The Twentieth Of December

The rain poured in torrents, drifting md drivhig in waves'of cold sleet, almost turning my ambrolla wrong side jut, and breaking against my waterproof coat as if it meant to penétrate ;he smooth surface despite the f utility íf previo us efforls. The train had Iropped me at Dartmoor, where the ïtation master's hospitality extended Lo the irofEer of a lantern and directions to the nearest inn, a mile distant where my friend intended to meet me. That was why my travel leads me to take this lonely walk. The steady light of my lantern feil on the pools and streams of water as tliey momentarily deepened or gatliered under deceptive piles of slush. Notliing save i promise to my old comrade, Bernie Strong, could liave induced me to brave the elements on such a night as this. We had separated ten years before. And now, after ten years. I was facing the pitiless storm to meet him on his birthday, and go out to the fine old mansion whieh had come to him by Wiiy of inheritance. The wind cut in piercing blasts across the moors ; nothing broke its wild sweep. I had. hunted over them inany a day, but never encountered a storm upon them until to-night. I buttoned my coat closer and drew my hat lower ; the tempest seemed to increase, twisting the umbrella like a rag. "It's a devilish night for man or beast," I muttered, vainly endeavoring to right the umbrella. "Aye, sir.it is abad night," answered a female voice at my very elbow. If a spirit had risen from its grave, 1 could not have been more shocked or astonished. "It's always bad on these moors on the twentieth of December," she added, at the same moment coming close to my side, and falling into step with me. The light suddenly beamed upon a palé, rigid face, with eyes steadily gazing before. Even in the storm I could see that there was something unusual about the woman, something almost weird. Her dress seemed to be of gray serge, covered with a long cloak, and the hand that held it together was slender and white. Her bonnet evidently belonged to some past f ashion ; indeed, altogether, her costume was out of date, and dripping with water. "There are not many travelers such nights as this," she observed, after walking a few steps and keeping pace with my rapid stridee. "Not Very of ten a lady?"I queried glancing into the delicate face and noting the pained expression thereon. "It must be a diré necessity that tempts a lady out on such a night." "Necessity?'' she questioned; "yes, a diré necessity. I must cross these moors if the tempest tears them apart. Is this the twentieth of December ?" she asked, abruptly turning her face toward me, then gazing straight in front of her in the same iixed gaze, as i f she strove to peer into the pitch-like blackness always before us. "Yes, certainly it is. Take care, that pond of water is over top." "It does not matter," she answered, ■walking through tke slushy pond witljout a glance at it. "Are you sure this is the twentieth of December?" "Yes, perfectly certain." "Then, she rejoined quickly, "I must cross the moor. Ah ! I must- there is no help for it. I must walk - walk in spite of the blasts and rain." She might have sat for the portrait of some high-bred dame of a eentury past, with her long pelisse, and sleeves f alling back from the wrists, and enormously high-heeled shoes. The face, as well as I could see it, was pretty, without being very young. She lookcd troubled, almost agonized, and utterly regardless of the wretched walk we were having ; nevertheless.this antique female fllled me with compassion. I strove to shield her from the driving rain with my umbrella. "Madam," I said, after a critical side glance, "Perhaps you will allow me to attend to your errand ; if it is in my power to serve you, it will give me pleasure to do so." "You are wonderful polite, sir," she replied with a formal courtesy. "i must attend to my own errand, but ah, sir, perhaps you will tell mo whether this is the twentieth of December." "Madam, there is not a doubt of it; I aasure yon it is peri'ectly true. 1 left London this morning, and have the papers in my pocket ; you can see them if you wish ; here is the - " "No," she interrupted witk a deprecatlng gesture, and a strangely hopelesa tone; "I must believe you, sir - the ruin will wet the paper. It rains wonderpil last, and the train cauie later than it did the last time." "Yes ; I presume it was on time yesterday. The storm delayed us," wis my reply. "I meant the last twentieth of December, the night was not so wild as lilis," rejoined the woman, drawing her cloak around her, and shivci ing. "I suppose you were oever out In such a storm," I said between the guata Of wind and sleet, aïmost blowing tlio words down my throat and making me gasp l'or breatli. "Ay, yes; 'tis nothing. I crossed the moors once when tlie snow had banked up to the lower branches of the trees, and well nigli covered the little Dartmoor Jnn before the new kitchen had been added to it ; and there was no railway crossed it then ; bul there was no one to tell me whether it was the twentieth of December, althougli I sought to know." "Before the new kitchen had been added?" My brain began to whirl. The old píate in the stone corner of the inn kitchen I had looked at so often, and studied its date with all a boy's perseverance in nothing to do; and then that legend of the great snow on Dartmoor had been one of my childish delights asmy grandmother related it. Strange that this young creature should speak of it, when I remembered that my grandmother had it from her grandmother. "The old inn kitchen was built one hundred years ago, madam," I observed, in unmistakeable incredulity, "Yes, so it was, and the great snow was ten years before. No one ventured abroad but me; no one would teil ine whether it was the twentietli of December, although I longed to ask," she responded regretfully, quite undisturbed at my stare of amazement. Somehow as she spoke Í observed that her custom was in the style of a greatgreat- grand mother, and mentally I caleulated from the date of her decease - it had been one hundred and forty years ago. "Pray, madam, may I ask whether you are mindf ui of how long it has been since then ? It was not in our day," I ventured to observe. "Aye, not in yours," she answered quietly ; "the snow was more than one hundred years ago. That was a fierce night for me. Ah, it was hard to keep the path when the big tree had been blown down and lay flat on the ground." " What tree ?" 1 inquired. She pointed to a great elm tree we were passing at that moment, the wet branches blown about by the rough winds, and knocking our heads with uncomfortable rudeness. "That was a shoot from the old stump. It is a goodly tree now." Just then I caught the iirst glimmer of light from the inn windows,and despite the loquacity of my companion I confess to a f eeling of relief. Besides, a curiosity to view her by a better light, and understand something about this strange personage, was just as strong as my desire to see her safely under shelter and out of weather too tempestuous for a woman. "We are near the inn, madam; you can see the light." "Yes, they had a window in the north gable, which guideel belated travelers ; one could see the light from it f ar across the moors," she responded, in that clear treble of hers. I made no reply ; this time I reflected. Slie is mistaken ; no such window has ever been there, to my knowledge. The wind was not as high, althougii the rain and sleet still feil in torrents, giving as much aa I could do to ünd the way, and in some measure defend the woman from its pelting. As far, ho wever, as iryeffortswere concerned, or indeed as to the weather, she appeared oblivious, and evidently never noticed either except by a quaint acknowledgement when 1 called her attention to it. We were only a few yards from the inn, walking rapidly, when she turned to me again with an imploring gesture. "Sir, I beseech you to tell me whether this is really the twentieth of December. I have lost my count, and du not know - ah ! I implore you to tell me truly." "Madam, I swear it is," was my energetic response, hurrying forward to the f riendl y cover of the inn porch. She seemed to hasten her pace, also, and as I rao up the steps said, with the most heartfelt gratitude : "I am wonderfully fortúnate." I knocked sharply at the door, which was opened immediately by a rubicund, jovial landlord, with his pipe in his moutli, and a blazing fire in the cheery background. "Come in, sir, come in; it's a nasty night," he said, in a hearty voice, as I hesitated. "Tlie laay, 1 saia; "nere is i muy who claims your attention." "Where ? there is no lady, is there f asked the landlord, an expression of surprise crossing his honest face. I turned my lantern around ; there was no one to be seen; we searched the porch, for I asserted positively that a lady had accompanied me. All invain; the landlord pointed to my tracks in the sleet-covered, f reezing slusli ; there were none beside them - mine and no others. "Are you sure of it, sir ?" he asked, rather doubtf ully ; "leastways, its very strange. Was she f riend of your'n V' he interrogated, following me to the fire, and assisting me out of my dripping overcoat. "Maybe you never hear'n of her before." I told him of my adventure in crossing the moor. "Was she pretty and 'old-timed - musty like?" "Very much so ; I ean't account for her disappearance." It gave me a decidedly uncomfortable feeling to sit quietly before tha delightful lire and think of a woman out in the storm. "Was she mainly troubled about the twentieth of December, sir V" asked my hostess, as she handed me th punch, "Yes, yes ; she persisted in asking over and over if this was really th twentieth of December," I responded eagerly. The two glanced at each other mean ingly. "That's lier," said the landlord. "That's her," ejaculated his wife turning palé, and movlng nearer hei husbaiid. "We have heard of her bef ore, sir," he explalned, dropping his voice into a whisper: "yoxi're notthe iirst travellei tliat's seen the gray woman of the moor. She oiily walks once a year, on the twentieth of December. My father saw her once, and he used to say that liis father met her face to face one oight when he wasbélated, and flbe begged pitiful for him to teJl her s licther it was the twentieth of December." "It's the same, vindoubtedly. Did you ever liave a window in the gable end of the house?" "Lord, sir!" exclaimed the landlord. witli a mystifled look, ''that was closed up ninety years ago. It was in the old stone part. TTow did you ever hear ui' that, Kir?" My companion across the moor informed me of it," I replied, somewhat bewildered by this circunistance, yet inclined to laugh at their absurdity, and think it some witless creature out in the tempest, when she ought to be in il mad house. They used to put lights in it, sir, for travellers, for you see, in those ïays there were no railwaye; men mostly took it afoot, or on horseback." I made no answer. It waa all very idd ; take it in any light and reason as I would, no explanation presented itself. Wüo is sue r I iisked. after a íew noments rapid reflection plunging me inly deeper in the fog of mystery. "Well. sir, they do teil of her about ïere," answered the wife of my host, lancing f urtively at the door ; "but leastways it's no luck to talk of her when she is abroad. Who knows what she iniglit do if she heard us; not tliat [ believe the like of that, or mind telling you." corrected the good woman, Iropping her voice in a mysterious vvliisper. You see, I've lived on the adge of the moor all my life, sir, and my mother and grandmother, and her iraadam before me, so I ought to know the rights of it. My grandam says trhat the old house over in Wyndeworth Park is where she lived - Lady Cicely, I mean - and that she was to marry a handsome baronet on the twentieth of December And, sir, my grandam says he went abroad to the French war, promising to come back. She would walk on an evening across the moor to see if he was coming, but he never carne, although the poor thing f retted her life away. watching and waiting for him. My grandam says she was always begging them to teil her whether it was the twentieth of December, and everybody was afraid to do it - leastways they didn't; but she must have found it out in some way. At last they heard that lier fine knight had married a French lady, and poor lady Cicely got more daft than ever, and grandam says her grandam had heard how she wouldbeg piteously for somebody to teil her truly if it was the twentifith of Decembsr. and wouW it day in and day out watching the way he had to come across the moor. Nobody told her, but on the twentieth of December she slipped away unknown to anybody in an awful storm, and the next day they found her dead on the moor. The landlady glanced f requently over her shoulder at the door as she whispered her story in my ear : "They do say she crosses the moor every twentieth of December, sir," added the woman under breath, starting mvoluntarily as a gast of wind shook the door and rattled the windows. "I've never ventured abroad, but if I do, sure as I'm living. Lady Cicely, in her gray, musty clothes and mouldy íloak will meet up with me, I know that, sir, for you've seen for yoursels - and there's ill luck orí the place, be3ause nobody lias lived at "Wyndeworth Park these fifty years, all along of the gray woman - begging her pardon," 3upplemented the hostess with the most timld humility. Bernie laughed at the adventure vhen he heard of it, but all his raillery id not take away the apprehension ndVwe-stricken look from the counenance of mine host and his wife. It's her and naught else, if I may nake bold to say," they persisted. For nyself the incident was perfectly inexlïcable. The peculiarity of the wonan's face and costume, and the accuacy of her recollections presented an unsolved enigma. Every inquiry only erved to deepen my perplexity. That was ten years ago. .Last night iernie came home after a three year's absence to spend the holidays with us. It was dark and cloudy, but ie sent the carriage back and preferred ;o walk over the moor to the station. We had not long to wait before his juick step came crunching over the ?ravel-bed walk, and we had welcomed ïim home again. "It's a confoundedly lonesome walk over that moor," he said, as we all sat down to dinner, after Bernie had freshened up his toilet. "The deuce take it, some queer-looklng woman met me and inquired if this was the twentieth of December. I don't know whether she was that old gliost the servants used to term the 'gray woman,' but oddly enough she had a gray, moldy ook, and seemed afraid I would not ,ell her the truth." Here was another adventure precisely similar to mine, and equally inexplicable. Whether there is any foundation for my belief, or whether the world will merely laugh at my folly, I do not know, bvit for the life of me, I cannot shake off the idea that my companion of that stormy walk over the moor was the uneasy ocoupant of some other sphere. I never cross the moor af ter dark, as f requently occurs when the sport has been good and the game not shy, that I don't expect that antique figure to step out of the shadows. and that plaintive voice to ask: "Will you teil me if this is the twentieth of December 'f Ah, sir, I've lost my eount ; will you teil me truly ?"