The MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

CHAPTER I.

      Even in that transitory glance I recognized the face — recognized it as I should have done, no matter how unexpectedly it dawned upon me. Not that it could come more unexpectedly than here, on this bleak, country road, along which I was returning from a visit to one of my distant patients.

      It was a dismal wet afternoon, and the wind drove fiercely into my face as it howled past. Wrapt in thought, I had been for some time jogging along, when suddenly the sound of approaching wheels aroused me, and looking up as well as I could for the rain, I saw a quiet, covered carriage coming towards me.

      I looked at it with some little surprise, for familiar as I was with my neighbors for miles around, I failed to recognize it. Both carriage and driver, I saw at a glance, were strangers in this part of the country.

      It was traveling a tolerable pace; but as it swept past, I caught a glimpse of a face at the window, which seemed to flash out on me with a mute, wistful look of entreaty. The glance had been a momentary one; but, for all that, I had recognized those soft, delicate features, and sweet, grave eyes, as the originals of those I had dreamed over so often in a little photograph I kept so carefully treasured at home.

      Like a man in a dream, I checked my horse, and stayed watching the carriage until it turned an angle of the road and was lost to sight. Then, with the same dumb feeling of surprise, I touched the rein and rode slowly and thoughtfully back to my comfortable home at Clunbury. My dinner was waiting for me on my arrival, a bright fire burning in the grate, and everything looking its cosiest and brightest; but somehow, all these things were lost upon me tonight. The memory of that sad, sweet face that had flitted past me on the wet, drear road, engrossed my thought so entirely that I could think of nothing else.

      And now, after this confession, you are probably setting me down as some romantic, sentimental youth of nineteen or twenty, instead of a world-worn man of thirty-five.

      As my father had been before me, I was the principal surgeon of Clunbury, in the enjoyment of a tolerably good practice. To my father's proposal that I should enter the medical profession I had offered no objection; but I made one stipulation, which was that after passing my examination, I should go to sea for a few years as ship's surgeon. A love of the sea had long been with me an intense though secret passion; and in spite of the opposition I met with, I succeeded at last in carrying my point, by inducing my friends to obtain for me the berth I desired on board one of the steamships belonging to the Oriental Company.

      Three months, my father prophesied on parting with me, would be sufficient to cure me of my roving propensities; but in this he was mistaken, for I was very well satisfied with my new life, and continued voyages to and fro for several years.

      To be sure, I quitted my sea-going life at last, and came and settled down in the quiet old home at Clunbury; but not because I wearied of it, or grew tired of the sea. It was for my father's sake: for at the end of the last voyage I ever made, I came home to find him ill and confined to his bed.

      I had left him a hale and hearty man of fifty, and I found him on my return hopelessly shattered in health, and bowed down beneath a weight of premature age. He had been a widower for years, and for myself, quite childless and friendless. So it was no wonder I could not find it in my heart to leave him again.

      During my father's illness I took upon myself the charge of his patients; and when at last his death left me lonely and desolate in his old house I had worked myself so thoroughly into the daily round of duties belonging to the medical man of Clunbury, that I had no thought of quitting it.

      But to return to the subject of the face at the carriage window.

      It was while on my last voyage to India that I had met with the photograph of which I had no manner of doubt it was the original.

      Among our passengers was a Mrs. Lloyd, a bright, pleasing little lady, who was going to join her husband in India, and who, in the absence of anything more exciting, used often to laugh and chat with me on deck, evidently thinking a little good-natured flirtation with the sober-looking surgeon a very harmless amusement indeed.

      I remember one evening, in the still, calm glory of a crimson sunset, that a group of ladies were seated at one end of the deck, quietly chatting among themselves, and, among other things, discussing the powers of photography.

      Of course this led to a general display of albums, and a warm and merry criticism of their contents, in which I was speedily called upon to join.

      "Mr. Percy," Mrs. Lloyd suddenly exclaimed, "you have not condescended to glance into my album, and I particularly want your opinion on my collection of photographs."

      "But perhaps if I criticise your friends, Mrs. Lloyd, you will be displeased with me," I replied taking a seat near the speaker.

      "Not unless you are dreadfully severe with them," she replied, showing her white teeth as she smiled up at me from under the rim of her broad hat.

      Mrs. Lloyd's collection of photographs was at once a large and good one; and without knowing the originals, I could see that most of the photographs were excellent likenesses of those whom they were intended to represent.

      Under each the name or initials were written; but at last I came upon one without either. It was a portrait taken in the vignette style; and of the many faces, pictured and living, upon which I had looked in the course of my life, I had never seen one at all resembling this.

      Why it should be thus singled out, I could not easily have explained; not because of its sweet, pure, girlish beauty, though this might have rendered it sufficiently marked; but there looked out from those loving, earnest eyes a charm nothing but a pure and lofty intellect can impart.

      I suppose most people, at some period or other of their existence, have felt the fascination a particular combination of features and expression is capable of casting over one's feelings and senses; and so it was with me now as I sat lost in thought, gazing dreamily at the photograph.

      "This is too bad, Mr. Percy!" presently exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd, putting a white hand over the picture, and making an effort to draw the album out of my grasp, "I can't possibly allow this sort of thing any longer. You have been staring at that photograph for the last age, and totally ignoring my presence the while. It is not right, you know; besides, the photograph is incapable of appreciating your attention."

      The voice and touch recalled me to myself; and with a little unconscious sigh I looked up, intending to offer some apology for my ill manners.

      I fancy something in my face struck my companion with amusement, for she laughed a little wicked laugh, either at that, or at the sigh I had so involuntarily breathed a moment before.

      "Pray, Mr. Percy, what was the cause of that melancholy sigh?" she asked. "Can it be that you have been falling in love with some one or other of my lady friend's carte de visite? Let me see which it is that has achieved so signal a triumph, and whether I can give you any hope of success. Dear me!" she added, as, having glanced at the photograph that had so interested me, she gave her shoulders a little suggestive shrug. "Is this the one that has so fascinated you? If it is, I fear your case is hopeless indeed."

      "Are you going to tell me that the lady is already engaged?" I asked, with an assumed air of gaiety, while a disagreeable feeling of disappointment crept over me.

      "Worse than that, Mr. Percy."

      "Married, then?" I replied.

      "Worse still, as regards your chance of ever beholding her," she returned, quietly.

      "Good heavens! not dead? That bright, glorious face is not in the grave, surely?"

      "Not that I am aware of; but if such were the case, I'm afraid your chance of meeting the original would be scarcely more hopeless than now. The fact is, I do not even know who the lady is, or where she lives, or anything whatever about her. A few months before I left England, I picked up the photograph on the platform of one of the London railway stations. It was in a blank envelope, without a word of writing that might have given some faint clue as to the person who dropped it. I liked the face — in short, it fascinated me somehow, as it does most people, with its pure, starlike beauty; and so I put it into my album, where it has ever since remained. Of the many people who have seen and admired it not one has ever recognized the face. I mean to keep it, though; for some day or other, by a singular coincidence, I may meet the original. It would be strange if I did, would it not?"

      "Very; but, as you just told me, I think your chance of doing so is very remote. After all, the photograph may have been taken from an old picture; and the bright young face gazing out at us from your album may long since have faded into old age or the stillness of death," I replied.

      "As to your first supposition, it may be correct, Mr. Percy; but not so the last," replied Mrs. Lloyd. "The photograph could not have been taken more than two or three years ago."

      "How can you be so certain of this?" I inquired, with a little surprise.

      "By the dress. Don't you see the style is one worn a few seasons back? The costume fixes the date beyond dispute."

      I should never have thought of this; but I felt she was right, and accepted the conclusion in silence.

      "And so this is the history of the mysterious photograph?" I presently remarked, half musingly.

      "Yes," was the response, so far as I know it; but it is my opinion I shall be compelled eventually to banish it from my album; for my gentlemen friends, one and all, make a point of falling hopelessly in love with it."

      "Not quite all, Mrs. Lloyd. I for one beg not to be included in that merciless all of yours. I prefer not to bestow my heart upon so mythical a lady," I replied, as I rose from my seat and walked away to the other end of the deck.

      Some hours later, on the same evening, I was leaning thoughtfully over the ship's side, watching the waves as they rolled past in the still moonlight, and from every one of which the starlike face of the mysterious unknown seemed to simile up at me with a strange haunting beauty.

      How long this employment lasted I am unable to say; but presently I found myself pacing thoughtfully up and down the deserted deck. All at once an object that shone out bright and sparkling in the moonlight, arrested my attention near the spot where Mrs. Lloyd and the other ladies had been sitting a while before. On stooping to pick it up, I found it to be nothing more nor less than the album which contained the photograph that had so fixed itself in my mind.

      I opened it at random, and there, in the clear, still light, looking up into my own, was that face that had so fascinated me.

      The moment was one of sore temptation — a temptation that certainly was not resisted, for I there and then committed my first and only theft.

      I felt rather guilty as, having extracted that one photograph, I laid the album back on the spot where I had found it.

      When Mrs. Lloyd first discovered her loss, or whom she suspected, I cannot tell; for, a few days after, she, with the rest of the passengers, disembarked, taking with her the album, which I had seen her pick up on the morning following; and leaving me in possession of my treasure.

(To be concluded in the March issue.)

The MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

CHAPTER II.

      About three miles distant from Clunbury stood an ancient, dilapidated house, known for miles around as the Haunted Grange.

      For years the old place, hidden among dense trees, had been suffered to go quietly to ruin; and not even the oldest among the inhabitants could recollect its having ever been tenanted. The place had an evil name, and I doubt if among the simple country folks a soul could have been found to pay it a visit, especially after nightfall.

      Judge, then, of my astonishment when, a few nights after that on which I had seen the face at the carriage-window, I fancied I beheld lights in one or two of the upper windows of the haunted house.

      I was riding slowly and wearily along a narrow lane, not far from the house at the time, on my way home from attending a patient whose case demanded the utmost attention; and it was through the openings in the trees inclosing it that I first caught sight of the light in the windows of the old, deserted Grange.

      I thought at first my eyes must have deceived me; and so, checking my horse, I remained for a few moments, starting inquiringly towards the light still shining out distinctly enough from amid the general gloom. But, no, there could be no mistake — it came from one of the upper windows of the old house. And, as I stood pondering over the strange circumstances, I recalled to memory a new ghost-story concerning the old Grange which had been rife among the cottagers during the last few days.

      A shepherd's boy, who had had occasion to cross the field adjoining the garden surrounding the lonely old house, at a late hour in the evening, about a week ago, had been terribly alarmed by seeing, as he declared, a ghost walk up the garden-path, and enter the long-disused halldoor of the Grange. I had laughed at the boy's story, while I pitied his terror, which was evidently too real to have been assumed; but now, coupled with what I beheld myself, I began to suspect whether it might not have had some foundation in reality.

      Resolved if possible, to discover the meaning of this strange light in the deserted house, I slipped out of the saddle, and, throwing the bridle over a post, proceeded cautiously through the trees and creepers towards the front of the building.

      All the windows on the ground-floor were shrouded in darkness; and, beyond this dim light that evidently stole through heavy curtains within, there was no sign of life or occupation about the place. Anxious to penetrate the mystery, yet uncertain how to proceed, I stood for a few moments listening and watching, in perfect silence, when suddenly a hand was laid, with a heavy grip, on my shoulder.

      I confess I was startled, the more so when a rough, disagreeable voice in my ear demanded what business I had there.

      I turned, having vainly tried to shake the hand from my shoulder, and found myself face to face with a rough, powerful-looking man, the outline of whose form was dimly discernible in the darkness.

      "And who, pray, are you? and what do you mean by this violence?" I asked, struggling with my captor, who was twisting his knuckles into my throat in a way that excited my anger to the highest pitch.

      "I'll let you know who I am, if you come spying and prying about people's houses, you thief!" was the response, and at the same time the man dealt me a blow, which had I not warded off with all the skill of which I was master, might very easily have laid me insensible on the ground.

      "Softly — softly," exclaimed a quiet, oily voice, close at hand. "You are too hasty, John. The gentleman's intentions might have been perfectly harmless. Wait and hear what he has to say for himself. No doubt he can explain his intrusion into the grounds quite to our satisfaction."

      The man relinquished, rather unwillingly, I thought, his hold on my collar, and in a few words I explained what had brought me into the garden, and my ignorance of having committed any trespass, not knowing the place to be inhabited.

      "To be sure you did not," was the reply, still spoken in the same insinuating tones I had before noticed, and which excited within me an instinctive feeling of aversion. "But after the rough treatment you have experienced at the hands of my too zealous servant, some explanation is due to you. Will you oblige me by stepping inside for an instant?"

      Anxious to follow out the adventure, I very willingly consented, and the next moment found myself following my mysterious leader through the long-disused portals of the Haunted Grange.

      Once a doubt crossed my mind whether I was acting very wisely in so doing; but when at last I stood within the lighted precincts of a small room, into which I was conducted, every other idea gave way before the feeling of interest and distrust with which I found myself regarding my unknown companion.

      He was a middled-aged man, with a cunning, deceitful face, that instantly excited a suspicion of I knew not what in my mind, yet with a certain air about him that unmistakably proclaimed the thorough gentleman, so far as manner and appearance went.

      "Would you have any objection to favour me with your name?" he asked, as I swept my eye, with a quick, scrutinizing glance round the room, the furniture of which had evidently been hurriedly collected, and which consisted of the barest necessaries.

      "Not the slightest," I replied. "My name is Percy, and I am a surgeon, living at Clunbury."

      My strange host handed me a chair, and then, sinking into another, inquired:

      "Are you a father, Mr. Percy?"

      "No; I am a bachelor," I replied with a smile, wondering what was to come next.

      "I am sorry to hear it; because in that case you will not be able to understand my feelings, I fear, so thoroughly as I could wish. No doubt you are astonished to find me occupying this place, Mr. Percy; but to explain my reason for so doing, I must tell you the affliction that has befallen me as a father. I have a daughter — a fair, gentle girl — who, until the last year or so, was the light and sunshine of my life; but, alas! for human hope and happiness, my sweet Violet is at this time a complete lunatic. In spite of the tenderness I have lavished upon her, she has conceived the delusion that I am not her father, but a cruel uncle who is anxious to murder her for the sake of the fortune she persists in declaring she will inherit. I, her father, sir: fancy what all this must be to a parent!"

      "It is very sad," I replied, making an effort to conceal the distrust that was fast gaining ground in my mind; "but what has this to do with your residence in this gloomy ruin?"

      "Can you not understand? I have brought her here — my daughter, my darling Violet — far away from curious, prying eyes. I cannot bear the thought of the hard, unsympathising world knowing anything of the dire affliction that has befallen my child. At first, in accordance with the doctor's instructions, I tried change of scene; but this had no effect whatever; and when at last her malady began to assume a violent phase, I resolved on perfect seclusion — at least, for a time — hoping by this means to conceal my sorrow from the world. Now you will understand why I have chosen to hide myself and my daughter's affliction in the Haunted Grange."

      "Would you object to my seeing the young lady?" I asked, after having expressed my sympathy with the terrible affliction under which she laboured.

      "Not at all. On the contrary, I feel highly gratified at the interest you appear to take in my unhappy child," was the response; but, if I am not mistaken, a glance of significant meaning passed at this moment between the speaker and the woman who just then entered the room, and whom he introduced as his daughter's faithful and attached attendant.

      I looked for an instant into the woman's smirking, treacherous face, and distrusted her as strongly as I did her employer.

      "You are quite certain my presence at such an unseemly hour will not disturb the patient?" I asked.

      "No, indeed, sir," replied the woman. "She is in one of her wakeful, sullen moods, poor dear, and probably will not notice you."

      A few minutes later I entered a room in one of the upper stories, furnished as a bed-room, and from which I rightly conjectured the light which had attracted me had proceeded. The apartment was a large one, and the lamp that stood on the dressing-table only partly illumined it; but for all this, a glance showed me a bed standing in an alcove, on which lay the slight form of a young girl.

      As my eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity of the room, on approaching the bed I saw that the occupant, who lay back on the pillow in a kind of stupor rather than sleep, was very pale and wan.

      Stooping over the white, still face, it was only by an effort that I repressed the cry of surprise that rose to my lips.

      Once more I looked on the face that had haunted me so long — the face which, a few days before, had flitted past me at the carriage window.

      What I said or did for the next few moments I never could precisely remember; but even in my astonishment I did not forget the caution I had imposed upon myself.

      For a second or two I continued examining the still unconscious face, while a suspicion came into my mind that the sleeper was under the effects of some strong narcotic.

      The poor little face was very white and wan; but, unless my judgment greatly deceived me, it was not the face of a lunatic.

      I placed my fingers on the rapid, feverish pulse; but light as was my touch, it had the effect of arousing the patient, who seemed on the point of recovering from the drug I felt confident had been administered.

      "Who are you?" she asked, as, opening her eyes with a startled look, she tried to rise from the pillow.

      "Do not be terrified, my child; I am a friend — a friend of yours," I repeated, speaking the last words in a tone so low as to be audible to her ear alone.

      I fancied a look of intelligence and hope shone for an instant in the depths of those sweet eyes as I spoke; but I was afraid of exciting a suspicion in the mind of the woman, who hovered about close at hand; and so I turned and spoke to my host, who at this moment followed me into the room.

      "And what is your opinion of my child, Mr. Percy?" he asked, with an assumed look of anxiety as I accompanied him down the great staircase into the hall.

      "I am afraid there is little room for hope," I said, giving my head a significant shake, thus allowing him to suppose I had fallen into the view of the case with which he had striven to impress me.

      "Mr. Percy," said my host — whose name, he informed me, was Johnson — pressing my hand as I was about to take my leave, "I am certain I need scarcely ask you to respect the confidence I have this evening reposed in you. You know how painful it would be to feelings to have privacy intruded upon, as it would be, should my presence here become suspected."

      "You may rely on my discretion, Mr. Johnson," I replied, as, having promised to call again in a couple of days, I mounted my horse and rode off towards Clunbury.

      During my solitary ride homeward, my thoughts were busy with the inmates of the gloomy old Grange, and the foul play I felt convinced was going on there.

      Although I had promised to call in a couple of days, for reasons of my own I paid my visit on the following day instead.

      Apologizing for so doing, on the plea that business would prevent my calling on the day I had proposed, and, rather than allow my new acquaintance to suppose I had forgotten his invitation, I had forestalled it by a day.

      It did not require any extraordinary penetration to discover that my appearance at the Grange was anything but welcome to its owner; but pretending to accept the deceitful welcome afforded me, I commenced inquiries concerning Miss Johnson.

      "No better, I fear," was the response; and in reply to my request to see her, my host informed me that he feared one of her violent attacks was coming on, and that, perhaps, I had better not see her today.

      "On the contrary," I replied, "the more I see of the patient under the various phases of her distressing malady, the better opinion I shall be able to form as to her chances of recovery."

      And before my companion had time to reply, I was half-way up the stairs in the direction of the young lady's room.

      I saw a look of uneasiness pass between Mr. Johnson and his housekeeper as I entered it; but I took no notice, and appeared to devote my whole attention to my patient.

      She was up now, and sitting near a window, with a sadly careworn look on the sweet face I remembered so well. I fancied she gave a slight start as her eyes fell upon me; but the next moment she relapsed into an apathetic expression, and, although I spoke to her several times, remained perfectly silent.

      There was something in her manner that perplexed and terrified me. What if, after all, I had been mistaken, and, instead of a victim of treachery, as I had fancied her, she was indeed a lunatic.

      A cold perspiration burst out on my forehead at the thought; but one look into that clear, intellectual face reassured me, for, unseen by the others, a quick, suggestive glance of intelligence had been darted towards me, and then drooping her eyes under those long, dark lashes, she sat once more still and passive as before.

      The singularity of manner which, after that meaning glance I felt confident had been purposely assumed, was as surprising to her attendant, I fancied, as it had at first been to me.

      I did not think it advisable to prolong my visit beyond a few minutes; but as I prepared to depart, I approached the patient, and offered my hand. She took it, pressed it warmly, and, looking up into my face, spoke a few words of farewell. As she did so, I felt a small piece of folded paper pressed tightly into my palm. I closed my hand over it, and the next moment followed Mr. Johnson down-stairs.

      I mounted my horse, and rode slowly away from the Grange, leaving its master standing at the entrance, watching me, I felt certain, with a perfect assurance that I had been thoroughly and entirely duped.

      Once at a safe distance from the Grange, I unfolded the scrap of paper I had hitherto kept carefully concealed from observation.

      It was in a pencil, and bore traces of having been hurriedly written:—

      I looked at the address — which was that of a person living in London — and then at my watch, and found that I had just time to catch the train that arrived at London Bridge about four o'clock in the afternoon.

      On arriving at my destination, I was ushered into the presence of a mild, elderly lady, who, I found, bore the name for whom I had inquired.

      "Pardon me, my dear madam," I said; "but can you give any information concerning a young lady named Ferrers — Miss Violet Ferrers?"

      "None beyond the fact that she is at present absent from England with her uncle and guardian, Mr. Ferrers," she replied, looking surprised at my question.

      "And you know the young lady personally?"

      "Know her? Yes, indeed; I have known her from infancy. Violet is the daughter of an old and valued friend of my youth. I have loved her, dear child, both for her sake and that of her dear mother. Her uncle, Mr. George Ferrers, to whose guardianship the poor child has been left, has never been any friend of mine; and it is to his dislike of me that I have attributed the fact of her not having written to me since her departure from England, a year ago."

      "Will you tell me if that portrait bears any resemblance to the young lady in question?" I asked, handing her the photograph that had come so strangely into my possession.

      "Yes," she exclaimed, as she glanced at it; "that is Violet. There is no possibility of mistaking such a face as hers."

      That was enough. Without waiting to satisfy the old lady's very natural curiosity, I hurried away, and was soon once more on my way to Clunbury.

      I was determined to suffer no grass to grow under my feet, and before I slept I had obtained an interview with the chief magistrate of the district, before whom I laid the whole facts of the case, so far as I knew them.

      Late that night I was on my way once more to the Haunted Grange, accompanied this time by a couple of police-constables, armed with a warrant of arrest against the man Ferrers, alias Johnson, and his housekeeper.

      Leaving the constables to do their duty below, I hastened up-stairs to the room of Miss Ferrers, with the glad tidings that we had come to rescue her.

      No sooner had the first words left my lips than she uttered a loud cry of joy, and fell senseless into my arms.

      A strict search of the house was made, and in a desk belonging to Mr. Ferrers was found several vials containing different kinds of poison; while a basin of beef tea, which had been prepared for Violet, was found on examination to contain a portion of the same.

      George Ferrers and the woman, Martha Briggs, were both lodged for the present in the lock-up at Clunbury, with a tolerable prospect before them of being brought to trial on a charge of attempted murder.

      But this trial never took place, for on the following morning the man was discovered to be dead in his cell — poisoned by one of the drugs he had concealed about his person at the time of his arrest.

      Subsequent investigation proved his affairs to be hopelessly involved, and it was evident that the death of his niece, whose fortune would in that case fall into his hands, was the only chance that could possibly save him from ruin.

      Violet Ferrers was removed to Clunbury, and, surrounded by every care and attention, began to recover from the cruel attack made on her life; but in spite of everything, it was a long time before her health was fully restored.

      During this convalescence it was my privilege and delight to attend her almost daily in the double character of medical adviser and friend.

      Words cannot express the anxiety with which I watched for the symptoms of returning health and strength — sometimes almost fearing that the work of the poisoner had been too effectual for human skill to combat.

      At such times as these my heart sank heavy as lead within me; then at others I noticed the glow of pleasure flushing her cheeks and brightening her eyes at my approach, and with a wild, glad delight I told myself that Violet Ferrers loved me.

      One day I showed her the vignette that had so long been in my possession. She listened in surprise to the strange history concerning it; and then, as she sat gazing with a look of pleased wonder on the tiny card, I told her how for many months it had been the star of my life — how, in short, I had loved her long before I ever looked on her face in reality — from the moment in which I had beheld the photograph on board the India-bound vessel.

      But I will not linger over this period of my life, happy though it was. It is only necessary to add that Violet Ferrers is now my wife; and as the years roll past I have still more and more cause to bless the day on which I found the original of the mysterious photograph.

THE END.