(Fellow of the royal College of surgeons of England),

IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE TIME WHEN

The closing scenes of this story were written.

NO NAME.

THE FIRST SCENE.

Combe-Raven, Somersetshire.

CHAPTER I.

The hands on the hall-clock pointed to half-past six in the morning.  The house was a country residence in West Somersetshire, called Combe-Raven.  The day was the fourth of March, and the year was eighteen hundred and forty-six.

No sounds but the steady ticking of the clock, and the lumpish snoring of a large dog stretched on a mat outside the dining-room door, disturbed the mysterious morning stillness of hall and staircase.  Who were the sleepers hidden in the upper regions?  Let the house reveal its own secrets; and, one by one, as they descend the stairs from their beds, let the sleepers disclose themselves.

As the clock pointed to a quarter to seven, the dog woke and shook himself.  After waiting in vain for the footman, who was accustomed to let him out, the animal wandered restlessly from one closed door to another on the ground-floor; and, returning to his mat in great perplexity, appealed to the sleeping family with a long and melancholy howl.

Before the last notes of the dog’s remonstrance had died away, the oaken stairs in the higher regions of the house creaked under slowly-descending footsteps.  In a minute more the first of the female servants made her appearance, with a dingy woolen shawl over her shoulders—­for the March morning was bleak; and rheumatism and the cook were old acquaintances.

Receiving the dog’s first cordial advances with the worst possible grace, the cook slowly opened the hall door and let the animal out.  It was a wild morning.  Over a spacious lawn, and behind a black plantation of firs, the rising sun rent its way upward through piles of ragged gray cloud; heavy drops of rain fell few and far between; the March wind shuddered round the corners of the house, and the wet trees swayed wearily.

Seven o’clock struck; and the signs of domestic life began to show themselves in more rapid succession.

The housemaid came down—­tall and slim, with the state of the spring temperature written redly on her nose.  The lady’s-maid followed—­young, smart, plump, and sleepy.  The kitchen-maid came next—­afflicted with the face-ache, and making no secret of her sufferings.  Last of all, the footman appeared, yawning disconsolately; the living picture of a man who felt that he had been defrauded of his fair night’s rest.