PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE OLD YEAR.
BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.
It was the last night of the old year, but
Shafton Castle was no longer, as in happier
days, blazing with light and ringing with nrer-
riment, for the heir to all this state and wealth
absent, and had been absent for years, and
no one knew whether he was alive or dead.
Two women stood within a lofly, uncasemented Gothic window, in that part of the castle which had been in ruins since the civil wars, and which overlooked the ancient church and its grave- yard. One was young and beautiful, but with a certain sadness in her face, as if she had already experienced sorrow, and had almost bidden farewell to hope. The other was midle-aged, but appeared older even than her years; she often coughed, and with a deep, hollow cough, as if seriously ill.
“Oh! if we could only hear from Percy,” the latter said. “If we even knew that he was alive—that we might hope to see him sometime——”
“God’s will be done,” murmured the other, in a low voice, full of suppressed emotion. Then, as the gale whirled the snow in at the window, from the great fir-tree in front, she added, wrapping her companion’s cloak tighter about the feeble figure, “but do come in, dear lady Shafton. Indeed, indeed, you are not fit; to be here.”
A hale, hearty man was hardly fit to be there. It had been snowing fiercely all day, but had now cleared off, and the wind was rising fast, getting keener and wilder every minute. The old oak, that, leafless as it was, half hid the ancient church-tower from sight, writhed in the gale, with a moan like some lost spirit in torment. The moon waded heavily through the driving clouds. At times, the wind would come in such puffs, as it whirled around the corner of the castle, as almost to take the two women from their feet. At times, as when the younger woman spoke now, gusts of snow were driven in upon them.
“I cannot—I cannot,” said the elder lady. “What? Have light and warmth when my poor Percy lies cold and still, like the dead there below?”
To understand our story we must go back for more than three years, to a morning in March, when the whole household, at the castle, was in commotion. The great Shafton topaz, a gem said to have been brought from the far East, when the Shaftons were Crusaders, and which had been worn as a talisman by every Shafton since, had suddenly disappeared. ‘Who had stolen it?” was the question each asked of the. other with blanched face, and to which no one could reply. At last Lady Alice Stanhope sought Lady Shafton’s chamber.
“Have you had no suspicions yet?” she said.
Lady Shafton looked up and answered, “No. Percy has just been here, and says that he has no clue to its loss whatever. When his dear father died it was put away, as is the custom, for Percy's majority; but yesterday, when you made a point of his going to the bull with you, and asked him, as a favor, to wear the ring, he desired me to have it ready for him. So I took it out of my jewel-casket and laid it on the toilet-table ready for him. When he came for it, it was gone, as you know. There was no time to search for it then; but today every nook and corner of the castle has been examined.”
“Was no one in your room?”
“No one. That is, no one except Elsie.”
“Ah! Elsie.”
There was not much in the words, but the tone made Lady Shafton look earnestly at her companion. Lady Alice had a high-bred figure and face, with golden hair, and blue eyes, and many persons thought her a beauty. But others said she was cold and haughty, and that cruelty lurked in her steely eyes. This morning those eyes wore their hardest and most relentless look.
“What do you mean?” said Lady Shafton.
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