CHAPTER I.

Sympathise with me, indeed! Ah, no! Cast your sympathy on the chill

waves of troubled waters; fling it on the oases of futurity; dash it

against the rock of gossip; or, better still, allow it to remain within

the false and faithless bosom of buried scorn.

Such were a few remarks of Irene as she paced the beach of limited

freedom, alone and unprotected. Sympathy can wound the breast of trodden

patience,--it hath no rival to insure the feelings we possess, save that

of sorrow.

The gloomy mansion stands firmly within the ivy-covered, stoutly-built

walls of Dunfern, vast in proportion and magnificent in display. It has

been built over three hundred years, and its structure stands

respectably distant from modern advancement, and in some degrees it

could boast of architectural designs rarely, if ever, attempted since

its construction.

The entrance to this beautiful home of Sir Hugh Dunfern, the present

owner, is planned on most antique principles; nothing save an enormous

iron gate meets the gaze of the visitor, who at first is inclined to

think that all public rumours relative to its magnificence are only the

utterances of the boastful and idle; nor until within its winding paths

of finest pebble, studded here and there with huge stones of unpolished

granite, could the mind for a moment conceive or entertain the faintest

idea of its quaint grandeur.

Beautiful, however, as Dunfern mansion may seem to the anxious eye of

the beholder, yet it is not altogether free from mystery. Whilst many of

its rooms, with walls of crystal, are gorgeously and profusely

furnished, others are locked incessantly against the foot of the

cautious intruder, having in them only a few traditional relics of no

material consequence whatever, or even interest, to any outside the

ancestral line of its occupants.

It has often been the chief subject of comment amongst the few

distinguished visitors welcomed within its spacious apartments, why

seemingly the finest rooms the mansion owned were always shut against

their eager and scrutinizing gaze; or why, when referred to by any of

them, the matter was always treated with silence.

All that can now be done is merely to allow the thought to dwindle into

bleak oblivion, until aroused to that standard of disclosure which

defies hindrance.

Within the venerable walls surrounding this erection of amazement and

wonder may be seen species of trees rarely, if ever, met with; yea,

within the beaded borders of this grand old mansion the eye of the

privileged beholds the magnificent lake, studded on every side with

stone of costliest cut and finish; the richest vineries, the most

elegant ferns, the daintiest conservatories, the flowers and plants of

almost every clime in abundance, the most fashionable walks, the most

intricate windings that imagination could possibly conceive or genius

contrive. In fact, it has well been named "The Eden of Luxury."

Dunfern mansion was handed down as an heirloom since its purchase by

Walter, third Earl of Dunfern, in 1674; and since then has been tenderly

cared for internally, and carefully guarded externally, by the skilful

hands of noted artisans. The present owner is only son of Sir John

Dunfern, by Irene, adopted daughter of Lord and Lady Dilworth, of

Dilworth Castle, County Kent.