."
The nurse, while we had been speaking, had stood
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. il
at the door, looking thoughtfully at the floor.
What her thoughts were I could divine pretty well.
I had told her the night before, as we drove along
in the cab, that my patient's mind was in a slightly
disturbed state, and that great care was necessary in
dealing with her, so as not to interfere with her
whims. I went forward and motioned to her to no
into the hall. After moving up to the table, and
taking another candle from the drawer, which she
lighted, slie did so. I followed, and we closed the
door behind us.
As in duty bound, I asked for a full report of the
day. It was entirely satisfactory to me, if not to my
informant. Martha had talked wildly enough at
times, sometimes being, the nurse feared, on the
verge of delirium ; but it did not appear tliat she had
said anything of importance. " Her talk,'' said the
nurse, " was sometimes of men, sometimes of women,
oftener of some spirit which she seems to expect to
see before she dies. When I asked her about it,
however, I got no answer, I think she was in a kind
of dream at the time."
I commended the woman for her care, gave her a
few directions for the morrow, and saw her to her
room, not a very finely furnished apartment, but
quite equal to that of her patient. As the house
had been, until a few months previous, let to
lodgers, it liad not been diflicult for her to find
materials for furnishing a room for herself. As
soon as she was safely out of the way I returned to
Martha Warne.
72 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
The first thing thpt attracted my notice, as I re-
entered the room, was the dimness of the light.
Only one candle was burning, and, as I noticed
another candlestick on a little shelf which was
fastened to the wall behind the bed, and had noticed
also several spare candles in the drawer which the
nurse had opened, 1 asked leave to light another.
To my surprise the girl declined to permit me, I
asked the reason, wondering whether the light would
hurt her eyes. She answered in the negative, say-
ing that she would like best to tell her story in as
little light as possible. The idea seemed to me to
be an absurd one ; but, finding her to be in earnest,
I agreed to do with tlie one candle. This point
settled, I drew my eliair up to the side of her bed,
and prepared myself to hear her narrative. Before
beginning, she took a few niouthfuls of brandy. I
looked at my watch while she was drinking it ; it was
then exactly twenty-one minutes past eleven.
' ♦ ; .
CHAPTER XV.
I have now to relate the narrative of Martha Warne,
as told nie by herself. I shall give it (as nearly as
I can), in her own words. I remember every word
spoken by hei so distinctly, and can call to mind
so vividly the intonation of her voice throughout,
that I think I shall depart in very few instances
from her own language. As a matter of course it is
impossible to express on paper the accent used
when speakincj, the hesitancy, rapidity, calmness, or
agitation of the speaker ; these must be left to the
reader to imagine for himself. But I undertake to
give the sum and substance of what was said, and,
in nine cases out of ten, the true words from the
speaker's own lips, during this remarkable conversa-
tion. All comment I reserve until the end. It was
necessary for me, seeing that she was from beginning
to end labouring under the greatest mental excite
ment, to' question her and ask for explanations of
many of her remarks. In order to keep as nearly as
possible to the literal truth, I have made up ray
mind to reproduce all my questions and remarks as
they were asked or interjected at the time. Let me
•commence.
It was tweuty-one minutes past eleven, and I had
■drawn my chair up close beside the bed. After
73 . .
74 THE MYSTEBY OF MARTHA WARNE.
drinking a few mouthfuls of brandy-and-water
which I had given her, she turned round, putting
the tumbler down, and fixed her large dark eye»
upon me.
Dr. Thorburn.
" Yes."
" Dr. Thorburn — I wish to ask you a question.''
" Yes— Ask it."
" Dr. Thorburn — Dr. Thorburn 1" As she spok»
she rose in bed, leaning on her elbow, " Dr. Thor-
burn, tell me, how shall 1 tell it : — do you know that
I am the only living person who knows when and
where a man whom you and other people have look-
ed for many months and have never found nor yet
heard of, met his death ? — do you know that ?"
" No, no ; I do not : — whom 1" ^
" Dr. Hoegel !"
I started to my feet. Dr. Hoegel ? — Dr. Hoegel ?
The words seemed to ring through the room. It, rang
in my ears like a voice from the dead ; it rang out
in the night like a cry of appeal to me. Dr. Hoegel
— I took a few rapid steps to the door and then went
back again wringing my hands. I had expected
something strange, something unexpected, something
terrible ; but never, never, had I dreamed of tidings
of him, long lost, long unheard of, long given up by
all, friend and foe alike, as one whose fate would
never be known, whose grave would be forever un-
discovered !
I must now enter upon a slight digression in or-
der to explain who Dr. Hoegel was, and why the
•]!'E MYSTERY OF MARTHA WAUNE. 7S-
mention of his name should cause me so nuieh as-
tonishment. He was a youny; German doctor who
had settled in Montreal. An orpl.an, and driven
from his native country by the stringent laws re-
quiring military service, he had found a refuge in
Canada, and was engaged in Montreal in the study
of medicine. He was called doctor by Ids associates,
but, as a matter of fact, he never took a degree. This
young man was, for a couple of months, my assist-
ant. I had, therefore, every opportunity of knowing
him well. He was short and fat, with lightish brown
hair, inclining to baldness, and thin blue eyes. He
was not good looking ; his face was too devoid of
colour, and his lips were thick and ill-set. Like most
Germans he wore spectacles, which helped to de-
tract from his personal beauty and, as far as 1 could
see, served no useful purpose, for he never saw any-
thing of his own accord. As regards his character
I can say little. He was decide<lly honest; out-
spoken, to a fault ; so brusque, indeed, that my wife^
woman-like, took a dislike to him the first time he
appeared at our table, and never more than tolerated
him. He was very reserved, and scarcely ever ex-
pressed an opinion unless one were forced horn him*
when he did speak, he talked sensibly enough. A%
I do not like officious and voluble people, he tind I
agreed admirably ; I may say, indeed, that I never
had an assistant who suited nie better. I have known
many medical students whom I have conceived a
greater regard for; but that is quite another thing.
This young man left me about the middle of Sep-
76 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
tember and went into lodgings; and here comes in
the most remarkable part of the story. About the
middle of November, or rather earlier, for I think it
was the ninth of the month, he suddenly and com-
pletely disappeared. It was not a case of running
away to escape creditors or anything of that nature.
Most of liis bills were paid ; his clothes were left at
his lodgings, his entire efi'ects w»-re found at his place
of abode. One afternoon he left his room, saying
that he might not be home again before the next
•day ; and from that hour he was never seen again.
His disappearance at the time was the occasion of
much comment. The daily press talked the matter
over, suggested every accident that could possibly
befall a man within a radious of one hundred miles
of Montreal, and kept on discussing the matter until
there was nothing more left unsaid. The authorities
of the Medical College, where the unfortunate young
man had intended to grn<luate, offered a large sum
for information of his whereabouts, and left no stone
unturned to solve the mvsterv of his untimely dis-
«,ppearance. 1 interested myself, feeling myself to
be somewhat of the nature of a guardian of the young
fellow, and did everything 1 could think of to dis-
cover what had become of him. The result of all
our efforts put together was simply nil. He was last
seen by his landlady at four o'clock one Saturday
afternoon, wearing a dark gray tweed suit, with a
cloth cap. Standing in the doorway he had called
to her not to expect him home before the next day
about mid-day, adding that if anyone of his friends
TllK MVSTEUV OF MAUTHA. WARiNE. 7T
called to say that he was gone to Lacliine, The
landlady had promised, and that was the last she
saw of him. Since that hour he had never been
seen alive or dead. Such is the story of Dr. Hoegel,
and 1 leave it to my readers to imagine the effect
which the mention of his name by Martha Warne
produced on me.
For a moment, after resuming my seat, I buried
my face in my liands, to collect my thoughts. Then
I looked at her again. She was still sitting up
sideways in bed, resting on her elbow. Her eyes had
an unearthly brilliancy, and, I thought, a remorse
pictured in them which completely softened me.
Mechanically I asked the questions which rose to
my lips : —
"Dr. Hoegel — Dr. Hoegel — you tell me — is he
living or dead V*
" He is dead."
" He is dead ; you know it. And how did he die ?"
" He was killed — murdered."
" Murdered ?"
She bowed her head.
" And by whom ?"
" It was not I who did it ; but I stood by and saw
it done." - . .
" You ?" Again I involuntarily started to my feet.
This was a revelation too awful. But the sight of
the girl's face, full of remorse and sorrow, calmed me,
and again I resumed my seat. " Tell me, Martha
Warne, what it means ; let me know the worst you
have to tell. Only tell me the truth." ^,
.iJ_.;i»,3f ..i,* U&i ■ i^M - i-alioiil&^s&^&Kil^-.
78 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
" I will tell you everythiug. It. will take me some
time to do so, but you will be patient, Dr. Thoiburn.
I have longed to tell some one, longed to tell you,
for, oh, so many months! God only knows what I
have gone through since that night. 0, God for-
give me, God forgive me !"
I was silent Lriving her time to collect her thoughts
and overcome her emotion.
— •' It is a good wliile now, Dr. Thorburn, two
years about, since Dr. Hoegel lodged with us. Then
my mother was alive. He wasn't Dr. Hoegel at all,
I believe, but every one called him so ; and so didwe.
That was before he was in at the hospital as
much as he was afterwards ; at that time he would
have been with you, I think."
" Yes," I said, " two years ago he was my assist-
ant ; but, as you say, afterwards he was engaged
almost altogether in work which they gave him to
do up at the hospital."
" "Well, when he lived with us," she continued »
" I of course saw him a good deal. Though he
hadn't much to say, he was a nice spoken man when
he did speak, and we all liked him. He and I be-
came friends; I saw him every day for a little while
at a time, and gradually we got to know each other
well. You understand."
I was not quite sure that I did ; but I nodded
assent. " Well — well — now I must tell you some-
thing, Dr. Thorburn ; do you remember John Logan,
the policeman ?"
I gave another start at the name ; but she was so
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 79
intent on her story that she did not notice it, and
repeated the question. Did I know him ? Yes I
should say I did. " John Logan — you remember
him ? He died — died of — what did they say ? —
heart disease, at tlie end of last year. You knew
him ?"
" I knew him."
" John Logan, Dr. Thorbum, was attentive to me;
he was to marry me. He was a good many years
older than I, but he was a good honest man and
could afford to keep me well ; and though I didn't
like him at all when first I knew him afterwards I
agreed to marry him because I saw that I would be
getting a good husband."
" I see."
" Now — I must tell you ; the whole truth is this ;
John Logan was jealous of Dr. Hoegel."
"Ah!"
'' John Logan was jealous. ISTow Ifeelas if I must
have been to blame ; and yet I wasn't. At first I
never suspected such a thing. Dr. Hoegel was only
a lodger, and one must see a good deal of one's
lodgers. Often and often John came up to see us
and sat down there at the front door with a scowl
on his face and never saying a word, when I didn't
know what could be the matter with him, and hoped
this disagreeableness wouldn't grow on him. But it
did. He got worse and worse, every week, all sum-
mer ; and still I didn't know what was amiss with
him. I had a hard time off and on with him and my
mother ; she was ill and I had to wait on her all day
long besides looking after the house."
80 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
" And when did you find out vrhat was causing
this coolness towards you on the part of John
Logan ?"
" Not till Dr. Hoegel went away, which he did
on in the summer. Mother got worse and worse and
we began to feel that she was not going to get
well again. Then Dr. Hoegel left ; I couldn't spare
any time to look after his rooms, and mother and I
both thought it would be best for us to be alone»
Then, one night when John and I were alone to-
gether, he told me."
" He told you he had been jealous of Dr.
Hoegel ?"
"He did."
" And what happened ?"
" We quarrelled. I was very angry, so angry tliat
I forgot what I was saying and told John Logan I
would never speak to him again. I was angry
because I thought he might have known better. Dr.
Hoegel and I nevei' had anything to say to each
other that he might not have listened to. There
never was a v.'ord ^ sentiment between us. I used
to sew buttons on his shirts and do little things for
him, and he was grateful. He always paid his rent,
and never came home drunk, as so many of them
do. And we always spoke well of him when we got
the chance ; that was all. But John Logan had got
it into his head that I allowed him to make love to
me. John hated all the medical students. He had
broken some heads among them ; or they had broken
his, I dont know which ; and he hated them, one
and all."
THEVI YSTERY OF MAUTHA WAHNE. 81
" All policemen do," I said.
" Well John Logan did— just hated them. And
when I defended Dr. Hoegel and told him that he
had never done or said anything but what was ri'^ht,
he flew into a passion and swore he would knock
him on the head. This made me angry ; we were
both angry ; the more he talked, the more I laughed
'at him, tor it very foolish of him if he had only
known it. And we ended by breaking off our mar-
riage engagement."
" When was this ?"
" That was in August — no September ; in the
beginning of September ; and then for a few weeks
I saw no more either of Dr. Hoegel or John Lo«^an.
Dr. Hoegel I would not have seen anyway ; for it
V aid not have been like him to think of us and
come and see us ; he was not that sort of a man at
all."
" When did you see them again ?"
" Well at the end of September my mother died.
Just two days before her death, I met Dr. Hoe^^el
in the street and he asked after her. I told liim how
she was, and he ottered to come and see her, free of
charge. I allowed liim to come, and he came. That
was the last time I ever saw him — but one. He
could not help her any, she was past all help. Two
days after she was dead."
" Poor girl 1 — and what of John Logan ?"
" After mother died he came back. He said he
was sorry for what had happened, and asked me to
forget about it. At first I didn't want to, but I was
F
' /
■r'^r\
$2 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WAIJNE.
lonely and sick, and I had to take new lodgers ; and
with one thing and another 1 was so distracted in
my mind that 1 took liini back again. Dr. Hoegel I
never saw or heard of in those times. I think John
knew chat, and we got along pretty smootlily. All
throngh October we u.^ed to see each other every
other night, and things went on just as they should
have done. Then it all came to an end."
" What came to an end?"
" Everything — everything. Oh, Dr. Thorburn,
what I have lived to see ! God only knows it all.
IS^ either you nor any one can help me now. What
time is it ?"
I looked at my watch. " Twenty minutes to
twelve." She breathed a sigh of relief.
" I have so much to tell, Dr. Tliorburn — and I
wish to have plenty of time. You have been in
Montreal for a good many years, haven't you ? Do
you knovv St. Laurent ?"
" St. Laurent — the village of St. Laurent. Yes,
1 know it ; I have driven out there, several times.
Of all the places near Montreal, however, 1 know it
the least."
" Who would want to know it ?" said the girl with
some bitterness ; " no one, I sliould think, who coukl
help it. But I have an aunt there, an old woman
who lives alone, so full of whims and nolions thai
no one can live with lier. And on in November,
two months after my mother died, this old aunt took
sick ; ,ftnd I used to go out to see her every day I
could spare the time."
THE MYSSTEIIY OF MAliTHA WAIiNE. 83
" How did you go ?"
" Twice I drove, but at other times I walked. It
is six miles, and too far for me, for I was always
tired. But when I walked out I used to stay over
all night and that rested me."
^ And you went alone ?"
'* That is what I am going to tell you. Sometimes
I went alone ; but sometimes John Logan went with
me. It all depended on the time of day ; he was
on duty part of the day ; and if I didn't wait for
him I had to go by myself. But I didn't mind that."
" Did he drive you ?"
" No, he walked with me. And sometimes I went
out one way and came back another ; that is, 1 drove
out in tlie morning and walked into town at night.
And John would walk out to meet me, you see, and
bring me home.''
I nodded.
" Well, JJr. Thorburn, now I must tell you this
dreadful story. You won't hardly believe it, for it
sounds too strange to be true. But it is true. And
this is what happened. One night John' came to
visit me, and I told him that I wanted to go out to
St. Laurent the next day. He said very well, that
I had better drive out in the morning, and he would
walk out and meet me in the evening. I agreed to
this, and we made arrangements ; I was to leave St.
Laurent about half-past seven in the evening, and
he would meet me about a mile from the village.
Xo one is ever afraid to walk on the village road,
you know, for there are always a number of people
84 THE MYSTEEY OF MARTHA WARNE.
round, and everythiDg is quiet. John could not get
off earlier, or I would not have put it off to so late
an hour. "Well, that was the arrangement we made ;
and, the next morning, I drove out, as p^-oposed. I
stayed all day with my aunt, and, after tea was over
made arrangements to come home. I didn't like the
look of the sky ; it seemed to be threatening rain ;
but it wasn't raining at seven o'clock, and I deter-^
mined to start and take my chances. I knew John
would never fail to come, and I did not want him to
have a longer walk than was necessary.
Well — my aunt objected^ said it wasn't fit for me
to start for such a long walk, and prophesied rain —
but I didn't listen to her. I knew that John would
not be able to stay out at St. Laurent all night, and
thought it would be such a long walk back for him.
if he had to come all the way ; so I started. I had
an umbrella and a water proof, so Ididn't feel afraid
of the rain. My aunt shook her head at me, but 1
paid no attention to that ; at half-past seven I waa
off.
At first it was pleasant enough ; bat after I got
out of the village it seemed to come up thick like a
mist. You know what a mist is. One can stand a
heavy rain better ; and, when once you get soaked
through and through, you can plod along with the
water running in at your toes and out at your heels.
I don't mind anything so long as I can see, but I
hate perfect darkness. There should have Ijeen a
moon, and we spoke of its being moonlight when
we planned our walk. Even if it had rained there
THE MYSTERY OF MA.RTHA WARNE. 85
•would have been light enough for me to see the
fences and the gutter. But a thick mist — I felt
afraid when I thought of it.
It came up, however, thicker and thicker. I
felt frightened, and got flurried. There wasn't any-
thing really to be afraid of, and I laughed at myself
for being nervous ; but still I was. I began to think
of all sorts of queer things, of things I had read
about, and ghosts and bad men. I felt ashamed too,
but I couldn't help myself, and wished John would
come. Of course it wasn't very late, and I hadn't
gone a great way , but it seemed far, and I didn't
know what to do. I counted one, two, three, four,
live, six, and so on ; and thought perhaps when I
got to a hundred I would meet John. But I didn't.
Then I counted to a thousand ; but still I went on
without meeting anybody. And then I began to get
nervous to such an extent that I couldn't walk
straight, but kept tumbling into the gutter ; and
once or twice I ran into the fence."
" And did you meet no one ?"
" At first I did. And if I had been wise, I would
have gone into a house. But after a while, vou
know, there are no more houses, and then every
minute I thought I must meet John Logan. I was
sure he would come at the time he promised."
" And something kept him — "
" Of course. He was a policeman, and T should
have known that he wasn't always able to do as he
liked. But he always had come when he had ar-
ranged to, and I never thought of hi3 failing me
86 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WAHKE.
this time. But I wns in a terrible pliLjht. I walked
on and on and on, stumbleil over stones, got into the
gutter and got my feet wet. 0, I had a luiserable,
miserable time ! At last T felt tired out, and com-
menced to cry."
" And had you any idea how far vou had aoue ?"
" Not for a long while. I cried for a \\lnle, and
then I stopped : it seemed so stupid to ciy. I'ut I
couldn't help myself. Even then it was as if some-
thing dreadful was going to happen, I had that
feeling ; I can't well e.xplain it. I felt tired, too,
and wished I had a place to sit dow7i to wait for
John. I thought if I could only sit still for a little
while it would be all right. But 1 sat down just for
one moment, and tlie stillness was — oh, horrible !"
" And then you went on again ?"
" Then I went on ag lin the same as before only
worse. I had lost all p )wer of command over my-
self, and could have yelled at the least thing."
" Was it raining at all ?''
" No, there was no rain ; I don't think it rained
that night. Only ajioriid mist over everything quite
blinded me. I wouldn't have minded rain."
" Well — and you say you went on the same as
before ?"
" The same as before — I don't know how long ; it
seemed a fearful time. Well, I told you I was
always running into the fence or into the gutter, or
stumbling over stones ; — I was going along as usual,
when, all of a sudden, I ran up against something
hard. I put out my umbrella and felt it ; ir was a
THE MVriTEUV OF MAMTilA WAKNE. 87
Stone wall. Then I looked about me very closely, and
found out that I was near two stoue gate-posts.
From that I knew where I was."
" And where were you ?"
*' I was in a place on the road to St. Laurent,
that is called the ' Devil's Hollow.' You know the
place, Dr. Thorburn."
" No ; never heard of it," I said ; nor indeed had
I. " Why is it called by such a name ?"
•' I don't know," she said. " There is some story
of some bad men of some sort who are all buried
there together ; I think that is how it gets its name.
But I don't know much about it. You remember,
don't you, that the lioman Catholic cemetery is
there, the French burying-ground they call it. It
was one of the stone po.sts of the gate leading into
the graveyard, that I had run against. When'I
found this out, I felt a cold shudder creep over me,
and I fell riglit-down on my knees. I don't know
how long it lasted, but it was a horrid feeling."
I could sympathize with her ; but I said nothing,
letting her continue without interruption.
" After a while, T got the better of this feeling.
At first I fincied I could see into the burying-
ground, and thought I could distinguish the white
grave-stones. But this was mere fanc}, I knew it
must be, e\ en then, for if I could not see three yards
ahead of n>e in any direction, how could I distin-
guish something white over a fence and u\) a hdl, a
considerable distance off! I determined not to
think about the grave-yard at all, and started off.
i'rw' ■< ■■ " 7'i , '-', • . "'V jrsif"''.' •■••■'V,
•
88 THE MY8TEUY OF MAETHA WARNE.
along the roacl. Do you know I almost felt better
then ; 1 had more courage, more spirit, more strength
to go on with, wasn't this strange ? '
" No,'" said I, " there is nothing more certain than
what is called reaction. After intense fear, comes
resolution, after intense grief, a sense of resignation.
Your feeUngs were natural. But go on with your
story, you say you started off anew, in better spirits
than before."
" I started, but I didn't go far, I couldn't have
got more than fifty yards from that gate, when some-
thing made me look back. And, lookino- back, I
saw ;i light !"
" A light : what kind of a light?"
"A lantern ; I could tell that much about it, and
no more. There was just the glimmer that you
w Jidd expect to see from a lantern seen through the
mist. 1 saw it and stopped, I couldn't iielp feeling
rather glad to see it, for I was — oh, so lonely ; and I
knew it must be carried by some one. But one
thing made me feel queer ; it was just coming out of
the gate of the burying-ground. That frightened
me ; I was half glad and half sorry, and just stood
still where I was."
" How very strange '" 1 could not help the remark,
although it was quite unnecessary.
" Strange ? You woold have thought so, Dr
Thorburn, if you had been me, and stood there. It
^(■as strange. As I said a minute ago, I did not
know how to feel about it. It frightened me very
much, especially as it was coming out of the grave-
•s
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 89
yard. But then I never used to believe in ghosts,
and I felt that it must be a man and not a ghost. I
had that feeling, and it re-assured me. And then I
thought to myself that it coiddn't be a bad man ;
for why would any bad character want to go prow-
ling round in a burying-ground at night with a
lantern, there seemed to be no reason for such a
thhig. Of course I own to being afraid as well ; I
couldn't lielp being a little nervous at such a
time, and at such a sight ; but of the two feelings I
think I felt more pleased than not."
" And what did you do?"
" Do ? I wair.ed. I waited to see what would
happen. I stood still where I was, and watched the
light. It came out of the gate, just past the stone
post that I had run into ; if I had stayed there three
minutes longer, it would have passed so close to me
that I would have been able to touch the person
who carried it. Well, I watched and watched. At
first it seemed to stand still outsi<le the gate ; it did
stand still for about two minutes, then it moved
round a little witliin a small space. I felt sort of
nervous all the time. But after a while it began to
come slowly in my direction ; then my heart began
to beat."
" And vou called out."
"Yes, 1 called out. Not just at first; but it
•came nearer and nearer, I felt my heart beat-
ing louder and louder. Then I couldn't help
myself, and I called out something. I don't
really know what I said ; I don't think it was any-
M ■
90 THE MYSTE^n' OF MAItTIIi\^ WARNE.
thing coherent. But at the sound of my voice the-
light stopped and seemed to half disappear" : —
" What do you mean by Art//disappear ?"
"Well — I tliougiit the man who was carrying it
put the lantern behind him ; I could see a glimmer,
but not a clear light, as I had a minute before."
'• And what then ?"
"For a time I stood still and the light stood still
— for quite a little while neither it nor I stirred.
But at last I telt that I couldn't stand that any
lonoer, and began to advance towards it. I went on
very slowly and cautiously, for I was rather afraid.
I had taken about half a dozen steps when it began
to move back. Well then I simply didn't know
what to do. T felt as if I musn't lose sight of it,
though, so I followed it. It went on slowly back-
wards, about a hundred yards fi'oni where I saw it
first, up the road 1 had come. I followed. Then it
crossed over to the other side of the road ; up to this
time, you know, we had both been near the fence on
that side of the road on which the cemetery is ; it
crossed over, and, when it got nearly to the fence on
the opposite side from me, ran quickly past me up
the way we had just come. Do you understand
me?
" Perfectly," T said ; " the light went on again to-
wards the cemetery gate."
" Not exactly that, for it was the other side of the
road it was on now. As it passed me I could clearly
discern the figure of a man through the mist ; l)ut of
course I couldn't tell anvthin'.:^; about him."
THE MYSTERY OF M.VUTHA WAUNE. 91
" Did you speak again ?"
" Yes, I called out twice, 'stop.' I felt as if I
must speak to him. I called out ' stop' twice, but
he paid no attention to it at all."
** And what then ?"
" Well — you know, Dr. Thorburn, girls are curious.
I ran after the Ught. I was just in such a temper,
then, that I could have run after anything alive. I
never used to hi a coward in the old times before —
before this. I never was afraid of things. This night
I had been nervous, of cours>:i ; but it was something
new to me to be so. I never usad to be afraid of
anything."
" An' I you ran after the light ?"
" I ran after it. But it went faster than I did,
and 1 couldn't catch up to it. It went on and on.
It was on the side of tlie road. There the road is
pretty high in the middle, and tliere is a deep ditch
on the side of the road we weie on then ; on the
other side, where the cemetery is, there is hardly any.
I had to go along carefully to keep from tumbling-
over into the ditch. We went on and on, down the
road, a good piece beyond the cemetery gate. Then,
all at once, I saw the light, which was bv this time
some distance ahead of me, go down the side of the
road into the ditch. It didn't seem as if the man
had tumbled or slipped, but as if he had run down.
I didn't stop to think, but ran on ; when I got to the
place where I had seen the light go over the side of
the road, I went over too."
'* And where was the light now ?"
" It had disappeared completely ; I didn't know
'92 THE MYSTEllY OF MARTHA WAKNE,
just precisely at what moment I had lost it ; Vmt one
thing was certain, it was ji^one. I stopped to think
again
o
»»
"You had gone down into the ditch ?"
" Yey, I had. And the grass there was long and
damp, and it made me shiver; and I called out
again, and came very near giving way to another
crying spell. Now that the light was gone it seemed
worse than ever, and I felt like despair."
"And did you search round for any traces of this
man with the lantern who had so suddenly disap-
peared ?"
'• No, but I must hurry on. I was walking slowly
along in this ditch among the long grass when I fell
on something. My feet struck wood. I looked
•down, and what do you think I saw ?"
"I cannot tell: what?"
" A long v/ooden box, lying on the ground."
" Nonsense : is it possible !"
" There it was. Oh my God, shall I ever forget
it ! But there I stood with my feet touching it, and
my dress trailing over it. A long wooden box such
as they use to put in graves. My mind at once, a
it were, Hew to the cemetery, and I imagined that
it had been brought out and left there, to be put in
a grave on the next day. Dr. Thorburn, I couldn't
help myself ; 1 put out my hand, took hold of the
lid and raised it" —
** Ah — and inside ?"
" As I did so, a hand was raised ; a man who had
been lying in it started up ; and, in another mo-
ment, I was throwiTlielpless on the ground 1"
CHAPTER XVI.
I stood up ; I was interested beyond measure ;.
had I been reading of such a thing I would have felt
a certain stirring of the mind at such a sensational
story ; but to have it thus brought home to me as
the truth in its nakedness, told by a girl like Martha
Warne and at such a time ; — it was startling, in-
deed. I stood up in my excitement, but she mo-
tioned to me to be seated again. She evidently
wished to go on with the recital with as few inter-
ruptions as possible. I appreciated her motives, for
it was well that she should have, in such a state of
body and mind as slie then wai?, no more contradic-
tion or opposition than one felt absolutely necessary,
for her own well-being. As soon as I had resumed
my seat she went on : —
" At first I was stunned. I had been pushed over
very gently, all things being considered, and was
much frightened, but not hurt. No wonder that I
was frightened, was it ? Who ever heard of such a
thing happening before ! I just fell over like, hardly
touched by the man's hand, on the grass. You can
fancy how it was. There I lay, as I said, stuuned,
limp for a while.
" Did the man jump out ?" I asked.
" I couldn't tell then, Dr. Thorburn ; but half a
93
94 THE MYSTERY OF MAIITHA WAK.NE.
minute afterwards, I turned my head over, for the
grass was lun^' and wet ; and there was the man
stantiiiig wiili liis back to me; and he held the lan-
tern in his hand !"
" Martha Warne ! — Martha Warne !"
" It flashed across my mind, sir, that I must
escape. As frightened as I was, 1 knew that I hadn't
a moment to spare. I started up as quick as light-
ning, and turned round in the direction of St. Lau-
rent. 1 dont know what kept me ; but just for a*
second 1 paused to get my breath — and in that
second he turned — and it was Dr. Hoegel !"
I was prepared to hear as much. All along I had
had vague premonitions that Dr. Hoegel was destined
to figure in her extraordinary story in one way or
another ; and 1 was not surprised to find that it had
been he who had been carrying the light up and
down the road, J guessed even at his motive, as one
will fiy from one idea to another, for being in such
.a place at such a time. But of course I left every-
thing for her to tell me, herself; and besought her to
proceed with her narrative as calmly as she was
. able.
She did proceed, though not as calmly as before,
. to tell me all she said to him, and all he had said
to her, Henceforward she was more nervous than
before, her sentences were less clear and concise,
. and she onattetl saying many things that she
obviously int«3nded to say, while repeating much that
-was unnecessary.
" All your exclamations of astonishment, surprise,
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARXE. 95
and satisfaction that it should happea to be he and
not a stranger, I can picture to myself," I said,
drawinjT my chair a little further away so as to rest
my elbow on the table. " I can imagine it all. It
must have been an unspeakable relief to you — and
to him, too, in fact ; for if it had been a perfect
stranger, he woula hardly have known how to act.*'
She blushed. " Oh, Dr. Thorburn, if it only hcul
been some one else 1 Yes, at the time, I felt so
relieved when I saw that it was he, that I sat right
down on the grass and began to cry. I couldn't help
it. Everything had seemed so horrible, and 1 felt so
safe all of a sudden ; you can't understand how I
felt."
" I think I can," I said ; "the feeling was a natu-
ral one, and inevitable under the circumstances.
What did you do next ?"
" For a while, nothing. I sat there, and he stood
and looked at me. Then he asked me how on earth
I had happened to be there."
" And you told him ?"
" Yes, I told him. — -And then he told me how he
had happened to be there, too. And — and — Oh, Dr.
Thorburn, I cant tell you all — "
" But you must, if possible. Try, my dear girl, to
be calm. Take some more of the brandy and go on
with your story as ((uietly as possible. Here."
I gave her some brandy and she resumed.
" Well — Dr. Thorburn — I can't repeat his words,
but he was telling me how he ha;^ ned to be on
the St. Laurent road, and what the box was for.
96 THE MYSTERY OF MAETHA WARNE.
It was for — for — for a dead man whom they wanted
to carry off from the cemetery — "
" * They ' — who ? — were there two of them ?"
" Not then ; but there had been. Dr. Hoegel and
another student had come out together, but the
other man had gone back to Montreal."
" Why ?"
* Well ; I think this was the way of it ; they had
come out together and brought the box ; they put
it in the ditch because they knew it would be safe ;
and Dr. Hoegel was to stay and watch while the
other man was to come again with a third man .
about two o'clock in the morning, and the three of
them were to go to work. But he had got tired of
waiting so long, and he thought that no one
would discover him in the mist, so he lit his
lantern and went up into the cemetery to look
round a bit. He was coming out of the cemetery
when I saw him first."
" Yes, I remember ; and 'how did he manage to
get into the box ?"
" easily ; it was an idea that occurred to him
when he found that I was following him ; he thought
I was a man, and he wanted to frighten me. He
said the idea took hold of him, and he couldn't
Resist trying it. He laughed too, at the fright he had
given me. He said I would not go wandering on
lonely roads after night any more."
I could well imagine all this. Hoegel was just
the man to play some wild, weird trick such as this,
on the spur of the moment. I could see it all. " A\\
1
THE MYSTEIIV" OF MARTHA WAll.VE. 97
this I can understand quite well, I said leaning
back iu my chair and feeliny; a little puzzled ; " bul
I don't see what could have happened afterwards. I
shouM have thought that, after finding him, all
would have gone well. " What happened when this
conveisation came to an end ?"
At tills question she started. Her face became
livid, her lip:^ grew white, her eyes seemed to shrink
back in lier head, her whole frame heaved convul-
sively. When she spoke, her voice was low and
hoarse.
— " When this talk of ours ended ? — Dr. Thor-
burn, it never ended ! While I was talking to him
— we were standing say three feet apart — all at
once — a heavy blow fell on his head, on his poor
innocent head — he was just then opening his mouth
to speak to me — and down he fell to the ground —
poor Dr. Hoegel ! oh God, oh God, how cruel !"
As she spoke, she fell over in bed in a sort of fit.
I rushed to the bedside and endeavoured to soothe
her. Uttering a low plaintive cry, she rocked herself
backward and forward on the bed, her long brown
hair falling over the pillows. It was a most pitiful
scene, and one thit will remain pictured on my
mind forever. If ever saw I remorse in any humau
soul it was iu hers. And yet there was really no
great occasion for remoiise on iier plirt ; she had been
guiltless of the blow, innocent of the intent. But
the effect of it had been too strong for her, too much
for her nervous system to bear ; and so I think she
had gone on until she at last actually imagined her-
Q
98 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
s^lf to be the perpetmtor of the deed itself, instead
of an innocent witness of the crime. This is my
only explanation of such remorse and acute anguish
of mind as she exhibited that night ; I can think of
no other.
" John Logan.'' — It was the first word she pro-
nounced distinctly, after the hysterical fit from which
she was su fieri ng began to subside. 1 needed, how-
ever, no telling to convince me that it was he who
had dealt the blow. John Logan — yes, it was John
Logan. He had stolen up noiselessly from behind,
attracted by the sound of voices ; and, seeing his
betrothed in conversation with, as he believed,
his hated rival, had, in a moment of sudden passion,
raised his stick and dealt the fatal blow.
" JHe did not mean it ! — Dr. Thorburn, he never
meant it — hate John Logan as I do and ever shall,
I do him this justice — he never meant to kill him,
never ! It was so quick, so sudden ; he stole up, not
knowing who we were ; and he thought — oh, such
terrible things of me — and just to vent his passion
for the moment — Oh Heaven, how do I live to
think of it !"
Again I begged her to be calm, and urged her to
take a little rest. She asked me what hour it was,
and I looked at my watch ; it was about a quarter
to twelve. She leaned back on the pillow, saying she
would rest for a few minutes, and turned her head
away. While she rested I took a short walk into
the hall, and looked out of the window. It was a
beautiful starlight night, the ground was frozen hard,
THE MYSTERY OF MA.RTHA WARNE. 9'J
and the street shoue in the frosty air with a sort of
hazy brightness. I looked for the form of the police-
man, but he was not visible ; John Logan the mur-
derer, the criminal — what a tale of horror could
those cold lips have told, those lips that I had seen
lying stiff in death, had they been able to speak ! —
what a man — powerful, resolute, self-contained—
and what a history ! — and how little the world had
guessed it !
But I must go on with the story as told by
Martha Warne. After about ten minutes I returned
to her room, and sat down on my chair as before. I
saw at once that she was calmer, and able to pro-
ceed with her narrative.
■•••■•■•••••••.••:••;:•;.•..:; ;:•
• » • • •
♦ • • I
I •,• ;,,
CHAPTER XVII.
" Did you ever kill a man, Dr. Thorbiirn ?"
It was a rather singular question. I suppose,
being a doctor, if I had looked at it from the point
of American comic fiction, I should have answered
that it was my daily practice to extinguish human
life. But I did not look at it from that point ; I
said no.
" Of course you never did ! But I say that, Dr.
Thorburn, because you couldn't imagine the feeling
at seeing a man dead whom you have killed your-
self. — Yes, I know ; I didn't do it myself, not with
my own hands — I know what you would say ; — but
I was there ! — Well, do you think you would be
overcome with feelings of remorse and fear and pity
and such as these ? — Not a bit. I never felt less
inclined for all 3uch feelings than just then. It
sounds strange, but it is true. And John Logan —
oh, he was just as calm as you are now. You ?
calmer, a great deal. He never moved a muscle,
never said a word. I spoke first, and I spoke of the
necessity of biding the body and doing it immediately.
I told him of .the other student, wbo was coming out
to'iht? i^iV"1^^^^$'^?'!*^!*P?f»Jl^ ^h® i^ight, and
W8cnied*hitn 'that 'the bQiJy.musUlic.. hidden and we
niyi^t* "ji'.'.out: t)f| jSle • wjijj : iifGi^'.'^he young man
ap|)ekfed olf the'scene. fte agreed with me."
THE MYSTEUY OF MARTHA WARNE. 101
" One moment," I said ;" did you not take any
measures to see whether poor Hoegel was not' pos-
sibly still alive and only stunned ? Was that not
possibly the case ?"
A horrified look came over her face.—" Oh yes,
yes ! For a long time we hoped — or, at least, /
hoped , John didn't seem to. But he got cold before
long. Oh yes, he was quite dead. We listened for
his heart to beat for a long time, but it had stopped.
Oh it was a fearful blow, a fearful blow ; it was too
much to hope for that he wasn't dead. We knew
he must be. And after looking anxiously for every
possible sign of life, we began to make preparations
for hiding our crime."
". Say Logan's crime," I said ; " I hate to hear you
identifying yourself with him. Yes, no doubt the
blow killed him ; a blow on the head will kill a
man, if only it is heavy and dealt in the right place.
Where was he struck ?"
" On the side of his head, about four inches from
his left eye. Don't ask me to say more about it,
please, doctor ! I can't think of it even. Oh Heaven !"
I shook my head several times to signify that I
would ask no more questions of the kind ; and mo-
tioned her to proceed with the story. She continued,
" There we stood, the two of us, Dr. Thorbum,
with the body beside us. As I told you a minute
ago, the first thing that we thought of was how we
should save yourselves. I didn't feel nervous. I
hoDed now that the mist would last all night and
the next day. It would conceal our crime as nothing
else could."
102 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
** I am impatient beyond measure," I said, " to
know what you did. It was never discovered."
" Never ! Why ? Because we made discovery too
easy. Well, let me tell you what we did. John said
first it would be madness to leave him there in the
ditch, seeing that we were goinjr on to Montreal and
his friend was coming to join him. We muwt there-
fore move him somewhere, if only to batHe the pur-
suit of justice for a few hours.
** First John looked one side of the road and then
the other. On one side, that is on the opposite side,,
was the cemetery. The cemetery was not to be
thought of ; it was the first place the friend would
go to. The other side of the road, that is the side
we were, was a field. We couldn't see far into it,,
but John jumped the fence to go and spy, while I
sat down on the ground and waited. We both fei i
that our lives were in danger, and we kept cool and
made the most of our time. Dr. Thorburn, you can-
not imagine it !"
"I cannot," I said. "Go on."
" In two minutes — it seemed a long time, but it
couldn't have been longer than that — John came
back. He had been in the field, and said that
there was a dense clump of bushes and trees the
other side of it. He had made up his mind to take
the body there.
** I didn't know what to say ; it seemed to me that
it couldn't be done. But it was done. First — can
you believe it ? — he took up the body of Hoegel in
his arms and carried it over there."
THE MYSTEKY OP MARTHA WABNE. 103
" T remember John Logan," I said. " He was a
man of immense physical strength ; I can believe
that he was able to do it. But how about the box ;
what did he do with it?"
" He took it too. He didn't carry it, at least not
further than the fence. I had to help him. I thought
it would kill me. I staggered under it, although I
only had to steady it. And just after we got over
the fence we heard the sound of wheels."
" A carriage was coming."
" Yes, and we heard men's voices."
" And what did you do ?"
" We cowered down behind the fence, the two of
us. John held ms by the hand. It came nearer and
nearer, and we knew that, if it was the other stu-
dent, we were lost. John was ready to make a des-
perate fight."
"And you?"
'* I fainted. I felt as if I must scream out ; but I
didn't scream ; I fainted away. When I came to my
senses again I found that the men had driven on.
We were saved."
" And then you went on with your labour of drag-
ging the box along ?"
" Yes, but it was not hard work ; I did nothing,
the ground there was hard ; it had been a pas-
ture land I think in summer, and was firm; the
box left no mark. John would tip it up en end and
then let it down gently again, and kept on doing so
until we got to the clump of trees. When we got
104 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE,
there he put the body of Dr. Hoegel inside, and be-
gan to fill the box with earth."
" Where was it placed ?"
" Under a big maple tree that has small vushes
growing densely all round it. You can see it from
the road. It is quite a small cluster of trees, but so
conspicuous that no one would suspect it of hiding
anything."
" But weren't all those premises thorouglily search-
ed afterwards ? How was ii that this was never dis-
covered ?"
" We never knew ; but I think it was too easily
seen, and people could look right round the trees
and bushes and never thought of there being any-
thing there."
" And did it take John Logan long to complete
his work V
" A long time. And, while he was do* ig it, I did
a dreac \\ thing. I knelt down on the grass, on the
wet grass, in all the mist and rain, and said a prayer.
Oh, it seemed so awful ! Dr. Thorburn, when that
ni[;ht comes back to me I feel thankful that I have
not long to live !*'
I knew not what to say. It were a mercy, I felt,
if her life were indeed a short one. She seemed
anxious to finish the story of this fearful crime, and,
to help her, 1 asked a number of questions.
" After your work was completed- -what then ?
Did you retui^^ by the St. Laurent road to Mont-
real?"
" No. We returned to Montreal, but not by the
THE MYSTERY OF MAJITHA WARNE. 105
St. Laurent road. John made me walk away round
by a road five miles out of our way. I had
to do it — and the first part of the way we ran. We
got home at five in the morning ; and since that day
I have never known a moment's peace !"
CHAPTER XVIII.
Poor girl ! I had heard of man}^ a melancholy
tale ; but none so sad as this. As I looked at her
lying back on the pillows, her long hair flowing round
her shoulders, and her dark eyes gazing wistfully up
at me, I felt a sinking at the heart. A wild, rebel-
lious ieeling took possession of me. All the old
questions of the sceptic and the philosopher, as to-
the unjustifiableness of unmerited suffering rushed
upon my mmd in a storm. It seemed hard ; hard
was no word for it ; it was cruel, for she, herself, had
done no wrong. I was anxious, however, to know
what the relations between her and John Logan had
been after this night of terror. I asked her the
question.
" John Logan ?" she said, fixing her eyes upon
me. " I never saw him again — never ! When he
left me that night I said to him at the door, and
these were the last words that ever passed between
us — * John, you have killed him ; you are a mur-
derer I I will keep your secret, in life and in death,
so help me God ! But never, never, so long as you
live in this world, come near me or speak to me
again. If ever you do, remember this, that my oath
will be broken that day, and I will deliver you into
106
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 107
the hands of justice.' And he never answered me.'"
" And you saw him no more from that houi ?"
"No mure."
" And he never wrote nor held any communicatioa
with you ?"
" Never. And I kept my oath until this hour. I
heard of his death ; people said, the papers said
* heart disease.' Ah, the same heart disease as I have
had to struggle with ever since that night, only, per-
haps, ten times more horrible — for he was a mur*-
derer ; I am not. Yes, I kept my oath to John Lo-
gan until to-night ; I told nobody. But it had to be ;
I had to tell my story ; otherwise I could not die—
and oh, I have so wished to die !"
" You wish to die — md yet you are innocent ?"
" It is not that I am innocent or guilty, not that,
no. If I were guilty it would be the same thing,
perhaps ; perhaps f.ir worse ; yet how coulJ it be
worse 1"
" Tell me what you mean," I said, " I don't under-
stand you."
" You did not see him, Dr. Thorburn ?"
" See whom ?"
" Dr. Hoegel."
" When ?"
" Last night."
" Ah !" I said, standing up and looking around ;.
it was he, then, that came into this house last night,
while I was waiting in the hall ?"
" It was."
A look of triumph came over her wan face. I, tht
108 THE MYSTERY OF MAETHA WARNE.
sceptic, the pitying physician, with his half contempt-
uous compassion, was at last convinced. " Do the
dead ever come back V she had asked me ; I had
answered by a vain smile of incredulity. Hence-
forward T would refrain from answering such a
question. I would be silent.
" Then you did see him V*
" No, I did not see him ; but I knew, I felt — I do
not know what " —
" I know ! Dr. Thorbun. every night — every
night — not once, or twice, or three times, since that
terrible evening, I have seen him. Every night he
comes ; only for a moment — but he is there ! I
have hoped for an end of this, I have done every-
thing I could to escape it, but in vain. And my
lodgers have gone, everything is gone ; people say
the house is haunted. I have slept in other houses ;
but it is still with me. People say I am mad;
perhaps I am. I went to you. Dr. Thorburn, one
night some time ago— you wont remember now — to
tell you all about it, and to ask you for your advice;
but my heart failed me, and, before you came down-
stairs, I ran away. Another time I went to another
doctor ; but when I saw him coming, I left him, too,
in the same fashion. At last I went to you again,
and you know what happened then. You did not
■understand me, and could not help me. I don't
know what brought you here to me, last night ; but
I thank God for it, whatever did. You have come,
and you have heard my story. That was all I
wished for — nothing more. I am innocent of his
THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 109
death, but I cannot escape from him, he comes and
haunts me, and there is nothing left for me but to
die. Now that I have told all I can die in peace."
To die I How calmly she said it ! And she
spoke with so much certainty that it seemed well-
nigh ridiculous for me to answer her. In a case like
hers, what could / do— I, who had never until this
night believed that such a case could exist in the
world, chnt such things could befall any human
being — what could / do ! I did not tell her how I
came to enter the house, I thought it better not to
mention my having seen the form of policeman
Logan at the street corner. She, it was evident,
was not in the habit of seeing him. His victim, she
had told me, haunted her. So great and so firmly
fixed is my disbelief in ghosts and apparitions that
I could never have believed the latter part of her
story if it had not been for my own experience of
the night before. When I could explain that or
laugh at it, I felt that I would have a right to ques-
tion her tale ; not till then.
" Your story," I said, " is the most wonderful and
also the saddest I think I ever heard of. Fou have
indeed suffered everything ; and, worst of all, it is
hard for me to say how I can help you.''
" Help me, Dr. Thorburn ? You have heard my
story, that is enough of itself Tell me, do you
think it was wrong for me to break my oath to
John ?"
" No," I said, " I am sure you have done right. I
do not know that I can reason the matter out, but I
110 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA AYARNE.
feel that you have done right in this thing ; you have
done your duty. But " —
" Hush !"
"What is it?" I cried.
" Listen."
I listened. The street door was opening below.
My eyes sought Martha Warne's. One look was
enough ; I knew what was coming. Not a word
passed between us. I felt my heart beating. A cold
ti'emor seized hold of me — no, I could not look on
him, I must not see him. With a wild, half childish
instinct of self-preservation, I pulled my chair close
to the bed and buried my face in the clothes, shut-
ting my eyes tight.
Then I^ waited — I am almost ashamed to tell it —
but I waited with my head buried in the clothes, for
the form of the dead man to come and go. I felt
the same cold sense of horror that I had felt before
when I first saw the figure of the dead policeman.
Now that it is all past and over, I regret extreemly
that I did not look up. I knew Dr. Hoegel
well when he was alive, and I would have given
much afterwards to have felt that I could as
it were, identify him. But at the moment I was
powerless to move, powerless to look up. It is a
terrible sensation to experience, and I pray that I
may never have to pass through it again. I sat
there, my eyes tightly closed, my ear intent to
catch the slightest sound, my brain in a state of
ieverish expectancy.
I had not long to wait. Many people know the
THT MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. Ill
peculiar feeling that causes one to be conscious of
something being present in the room, although it is
not seen or heard, I knew when the apparition came
'into the room as well as if I had seen it come. I
saw nothing ; I heard nothing ; yet I was conscious
of a strange presence. At that moment I think my
senses failed me. 1 heard a wild cry, the same cry
that had startled me the night before, ringing in my
ears, and breaking the silence with an awful abrupt-
ness — and then all was dark, for a while I must have
lost my senses.
"When I came to myself I looked up. I could see
nothing. For a moment I. forgot what had hap-
pened, and then, like a Hash of lightning, it came
back to my mi id. I looked around, but I was in
total darkness ; I spoke, but received no answer.
The strangeness of the thing quite paralysed me.
I had passed through enough. Heaven knows, but it
seemed that I was only to escape from one terrible
experience to be compelled to enter upon another.
However, I determined not to be damited ; I was in
darkness, and darkness has its terrors only for the
ignorant ; I must find a light and see what had hap-
pened.
I am a smoker, and of course cany matches. I
found a match in my pocket and lighted it. As the
flame lighted up the room, I looked around. All
was as it had been ; the chair, the table, the bed
with the girl lying upon it were all as I had last
seen them. The candle had burned down to the
socket and then gone out ; that was all. I had seen
112 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE.
others lying in the drawer, and I immediately pro-
ceeded to light one.
As soon as the room was lighted up again, I turned
round to speak to the girl. I spoke to her several
times, but she did not answer. Thinking she was
asleep, I crossed the room to the bed. Taking her
wrist in my hand to feel her pulse, I found it cold
and lifeless. I leaned over close to her face ; her
head was thrown back, her long brown hair lying on
the pillow, her eyes half shut, a smile of sad con-
tentment closing her thin lips. I touched her three
or four times, and put my head down to listen for
the beating of her heart. But there was no sound,
no life ; I was alone with the dead !
CHAPTER XIX.
I need not relate what followed ; enough has been
told. Oi the funeral of Martha Warne, at which
two sister^ from the convent and myself were the
only mourners ; of the sale of her house ; of the en-
quiries subsequently made for her by old acquain-
tances, I need not speak ; after her death nothing of
interest liappened in connection with her which any
one need care to know. I will relate simply what I
have done with respect to the strange story which
she told me, and bring my tale to a close.
It is hardly necessary for me to say that almost
the first thing I did was to <;p out the St. Laurent
road as far as the gate of the burying ground, to see
for myself the scene of the murder. It was not dif-
ficult to identify the spot. It v as a fine bright day
in May, and the s^row had disappeared. The ground
was not dry, but wsis rapidly drying. 1 saw the
little chimp of trees and bushes of which she had
spoken, on the further side of the field, and shud-
dered as I reflected what a grim secr3t was con-
cealed under them. The field was marshy, almost
a lake in some places ; it was not possible to cross
it, nor do I think I would have gone across, if it
had been p acticable. I saw few people around, and
the place had a weird aspect, even while the spring
sun was shining on it.
113 H
114 THE MYSTERY OF MARTHA WARNE,
Then I began to reflect upon what it was best to
do next. To tell the story to anyone seemed to me
impossible. I felt that I ought, in justice to myself
and the world in general, to do so, but the more T
tried the less I was able to do it. Two or three
times I left my home, intending to make a formal
declaration as to the truth of what I have related,
and leave the matter in the hands of the* authori-
ties ; but every time I failed to summon the neces-
sary courage. It haunted me night and day, and I
felt all the agonies of an accessory to crime ; but
day after day passed, and yet I had done a^id said
nothing.
At last I wrote to the newspapers. Under an
assumed name and a disguised hand, I notified the
editor of a leading newspaper that the body of the
lost Dr. Hoegel would be discovered, if sought for,
on the St. Laurent road, under a number of bushes
the other side of a field opposite the Koman Catholic
cemetery. I described the place carefully, but gave
no further information as to how the body came
there orwhenee the knowledge of the writer as to
its existence there had come.
Everyone knows what followed. People went
wild with curiosity, immediate search was made, and
for days the city talked of nothing else. The body
was found, and an inquest was held. / was present at
the inqiiest ; — but nothing was elicited of im-
portance. The body was identified as that of
poor Hoegel, and the verdict of the Coroner's
jury was " murdered l^ some person or persons un-
/-i .-t^ p ' vii-U^
THE ROWAN TREE
THE XrySTERY OF MARTHA WARNE. 115
known." A reward of one thousand dollars was
offered, and no effort was spared to discover the
guilty parties. All in vain. I saw, witn peculiar
emotions, the very letter I had written to the news-
paper in my disguised hand-writing passed round
the table at which we sat. I examined it closely,
my hand shook and there was a mist before my eyes,
but no one noticed that, they were far too intent on
other things. As I looked on what was left of the
young student of medicine, I had a vision of Martha
Warne and her terrible tale ; and the wild, weird
cry that had twice rung through the room in my
hearing seemed to sound in my ears. Outwardly,
no doubt, I was calm, as cool and as critical as any-
one in the room ; in fact much more so, for while the
others were everyone of them animated by a feverish
curiosity, all the more intense because there was no
chance of its immadiate gratification, I was merely
pretending to be anxious about the discovery of the
murderers, and took no real interest in the dis-
cussion. I answered all the questions put to me,
and gave my opinion when it was necessary, and no
more. When the inquest was over I felt that my
duty was done as far as I was able to do it.
^ CHAPTER XX.
' . I have told the story of Martha Wame. It was
- )Solutely necessary for me to tell it. I could not
keep it to myself. I had tried, and I could not do
it; it haunted me night and day. I could not
tell it to a friend because I could trust no one to be-
lieve it ; and I cannot bear to be disbelieved. — So I
write it ; and the world may believe or disbelieve
as it pleases. Two things that I have wished to
discover, I have discovered ; who the other student
vf,&a, who was going out to meet poor Hoegel the
night he was killed ; and whether the ghost of Logan
was ever seen by anyone but myself, I have found
out who the student was ;, as he is a young man of
good character, rising in the world, I do not betray
him. The other question I must also leave un-
answered, as I cannot name the person without
divulging his secret ; but I am satisfied that one
other man besides myself saw a part of what I saw.
I can tell no more.
So I give my story to the world : names are
changed, and, as everyone will understand, anything
calculated to betray any of the persons connected
with the incidents therein, has been left out.
Enough, however, has been told to place the whole
of each circumstance before my readers, precisely as
it occurred. I affirm this as absolute truth. Those
who do not wish to believe it, need not. To all, be-
lieving and unbelieving, I say farewell.
116
THE ROWAN TREE.
CHAPTER I.
It was many years ago, yet it seems like a few
days. I was youug — twenty-five. I am not very old
now. Twenty years have passed ; I am forty-five
Yet i feel old. Though it seems like yesterday, the
years have been very long, and very dreary. I have
not felt that I lived ; I have been as good as dead to
the world this nineteen years or more.
The evenings are long. It is Summer. I sit out on
the balcony in front of my bedroom window at
night, and breathe the evening air. It it calm and
cool at night. I can smell the moist air of the
marshes, mingled with the odour of the Autumn
flowers in the garden. I sit there and dream of the
past. As I look down the garden, I can see far away
at the other end, if it be moonlight, the red berries
of a rowan tree. Every night my eye seeks this spot.
Every night, my eye.s, restin<j; on it, grow dim and
misty, and my heart dies within me. Even when it
is not moonlight, I can see the dark leaves of the
rowan, I can tell the red berries and count the
clusters. It is always present to my mind. I can see
it standing there, in its still beauty, to mo the only
remaining relic of a glorious dream which has long
since faded into nothinnrness.
This house and its garden are mine. Here I live
119
120 THE ROWAN TREE.
from one year to another — in solitude, I have tried
to live in the world ; I have tried to love the world,
to laugh when it laughs, to sorrow when it sorrows,
to join in its sports, its merrymakings, its joys. But
these things are not lor me. I have tried them all,
and I have left them all forever, to come back to my
lonely retreat in the country. When I was a boy, I
was never happy long, away Irom the excitement of
city lite. I loved the no se, the tumult, the com-
pany. Now all is changed ; I care for nothing as I
once did ; it matters little to me what is going on in
the world ; here in my little cottage, with its old
time garden at the back, I feel at home. Here, if I
have no one near akin, none to love me, no one to
love, at least 1 have peace. One day here is much
like anoLlier. The years come and the year go.
The wind blows wild in the early Spring, the flowers
bloom m lSummer,aiid decay iii Autumn,the suow lies
thick upon the ground in Winter : the year, coming
and going, the seasons, as they bloom and die, find
me, leave me the same. 1 ride, I walk, 1 shoot, I
read. When the wind passes over the chimnies in
the long nights of Winter, I am sad ; when the
Summer sun sets, far away behind the purple hills,
and the long blue shadows creep over the green
marshes, 1 am glad ; — for I love the beauties of the
natural world. But these things do not content me ;
I am not, cannot be, fully satisfied with them. There
is always present with me a sense of something
wanting ; Winter, Summer, night and morning, I
am alone. I am alone in my walks and my rides,
THE ROWAN TREE, 121
always alone ; alone in my life. In the moonlit
evenings of Autumn, I sit out on the balcony in
front of my window and dream, watching the smoke
from my pipe, curling away into the night air. Here
I dream long, long hours, living over again the
golden days of youth, and yearning for the hour
which shall set my soul free i'rom the bondage of
•earth and earthly thinufs. And my eye wearily seeks
the far corner of the garden, where the red berries
of the rowan tree are hanging, indistinct in the
moonlight : and my thoughts wander back to the
long ago, and my heart is young once more.
Twenty years ago ; twenty years it will be this
very night — before which time I must have finished
this brief account of a wasted and ruined life j —
twenty years to-night, since the evening that I love
to dream ot, day after day. It was in the early
•evening, in August, and I sat within a few yards
of this very rowan tree, in a rustic chair. The red
berries were there, hanging in clusters as they are
now, the peculiar leaves were there, standing out,
motionless and graceful as to-day. The air was calm
then as now. The moon shone, soft »nd serenci
away low in the West. The tall white liliec stood
up, down near the hedge, among the dark amarant-
hus, with beautiful effect. Unnoticed, the long spikes
of fox glove waved majestic to and fro. The damp air
from the marshes mingled with the smell of the
clover fields, as it will to-night.
I sat in a rustic chair, down near the end of the
garden. Beside me, sat my young love, Zaidie. I
122 THE ROWAN TREE.
had come to see her — for this was then her house^,
not mine — late m the afternoon ; and we had wand-
ered up and down the garden for two hours or more.
We had much to say to each other. We loved pas-
sionately, but our love was still young ; we had not
known each other long. I was a stranger in the
neighbourhood, visiting a friend in the village two-
miles away. Our acquaintance was but of one
month's duration ; but, from the beginning, we had
loved each other.
This was to be my last night. Ihe next morning.
I was to leave for home. Those who have lived as I
lived then, and loved as I loved, only will be able to
understand how jtrecious seemed the iew hours that
were left to us. After m alkiiig up and down the gar-
den until the sun was set we sat down on the rustic
bench which I have mentioned, and watched the new
moon as it slowly descended towards the dim blue
mountains. We could see it behind the stately elms
that stood at the back of the garden. The outline of
the branches, the small leaves, sometimes dense,
sometimes parting in the soft breeze, the dark blue
sky, the stars here and there, the moon's figure
gradually lowering behind; I remember them all welL
I remember everything that night as distinctly as if
it were yesterday — much more distinctly, ior every
day since has been dim and unreal in comparison.
We were silent for a long time, I remember, each
probably waiting for the other to speak first. I think
it was Zaidie who broke the silence.
She asked me about a ring. I had wished to give
THE ROWAN TREE. 123
her a ring, and she had tried Hb dissuade me from it.
Unknown to her I had sent and obtained one from
the city, and was very anxious to produce it. This
ring I had in my pocket. I remember that I ob-
served in a wise way that engagement rings were
happy inventions; — " at least," I said, "they are in
cases like ours where the thing is settled for good."
" Yes," said Zaidie, mischievously, "the man who
first thought of giving hia /iancSe an engagement ring
was afraid that if he did not give her something to
remember him by she would forget him." «
" You are altogether wrong," said I ; " you are ob-
stinate. Just out of mere caprice, you said a week
ago, that I should not give you a ring. And you still
stick to it ; not because you have a reason, fot you
have none ; but simply because you said it. I do not
admire such persistency."
Zaidie laughed. When she laughed she was very
beautiful. Her features in repose weie good, but a
smile changed her face wonderfully. She had bright
cheeks, curly brown hair, and eyes of the deepest
blue. Her eyebrows were singularly fine ; and, when
she laughed, her eyes brightened and sparkled. I
have seen eyes as beautiful, but never any that could
change from grave to gay as hers used to, and yet
remain the same. If eyes are an index to the soul,
her soul was serene and true.
"You have yet to learn, Mr. Frank," she said,
"that I never say anything without meaning it.
And I have a reason, a good reason. You, like all
men, jump at the idea that girls never have a reason.
134 THE ROWAN TREE.
.for anything, and so you do not condescend to ask
lor one. I have a reason, and a good one, too."
" What is it ? Will you tell me what it is ?"
"Yes; perhaps I will; but I shall consider the
matter a little first as I know you will not be
pleased."
" Now, Zaidie, you are going to tell me, surely ; I
never thought you would act like this."
" You never thought I would act like this, Frank
that is just it ; you have hit the point. You never
thought I would be like this — exactly ! You have
answered your own question. Yoit thought I would
always be the same serene, smiling, placid, yielding
mortal, that I am these hot afternoons. You thought
I wo\ild always be so sweet, so nice — yes, I know
But you were much mistaken; I have a temper; I
have a will."
" I don't doubt it, Zaidie," I said. " I am glad
you have. If you had not you would not please me
at all."
"No — that is true, Frank," she said, smiling.
" "But I don't think you understand me. You have
only seen me twelve times — I have counted — twelve
times. You have only seen me twelve times since
we knew each other. We met once or twice before
we were introduced ; do you remember ?"
" Of course T remember," I said, interrupting ;
*' what can it matter ? Twelve times, or twelve hun-
dred it is all the same."
" That is not the point at all," Ziidie continued.
^* I am not going to be romantic, Frank ; understand
THE ROWAN TREE. 125
that once for all. Listen. Every time I have seem
you I have been on my best behaviour. You may
laugh ; but it is so. I have been awfully nice."
" Yes, you have."
" Don't interrupt me, Frank, or I will go in and
lock the door behind me. I have just been doing the
agreeable, every time ; and — we are engaged ! Think
of that."
I thought of it with delight, and said so.
" You are foolish," said Zaidie ; " you are not a
wise man at all, Frank. How do you know what I
am like when I do not get my own way, for in-
stance ? You know next to nothing of my disposi-
tion ; how can you ? We have known each other for
so short a time."
" I do not think it matters," I said. " Of course
we cannot always be having jolly times like those of
the last few weeks ; but I guess we will always man-
age to endure each other."
" You think so ? — perhaps."
Zaidie had never talked in this manner before. I
did not like it ; I said so.
" 0, you foolish boy," she said, pulling at the long
leaves of the rowan above her head as she spoke ;
don't you see I am in real solemn earnest ? I am,
Frank ; indeed I am. I am speaking seriously in-
deed. We have been too hasty, far too hasty."
" What, Zaidie !" I cried, starting to my feet in
surprise and alarm; — "what is it you say? Too
hasty — too hasty — in what ? — in our engagement ?
Oh, Zaidie."
126 THE ROWAN TREE.
" Xo, Frank," she said, rising and placing her hand
on my arm ; " T don't mean that, at least, not ex-
actly that. I love you just as much as I said I did,
or rather a great deal more ; I do, indeed. I will
marry you, Frank, and never anybody else, that is
settled. But—"
" But what ?"
"But we have been in too much of a hurry,
Frank, all the same. I do not want to displease you
but I must say it. I have been thinking a great deal
last night and to-day. It was your wanting to get
me a ring that started me thinking ; — and I have
made up my mind."
" What about ?"
" Well — we have known each other such a short
time, you see; and we are both younsj ; and you in-
tend going away from home for a while before you
settle down ; I suggest that, for a year — one year —
we do not see each other again."
" Zaidie !"
" I mean it !''
" You cannot !" The words burst from me, for I
was quite overcome with astonishment. We had
planned to be married in six months, the last time
we had met, and this was a most unpleasant sur-
prise. I could hardly believe my ears.
" Do you mean it, Zaidie ?"
" Yes, Frank, I do mean it. I do more than mean
it ; I insist upon it. * I have ma'de up my mind
about it. You will go away and travel, in Europe,
or some place far removed from here. I shall stay
THE ROWAN TREB. 127
here. Then, after a year has passed, you will come
back — that is, if you want to come back."
" Zaidie !"
" Yes, Frank, really ; I do mean it. I do mean it.
It will be better for us both. We will come back
vo each other, I feel sure, I feel certain. But let us
part for a while. Let us part, each free ; let there
be no engagement between us, but an understand-
ing"-
" But Zaidie, I have brought you the ring 1 Here
it is." I held it up in the light and showed it to her,
a plain gold ring, with one solitary diamond in it,
the prettiest ring I thought, that I had ever seen.
Zaidie threw back her head, stepped a little back,
and laughed at me in a most exasperating manner,
her eyes flashing with merriment.
"Aha, Mr. Masterful, you brought the ring did yon,
after my telling you I wouldn't take it ; just so.
Well, you will be properly served, you can take it
away again with you, and bring it back next August,
when you come again."
" That I will never do," I said ; " I will never do
that. If you really mean what you say, that we
must part for a year, I suppose it must be. I did
not think it of you, Zaidie; but, if you say so, it
must be, I suppose."
" Yes, it must be."
*' But I shall have my way in one thing," I said ;
" you shall wear my ring, you must, at least, do that,
I will not take * no ' for an answer."
" No," she said, defiantly ; ** take your ring away
128 . THE ROWAN TBEE.
with you, and bring it back with you when you come,
and I will wear it ; — not till then."
" That I will never do, I caid, ** and I too have a
will of my own. You must wear this ring, Zaidie,
my love, my life, will you take it from me.'*
'• No, Frank, I won't ; not for a year. Come back
then, with it, and I will."
I made a spring forward, and seized her hand.
She darted away from me ; I followed her. I had
the ring in my right hand, and I grasped her hand
with my left, I intended, half in fun, and half in
earnest, to place the ring on her finger. Of course,,
afterwards, she could take it off if she chose ; but
there I intended to place it, and so assert my right
as her affianced husband.
" Ah, you naughty boy, that is what you would be
at is it !" Zaidie laughed, and kept turning first one
way and then another to get away from me. I kept
her near the tree, however, beside the fence, and it
was all she could do to keep her hand free of me.
" I will do it," I said, ** I will do it. You can
take it off if you like, but I will put it on. Now " —
I had seized her hand, and was holding it up in
the air. She stepped back, and I followed. As it
happened she had placed herself squarely against
the rowan tree, and could move no further. I held
up the ring and tried to put it on her third finger.
She resisted, and we struggled. All at once, up went
the ring, flying out of my hand into the tree. I could
not see where. At the same moment I let go my
hold of her hand.
THE ROWAN THEE. 129
" There !"
We bolh spoke together. Zaidie was smiling,
half ill sorrow and half in anger at what she had
done. I felt, and no doubt looked, beaten. For a
minute or two we said no more. Then Zaidie
spoke.
"The ring, Frank ; it is gone."
" I know it, it is your fault, you wouldn't wear it
and now it is lost."
" We must look for it at once, Frank, if we are to
Snd it to-night. You go away early to-morrow."
" If we find if, will you wear it ?"
" No, certainly not."
" Then I shall not look for it." I had grown quite
sulky, and felt myself discomforted on all liands.
Zaidie ivas showing an unusual force of will, while I
Seemed to liave nothing to oppose to it but a loss of
temper, which evidently was only serving to streng-
then her purpose. I therefore gave in.
" Let us look," said I ; "I will get a lamp and
some matches. Wait for me. We will find it in
ten minutes.''
I left her stmdin,:; under the tree, and went into
the house. I found her, when I re:urned, still in
the same place. I lighted the lamp.
•* Now, Frank, look on the ground first. There
are no bushes, and we must find it in a minute. I
will hold the light."
So she held the light for me, and I went down on
my knees feeling and examining every square foot
of ground as carefully as possible. Zaidie's face
I
130 THE 110 WAN TKKE.
looked rather anxious, anil I am sure now that she took
the loss of the ring iriore to heart than I did. Over
and over the ground. I went, feeling every inch of it.
We looked round under the tree, close to the trunk,
then further out for about a yard behind the branches,
every side of it.
" It is no use, Zaidie ; it is not on the ground.
What are we to do ?
" But it must be somewhere, Franl' ; what are we
to do r
*' Shake the tree." And I shook it. Red berries,
and bits of faded leaves came down on us, and
several insects which had carefully settled them-
selves in its leaves were thus violently robbed of a
home. But no ring fell.
''■ Frank, what are we to do ? We have been half
an hour or more here, looking for it. What shall
we do ?"
" Leave it," I said. " Since you refuse to wear it,
it might as well be on the ground as anywhere. liOt
it be. If you find it, keep it ; keep it to remember
me by, if you won't wear it. You will at least do
that ; won't you, Zaidie ?"
" Yes — but I would rather that tve found it,"
said Zaidie.
" So would I. But what can't be helped, can't be."
" No— wise youth. Well, Frank, a diamond is a
diamond. It is worth hunting for, and I will hunt
for it to-morrow. It, will serve to keep you in my
mind anyway, the search for it. And when I find it,
1 shall bury it under the tree, and you, when you
CHAPTER II.
A year ; — ^an proposes, God disposes ; we plan
our lives ; and we are but tiny leaves blown about
by the mighty wind of destiny. A year, and we were
to meet again, and marry and settle down to spend
our lives together ; and that year has come and gone,
and has lengthened into twenty years ; — and the
meeting is not yet 1
But to go back. It had been ray intention to
travel, before I had m»5t Zaidie at all. I had com-
pleted my law studies, and passed my examination ;
and I had intended, before settling down, to see
something of the world. I would willingly have
<jhanged my plans, and have settled down to practice at
the bar, with Zaidie as my wife. However, as this
was not to be, I thought it as well to carry out my
original plans.
I went first to Mexico. It was a country I had
long wished to visit, and the Winter season was the
proper time to go ; so I started. I enjoyed the
journey and was interested in the country ; I have
written several articles on Mexican life and habits
since, and they have been well spoken of by the
critics ; so' I may say that my visit was a success.
I got back home in April. I felt as if I would
have given everything I possessed to have gone to
133
134 \ THE ROWAN TREE. *
see Zaidie, if only for a few he .irs ; but I was for-
bidden. To occupy my mind for the intervening,
months I must go somewhere else.
April to August — three months, and time to-
spare on both sides — what should I do. Almost by
mere chance, something suggested itself. I heard of
a ship that was to sail from Portland, Maine, over
to Bristol, wait from two to four weeks, and then
sail back again. A friend of mine who was suffering
from weakness of the lungs had made the voyage
the year before, and offered me a letter to the cap-
tain, if I cared to go.
I accepted. I had never been to sea in a sliip, and
wanted something new in the way of experience.
Zaidie, too, when written to, thought the idea a good
one. So I started, promising. her, both for her amu-
sement and my own, to keep a report of my adven-
tures day by day.
That record, written for her, I have with ^e still.
I can see it by looking up from my desk, as I write.
The paper is yellow with age ; the handwriting is-
uneveu, according as to the difficulties experienced
in writing on board ship one day and another. There
it lies. I look at it with amazement, and wonder
how I could ever have been as happy as I was when
it was written. It stops abruptly — but I will not
anticipate my story.
I sailed over to Bristol, and, during the three
weeks that the ship remained there, travelled has-
tily up to London and back. The ship was to re-
main in Bristol only three weeks ; and it started at
THE ROWAN TREE. 131
come back, shall dig it up, aud put it on my finfjer.
Is it a bargaiu ?"
" I suppose so," I said rather gloomily.
" Very well. Then here is my haud without a
ring. I give it to you, for better for worse ; take it."
1 took it, and kissed her ; then we moved towards
the house. It was getting very dark. The moon had
gone down behind a cloud, and the leaves of the
rose-bushes were wet with dew. Xight had fully
come. Here and there in the sky a star shone out ;
but the darkness was getting deeper Jevery moment,
" I cannot ask you in, Frank ; propriety is pro-
priety ; I had hoped aunt Helen would have come
'down to-night; but slie didn't. So we must say
good-bye."
" Gootl-bye, Zaidie, and for a year ? — how can
we ? Don't you relent a little ; can't you v/ithdraw
your resolution ? Let us marry each other, and then
go away."
She was standing in the doorway, with the lamp
in her hand. She held it inside the door, a little to
one side of her, so that the light shone full upon
her face, while the lamp, itself, could not be seen.
A more lovely picture, contrasted, as it was, with
the blackness of darkness around, cannot be ima-
gined* Her cheeks were faintly flushed, and there
' were tears of real sorrow in her eyes, at our parting.
The hand which she held out to me trembled a
little ; but she was firm.
" Frank, dear—it is for the best — believe me.
We shall both o(( us be the better for it. Write
132 THE KOWAN TREE.
whenever you like, and tell me everything ; &nd I
will write to you every week at the least. More I
cannot promise. Dear Frank, believe me, it is for
the best. — Good-bye.''
" Good-bye." I did not know how I said it ; but
it was said. For one brief moment I held her in my
arms ; three times I kissed her ; and then the door
closed, and I saw her no more. It was over ; she had
had her way For a year we were parted.
TUE ROWAN TREE. 135
the time appointed ; but, contrary to my expecta-
tions, it was to spend a week at Bordeaux, before
again crossing the Atlantic.
I did not cavil at this. I thought that there
would still be time enough for me to return before
August, and I had never been anywhere in France
except in Paris for a week or two some years pre-
vious to the time of which 1 am writing.
To Bordeaux we went. We stayed tliere three
weeks instead of one. I had an exceedingly pleas-
ant time, went for a walking tour fifty miles into
the interior of the country, and enjoyed myself gen-
erally. But I felt that I was going to be late in
getting back ; that, after all, the time would be up,
and I would not be tliere. As far as Zaidie was
concerned, she knew where I was ; and would read-
ily understand why I did not put in my appearance
at the appointed hour. Bat I felt annoyed never-
theless.
It was the twenty-ninth of July when we set sail
for America. The sixteenth of August was the day,
in the evening of which I was at liberty to rejoin
my love. Ships have made the voyage across the
Atlantic^in fifteen days, with weather and winds in
their favour. But I had no hope of our ehip doing
it ; and it was just as well I had not, for I would
have been greatly disappointed. On the sixteenth
of August we were still nine hundred miles from
the American shore.
Shall I ever forget that day ? Could I ever for-
get it, if I lived a thousand years i* It was a calm.
136 THE BO WAN TEEE.
All day long, as if iu mockery of my dreams and
hopes, the ship lay simply rising and fnlling on the
blue water, the sails filling and then tiapping idly
against the mast. I sat out on the poop all the af-
ternoon, and dreamed of Zaidie, looking over the
blue waste of waters, towards the far off shore, with
the sunshine beating down on me, and the noise
made by the sails ringing in my ears. The sunshine
was gorgeous, overpowering ; the water was like a
sea of silver, with thin blue streaks in it, here and
there, where the rising and falling of the waves casfc
some portions into a faint shadow.
So passed the afternoon ; when the sun declined,
there came a change. A \/ind sprang up, a fair wind ;
clouds began to show themselves on the far horizon.
The water began to darken ; the silver light took a
bluish tinge, and the shadows of the waves became
greener and deeper, as the sun descended in the
heavens.
I had not eaten anything during the day, feeling
too depressed in spirits ; now, however, that there
seemed to be a change for the better, I begrn to feel
the langs of hunger. I went down and had some
tea with the captain. I congratulated him on the
turn things had taken, but be seemed in no mind to
receive my congratulations. I observed that at last,
after lying so long in a perfect calm, we were for-
tunate in getting a fair wind ; and would no doubt
make good spe ^d through the night and on the mor-
row.
To this the captnin demurred. Signs of a storm,
THE ROWAN TREE. 137
he said, were not wanting ; and the storm, when it
came, would probably be a severe one. He did not
alarm me, fc r I am not naturally timid ; but it was
with no small curiosity and anxiety that I went up
on deck, to watch the set of the sun and the rise of
the storm, if storm there was to be.
^.
CHAPTEE III.
To these who' have never been to sea, the setting
of the suri that night would be impossible. A pur-
ple sunset — dense clouds, behind which the sun
shone ; dense clouds of blue, behind which the red
glare of sunset became a rich purple — dens ) masse|g
of purplish cloud minglinpj with a dark sea, so tl
the line between sea and sky grew indistinct — wild
masses of cloud, of a serenely beautiful gray colour,
far up in the heavens, lightened ever so little by the
setting sun, lightened only so as to make their dark-
ness visible and show their weird, fantastic form
against the sky — sea of a deepest gi'een with purple
depths of shadow, and "white flashes of foam — and
the ship with all sail set, driving on before a fair
wind ; — such was the scene when I went on deck at
sundown.
I walked up and down on the poop, with new
emotions. It was as level as the floor of a room ;
and the sensation, with the wind blowing round one,
and the bright lurid sky before one's eyes, thrilling
in the extreme. I watched thd setting sun. I could
not distinguish its form ; but the glowing colour in
the sky showed me its position. Lower and lower
blazed the purplish glare, and the far-away watei
caught the reflection, and glistened in its dark
138
THE ROWAN TBEB. 139"
depths. I never before saw anything so wonderful.
At last the light began t<» die out, and only the
blackness of darkness soon wa^ ^rigible. The sun
had set.
I kept on walking up and down. On we went
and on. The wind blew stronger and stronger. The
sky grew blacker and blacker. The sea seemed
alive. It was as though uncounted myriads of liv-
ing things were out sporting in a wild unfathomable
sense of joy. The waves seemed full of infinite
laughter. The white foam gleamed near and far,
and streaks of phosphorescent light played in the
hollows of each successive wave. Never had I seen
anything so beautiful. The sailors on board the ship
were rushing to and fro, getting' ready for the storm,
when it' should break with all its fury. I prepared,
a place for myself where I couhl see and not be seen
a retired spot, where I would not interfere with the
men ; and got ready for the niglit.
When, or how, or why I went to sleep, I never
knew ; but I must have been sound asleep by ten
o'clock, or, at the latest, eleven. In my dreams I
could hear the whistling of the wind, the roar of the
sea, and the voices of the sailors, indistinct, ming-
ling together in a strange medley. About midnight
I awoke.
I am not a timid man, nor was I then keenly alive
to first impressions. But when I awoke that night
it was as if I had never lived before.
The storm was at its height. The wind sounded
in the rigging like the shrieks of some army of lost
140 THE ROWAN T»«J
souls, with a pathos and a 'despair indescribable. Th
ship was driving oi\, but und^r little sail. The
captain stood af the door of the wheel-house, shout-
ing lustily, and the mate was shouting also from the
poop, iuid the sailors were singing araid the gusts of
wind. The sea was high, and was breaking ; never
before had I seen it so. People have often talked of
waves that are mountains high ; but it is the size of
the wav(3s, and not their height, that really fills one
with awe. And they seemed conscious of their own
existence and of their power, as they rose and
rose, again at id again, and broke with a rapidity
that caused one's heart to stand still. Mine stood
still again and again. It seemed impossible tha;
our poor ship could stand in the face ^ of such
majestic destroyers ; and I felt, as I gazed at the
white foam, as if I could throw myself into the
whirling water, and die, battling with the wild
waves.
For a long time I gazed, fascinated. I gazed at the
mast-head, dim in the darkness above; at the water,
surging ar>d boiling, and seemingly full of life; at the
sky, where nothing was visible but masses of cloud.
Now and again a flash of lightning would illumine
the wide waste of water and play among the white
waves, darting out of the black sky overhead ; and a
roll of thunder would still, for a moment, the wierd
whistling of the wind aloft. Then darkness and si-
lence would supervene ; and the noise of wind and
water would rise again. So parsed the time, I forget-
ting all things in the contemplation of the storm.
THE ROWAN TREE. l4l
'" Frank !"
What was it ? A voice seemed to be calling me.
Some one had spoken, had called me by nairte ; who ?
It could not have been anyone aboard ship, for no
one on board knew my name ; and the very idea
seemed preposterous. But l_b^d^ej2tainlv heard a
And 1 recognized ; it was the rii)s;^!^_^^^
void^.* -^-^ •
I looked around. A brilliant flash of lightning lit
up the waves, and the foam gleamed blue and\n-
eartlily for a moment ; then all was plunged in thick
darkness as the thunder began to rumble around us.
The ship would go down, down, down, until one
would have thought that she was about to be sub-
merged ; when, suddenly, she would turn in her
downward course and begin to go up, up, to the top
of the next wave. Another moment and down she
would go again. And the wind kept whistling with-
out ceasing, and moaning aloft among the ropes
" Frank !"
Again—could I be dreaming ? Could I be in a
dream ? I looked up above and around. What was
it; who had called ? It was strange, I felt a sense
of extreme fear oppress me. I shivered as I listened
to the wind. The waves seemed to reach over me,
and I seemed about to perish in their embrace!
Again and again I shivered, and drew my great coat
closer around me, and held my head down under my
ulster to protect it. The lightning flashed again over
the waves and I closed my eyes to shut it out
"Frank!"
What ?— that voice— that voice~I knew it. Amid
142 THE ROWAN TREE.
•
the roar of the tempest and the roll of thunder I
recognized that voice. 1 knew that voice, a thousand
miles avvny, mayhap, a thousand miles away, over the
'Wild stormy sea. I knew it. Falling back uncon-
scious of all that was passing around me, I cried out,
in fond an^l ''i"' --",-7niHon. — " ZaMie!"
^ -^nd. The sea was high, and was breaititto
Zaidie — it was Zaidie's own voice. Was I in a
trance or dream, or did I indeed behold my far-off'
love ? 1 fell back where I was lying and became ut-
terly unconscious of what was going on around me.
Zaidie — I had heard the call ; I was conscious no
more of aught save her presence.
She stood in the garden beneath the rowan tree.
Instead of standing alone she seemed to be support-
ed by two other people. These people were indis-
tinct, mere shadows. Zaidie, herself, was like life
before me. But I could have cried aloud had it been
in my power to do so, at her wan and wasted ap-
pearance. Her cheeks were thin and sunken and
their colour was gone. Her brown hair fell, unhin-
dered by plait or comb, over her shoulders. Tears
were in her ejQS and she looked at me with a mourn-
ful tenderness. ''Zaidie," I cried, " Zaidie — let me
come to you. Let me come to you ; — Z'^idie, my
love, my love — Zaidie."
She seemed to repel me, to shake her head mourn-
fully. Several times I seemed to put out my arms
to take her in them ; — but in vain ; I could not reach
her. Then I cried aloud again, "Zaidie, my own
love, my own love, let me come to you" ; — and again
she seemed to shake her head sadly as if to say how
impossible it was, how futile to wish it.
THB ROWAN TREK. 143
Then a strange thing happened. She seemed to
raise her hand. It held something. I strained my
eyes to see what it was. I looked and looked, but,
for a time, could not discover ; and her face appeared
troubled at the thought that I was not conscious of
what she said. Then I saw the Hash of a diamond,
And I recognized ; it was the ring !
The ring that I had bought for her, the ring that
we had lost, the ring that I had searclied for, that
night of nights ; — she held it in her hand. I could
see it and recognize it. When she saw that I recog-
iaed it she looked me again in the face and smiled.
_ :^«icK;^e smiled I felt a tremor pass over me. I
When b^i)Jiaye passed the gates of Heaven. Again
seemed tci'^^iv-wU^^rorjiasp her in my arms ; and once
I rushed forward ny\, ^^^ seemed to be cut off
inore I failed to 8^^^'^^.. .
from her by ^^ "^^^^^ and'sorrow of that meeting! t
Oh.the ^^Ǥ;^^^^^^ ^^^3, of earthly things,-to be
^^^"^''r rruuknown world. Yet I knew the
transportea b ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^„ l^^^gg ^^^^
spot very we ' /^^^ ^^^an; the-e waj; my love, in a
the red berries ^^^ ^^^^^-^g unlemeith, smiling a
[ong white S«^^'^^^ ^^^^ .,^lj ^f t^rs the w^iile.
sweet ^^'^^'J. to stand and I col Jd see the ring
There she ^^^]^^^ ^^, all aroul ^^^ shadows ;
s::S^-doaeith^^
'^'f trmTeyes, anb yet I was r>t satisfied.
r ' Id tnl^^^^^^^^^^^ ^er .^h my hand jst for one
wJi^tl How s^et the though^ But no;
144
THK ROWAN TREE.
she was far off; and I sank back again, powerless.
But I mtist do it. Was she on earth or in Heaven
I must kiss her once again. I must feel her breath
mingle with mine and press her lips once more. I
must do it. So I gathered i^p all my courage and
strength and rushed forward. But as I did so the
vision melted into air ; and a voice ringing through
the darkness, in tones I knew so well, said : "Twen-
. ty years, Frank, not for twenty years 1"
yy<ttf
\
O
/f
CHAPTER IV.
I awoke. I was in my boith, and it was broad
day. I looked around me. For a moment I forgot
what had happened. Then it all rushed upon my
mind at once. I sat up. Yes, on the floor lay my
ulster, my gieat coat, my rinj^^ all of them still wet.
Beside me lay my clothes.
I recollected everything. The whole scene flashed
across my mind. I could see Zaidie as she stood be-
fore me, under the rowan tree, lifting hef hand and
showing me the ring. I could hear her calling to me,
"Frank, Frank," and the last low cry, "not for
twenty years, Frank ; not for twenty years." What
could it have all meant ". Was it merely a dream ?
No, I had been awake, when first I heard the cry
What did it mean ?
A horrible fear came over me. 1 had read of
second sight, of people seeing things happening in a
different part of the world at the self- same hour at
which they had actually taken place. As I thought
of this, cold drops formed on ray forehead, and my
mouth grew dry with fear. There came over me
something like a dread certainty that Zaidie wag
dead. With a cry of pain I jumped from my berth.
Th^n I realized how futile were my lamentations.
Days must pass before we could see land ; and I
145 K
146 THE ROWAN TREE.
must wait, though every moment be an agony of
suspense, for news of my loved one. I sat for some
time on the floor, thinking over every possible ex-
planation of the occurrence ; I was willing to reason
it out in every way but one ; it could not, could not
be that what I had seen had actually happened. No
— DO — it was a dream, an evil dream, produced by
the wild storm and the thought that the day pre-
ceding had been our day of meeting, had I but
been home. But so great was my anxiety that I felt
as if I could throw mv^elf into the water and swim
the rest of the way, rather than wait in suspense.
When I went on deck, I found that it was about
eleven o'clock in the morning. The wind had sub-
sided, and the sea, though still high, was not nearly
so much agitated as it had been during the past
night. The captain and the mate smiled at me, as I
approached them, and inquired how I felt. I asked
them what they meant. They enquired in turn what
I remembered of the night before. I felt myself turn
pale at the question, and at that they both burst into
a laugh. I asked again the meaning of what they
Slid, and why they smiled. Then they told me that
I had been discovered in a fainting fit, and carried
below, about midnight. The supposition had been
that I was afraid of the storm.
I was rather puzzled how to account for this
fainting fit. To tell the truth it was impossible ; and
I knew also, that, had I told it, I would have
received no comfort from either of them ; as there
are no more superstitious people in the world than
THE ROWAN TREE. 147
sailors. So I held my tongue ; and, if they wondered
at my cowardice, what did I care ? My mind was too
much preoccupied with a graver matter to busy
itself over the opinion, good or ill, which my fellows
might entertain of me.
CHAPTER V.
Hope, without hope — fear that tries to hide itself,
and make believe that it does not exist; — fear for those
whom we love best of all, shrinking fear, lest, when
we come, they shall have gone for evermore ; — tell
me of nothing more trying to the heart than this !
Oh my God ! What hours did I spend, looking
over the sea, and waiting in mute expectancy ; hours
in which every minute seemed as if it would never,
never end, as if every second waited and waited to
torture me with keener anguish.
I ca!inot speak, I cannot write, I cannot even
bear to think, of those long, long days, Let me tell
all at once.
She was dead.
She had died that night. Shortly after eight in
the evening, she had expressed a desire to go out
into the garden, to rest beneath the rowan tree. She
had been ill for two months, and during her illness
had repeatedly expressed a wish that she might live
until 1 retLrned. That she should live to recover
her liealth and strength she knew was impossible.
Her lungs had suddenly given way ; she was
doomed ; she knew it. But she hoped tolive until I
got home.
This evening, the sixteenth of August, I was to
148
THE EOWAN TREE. 149
have come. She knew that I was at sea, and did not
expect to see me ; but she expressed a strange long-
ing to be taken out, to stand, if only for a moment,
under the rowan tree, where we were to have met.
Her wish was gratified. An aunt, who was stay-
ing with her, and her nurse, earned her out, and held
her for a moment under the tree. Standing there
she had put my ring upon her finger, saying as she
did so — "if I do»i't live till he comes, tell him that I
put his ring on my finger, as I promised, to-night."
I cannot proceed. Had I but been at the spot, as
I had promised to be, had I but remaine<l near at
hand and not wandered away over the broad Atlan-
tic — but how vain are all regrets — I shall utter none
— silence alone is possible when I tliink of what I
lost.
She had died that night. My name was the last
word on her lips, my happiuess her last thought.
This has been the one joy of my life ; that she loved
me and that I loved her to the end. Her young life
went out ; the joy of mine went with it ; but as we
knew each other, and as we loved each other, so have
we ever been linked together in my inmost hear:^
and soul.
CHAPTEE VI.
1 have told my story. But a little of life is left to
me. A few short hours and I shall be numbered
with the dead. This I know. Every year, when the
day comes, strange fatal day, the sixteenth of Au-
gust, I have again the same vision, and dream the
same dream. I bought this house where she lived,
and where the happiest hours of ray life, too, were
spent ; and have lived here for nineteen years. Every
August I have liad the same dream, have seen my
love as she appeared to me that night, and have heard
her voice, calling to me amid the darkness. Every
year, one year has been taken from the sum of my
life, and to-day is the sixteenth of August, and the
twentieth year is all but complete. I neither exult
nor despair. I have waited patiently ; the years
have been long ; but it is over now and done with.
My life, as I look back upon it, seems wasted. But
what of that ? Life, at the best, is but a passing
dream ; if mine has been more empty and vain than
others, at least I have wronged no one. I have al-
lowed my great sorrow to cloud my whole existence;
but was that my iault ? Shall I not say with
Shakespeare—
" There's a Divinity that shapes our enda.
Bough kew them as we will."/
150
THE EOWAN TKEE. 151
For good or for evil, it is done. Doctors have told
me to be careful of myself, and have shaken their
heads ovtir a certain fluttering of my heart, which
attacks me at times. Perliaps that is how I am to
die. But I do not know ; one thing I do know — that
it is surely coming, and that I am ready.
I will stop, for T have something to do yet. I
would take a last look at my home — and Zaidie's.
The August sun is getting low in the sky ; it is the
late afternoon. Once more I shall take a run on the
marshes, to smell the brown liay, and bieathe the
warm air and pluck the ox-eyed daisies, as we did,
Zaidie and 1, the first day we ever knew each
other ; — yes, once more. Then I shall go and take
leave of my little brown mare in the stable, give
her the last feed of oats and new ma<le hay that she
shall ever get from me ; — and I shall pat my dog,
and feed him, and stroke him, for the last time.
And then, when evening falls, when the August sun
goes down and the August moon rises in the dark
blue sky, and the glories of the Summer night
unfold themselves to view — I shall lay myself down
in silence, to await the messenger who comes to
summon me to the unseen world !
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