inn, where they came upon a riderless horse with a rein broken, and the saddle turned upside down. The servant at once recognized his master's horse, and a fresh cause for alarm was found in the dripping saddle, and the state of the animal, which showed that it had been in the water. The landlord concluded at once that Mr. Santal had chosen the by-road from Laffontine instead of the highway, and had been carried away in attempting to cross the flooded stream. They proceeded to the ford with lanterns, and the subsidence of the water allowing them to cross soon after daybreak, they found hoof marks on the sodden turf, which showed where the horse had turned off across the meadow on the previous night. Guided by these tracks, they reached the porch of a ruined house, well known in the neighborhood as Bejant Place, and entering, came first upon a riding cloak on a heap of fallen timbers in the dismantled hall; and shortly afterwards found Mr. Santal himself lying prostrate on the altar-steps of a chapel attached to the house. The landford said that the family of Bejant were formerly lords of Winterbourne Manor, and had built Bejant Place in the reign of Elizabeth; but their waning fortunes had forced them to abandon their residence shortly after the close of the Civil Wars, and it was now little more than a ruined shell. The inn where Santal lay was called after them, the Bejant Arms, and their shield, with the wavy bars of silver and black, could be seen swinging on the signboard from his bedroom window. Santal was thus enabled to trace the origin of some of the fancies which had filled his dream; but he was left to wonder at the coincidence of his having purchased in Oxford a ring which had undoubtedly belonged to some member of that family in whose house he was destined to pass so strange a night. The dream had left so vivid an im pression that he could not easily shake it off, and more than one circumstance contributed to intensify the idea of reality that it had produced on his imagination. He missed from his finger the ring itself, and remembered with a smile, and yet with sadness, the important part it had played in his vision. He had little doubt that he had in sleep actually removed it from his hand, and that it would be found somewhere in the chapel; and he was scarcely surprised that a guinea and a shilling should be missing from his purse. His indisposition caused Santal to modify his plans; and instead of proceeding directly on his journey he retained his rooms at the Bejant Arms, and remained nearly a week at Winterbourne. After he was sufficiently recovered to leave the house he several times visited the ruins of Bejant Place. The stream was now sunk to a mere brook, and might have been crossed even without the aid of the steppingstones which bridged it. From the further bank a broad expanse of undulating greensward, dotted here and there with old elms, led up to the house. This stretch of turf had once formed the pleasure park of Bejant Place; and as The Park it was still known, though the fences had long ago been removed, and it was now used as a common pasture by the villagers. Santal found that the house, when viewed in the less romantic hues of daylight, was indeed, as his landlord had told him, little better than a ruin. It had been entirely dismantled at some comparatively remote period, the staircases throughout and the floors in part had been removed, and the rooms stripped of their panelling and even of their fireplaces. He entered by the projecting stone porch, and found no difficulty in retracing his steps or in identifying the various chambers which he had actually visited; but he wondered as he remembered the fantastic properties and persons with which his imagination had equipped them. The walls from which the panelling and plaster had been stripped, the cracked and broken stuccoes of the ceiling, the gaping holes whence the fireplaces had been removed, and the cobwebbed or shivered casements combined to produce a scene of desolation which reached its culmination in the chapel. Here the collapse of the roof had left a few scarred and jagged rafters projecting from the walls in perilous and threatening positions, while the tiles and beams had in their fall shattered the flagging of the floor below and littered it with débris. A wreck of mullions and tracery still remained in the east window and Santal saw waving in the wind outside the same sprig of ivy that he had noticed in his dream. There was no trace of seats or any other fittings, but at the east end the rising steps marked the position which the altar had once occupied. He examined the place carefully in the expectation of finding his ring and the money that he had lost, but his search was unsuccessful. tablet of brass let into the wall hard by, which recorded the death, in the same year, of "Cecelia, onely child to Roger Bejant, Esq., aged 18," with a rhyming inscription Stay, passenger, and solace with a tear Who when shee saw that cruel fate laid The onely succor she on earth did knowe, was laid A faultlesse daughter and a spotlesse maid. The coincidence of these names with those which his dreaming imagination had conjured up, was so startling as to lead him for a moment to doubt his reason, and to consider whether he had not on that night in the old manor-house been permitted to see rehearsed by ghostly actors a scene which had actually occurred more than two centuries before. He dismissed the idea as absurd almost before it was formed, and was constrained eventually to believe that he must in some archaeological work Besides the ruins of Bejant Place, Santal visited with much interest the parish church of Winterbourne, which lay facing the inn at the opposite side have once read a description of these of the village green. On the south side of the church was a chantry built by some of the old lords of the manor, and known as the Bejant Aisle. It was separated from the rest of the church by oak screen-work, and in it were many monuments of the family. Among these memorials was a raised altar-tomb of elaborate workmanship, on which lay a full-length alabaster figure of a man clothed in a fantastic plate-armor prevalent at the close of the sixteenth century. Round the edge of the tomb ran an inscription in brass showing that the figure represented one Roger Bejant who "was interred 24th of June, 1580." The name, and still more the day of his burial, arrested Santal's attention, but his surprise was increased a hundredfold by the discovery of a plain monuments. The knowledge that the inn at which he hoped to pass the night was called the Bejant Arms had very possibly revived his dormant recollection of such a description, and led him to attach the names of persons who had once existed to the phantoms of his dream. It was a lame and unsatisfactory explanation, but he could conceive no better, and though he taxed his memory to the utmost to recall the fact of his having ever read anything of the kind, it was without success. Neither could he determine at what precise point his dream had begun, but it seemed probable that he had never properly recovered consciousness after being knocked down by his horse, and had entered the house and wandered from room to room in a half-stunned condition. 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 came at last unable to banish the remembrance of his dream-love even in the presence of his affianced bride, nor could he at times divest himself of the idea, absurd though he felt it to be, that in the part he was now playing he was a traitor to both. He received the congratulations and merry speeches of his friends with a heavy heart, and when they talked of festivities to be held at Minsteracres in honor of his wedding, he could only respond by false smiles and evasive answers. He felt, in fact, as an unhappy man might feel who, being smitten with some secret but fatal disease, listens to his friends talking gaily of a future which he can never hope to share. So harassed did he become by morbid feelings that he was led to consult his family physician, who, however, made light of the matter, attributing his symptoms to a disorder of the digestion, brought about by undue anxiety as to the important change of life which he contemplated. The doctor gave him a prescription, bidding him hope for entire recovery as soon as the wedding should have removed all cause for his present solicitude. So far, however, from the near approach of this event putting a term to his anxiety, the morning of his marriage found him in a condition at once depressed and excited. The bride was accompanied by her father, and there was a large gathering of friends of the contracting parties in the little church of Brant Willoughby. The villagers thronged round as closely as was consistent with their respect for their superiors; and the children, to do honor to the marriage, had strewn the aisle with flowers and sprigs of evergreen shrubs. The pe culiar scent of these last as they were trodden underfoot recalled vividly to Santal's memory the great hall at Bejant Place, strewn with evergreen and scented with spices on a very different occasion. 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 pe- attention of all to Santal. They ex culiar 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. pected 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, "to deny what I say; and if he is content to deny it, then I am content to nibe esteemed indeed the traducer terestsch 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 away with him only one servant, the 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 |