known as Great Covey, the other, availing itself
of the fact of its dozen dwellings being disposed
in two ranks, calling itself Covey-le-Street. The
spirit of rivalship between these two powerful
communities was constantly breaking out in various
ways, and so bitter was the jealousy, that, at
one period, scarcely any intercourse was
permitted between them: a state of things the more
to be regretted, since (a curious fact) the society
of the greater Covey was composed almost
entirely of bachelors, while that of Covey-le-
Street embraced exclusively ladies yet unsummoned
from the awaiting ranks of spinsterhood.

With this little non-community I had no
professional concern. The whole was presided over
by one of the bachelor brethren, who, tolerated
as a necessary evil, went and came between the
two camps, a just object of jealousy and
suspicion to both. Charles Tincture was by nature
a merry pleasant little fellow, and, being only
fifty-seven, was looked upon by the elderly brethren
of Great Covey as little more than a boy.
Nevertheless, it was now thirty-five years since Charley
had been jilted, and had cast from his soul every
thought of matrimony. Many a pleasant evening
have I passed in Charley's society, at his
snug lodging over the post-office (he was rich
enough to have had a good house to himself,
but preferred that celibate flavour which attaches
to lodgings), and to this circumstance I owe the
power of making you acquainted with the story
of Mournivale.

The vast old mansion, after being for some
time untenanted, had, just before my arrival,
passed into the absolute possession of Sir George
Corsellis. This gentleman had held a high
military post in India, and had brought home
a reputation the reverse of prepossessing. He
was represented as a stern proud individual,
gloomy and unsocial in disposition, a tyrant
in his profession, a tyrant in his home. He
had (said rumour, coming down like a black
mist before him) resigned his command, in the
hope of averting a threatened inquiry into some
undue exercise of authority—something, it was
even whispered, scarcely distinguishable from
what men call murder—and he had come hither,
with his lady, intending, if unmolested, to pass
the remainder of his days among the deep woods
of Mournivale.

The very first proceedings of the new
proprietor were singular enough to provoke
comment. He had fixed midnight for his arrival
at the mansion with his family: directing
the land-steward, Harper, who had managed the
property for some years, and whom he had
retained in office, to be in attendance at that hour,
and alone.

Precisely at twelve, a hollow rumble of wheels
came up from the grass-grown avenue, and
Harper, throwing open the tall iron gates which
gave immediate approach to the house, admitted
a procession consisting of three gloomy old
coaches, and a black van. From the first of
these vehicles, alighted three dark figures, so
closely muffled that it was only by a comparison
of height that the steward understood them to
represent his master (whom, indeed, he had
already seen) and two females, one of a stature
almost diminutive. Both, on entering the house,
retired instantly to a suite of apartments upon
which a regiment of painters and decorators had
been employed for at least a month.

The other carriages were filled with domestics,
English and foreign, who immediately, without
exchanging a word, set to work in their different
departments as if they had lived at Mournivale
all their previous lives. So quaint and singular
was the whole proceeding, that the simple-
minded steward felt as if he were moving about,
in the midst of a band of beings of a different
nature—whose supernatural gifts placed them
alike beyond his help and control. They made
civil gestures, and seemed to regard him with
consideration enough; but none of them, none
even of the English, spoke directly to him.
And the language that did reach his ear had a
curious rolling accent, such as he had never
heard.

Determined to break the spell, Harper singled
out a member of the mysterious company who
appeared to discharge the office of cook, and
who, being fattish, might prove good tempered.
Accosting her as she glided by, he civilly
inquired by what name he should address her.

"Morgan le Fay," replied the woman, sharply,
baring her glistening teeth in a sort of snarl.

"Morgan Liffey!" thought Harper. " Irish,
eh?"

Feeling, or fancying, that his presence was not
acceptable to the new comers, the excellent
steward, who at present occupied one of the
keepers' lodges, took a hasty leave, and
withdrew.

"Hot dinners at half-past one in the morning!"
thought Mr. Harper, as he tumbled into
bed; " I wonder at what time they sup!"

CHAPTER III.

THE external doings of the new proprietor
were equally remarkable. It had been decided
in the neighbourhood that one of his first acts
of ownership would be to thin the overgrown
woods, wherein were thousands of noble specimens
of oak, beech, elm, and fir—nay, even the
fragrant cedar—positively pining for the axe.
An enterprising timber merchant had prepared
a tender, and only waited for what he
considered a decent interval before presenting it.
Sir George, however, did nothing of the kind.
Contrariwise, on the only open ground near the
mansion—a small green knoll—he immediately
planted a handsome cluster of quick-growing
shrubs and trees.

In a word, lonely as the place already was,
Corsellis encircled the entire park with a new and
strong palisade. Around the gardens he raised a
lofty wall. He purchased, at a great expense, a
certain alleged right of way, which, as the public
never used it, was disputed by their representatives
with tenfold obstinacy. He discouraged
any advances on the part of his country neighbours,
and rarely set foot beyond his own
domain.