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longer a child of mine, nor sister of
yours.”
But there was no happiness for the
Master of The Manor, as his rapidly
whitening hair attested, and when his
sorrowful wife sickened and died a few
months later, he drew more and more
apart from his neighbors and spent the
most of his time in the library, brood
ing—brooding always, but never by word
or sign betraying his thoughts to those
around him. The old servants, finding
the influence of the saddened household
too depressing, dropped off. one after
another, until none but the old house
keeper remained.
A little over three years after the
flight of Molly Griswold, the o'd house
keeper was taken suddenly ill and soon
died. In her delirium she raved con
tinually about Molly and the baby,
beseeching the Master to ‘‘forgive them
and not break poor Molly s heart.’’
The relatives who attended her in her
sickness wondered fora while about this
strange talk, but concluded that sorrow
for Molly had unsettled her mind in old
age, and so it was soon forgotten.
One after another, new servants were
engaged to take the housekeeper’s place,
but they soon left, telling strange tales
of dreadful noises heard in the house at
night, until at last the house gained the
name of being “haunted’ and no one but
its white-haired master would stay in it
after dark.
Even the two servants who were in
duced, by the offer of double pay, to at
tend to the household duties through
the day, were sometimes frightened “al
most out of their wits,’ in broad day
light, by sounds proceeding from some
w’heie in the house. Exactly where the
noises came from they could not tell, but
were sure they heard them more dis
tinctly in the library than anywhere else.
Following Molly’s disappearance
George iefused to return to college and
enlisted with a company of volunteers
who were ordered to a distant state
where the Indians were giving consider
able trouble. After winning, by his
bravery on the battlefield, the title of
Colonel, and at the same time receiving
a bullet wound that disabled him for
active service, he was given his dis
charge from the army and came back to
settle down at his old home.
Upon reaching The Manor, he was so
depressed by the changes that had been
wrought in the few’ years of his absence,
he deeded to build another house on the
estate —not far from the old home —and
it was to this new house that he brought
his bride.
For four years Mr. Griswold lived his
lonely life among his books in the li
brary, or wandering about the grounds;
then the Colonel, who was ever watch
ful for his father’s comfort, saw that his
mind seemed to wander at times, and
urged him, but without success, to leave
The Manor and live at the new house.
As the father’s insane spells became
more frequent he would talk of Molly
and chuckle fiendishly about “her pun
ishment,” but always became very ret
icent when questioned.
At last the neighbors became afraid of
him, and it was necessary to remove
him to an asylum, where he could hav>
proper care. When he became aware
that he could not return to The Manor
his excitement rose to a frenzy and he
shrieked for Molly, imploring her to
forgive him, and saying that the baby
was safe. From his ravings, to which
his son listened with horror, it was plain
that he knew , or imagined he knew,
the whereabouts of Molly’s baby, and a
search was immediately begun to find it.
Several orphans homes were visited be
fore the right one was found, and there
the records showed that Mr. John Gris
wold had left a child of two years, with
the understanding that it was not to be
given away, and had since paid its
board regularly, every three months,
during the five years that had passed.
When the child was brought into the
room Col. Griswold was struck by its
resemblance to his lost sister, and at
once made arrangements to take her to
his own home, where she was received
with joy by his wife and children.
All attempts to find any trace of Molly
were unsuccessful, and to the Colonel’s
questions his father only replied: “Mol
ly’s safe,” while a steely glitter came
lino his eyes; then he would become so
pxcited that it was thought best not to
mention the subject to him, as it could
do no good.
One night, five years later, the old
Manor was burned to the ground, and
the next day some workmen reported
having seen a man at the library win
dow when they passed the house the
night before. Inquiries made at the in
sane asylum elicited the information
that Mr. Giiswold had escaped on the
day before the burning of The Manor.
As he could not be found, it was gener
ally supposed that he had perished in
the flames.
With the passing of the years, few
w’ere left in the neighboihood to report
the tales of the old Manor, and happi
ness reigned in Col. Griswold’s home,
wdiere Maud was loved as a daughter and
a sister.
But now Fate seemed ready to deal a
blow upon Maud’s happiness through
the family of her lover, Clarence Whar
ton, who objected to the alliance of one
of the first families in the country with
a girl whose birth was shrouded in un
certainty. There had been a stormy
scene at the Wharton home when Mr.
Wharton informed Clarence that such a
marriage was not to be thought oi, and
Clarence had declared that if he could
not have Maud for his wife he would,
have no one.
* ♦ *
The picnic dinner on the veranda is
at au end, and the young people are
wandering about the grounds or exam
ing the new house.
“Come, girls, let’s go around to the
back of the house; it is ever so much
higher ground there, and we can get a
view of the river across the fields,” cried
Maud, darting around a corner of the
house and across the level space that
had been cleared away when renewing
the foundations of the old house for the
new structure.
She found her Uncle examining the
foundation of a bay window, and stopped
to chat with him. “1 think your idea
of building on the old house site is just
splendid, Uncle; this is such a good
place, and it will be lovely when the
old grounds are cleared up again. Why,
it feels as though this is all brick or
rock under the soil,” she exclaimed,
prodding in the dirt with her parasol.
"Yes, there was an old storeroom built
into the side of the hill, back of the
kitchen; but for some reason it was
bricked up after I went to college, and I
had almost forgotten it,” replied the
Colonel, kicking away some loose dirt
and revealing a solid brick surface.
“Why, Uncle, I never heard about it.
What do you suppose it was bricked up
for? Oh, my! there’s a hole; do help
me get my foot out,” she cried, sitting
down suddenly and pulling at her foot,
which was tightly wedged between the
bricks.
Col. Griswold hastened to her side and
soon liberated the foot, leaving a small
hole that seemed to open into a large
space below.
“Now, Uncle, I’ve had my foot in the
old storeroom, and I want to explore it
further,” said Maud, laughing and pull
ing at the bricks which seemed to be
loosened at that place.
“What is it, Maud?” asked Clarence,
coming up at that moment; “is the
earth yawning under you, or are you
trying to discover a natural wonder in
the shape of a cave in this lovely old
place?”
‘ Why, I guess it is a little of both,”
Maud replied. “Just help me to make
this hole larger, Clarence; I’m going on
a tour of discovery, if I can get a lad
der.”
At that moment others of the party
came up, with exclamations of wonder
at the discovery; but, when the aper
ture had been widened and a ladder
procured, all but Maud drew back from
rhe black, musty-smelling place, and
begged her not to venture into it. Clar
ence had placed the ladder in position,
and, with a lantern in his hand,descend
ed to the bottom, when Maud’s voice
reached him commandingly: “Clar
ence, don’t you dare to go without me!
Just remember, sir, that this discovery
is mine, and I’ll not allow you to carry
off all the glory of it. Who knows but
I may find a fortune in this unexplored
region!” she added laughingly, glanc
ing at the frightened girls around her.
Setting her foot resolutely on the ladder,
she descended into the black abyss,
lighted only by the dim rays of the lan
tern, while her friends stood and talked
in hushed tones, until they heard the
voices of Maud aud Clarence in earnest
conversation below; then they wandered
away to find, as Molly said, ‘ something
WOMAN’S
more interesting than watching that
black hole in the ground.”
The room into which they had de
scended was entirely vacant, but fitted
up at one end with shelves and bins, like
a cellar. In the corner toward the front
of the house the wall seemed to be brok
en; Maud thrust her hand through, but,
finding no wall of earth beyond, called
out: “Uncle, was there more than one
room down here?”
“No, there was only one,” was the re
ply which came down the opening, just
as Maud succeeded in dislodging a
couple of bricks from the wall.
“O, Clarence, I’m sure there is anoth
er room here, for I can see the wall of
it,” she exclaimed, as she held the lan
tern close and peered through the open
ing.
“Let me pull the bricks away while
you hold the lantern,” said Clarence, and
in a few moments a passage had been
opened, through which they could easi
ly walk by stooping a little.
“Let me go in first, Maud,” he said,
reaching for the lantern, but she held it
away- from him, laughingly, and replied:
“No, indeed; I shall not give you the
chance to make discoveries in my special
field of exploration,” as she stepped
through the aperture and held the lan
tern above her head “See, Clarence, it
is a library, with books and chairs and
table and desk. Now. who do you sup
pose ever used it? Just see how cozy it is,
with that fire-place and—l do believe
there is «*n alcove at the other side,” as
she tripped lightly to the center of the
room and swung the lantern up over her
head, tht n uttered a piercing shriek and
fell to the floor in a dead faint.
Clarence sprang to her side and picked
up the lantern —which, fortunately, had
not been extinguished— and, setting it
on the floor, raised Maud in Sis arms,
at the same time glancing toward the
alcove. The sight had produced an
alarming effect upon her, and even his
strong nervesnow experienced a thrill
of horror. For a moment he gazed as if
fascinated, unconscious of hastily ap
proaching footsteps, until Col. Gris
wold laid a hand on his shoulder, ask
ing: “What is the matter, Clarence?”
Thtn, as he followed the direction of
Clarence’s gaze he started violently, ex
claiming, "(Jh, my God, what’s that?
Let’s get Maud out of here at once. Don’t
say anything to the others, and we will
come back and see about it after she
gets better.”
It was some time before Maud was re
stored to consciousness, and then she
turned from the frightened faces around
her with an appealing glance toward
Clarence, who answered it with a warn
ing look and said: “Don’t try to talk
now; you were frightened in that dark
place, and will be better soon. Your
Uncle and I will see to everything, so
don’t worry any more about it.”
When Maud had recovered sufficient
ly, the party was dispeised with the
warning from the Colonel that it “looked
like rain.” Then as soon as they
reached home, Clarence excused himself
and hurried back, to find that the Colo
nel had secured another lantern, and to
gether they descended again to the room
below.
“Who do you think it was?” inquired
Clarence, as they stood again in the
walled room.
“I think it must have been my father,
but how he came to be here I cannot
imagine. I never knew of the existence
of this room; it must have been built
while I was away, and very secretly
done, as I never heard of it from the
servants or neighbors. Let us examine
the papers in the desk; perhaps they
will give some clue.”
Several drawers in the desk were filled
with papers, and in one of them was a
large envelope directed to “Col. George
Griswold.”
Tearing it open, the Colonel took out
a will, properly executed by a lawyer
in a distant county, and signed by John
Griswold. By this will the landed es
tates of John Griswold were bequeathed
to his son, Col. George Griswold. The
remainder of the property, consisting of
gold aud bonds to the amount of twenty
five thousand dollars, was bequeathed
to his grand-daughter, Maud Delevan,
and would be found in the safe of the
secret room opening from the library.
The Colonel glanced quickly over the
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will, then turned to the other paper,
which was marked “my confession.”
With white faces the two men, stand
ing side by side before the desk, read
the paper- telling of the return of Molly
Griswold with her two-years-old daugh
ter, three years after her flight from
home. She had told her father of her
marriage with Arthur Delevan immedi
ately after they left her home, of the
birth of Maud’a year later, and then of
the death of her husband. Her father
had refused to believe her statements,
and had shut her in a room of the house
until he could have the secret room
made, opening from the library. This
was accomplished by himself and a
brick mason working by night, and
when the work was accomplished the
brick mason was given money to go to
Australia to live.
The child, Maud, was taken from her
mother and put in an orphan’s home,
and Molly was kept in close confine
ment in the secret room, never being
allowed to see her child or anyone but
her father, who deemed this treatment a
just punishment for her disobedience.
As they finished the paper and looked
into each other’s eyes, the question burst
simultaneously from their lips: “What
became of Molly?’
Then as they turned again toward the
alcove, a mouldering curtain at the back
of the space, disturbed by a gust of wind
coming in through the opening in the
opposite wall, dropped in pieces on the
floor, and revealed a small bedroom be
yond. A groan escaped the Colonel’s
white lips, followed by the words: “O,
my sister, what a terrible fate was
yours!” In this room was found a small
silver box, and in it was the certificate
of the marriage of Molly Griswold and
Arthur Delevan, with a doctor’s certifi
cate of Maud’s birth. It also contained
an account of her home coming and sub
sequent treatment by her father, written
at different times —the later ores show
ing a fear that her father was becoming
insane. Then she wondered that he did
not come to bring her food, and finished
by saying that she could not write more
because she was so weak, adding a plea
to whoever should find her body, not to
let her baby Maud know of her terrible
fate.
“0, my God!” groaned the Colonel,
“to think that Molly was dying here,
while I was hunting everywhere to find
a trace of her and the child! Come,
Clarence, let us get out to the air, where
we can more calmly think this terrible
thing over and plan what to do, for no
one but you and I must know of our fear
ful discovery.”
“I am willing to do anything to keep
this horrible secret from Maud. Itwould
sadden her whole life,” said Clarence.
A fewhouts later, when the darkness
of night had settled over the new house
on the hill, a light wagon drew up to
the rear of the house; Col. Griswold and
Clarence Wharton alighted and disap
peared through the opening in the ma
sonry, which had been considerably
enlarged since the first entrance had
been made in the afternoon. At dawn
they returned to their homes, exhausted
and drenched with the falling rain, but
satisfied that the terrible secret of The
Manor was safe from prying eyes, and
that Maud’s life need not be embittered
with the knowdedge of it.
If a few curious persons wondered
why the Griswold lot in the cemetery
had been newly sodded and the names
of John Griswold and Molly Delevan en
graved on the family monument, they
did not ask for an explanation, and none
was given.
That Mr. Griswold had retired to the
secret room after setting fire to the house
was now plain, but Maud agreed wdth
her Uncle and Clarence that itwould do
no good to tell otheis of the discovery of
his remains. The finding of the will
and the little silver casket with the cer
tificates, together with the contents of
the safe—Maud’s legacy from her grand
father—removed all objections of the
Wharton family to the desired union,
and Maud went forth from the new house
a happy bride.
When Kate asked if she still thought
“The Mystic Manse” would be the best
name for the place, she shuddered as she
replied: “No, it is too suggestive. Name
it ‘Waldmere’ for the lovely old
woods.” R. e. Merryman.
OCTOBER 1904