The Forsaken Inn: A Novel

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[Illustration]




THE FORSAKEN INN

A NOVEL

BY

ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

Author of

"The Leavenworth Case," "A Matter of Millions," "Behind Closed Doors,"
etc.

        GROSSET & DUNLAP
        Publishers      New York


        COPYRIGHT, 1889 and 1890
        BY ROBERT BONNER'S SONS

        COPYRIGHT, 1909
        THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY


TO MY HUSBAND.




TABLE OF CONTENTS.


        CHAPTER                          PAGE

            I. THE OAK PARLOR               5

           II. BURRITT                     25

          III. A FEARFUL DISCOVERY         37

           IV. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS       60

            V. AN INTERIM OF SUSPENSE      71

           VI. THE RECLUSE                 78

          VII. TWO WOMEN                   91

         VIII. A SUDDEN BETROTHAL         110

           IX. MARAH                      116

            X. AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS  130

           XI. HONORA                     136

          XII. EDWIN URQUHART             142

         XIII. BEFORE THE WEDDING         148

          XIV. A CASSANDRA AT THE GATE    160

           XV. THE CATASTROPHE            171

          XVI. A DREAM ENDED              185

         XVII. STRANGE GUESTS             195

        XVIII. MRS. TRUAX TALKS           204

          XIX. IN THE HALLS AT MIDNIGHT   223

           XX. THE STONE IN THE GARDEN    232

          XXI. IN THE OAK PARLOR          247

         XXII. A SURPRISE FOR HONORA      288

        XXIII. IN THE SECRET CHAMBER      301

         XXIV. THE MARQUIS                312

          XXV. MARK FELT                  318

         XXVI. FOR THE LAST TIME          330

        XXVII. A LAST WORD                334




THE FORSAKEN INN.




CHAPTER I.

THE OAK PARLOR.


[Illustration: I]

I was riding between Albany and Poughkeepsie. It was raining furiously,
and my horse, already weary with long travel, gave unmistakable signs of
discouragement. I was, therefore, greatly relieved when, in the most
desolate part of the road, I espied rising before me the dim outlines of
a house, and was correspondingly disappointed when, upon riding forward,
I perceived that it was but a deserted ruin I was approaching, whose
fallen chimneys and broken windows betrayed a dilapidation so great
that I could scarcely hope to find so much as a temporary shelter
therein.

Nevertheless, I was so tired of the biting storm that I involuntarily
stopped before the decayed and forbidding structure, and was, in truth,
withdrawing my foot from the stirrup, when I heard an unexpected
exclamation behind me, and turning, saw a chaise, from the open front of
which leaned a gentleman of most attractive appearance.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Hide my head from the storm," was my hurried rejoinder. "I am tired,
and so is my horse, and the town, according to all appearances, must be
at least two miles distant."

"No matter if it is three miles! You must not take shelter in that
charnel-house," he muttered; and moved along in his seat as if to show
me there was room beside him.

"Why," I exclaimed, struck with sudden curiosity, "is this one of the
haunted houses we hear of? If so, I shall certainly enter, and be much
obliged to the storm for driving me into so interesting a spot." I
thought he looked embarrassed. At all events, I am sure he hesitated for
a moment whether or not to ride on and leave me to my fate. But his
better impulses seemed to prevail, for he suddenly cried: "Get in with
me, and leave mysteries alone. If you want to come back here after you
have learned the history of that house, you can do so; but first ride on
to town and have a good meal. Your horse will follow easily enough after
he is rid of your weight."

It was too tempting an offer to be refused; so thankfully accepting his
kindness, I alighted from my horse, and after tying him to the back of
the chaise, got in with this genial stranger. As I did so I caught
another view of the ruin I had been so near entering.

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed, pointing to the structure that, with its
projecting upper story and ghastly apertures, presented a most
suggestive appearance, "if it does not look like a skull!"

My companion shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply. The comparison
was evidently not a new one to him.

That evening, in a comfortable inn parlor, I read the following
manuscript. It was placed in my hands by this kindly stranger, who in so
doing explained that it had been written by the last occupant of the
old inn I was so nearly on the point of investigating. She had been its
former landlady, and had clung to the ancient house long after decay had
settled upon its doorstep and desolation breathed from its gaping
windows.