utterly blot out the race-nay, not by violence, not even with thine own free will, perchance. Yet shalt thou lead them directly or indirectly, to the death. And when the clock is on the stroke of twelve, a hundred and seventy-five years from this night, I will appear before thee, Arthur, though thou wert among the savages of Hindostan, and lead thee back to the grave, where thou shalt slumber quietly for all time!' "Then the sepulchral voice of Sir Godfrey died away. "Arthur started with a shock, like one who wakens from a nightmare at the dead of night. "The old portrait hung in its accustomed place on the wall, as flat and burred and crackled as in Arthur's childhood. "A wild vibrating cry came from the Jocelyn House. "The grim Puritans turned in their beds; the beadle yawned, and the village undertaker, in his sleep, dug an imaginary grave. "Help' said the echoes, spitefully, retreating to the woods; and there, among the crags, they repeated the cry. "Sick men heard it and shuddered; and wakeful mothers held their babes nearer to their bosoms. The town-sentinels discharged their matchlocks at shadows, then myriads of lanterns twinkled in the dusky streets, the church-bell began ringing, and armed men hurried to and fro. "Are the Indians upon us again?' asked one. "No, but a murder has been done in our midst.' "Now, when the good people found Arthur Jocelyn standing by the casement with a naked sword in his grasp, and saw the worshipful magistrate lying amort on the lounge, threatening brows were bent on the young man, and Suspicion pointed a black finger at him. 66 So, in due time, the Elders hanged Arthur Jocelyn. And that he may slumber softly in the mould, and rise not until the Angel of the Resurrection call him, let all good souls pray. 66 Such is the Legend of the Jocelyn House an old nurse-wife's tale which I have preserved simply because my father used to amuse us children with it, on winter evenings, when the family were gathered at the hearth-side. He was a graphic raconteur; and I remember how I listened and trembled as Sir Godfrey Jocelyn stepped out of the picture. I cannot explain to myself why the story, now that I write it down, affects me so strongly. Curiously enough, if such a silly old legend could be true, my son Paul is the descendant who, according to the prophecy of Sir Godfrey-but, pshaw! this is madness. I would like for Paul to read this narrative some time. I dare not trust him with it now, for the boy is excitable to a degree that often alarms me. pray heaven he may be spared the affliction that obscured his grandfather's last days, and which, I sometimes think, threatens to darken mine. I November, 1837." MATTHEW LYNDE. the Colony - I, Paul Lynde. Bitterly has the prophecy been fulfilled. Without my own will, and unconsciously, I have woven the black threads of my life with the fate of those who came of a generation that hated me and mine. Cecil is dead. Mark Howland sleeps in an illstarred city. Mary Ware is dead; and Kenneth - the last of his race. Kenneth? Kenneth ? I think it was Reuben Walforde that went stalking about the ends of the earth! They are gone the white spirits and the gray. And the time draws near, ah, so near ! when my grim ancestor shall appear, and take me into that darkness which awaits us all. Again I shall behold Sir Godfrey, clad in the garb of a by-gone age, as I beheld him that memorable night in John Jocelyn's library. I shall hear his echoing voice, feel the humid touch of his hand! * Listen! no, the wind brushes the elm-tree against the house, and the stair-case creaks with the frost. Heaven, how the moments whirl by! People are dancing to dulcet music in fragrant rooms: lovers are whispering together in shadowy alcoves: mothers are caressing their children : |