Charred Wood

Charred Wood, by Myles
Muredach

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Charred Wood, by Myles Muredach
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Charred Wood
Author: Myles Muredach
Illustrator: J. Clinton Shepherd
Release Date: August 23, 2005 [EBook #16585]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARRED
WOOD ***

Produced by Al Haines

CHARRED WOOD
BY

MYLES MUREDACH

"O, Designer Infinite, must Thou then Char the wood before Thou canst
limn with it?"

ILLUSTRATED BY
J. CLINTON SHEPHERD

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS --- NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1917
by
The Reilly & Britten Co.
Published October 17, 1917
Reprinted December 10, 1917
Reprinted October 11, 1918.

Charred Wood

CONTENTS
I THE LADY OF THE TREE II MONSIGNORE III UNDER
SUSPICION IV KILLIMAGA V WITH EMPTY HANDS VI WHO IS
RUTH? VII BITTER BREAD VIII FATHER MURRAY OF
SIHASSET IX THE BISHOP'S CONFESSION X AT THE
MYSTERY TREE XI THIN ICE XII HIS EXCELLENCY
SUGGESTS XIII THE ABDUCTION XIV THE INEXPLICABLE XV
"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!" XVI HIS EXCELLENCY IS
WORRIED XVII THE OPEN DOOR XVIII SAUNDERS SCORES
XIX CAPITULATION XX THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES XXI
THE BECKONING HAND XXII RUTH'S CONFESSION XXIII
CHARRED WOOD

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
On Killimaga's Cliff. . . . . Frontispiece
Something white swished quickly past him and he stared,
bewildered . . . She had stepped out of nowhere.
Saunders looked long and earnestly at his face. "He's the man!" he
announced.
"God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark;
"it is not Ruth!"

[Transcriber's note: The Frontispiece and the "Something white..."
illustration were missing from the book.]

Charred Wood
CHAPTER I

THE LADY OF THE TREE
The man lay in the tall grass. Behind him the wall of the Killimaga
estate, from its beginning some fifty yards to his left, stretched away to
his right for over a thousand feet. Along the road which ran almost
parallel with the wall was the remnant of what had once been a great
woods; yearly the county authorities determined to cut away its thick
undergrowth--and yearly left it alone. On the left the road was bare for
some distance along the bluff; then, bending, it again sought the shelter
of the trees and meandered along until it lost itself in the main street of
Sihasset, a village large enough to support three banks and, after a
fashion, eight small churches. In front, had the lounger cared to look,
he would have seen the huge rocks topping the bluff against which the
ocean dashed itself into angry foam. But the man didn't care to
look--for in the little clearing between the wall of Killimaga and the
bluff road was peace too profound to be wantonly disturbed by motion.
And so he lay there lazily smoking his cigar, his long length concealed
by the tall grass.
Hearing a slight click behind him and to his right, the man slowly, even
languidly, turned his head to peer through the grass. But his energy was
unrewarded, for he saw nothing he had not seen before--a long wall, its
rough stones half hidden by creeping vines, at its base a rank growth of
shrubs and wild hedge; behind it, in the near distance, the towers of a
house that, in another land, perched amid jutting crags, would have
inspired visions of far-off days of romance. Even in its New England
setting the great house held a rugged charm, heightened by the big trees
which gave it a setting of rich green. Some of the trees had daringly
advanced almost to the wall itself, while one--a veritable giant--had
seemingly been caught while just stepping through.
With a bored sigh, as if even so slight an effort were too great, the
smoker settled himself more comfortably and resumed his indolent
musing. Then he heard the sound again. This time he did not trouble to
look around. Something white swished quickly past him and he stared,
bewildered. It was a woman, young, if her figure were to be trusted. His
cigar dropped in the grass, and there he let it lie. His gaze never left her

as she walked on; and he could scarcely be blamed, for he was still
under thirty-five and feminine early twenties has an interest to
masculine full youth. He had never seen anyone quite so charming.
And so he watched the lady as she walked to the edge of the bluff
overlooking the sea, and turned to the