III. After completing his university course, Mr. Santal's time was spent in improving his property of Minsteracres, and in efforts to ameliorate the condition of his tenants. His genuine concern for the welfare of his neighbors and fellow-men in general gained him a wide respect and esteem; nor did he neglect to inform his mind by foreign travel and diligent study. Among such a variety of engrossing occupations it may well be supposed that so trivial a matter as a dream, if not dismissed from his mind, was at least no longer viewed with the exaggerated importance with which youthful imagination had at first invested it. It was true that he had not entirely dismissed the subject from his thoughts, but when it recurred to him it was merely as a romantic memory, or as a source of curious but unprofitable speculation. a Yet it is possible that his strange experience had influenced his life more than he himself ever recognized, and that the image which his memory still retained of the singular and pathetic beauty of the lady of his dream had rendered him fastidious and indifferent to ordinary charms. Eight years had passed since his nocturnal adventure, but he was still unmarried. This was the more unfortunate as the whole of his estates were so rigidly entailed that it was not in his power to devise any portion, and should he die without issue, they must pass to a distant connection of another name. His legal advisers and his own sentiment had combined to point out that it would be a matter for deep regret if so fine a property should pass out of the family with whose name it had been long identified. For some time, however, he had paid little attention to so remote an eventuality; and it was not until he was nearing his thirtieth year that his inclination, running in the same direction with his interests, decided him to marry. His affections had become engaged to a Miss Willoughby, the only child of a neighboring landowner. The first time that he saw her was in winter as she stood leaning against a mantelpiece and looking down at the fire. The yellow light of some candles in sconces on the wall fell on her white dress and flaxen hair; and at the sight of the white-robed figure with bowed head, Santal was suddenly conscious of a strange fascination mixed with foreboding, for she recalled to him that other white-robed and griefbowed form that he had pictured in his dream. The attraction between them was mutual, and the match was in every respect a suitable one, as the lady was possessed of great personal attractions, and would eventually inherit a considerable property. Yet when Santal first spoke openly to her of love, the foreboding returned upon him with greater force, and it was only with a correspondingly increased effort that he was able once more to shake it off. There being no reason for any delay, the marriage was arranged to take place in June, and the preparations for the event went rapidly forward. But as the day drew near, Santal, who had hitherto felt all the ardor that passion could inspire in the most youthful and enthusiastic of lovers, found himself becoming a prey to unaccountable apprehensions. It was not that his affection for his betrothed had in any way cooled, but his mind was filled with gloomy prognostications of impending evil which assumed vague and Protean forms. Among these fancies the memory of his adventure eight years before at Winterbourne returned again and again to his mind, with a sense of depression which the subject by no means warranted. The image of Cecilia Bejant, as he had seen her in her youth and her sorrow, rose continually before him, and assumed that place in his mind and thoughts to which Miss Willoughby alone had a right. He be The bride and bridegroom knelt together at the altar-rails, and the minister began the exhortation with which the marriage service opens. During the reading of this long address Santal felt his irrational disquietude increase, and in spite of the solemnity of the occasion, and his firm resolve not to allow such fancies to get the better of him, it was only with difficulty that he could control his nervousness sufficiently to prevent it from being perceived by others. The congregation were attentive and quiet, but he could hear at the back of the church the rustling and disturbance caused by a place being found for some late comer. The concluding portion of the address was at length reached-"Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together let him now speak or else hereafter for ever hold his peace"-and the minister was proceeding to the next sentence when a startling event took place. A man at the back of the church had risen in his place, and was saying, in a calm and clear voice, "I forbid this marriage." At the first sound Santal had turned. He felt neither the surprise nor anger that such an interruption would ordinarily have occasioned, but it came, on the contrary, almost as a relief to his suspense. This he recognized at once as the evil that he had dreaded for weeks without being previously able to define its nature. It was as if he had been taking part in some stage play, and that the final catastrophe was now approaching in which his rôle, however unpleasant, was not unexpected. The voice of the man speaking woke a responsive chord in his memory, and the clear and deliberate intonation seemed perfectly familiar to him. He looked at the speaker and saw a tall man in the prime of life, dressed in an ecclesiastical habit of black cloth. He was clean-shaven, and his regular but emaciated features wore an air of peculiar sanctity. A painful silence had fallen upon the congregation, and all eyes were fixed on the intruder. He spoke again "I forbid you to proceed, for this man is already married." The minister who was performing the ceremony looked in amazement from Santal to the speaker, and from the speaker to Santal. The latter had said nothing, but the bride burst into tears, and her father stamped angrily on the floor. "Let us have a truce to this fooling; the man is mad; let him be led out of the church," said Mr. Willoughby. attention of all to Santal. They expected that he would have given an immediate and indignant denial, but he stood with his head bowed down, and uttered not a word. The bride touched his arm and turned her face appealingly to his. "Anthony," she said, "speak to me; tell me this is false." There was a little pause, and then Santal raised his head and said, speaking in a profound silence, “I cannot deny it, for all that this gentleman has said is true." Then followed a scene of much excitement, and the party which had so joyously assembled broke up amid mingled tears and indignation. The bride's father, after overwhelming Santal with reproaches, took his daughter by the arm and hurried her away, refusing to allow her to question her lover further or to see him in private, as she desired. The accused himself seemed as one dazed. Except the one short admission, he had uttered no word at all, and had accepted the abuse which Mr. Willoughby had cast at him without any effort at justification. When the assembly had dispersed, he called for his saddlehorse, which stood by waiting, mounted, and rode away on the road to London. The stranger who had caused the catastrophe disappeared during the general confusion that followed it, and when Mr. Willoughby sent to inquire for him in order to gain a more precise knowledge of Mr. Santal's prior marriage, he was nowhere to be found. Santal was pale and silent, but yet showed no surprise, and the clergyman put an end to the scene by asking the contracting parties and the objector to step aside for a moment to the vestry, so that the matter might be more quietly discussed. When they had entered the vestry, the clergyman asked the stranger what was the reason for his conduct, and what were the allegations he made. "I allege," he said, "that on the 24th day of June, in the year 1816, I married this man in the chapel at Bejant Place, with all the rites of Holy Church, to Cecilia, daughter to the late Roger Bejant, Esq., and that she is his lawful wife." A shock of surprise and alarm ran through all the listeners except Santal, and Mr. Willoughby broke in-"You are a rogue and a vagabond, and a vile traducer. What proofs do you bring? What is your name?" "I am no rogue nor vagabond," the stranger answered, "but Theodore Brady, a servant of the Society of Jesus, and vicar-apostolic been entirely crushed by so terrible a of his Holiness the pope; and now reside with Mr. Fermor of Arlaston, in Warwickshire. I have no proofs to offer, but none are needed. It is for this gentleman," pointing to Santal, away with him only one servant, the "to deny what I say; and if he is content to deny it, then I am content to be esteemed indeed the traducer which you call me." This turned the From what afterwards transpired, Mr. Santal himself seemed to have blow. He abandoned both his habits and his home, nor did he ever again see his seat of Minsteracres. He took same man who had attended him on his journey from Oxford eight years before. It was to Winterbourne that he now repaired, and took up his quar ters at the Bejant Arms, where he sake, as much as his own, Mr. Santal hired permanent lodgings. About two months after the scene at the church he received a letter from Mr. Willoughby couched in conciliatory terms, and informing him that the writer was prepared entirely to forget the past, and to accept Mr. Santal as his son-in-law, on receiving from him an assurance that there was no truth in the odious charge which had been brought against him. Mr. Willoughby was convinced, the letter said, that the person who had interrupted the marriage was an impostor. He had caused the fullest inquiries to be made, and had referred the matter to the chief authorities of the Roman Catholic Church in England. They agreed that there was in their orders no priest of the name of Theodore Brady, and that so far from the man being the present vicar-apostolic, he had impudently assumed the style of a former vicar, who had suffered martyrdom under Queen Elizabeth. The address which he had given was also proved to be false, for the Fermor family with whom he had represented himself to be living at Arlaston, had moved from that seat many years ago, and the house itself was so completely a thing of the past, that even its site could no longer be identified. Mr. Willoughby had also discovered that the chapel at Bejant Place, where the marriage was alleged to have taken place, was a ruin, and that the Bejants themselves were extinct. This being so, the writer believed the whole story to be false, and was anxious to accept Mr. Santal's assurance to that effect. There would have been, he added, no room at any time for even the slightest suspicion had not color been lent to the accusation by Mr. Santal's own unfortunate admission, an admission which he was now convinced must be attributed solely to the sudden shock having bewildered him. His daughter had been ailing ever since the rupture, and he earnestly begged that for her would give the assurance that he sought, and in this case their marriage could at once be celebrated. The perusal of this letter occasioned Mr. Santal much pain, and his sorrow was immeasurably increased by a note which was enclosed from Miss Willoughby, in which she assured him in the warmest terms of her unaltered love and confidence. He wrote to Mr. Willoughby in reply, thanking him for his courtesy, but regretting that it was not in his power to give the assurance asked for, as the priest's statements were in substance true. He expressed the greatest remorse that he should be the cause of so much suffering to Mr. Willoughby's family, but begged them to believe that the facts, if fully understood, would show him to be perhaps less guilty than now appeared. He could not explain further, but Mr. Willoughby would understand that he was quite ready to afford the only satisfaction which a gentleman could offer, either to Mr. Willoughby himself or to any other person nominated by him. So the matter unhappily ended, and neither side ever held any further communication with the other. Two years elapsed, and Mr. Santal was still at the Bejant Arms, but sadly changed. His once robust health had completely given way, and his state was such as to cause the greatest anxiety to those few friends who saw him from time to time. He felt most keenly the terrible strain which rested upon his honor, and the breaking off of his marriage seemed to have entirely crushed his spirits. He grew thin and weak, and would sit the greater part of the day in a listless attitude with his hands before him. If he went out, it was generally only to visit the ruins of Bejant Place, where, if reports spoke truly, he not unfrequently passed the entire night; indeed, his chief solace consisted in haunting that spot. The image of Cecilia Bejant was ever present with him, and grew at length so beloved that he looked forward with longing to his end, believing that in death he would be permitted to rejoin his lost bride. His eccentric habits gained him among the lower classes the reputation of being a harmless madman, while those of his own rank avoided all contact with him as one about whom hung some dishonorable mystery. In June of the third year of his residence at Winterbourne he fell ill. A severe cold, contracted, it was said, by a night spent in the ruined chapel of Bejant Place, took such effect upon a frame already reduced to great weakness that the doctor who was called in at once pronounced his case to be serious, if not hopeless. It was the same general practitioner who had visited Santal eight years before at Winterbourne. He was quite familiar with the story of the interrupted wedding, and had seen in it confirmation of his previous theories as to Santal's adventure at Bejant Place. He had talked the matter over continually with his village cronies, and always averred that Santal had been drugged on that night and decoyed into illicit company. The man who had interrupted the wedding with Miss Willoughby and afterwards disappeared, might have been, he thought, a hedgepriest who had actually assisted at some mock marriage of Santal on that very night. He found in his patient's own mental attitude the greatest obstacle to his recovery, for Santal seemed to have already abandoned his hold on life. The issue justified the worst apprehensions, and on the 20th of June, near the date on which he had first visited Winterbourne, Mr. Santal breathed his last. Shortly before his death he had been received into the communion of the Church of Rome, a proceeding which was considered by those who were aware of it as a further proof of his eccentricity. He left strict instructions with his servant that he should be buried on the south side of the church, and as near the Bejant Aisle as might be; but the clergyman of the parish objected to this being done, as Mr. Santal had died a Roman Catholic. On finding, however, that Santal had left a substantial benefaction to the parish, he eventually consented to the burial being made in that position; but only on the understanding that the body should not be taken into the church, and that the Protestant form of service should be read at the grave-side. To this the servant readily agreed, having, indeed, no reason to make any opposition. This man was sincerely attached to his master, and would not leave the dead body. But he had come to regard with superstitious fear the strange habits and especially the nocturnal visits to Bejant Place which Santal had affected towards the close of his life. On the night before the burial he did not remain with the corpse, saying it was St. John's eve, and the night on which those spirits. walked who had undone his master. He lit candles round the body and persuaded the landlord to sit up with him below stairs, and they kept watch together through the night as they had done on that same date ten years. before. Both dozed off, however, towards morning, but woke together imagining that they heard a monotonous murmur as of low chanting proceeding from the room above. must, however, have been a dream, for on going upstairs they found the candles still burning and the body undisturbed. It When the time of the funeral arrived there were gathered at the grave-side a group of sympathizing villagers who wished to pay a last token of respect to Mr. Santal's memory; for though they deemed him mad, they had always found him will |