Margaret flew, and Gerald flew after. What new portent was here?

Breathless, Margaret reached the door of the long closet. It stood open.

On the floor inside crouched Miss Sophronia, uttering the frantic screams which rang through the house. Apparently she had lost the use of her limbs from terror, else she would not have remained motionless before the figure which was advancing towards her from the gloom of the long pa.s.sage. First a dusky whiteness glimmered from the black of the further end, where the half-ghost sat on its shelf; then gradually the whiteness detached itself, took shape,--if it could be called shape,--emerged into the dim half-light,--came on slowly, silently.

Shrouded, like the ghostly bust behind it, tall and slender, with dark locks escaping beneath the hood or cowl that drooped low over its face,--with one hand raised, and pointing stiffly at the unhappy woman,--the figure came on--and on--till it saw Margaret. Then it stopped. Next came in view the bright, eager face of Gerald Merryweather, looking over Margaret's shoulder. And at that, the spectre began, very slowly, and with ineffable dignity, to retreat.

"Exclusive party," whispered Gerald. "Objects to our society, Miss Montfort. Shall I head him off, or let him go?"

Margaret made no reply; she was bending over the poor lady on the floor, trying to make her hear, trying to check the screams which still rang out with piercing force.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LIVELY GHOST.]

"Cousin Sophronia! Cousin, do stop! Do listen to me! It is a trick, a naughty, naughty trick; nothing else in the world. Do, please, stop screaming, and listen to me. Oh, what shall I do with her?" This remark was addressed to Gerald; but that young gentleman was no longer beside her. He had been keeping his eye on the spectre, which slowly, softly glided back and back, until it melted once more into the thick blackness at the further end. Gerald dodged out into the hall, and ran along the outer pa.s.sage, to meet, as he expected, the ghost full and fair at the other door. "Run!" cried a small voice. "I'll hold him; run!" Gerald was grasped once more, this time by a pair of valiant little hands which did their best, and which he put aside very gently, seeing a petticoat beneath them. "You sha'n't catch him!" cried the second spectre, clinging stoutly to his legs.

"Twice he wrung her hands in twain, But the small hands closed again!"

Meantime the spectre-in-chief had darted back into the closed pa.s.sage.

There was a crash. The half-ghost toppled over as he ran against it, and was shivered on the floor, adding another noise to the confusion. The phantom raced along the pa.s.sage, took a flying leap over Miss Sophronia's prostrate form, revealing, had any looked, an unsuspected blackness of leg beneath the flowing white, and scudded along the square upper hall. By this time Gerald was at his heels again, and a pretty race it was. Round the hall, up the stairs, and round the landing of the attic flight. At the attic door the spectre wavered an instant,--then turned, and dashed down-stairs again. Once more round the upper hall, now down the great front staircase, gathering his skirts as he went, the black legs now in good evidence, and making wonderful play. A good runner, surely. But the Greyhound was gaining; he was upon him. The phantom gave a wild shriek, gained the front door with one desperate leap, and plunged, followed by his pursuer, into the arms of a gentleman who stood in the doorway, in the act of entering.

"Easy, there!" said Mr. Montfort, receiving pursuer and pursued with impartial calm. "Is it the Day of Judgment, or what?"

CHAPTER XV.

A DEPARTURE.

"I am extremely sorry, Sophronia, that you were so alarmed last night. I trust you feel no ill effects this morning?"

"Ill effects! My dear John, I am a wreck! Simply a wreck, mentally and physically. I shall never recover from it--never."

"Oh, don't say that, Cousin Sophronia!" exclaimed Margaret, who was really much distressed at all that pa.s.sed.

"My love, if it is the truth, I must say it. Truth, Margaret, is what I live for. No, I shall never recover, I feel it. My prayer is that these unhappy children may never know that they are the cause of my untimely--"

"Has Basil made his apology?" asked Mr. Montfort, abruptly.

"Yes, John, yes; I am bound to say he has, though he showed little feeling in it. Not a tenth part so much as little Merton, who was in real sorrow,--actually shed tears,--although he had no hand in the cruel deceit. Ah! Merton is the only one of those children who has any heart."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Montfort, "I didn't know it was as bad as that."

"Quite, I a.s.sure you, dearest John. If it were not for my poor William and his children, I should take Merton with me and be a mother to him.

His nerves, like mine, are shattered by the terrible occurrences of the last two nights. He was positively hysterical as he pointed out to me--what I had already pointed out to you, Margaret--that the _real thing_ had not been explained. I might, in time, live down the effect of those children's wicked jest; but the Voice of Fernley has never been explained, and never will be."

Mr. Montfort pulled his moustache, and looked out of the window, observing the prospect; but Margaret cried:

"Oh, Cousin Sophronia, you are wrong; indeed, indeed you are! Young Mr.

Merryweather found out all about it last night, only he had not time to tell us. He said it was something perfectly simple, and that there was no need of being alarmed in the least."

"By the way," said Mr. Montfort, "I have a note from the lad this morning. He found some special tools were needed, and went up to town by the early train to see about them. May be gone a day or two, he says.

What was the noise like, Margaret?"

Margaret was about to tell all she knew, but Miss Sophronia interrupted.

"Spare me, dearest Margaret, spare me the recalling of details. I am still too utterly broken,--I shall faint, I know I shall. John, it was simply the voice that was heard ten, or it may be fifteen years ago, when I was a young girl. You must remember; it is impossible but that you must remember."

"I remember perfectly," said Mr. Montfort. "That was thirty years ago, Sophronia; that was in 1866. Oh, yes, I remember." Again Mr. Montfort became absorbed in the view from the window. His face was very grave; why, then, did the b.u.t.tons on his waistcoat shake? "And Master Merton was frightened, was he?" he resumed, presently. "Ha! that looks bad.

Good morning, Jones," as a respectable-looking man in livery came up the gravel walk. "A note for me? no answer? thanks." The man touched his hat, and departed; Mr. Montfort opened the pretty, pearl-coloured note, and read, as follows:

"DEAR JOHN:

"Don't punish the children; it was partly my fault, and partly your own. I supposed you expected something to happen, and I thought the old trick would serve as well as a new one.

"As ever, E. P."

"Humph!" said Mr. Montfort, twisting the note, and frowning at the window. "Precisely! and so, you were saying, Sophronia--ahem! that is, you are obliged to leave us?"

"Yes, my dearest John, I must go. I could not, no! I could not sleep another night beneath this roof. I have told Willis. I am cut to the heart at leaving you, so helpless, with only this poor child here, and those--those dreadful children of Anthony's. I would so gladly have made a home for you, my poor cousin. I live only for others; but still it seems my duty _to_ live, and I am convinced that another night here would be my death."

"I will not attempt to change your purpose, Sophronia. At the same time I am bound to tell you that--a--that the disturbance of which you speak is of no supernatural kind, but is attributable to--to human agency altogether. If you wish, I will have it looked into at once, or we can wait till young Merryweather comes back. He seemed to know about it, you say, Margaret. And--but at any rate, Sophronia, we can write you the sequel, and, if you feel uneasy, why, as you say-- You have ordered Willis? Then I'll go and get some tags for your trunks."

Mr. Montfort retired with some alacrity, and Margaret, with an unexplained feeling of guilt at her heart, offered to help Miss Sophronia with her packing.

An hour later the lady was making her adieux. The carriage was at the door, Willis had strapped on the two trunks, and all was ready. Mr.

Montfort shook his cousin by the hand, and was sorry that her visit had ended in such an untoward manner. Margaret begged Cousin Sophronia's pardon for anything she might have done amiss. Indeed, the girl's heart was full of a vague remorse. She had tried, but she felt that she might have tried harder to make things go smoothly. But Miss Sophronia bore, she declared, no malice to any one.

"I came, dear John, determined to do my best, to be a sister to you in every way; it will always be a comfort to think that I have been with you these two months. It may be that some time, when my nerves are restored, I may be able to come to Fernley again; if you should make any changes, you understand me. Indeed, a complete change, my dear cousin, is the thing I should most recommend. Missing me as you will,--a companion of your own age,--you might still marry, dearest John, you might indeed. Emily--"

"That will do, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, sternly. "Have you everything you want for the journey?"

"Everything, I think, dear John. Ah! well, good-bye, Margaret! It has been a blow to find that you do not love me, my dear, as I have loved you, but we must bear our burdens."

"What do you--what can you mean, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, turning crimson. "I am sure I have tried--"

"Ah! well, my dear, one gives oneself away," said the lady. "You said in your letter to your cousin,--I recall the precise words--'I have tried to love her, but I cannot succeed.' Yes; very painful to one who has a heart like mine; but I find so few--"

"Cousin Sophronia," cried the girl, all softer thoughts now merged in a burning resentment. "You--you read my letter, the letter that was on my own desk, in my own room?"

"Certainly, my love, I did. I hope I know something about young girls and their ways; I considered it my duty, my sacred duty, to see what you wrote."

"You seem to know little about the ways of gentle people!" cried Margaret, unable for once to restrain herself. Her uncle laid his hand on her arm. "Steady, little woman!" he said. His quiet, warning voice brought the angry girl to herself, the more quickly that she knew his sympathy was all with her.

"I--I should not have said that, Cousin Sophronia," she said. "I beg your pardon! Good-bye!"

She could not say more; she stood still, with burning cheeks, while Mr.

Montfort helped the lady into the carriage.

"A pleasant journey to you, Sophronia," he said, as he closed the door.

"Willis--"