Another great story I came across while indexing Blackwood’s Magazine. This was published anonymously in July 1879, but a later compilation of short stories published by Blackwood’s revealed the author to be M. C. Stirling.

The Ghost of Morcar’s Tower

For three generations the direct heir to the estate of Morcar’s Tower has not succeeded to the property. The last owner, Squire Fairfax, was a hale, jovial fellow, and had three stalwart sons, yet none of them lived to possess the place.

The eldest was killed when Clyde’s army relieved Lucknow; the second fell a victim to the jungle-fever that haunts the moist rice-fields of Central India; and the youngest,—it gives me a choking sensation in my throat even now when I recall his fate.

The hero of the Playing Fields, stroke of the eight-oar in the most closely contested race that Oxford ever won, he was a favourite everywhere, and the pride of his home. I can see him yet, with his laughing brown eyes, standing up against the crack left-handed bowler, who came assured of an easy victory for Stepton over the eleven of Stepton-in-the-Fens. There were some of us who thought when he carried his bat that greater triumphs must be in store for that ready hand, that watchful eye, and cheery spirit.

A year later, when a pleasure-boat went down in a squall, the only hope left us was that he had not suffered long, for there was a dark bruise on the pale forehead when the body was washed ashore. His father never recovered the blow, but died soon after his boy; and thus it came to pass that I, a distant cousin, found myself the owner of Morcar’s Tower.

The curse, if curse there still be, will be again fulfilled, for no children of mine will ever brighten the gloomy chambers of my new home. It matters not how I know this so certainly, for it is not my own story that I am about to tell. Suffice it to say that the joy was crushed out of my life ere I was thirty, so that I abandoned my chosen career, and hid myself in a lonely cottage, thinking that in the quiet life of a student I might find solace for my grief. When first I heard that the old Tower was mine, I was unwilling to remove from the abode to which I had already grown accustomed; but on further reflection I decided that the effort must be made, and that I must not shrink from my new duties on account of the melancholy associations connected with the place. To the Tower therefore I went, taking with me the treasured volumes that were my only friends.

For obvious reasons I cannot give the true names of the localities I am about to describe, but they will be easily recognised by any one belonging to the neighbourbood who may chance to peruse this tale.

Morcar’s Tower was situated in one of the flattest districts in England. In old days, before cannon were in use, it must have been a valuable stronghold, for it was then surrounded by a reedy fen, full of dangerous and unsuspected depths, and only practised guides could find the narrow paths that threaded through the grass and rushes, Gradually, however, the fen-land was reclaimed, though the drainage was extremely difficult; and a canal, more sluggish than any I have seen elsewhere, was cut across from the Ayder to the Deene. The soil was rich, and paid well; and at last a little town grew up, known as Stepton-in-the-Fens, to distinguish it from Stepton proper, or, as it was sometimes called, Stepton-on-the-Wold. This wold was nothing but a rise of the land on the west of the Tower, and would hardly have been remarked in a less level country.

The Tower itself was more properly a keep, square and grim, built of dark red stone that took a purplish hue when wet. Round it was a deep moat that on three sides had been hastily and carelessly filled up. Yellow hawkweed and the straggling ragged-robin grew in profusion on the unequal surface of the earth that had been thrown loosely into it; and I wondered greatly that my cousin should have allowed this disorderly fringe of weed to remain round the house, I remembered, however, that when my cousin Frank had once proposed some alteration, his father had replied, with unusual sharpness, that he did not choose to meddle with the moat. On the fourth side the ditch was its original depth, and a wooden bridge, with a high fantastic railing, crossed it where the drawbridge had formerly been. The walls of the Tower were enormously thick, and the interior was consequently somewhat sombre. There was plenty of heavy old-fashioned furniture, but there were few modern elegancies in the house. In the room that had been Harry’s were two new easy-chairs, some engravings after Landseer, and some pewters and cups,—relics of the foot-races and sculling-matches of his Eaton and Oxford days.

On the ground-floor were the drawing and dining rooms, with two smaller apartments; the bedrooms were up-stairs; and the servants—I had but three—lived in some newer offices quite at the back.

I myself chose to inhabit a curious turret that projected from one corner of the Tower, partly because it was light and cheerful, partly because I had used it when visiting my cousins in our boyhood. The round shoulder of the wold cut us off early from the evening sun, and from the turret windows I could watch the light being stolen from our Fens by the advancing shadows of the fir-clad rising ground.

I loved to see the last glitter die off the canal, and from between the reed beds, to watch a lazy barge perhaps being moored for the night, a grey heron oaring his way across the opal sky, or a string of carts or team of horses going slowly homewards,—for no living creature moved quickly in the Fens.

When all was still, save that the frogs had begun to croak among the rushes, I turned to my books, and in mystic volumes, such as the history of the Rosy Cross, sought for counsel from men who, like me, had resolved to be alone.

One night, when I had been about a fortnight at the Tower, I sat up rather later than usual at my studies. A new vista was opening before me, and I seemed to be on the point of reaching over that indefinable barrier that separates us from the world in which spirit is the known reality—a world whose laws must some day yield themselves up to our mastery. I raised my head, and drew in a long breath of the night air that blew in at the open casement. While sitting thus, pursuing an argument in my own mind, the sound of a stealthy footstep on the stair caught my ear, and abruptly broke the chain of my thoughts.

Irritated at this disturbance, I resolved to forbid the servants coming up-stairs so late, and then tried to resume my reading. But the words on the page conveyed no meaning to my mind, and I found myself dwelling instead on that unwonted sound.

Suddenly it flashed upon me,—I had not heard the step go away.

My door faced the stairs, and only a very small landing intervened. I looked at my watch; it was half-past one.

Obviously none of the household had any business up-stairs at that hour,—had I heard the step of a burglar who was even now outside my door? I was unarmed, and beyond reach of help, for the bell in my room communicated with an empty part of the Tower, and I had not yet given orders for its alteration. Hastily and nervously I locked my door, and listened long for a retiring footstep, but not a sound came, and I fell asleep at last without undressing. Next day I felt somewhat ashamed of the nervousness that had seized me; for though I do not boast of any special amount of animal courage, I had never before experienced such uneasiness. I concluded that my nervous system must be unstrung, and resolved to take more exercise than I had done of late.

I asked the butler casually, if he had been up-stairs late last night. He was an elderly man, and had spent many years in my cousin’s service, and 1 thought there was something strange in his look and tone as he replied, “No, sir; none of us were up-stairs.”

A confused remembrance of a ghost story came into my mind, told long ago by a chance guest, and summarily cut short by the old squire. Perhaps the Tower was haunted, and a ghost was part of my inheritance! I hesitated to inquire, lest I should put the idea into the heads of the servants; but as I had little faith in the supernatural origin of so-called ghostly disturbances, I took sundry precautions against imposture. I had once been a fair shot, so I opened a long-untouched box, and got out a pistol that had lain there for two years. This I cleaned and put away in my room. I then ordered that candles should be placed there in addition to my usual lamp, and desired that the bell should be at once altered.

When evening came, I sat down to my work, and read with quite my usual attention; but I could not recall the keen perception of the previous night.

About one o’clock I felt my mind wandering involuntarily from my book, although I had not been aware of the lateness of the hour until I looked at my watch: a quarter of an hour later I heard a faint sound. I listened anxiously: it was the same step as before, coming slowly up-stairs; the step of one who walks wearily—the step of a woman, for I distinctly heard the rustle of a dress. I quietly placed the lamp so that the light would stream right into the passage, cocked my pistol, and as the footsteps reached the door I threw it open. There was no one there.

A sense of horror seized me, and I think at that moment I would rather have met any visible foe than have stood face to face, as it were, with an empty sound.

Next morning Bond lingered unnecessarily in removing the breakfast things, and after glancing two or three times at me as I sat idly by the window, he spoke.

“Mr. Fairfax,—excuse me, sir—but you don’t look well this morning.”

“I don’t feel very well, Bond,” I replied.

“Been disturbed at night, perhaps, sir,” said the old man, pointedly.

“What do you mean? Why should I be disturbed at night?”

“Because you’re the owner of Morcar’s Tower, sir.”

“Then there is a story that I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “Go and finish your work, Bond, so as not to let the women remark anything, and then come and tell me about it.”

When he returned, Bond gave me a garbled version of the tale I shall presently relate in the words of one immediately concerned; but he added, that since the commission of the crime that gave Morcar’s Tower its evil name, it had been haunted by mysterious footsteps. No ghost had ever been seen, but these steps continually passed to the door of the room occupied by the owner, and there died away. My cousin, stout-hearted, practical man as he was, had tried every room in the Tower without escaping from this terrible guardian; and Bond thought the nervousness caused by the nightly visitation had helped to bring about Mrs. Fairfax’s sudden death.

Had he been a richer man, the squire would have abandoned the Tower; but he could ill afford to do so, and in time became accustomed to the ghost.

“Did none of my cousins ever hear it?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir, they did. Mr. James and Mr. Frank each heard it before they left home for the last time. Mr. Frank told me himself, sir, and said he thought it might be a sign he was never coming back.”

“And Harry——?”

“Master Harry was so much younger I don’t think he rightly knew the story. Mr. Fairfax made the other young gentlemen and me promise never to tell it to any one; and Master Harry wasn’t one to think of things of the sort.”

“How did the others find it out?”

“Same way as I did, sir, by master changing his room so often. They got it out of Mrs. Fairfax, poor lady, at last.”

“Well, Bond, I suppose I can depend on you to help me if I try to find out anything about the ghost.”

“Yes, sir; but I’d advise you to leave it alone, if I might be so bold.”

“My good fellow, I can’t go on living here without trying to understand this affair. If there is a ghost, there must be some reason for his or her coming; and if I could discover the reason, it might put a stop to these visits.”

“Well, sir, there’s no denying that would be a good thing; but I doubt you’ll find it beyond you to manage.”

“At least I’ll try, Bond,” said I, as he left the room.

That night I placed lamps on the stairs and in the passage that led to them, and made Bond sit up there that he might notice where the steps came from. I myself sat opposite the open door of my room, with my eyes fixed on the staircase. At a quarter past one, Bond called out, as agreed on, “It’s coming, sir;” and a minute later I distinguished the first footfalls. Slowly and steadily they came up-stairs, so that I could count the number of steps; they crossed the landing, and the last one planted itself on the threshold of my room; then there was perfect silence.

I shuddered and called Bond, who came up white and trembling.

“Sir, the steps walked by me where I sat; I watched the lamp as you told me, but I saw nothing pass between me and it. I don’t know where they began; they seemed to start at the end of the passage. Oh, sir, don’t meddle with them, or you’ll come to harm!”

“I hope not, Bond,” I replied. “I am satisfied that there is no trick, and I must think what is to be done next. Go to bed now, for I suppose we shall hear no more to-night.”

“No more, sir, the Lord be praised! It only comes once in a night; if it were oftener, I don’t think anybody could stand it.”

The old man evidently did not like the notion of a closer acquaintance with the ghost, but now that I knew exactly what happened, my own nerves were steady. I felt that here was an opportunity of testing some of the theories in which I was most deeply interested, and I resolved that no effort of mine should be wanting to prove them true or false. I believed in the power, possessed by a few strong wills, of influencing others at a distance; and my own studies had accustomed me to concentrate my thoughts, the first step towards exercising such a power, if, as I hoped, it was latent in me. I had never heard of any attempt to control a spirit by such means; but the idea did not appear to me impracticable. Where so little is known, experiments are of use, even though their results be only negative. If there is a spirit,—thus I argued with myself,—that wishes to communicate with the owner of this Tower, surely a reciprocal wish on his part, might render the process easier.

Again, the simplest facts of mesmerism show that one will can control another; surely a spirit, freed from human grossness, should be sensitively alive to every influence exerted over it. It only remains to be proved whether I have the needful strength, and whether I can keep cool and steady if I succeed so far as to obtain obedience from the spirit.

Having settled my plan of action, I began by taking a long and brisk walk in the early morning. Before dinner I confined my reading to historical works, but in the evening I perused carefully a volume in which I had found much curious and useful information on mesmerism. Soon after midnight I seated myself opposite my open door, having previously placed the lamps so as completely to light up the space before me.

Two rather ludicrous difficulties then struck me. In the first place, I did not know the sex of my unseen visitor. Bond’s story would have led me to suppose that a man would haunt the Tower, but there was nothing masculine in the gentle footfall, or the sound of the trailing robe.

Secondly, I knew that I must keep one idea steadily before me, yet I could hardly go on repeating the same formula, and I could not think without words. This difficulty, however, was a very elementary one, and would be easily overcome by practice. I fixed my eyes on the doorway, where the eyes of a figure of average height would be, and soon succeeded in making myself think an almost uninterrupted “Come!”

Unfortunately, the night was boisterous and stormy, the wind screamed past the casement, and swept on, as if in a hideous fugue, across the gloomy fens; but as my senses grew more and more keen, I did not doubt but that I could distinguish the familiar footsteps, even through all this storm-music.

After a while, the blood moved faster in my veins, my eyes were unnaturally fixed and hot, and my breathing was constrained and rapid, as though every muscle was stiffened,—a sensation quite unlike the deep full inspirations of severe physical exertion.

I should not have realised how great was the tension of my will had not a gust of wind made a gate in the garden bang suddenly, when the quiver with which my nerves responded to the sound betrayed to what a pitch I was excited.

It was close on the hour for the ghost’s visit. I passed my hand across my forehead and eyes, and at the same instant, distinct through the wailing of the wind, I heard the distant footfall. I grasped the arms of my chair, and half rose in the intensity of my wish; but when the steps reached the top of the stairs, something seemed to give way in my brain, the room and lights swam before my eyes; but as I sprang up, with my hands to my temples, I saw, or fancied I saw, against the bright background, a shadowy outline of a figure.

It was an instantaneous impression, and I sank back as helpless and weak as a child,—all power of will entirely gone.

An hour passed before I could shake off my lassitude sufficiently to go to bed; but I slept soundly, and to my great satisfaction found that, instead of being fatigued, I was more active than usual on the following day.

To Bond’s inquiries, I merely replied that I was carrying out a plan which I hoped would succeed in time, but that I could not give him the details.

It is unnecessary to describe the experiments of each succeeding night. I soon found that the power of concentrating my will increased with every effort. On three occasions I saw the same shadowy outline; but on each a chance sound disturbed me, or irresistible fatigue deprived me of strength just when I most needed it. At length I resolved to take one night’s uninterrupted rest, and to begin my next attempt only a few minutes before one, so as to have more power in reserve when the critical moment should arrive. I was glad to find that I attained almost immediately the required state of concentrated volition; but I endeavoured to make my condition more natural than it had ever yet been. I gazed more quietly and observantly at the spot where I hoped the spirit might appear, and made mesmeric passes as if before a figure facing me.

As one o’clock struck, my senses grew more alert; never before had I felt myself possessed of such subdued and controlled strength; even my breathing became deep and regular.

I could not account to myself for these novel sensations, but I was filled with a buoyant delight which was almost ecstasy. My hands, as I continued my passes, seemed to feel an opposing force, as though I were drawing a weight towards me. There was none of the former heat and excitement, but a genial warmth pervaded every limb.

I knew I had power over the spirit if I could but keep myself steady.

At last it was close on the quarter, when I heard the first step in the passage. I stretched out my hands in motionless command and expectation. As the steps reached the turn of the stairs the outline became visible once more; it grew distinct, came nearer, and pausing at the doorway, seemed to tremble and gathered itself into the form of a woman in a clinging robe, who bent towards me with a look that I shall never forget.

She was very young, and the misery on her face might have made the hardest heart pitiful. In her eyes there was that abiding look of horror that sometimes remains after a great mental shock—a look almost impossible to describe, but which conveys its meaning instantaneously. Her mobile lips were slightly parted, and her small hands. tightly clenched at her sides, Although every feature was distinguishable, there was no semblance of humanity about her; she was a pale shadowy figure, and the outline of her head and dress remained tremulous, as though ready to melt again into air.

As she gazed earnestly at me, I felt that she could communicate her thoughts to a certain extent, and read mine, in this mysterious spirit-contact. I did not speak, but I thought the words, “Poor soul, I will aid you in anything you wish!” A faint smile quivered over her face, and she bowed her head and beckoned me with one hand. Taking up a small lamp, I followed, while she passed down-stairs. Her movement was exquisite in its floating grace, and I remarked that her steps were no longer audible: the sound of them was not needed now to plead for her.

She led me along the passage to a deep window overlooking the moat. Here she paused, and pointed to a panel in the oak wainscoting. I could see nothing peculiar, and glanced towards the spirit for further explanation, Again and again she pointed imperiously to the same spot. I tried to speak, but my voice refused to come, so I thought the question I wished to ask.

“Am I to search here for something?”

Her smile answered me, and she then signed to me to open the window and come out. Placing my lamp on the floor so as to be out of the draught, I got over the low sill and stood at the edge of the moat. The spirit floated a yard or two further, and pointing down to the ground, wrung her hands piteously.

“Did some one die there?” I asked in a whisper, for I felt that my power was waning, and it was no longer difficult to speak. The pale hands pointed to the breast of the figure, which was already fading, as though her desire was accomplished.

“Tell me,” I cried, flinging myself down before her, “if I search the panel and this spot, will you be at rest?”

She bent towards me once more with a smile of intense peace on her face, and melted out of my sight.

Whether I fainted, or whether I fell into the deep sudden sleep that sometimes follows mesmeric exertion, I cannot tell, but when I came to myself day was breaking, and my lamp was burnt out below the open window.

After breakfast I gave Bond an account of my adventure, and could easily see that the good old man thought my brain was affected.

“You will help me to search the panel, Bond, and that will prove whether my story is true or only a dream,” said I.

To the window we accordingly went, and Bond inquired whether he was to break the wainscot.

“Certainly not,” I replied; “if there is a hiding-place here, there is some way of opening it, which I shall try to find before I allow the wood to be broken.”

Inch by inch I examined the wood, and compared the mouldings carefully with those on the opposite side. My attendant’s incredulity was so manifest, that I should greatly have preferred to prosecute the search alone, but by doing so I should have lost the testimony of an additional eye-witness to the discovery I felt confident of making. After a long and patient scrutiny I found in the lower corner of the panel an inch or so of moulding that fitted into the rest. Another quarter of an hour passed, ere, by a chance movement, I gave it the turn required to loosen it. When it came out, and showed a spring concealed below it, my excitement was very great, and Bond himself began to share the feeling, and hurried off for oil with which to clean the rusty metal. We soon discovered the secret of the bolt, and a portion of the panel slid back below the moulding, revealing a small recess in which lay a roll of manuscript tied with a black ribbon. Dust and damp had made the writing difficult to decipher; but when the sad history lay spread before me, I decided to give it to the world, along with an account of my mesmeric experiment. I have modernised the spelling, and supplied a few obvious words that were either blotted or illegible in the original. The date was eaten away, but from family papers I know that it must have been August, 1778. The manuscript ran as follows:—

“I am going to write down what has happened. It may be that no one will ever read what I write; but should this paper fall into the hands of any pitiful persons, surely they will grieve for us.

“Mr. Fairfax is a bad man. Heaven forgive me if I ought not to think him so! but I must needs say it here. My father says he is not worse than his neighbours, and that it is the habit of most gentlemen to drink and swear in his fashion. If it be so, it is an ill thing for women that have to bear therewith. My father is a poor curate in Stepton. He has as good blood in his veins as Mr. Fairfax himself; but then he is very poor, as I have said. My mother and Mrs. Fairfax were friends; and when Mrs. Fairfax died my mother took charge of the little baby she left, along with me. That baby was my Harry—Harry Fairfax of this Tower of Morcar’s. He and I learnt our first lessons together from my mother; and when we grew older my father taught us both. Old Mr. Fairfax took but small notice of his son. He was usually hunting, or quarrelling with some neighbour, or having drinking-bouts at the Tower. I will say it again—he is a bad man. I feared him much, he looked so big on his black horse; and he had a rough voice. I remember how Harry and I were gathering rushes to plait one day when he rode by on the narrow path that goes down to the white inn. The willows and rushes were high; but the black horse was so much taller that we could not hide, as we sought to do. Mr. Fairfax called out with a strange oath that sounded loud and terrible, and jeered at Harry for playing with the parson’s brat. Then he rode on; and Harry was in a great passion, the like of which I had not seen before. When I was fourteen my mother died, and thereafter I had to take charge of our house. Harry always came for teaching from my father; but he looked older than I did, for I had no money to buy myself new clothes, and was forced to continue in childish frocks when I might have worn gowns. At last an old and good friend of my father’s sent money wherewith to provide me with sundry needful things; and I remember that I was vexed because, when he saw me in my new attire, Harry did not kiss me, as was his wont. He loved books greatly, as did my father; and he hated wine and oaths, and all the evil doings at the Tower. Mr. Fairfax was angry, and called him a clerk; but he did not interfere with him. And by-and-by he loved something more than his books, and I could not believe that it was so. But it was true; and no creatures were happier than we when we sat among the osiers, and talked of what we would do by-and-by. Father was sorely troubled when Harry told him; but he was always reading, and had not time to think much of us. Besides, he loved Harry as his son, and all the more because he would not join in his father’s wicked ways. We were just twenty when Mr. Fairfax bade his son marry a young gentlewoman, whose father would dower her with certain lands that adjoined those of the Tower. When Harry refused, his father’s anger was very terrible; but as he gave no reason for his refusal, Mr. Fairfax let him go, thinking to persuade him in time, and with softer words. He, however, made speed to our house, and demanded that my father should marry us privately. This he would not hear of at first, though Harry urged it, saying it would be his safety—that Mr. Fairfax had even said the damsel’s brother should call him out did he slight her.

“He spoke so earnestly that at last father consented to make the needful arrangements, and we were satisfied. Alas! while he was absent, some rumour had come to Mr. Fairfax’s ear, and when Harry returned home he was made a prisoner in his room, and only allowed to issue from it for his meals. Mr. Fairfax thought to tame him, but he knew not that there was a device whereby he might be baffled. In bygone days, when Harry was fain to escape from noisy guests, he would slip out at the passage window; or if the brawlers were too near the stairs for him to pass, he would let himself down by a rope cunningly made fast to an iron bar that was across his own window. A thin and narrow plank was concealed below the grass at the edge of the moat, being held by rope loops to two pegs knocked into the bank. Once across the ditch, he was free, for the gentlemen were too busy within to espy him. Now, however, his father was always on the watch, fearing lest he should escape. We should have been in sore straits had we not had one friend among the servants—old Betty—who had seen my Harry born. She sped away to me with a message, bidding me to come at dusk, and Harry would meet me in the willow thicket across the moat: further than that he dared not venture.

“Was I wrong to go? I thought not; nay, I think still that I was right. Since the night that Harry put his signet-ring upon my finger I have belonged to him. How, then, could I dispute his will? Moreover, he was in trouble, and I could not refuse to go to him in his need. Therefore I went.

“When it was growing late, so that it behoved me to return, he led me to the edge of the thicket and kissed me; and that was our very last kiss on earth, yet I knew it not. I would I had known, that I might have stayed to perish with my love. I hurried along the darkening path, but before I had gone far I heard an angry voice that seemed to be that of Mr. Fairfax. I feared greatly for Harry, but I dared not turn back lest I should be seen and cause worse trouble, since it might well be that Mr. Fairfax was only speaking to some groom or labourer. All night I could not sleep for terror, and next day news was brought to my father that Harry had disappeared.

“The country was searched for him; but I knew he was dead, for had he been alive he would have found means to relieve my anxiety.

“Mr. Fairfax shut himself up, and drank hard; and after a few days he desired that the moat should be filled up.

“The work was begun, and that night I knew the reason.

“Again old Betty came to me, whitefaced and aged by many years. She told me the horrible thing that has never since been out of my thoughts. I see before me, day and night, the moat, the darkening path, and my Harry as he stepped off the plank and saw his father standing before him. Old Betty could not tell me what had passed, but Mr. Fairfax had seen me, for she heard my name.

“After many furious words, Harry said clearly, `I never will give her up!’ Then—then—that cruel man struck him hard on the temples with the handle of his heavy hunting whip. Harry fell back into the moat and he never rose again, Mr. Fairfax knelt at the edge and called him hoarsely, and when no answer came he rushed into the house.

“Betty was too terrified to say next day what she had seen, and I,—can I give up Harry’s father to punishment?—I who have been the cause of my husband’s death?”

  .  .  .  .  .

The writing here became unsteady and indistinct, as though the poor girl’s mind had begun to wander. It is legible on the next leaf.

  .  .  .  .  .

“People look at me strangely; they thought I did not hear to-day when some one said I was mad. Am I mad? No! I am sure I am not; my brain is quite clear, clearer than ever, and each thought is as bright as if it were written in flame. I know what I am going to do. The moat is not half full yet, but in a few more days there will be no room in it. I must get Betty to hide this paper for me in Harry’s panel cupboard; she taught him and me the trick of it long ago. I will not tell her why I want it hidden to-night; oh no, she might be afraid if she knew; and I must be quite alone, too. Mr. Fairfax is drinking—always drinking. I am, going to punish him; he shall have two deaths on his soul, two—two. God will never forgive him as much as that.

“I shall be safe with Harry; if anybody finds this they need not be afraid for me. I will fasten a stone over my heart that the water in the moat may hold me down tight till I find him.

“I will sign my own name to this—my name, that no one can rob me of now. Priscilla Fairfax.”

I determined, after reading this sorrowful tale, to have the moat carefully searched at the spot indicated by the spirit. That there might be no lack of witnesses, I invited both the doctor and curate of Stepton to be present. After reading the manuscript, they were to the full as anxious as I for further corroboration of its story. We knew that the Fairfax mentioned in it had died suddenly of delirium tremens, and probably the work of filling in the moat was then discontinued; for, as I have already remarked, it was of its original depth on one side of the house. As the workmen approached the bottom, they dug slowly and carefully. Complete success rewarded our efforts; for precisely where the ghost’s finger had pointed, we found the decayed and broken bones of a woman.

The doctor gathered them up with his own hands, and in doing so, turned over some of the earth, and espied, sunk in what had been soft mud, a heavy signet-ring bearing the Fairfax crest. Encouraged by our discoveries, I then gave orders for the whole of the moat to be cleared, in the hope that we might find the remains of the poor youth who was so cruelly murdered.

We inferred from the MS. that his room must have been at one of the corners farthest removed from the hall; and our conjecture proved true. We found some bones, singularly perfect considering their age, and two or three metal coat-buttons. The latter I have placed with the ring and manuscript in a cabinet. To the bones we gave decent burial, depositing them all in the same grave. Since that day no midnight footsteps have approached my chamber; and I trust that the uneasy spirit has found rest through the discovery of her fate, and that nothing more will be seen or heard of the Ghost of Morcar’s Tower.