Blair Collection > Celtic monthly > Volume 5, 1897

THE CELTIC MONTHLY.
79
pleaded the aft'ectionate old creature, and the
laird relented.
"Of course, Mary, you will do to-day as you
have always done, only see that the tires are
good ones, the rooms are chilly for want of
use," he told her as he retui-ned to his study,
and Mary was jubilant.
" Mr Roger is a real Mackenzie for all his
book-learning," she confided to Colin, the
laird's "man.'
Glenarva was a delightful old mansion, built
at difl'erent periods, rather lonely, but situated
amid ^magnificent scenery. The Mackenzies
■were an ancient stock, and though untitled, had
more than once married into noble families.
The Lady Anne alluded to had been an Earl's
daughter ; her tragic fate having origiaated
the familj' legend that she revisited the scene
of her lost earthly happiness on Christmas Eve,
the anniversary of her death.
'•It win be snowing heavily, Mr. Roger,"
said 3Iary as she served her master's dinner in
the great dining-room, only used on that one
day in the year.
" That will soon block the road through the
glen,'' the laird observed, as he drew aside the
curtain and saw the white, whirling, fieece of
snow outside. "There wont be so many guests
at Mr. Stobart's I fear, Mary.'
Wary scowled. Mr. Stobart, the rich
Englishman who had bought the neighbouring
estate, was her beti-uuir, every allusion to him
ruttled her hot Highland temper.
" That will be no sorrow," she muttered
under her breath, and Mackenzie smiled,
knovping her feeluig.
In full view from where he sat at dinner
hung the portrait of Lady Anne, a beautiful
young woman in a quaint costume of a long
forgotten fashion. The portrait had been
painted by a good artist, the face was very
sweet, the dark eyes wistful. "When he ruse
from table Roger Mackenzie stood before the
picture admiring it; he had always admired it
more than the other female portraits, it had an
odd attraction for him. He could just see, the
light was not very good, the tire being a "red "
one, the lamp rather low. But the wistful
eyes seemed to regard him steadily.
" A man may not mai'ry his grandmother,"
but, my dear, gentle, sweet great-great grand-
mamma, had you and I hved in the same
decade of the same century, I should certainly
have been in love with you whether I had
married you or not," he said quite aloud, as he
gazed up at the fair face.
A low, faint laugh rippled through the room.
Roger Mackenzie felt a lireath of chilly wind
pass his cheek. His hair rose with something
akin to fear. Was the spirit of his ancestress
laughing at his sentimental fancy, his lacka-
daisical admiration ? He stood for an instant
horror stricken, then forced himself to turn
away. But was it fancy, or did he really see a
dim shape flit across the darkness beyond the
open door ? He could not be sure, but it was
with strange thoughts in his heart that he took
up the lamp to go to the large drawing-room,
where Mary expected him to spend the rest of
his Christmas Eve.
That room was more cheerful than the other ;
the fire blazed brightly, his coftee waited, and
after he had drank it his shaken nerves became
steady again. Like all true Celts, though
superstitious, he was brave, and by the time he
had got well into the pages of his book he had
forgotten Lady Anne, the laugh, and his
unaccustomed surroundings completely. He
must have dropped asleep, the warmth and
stillness were soothing. But a soft rustle, a
faint breath of perfume seemed to pass by him,
he started erect and stared round bewildered.
The lamp was extinguished, the flame of the
tire had died down, but enough light remained
for him to see a pale spot of colour, a face,
hovering between him and the door. Spell
bound, grasping the arms of his chair, he leant
forward gazing at the face as it slowly receded
towards the open door. When it finally
vanished into nothing in the gloom beyond the
freezing horror seemed to go with it. Mac-
kenzie sjirang up and rushed into the corridor,
but all was silent, ghostly, the long dimly-lit
passage was tenantless save for his own
presence. He walked to its end, where the
chill reflection of the snow cast a weird light
through a tall, narrow window, but nothing
rewarded his search, it had been no trick.
The door of the long disused state bedroom
was open — the room in which Lady Anne had
died, and a shiver passed through the laird as
be forced himself to close and lock it. He
pocketed the key, and, strangely disturbed,
returned to the library (his accustomed haunt)
to finish his evening there as usual.
But the face hannted him. It was a fair face,
he tried to remember if it resembled Lady
Anne, but he could uot indeed be sine, though
he dreaded it had been hers. It was almost
nine o'clock when old Mary, pale and scared,
came running into the library, very unhke her
customary staid, dignified manner.
" What will you have done ! where will you
have sent her, Mr. Roger ? " she demanded
breathlessly.. "You have hidden her; you
would not turn her out in the snow, whatever!"
"Her! who! what!" cried the startled
laird. '' Are you mad, Mary ! what on earth
brings you here in such a flurry 1 "
" llei- .' It's the young lady Mr. Roger ! the