A Book of Ghosts: 20
Author: Various authors
Date: 1865-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Ghost Stories; Supernatural Fiction; Weird Fiction; Horror
Description: A collection of thirteen stories of the uncanny and the macabre by various authors, compiled by ECM.
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+80” or less, and in the USA

A BOOK OF GHOSTS
— 20 –

THINGS THAT GO BUMP
IN THE NIGHT

MobileRead Edition
2021

A collection of thirteen stories of the uncanny and the macabre by various authors, compiled by ECM.

Contents were originally published 1866 ~ 1923. This book is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+80” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS:

- The Compensation House
–1866
by Charles Collins
(Brother of Wilkie)
(1828–1873)

- An Alpine Divorce
–1893
by Robert Barr
(1850–1912)

- The Undying Thing
–1893
By Barry Pain
(1864–1928)

- The Weird Violin
–1893
by Anonymous
(?–?)

- The True Story of a Vampire
–1894
by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock
(1860–1895)

- The Woman of the Saeter
–1894
by Jerome K. Jerome
(1859–1927)

- Miriam’s Ghost
–1897
by J. H. Hollingsworth
(1850–1926)

- The Story of Yand Manor House
–1898
by E. Heron [Kate Pritchard]
(1851–1935)
and H. Heron [Hesketh Pritchard]
(1876–1922)

- The Black Lady of Brin Tor
–1904
by Guy Boothby
(1867–1905)

- The Death Child
–1905
by Guy Boothby
(1867–1905)

- The Tower
–1911
by Barry Pain
(1864–1928)

- Brickett Bottom
–1922
by Amyas Northcote
(1864–1923)

- The Astrologer’s Legacy
–1923
by Roger Pater
(1874–1936)

THE COMPENSATION HOUSE

Charles Collins

1866

“There’s not a looking-glass in all the house, sir. It’s some peculiar fancy of my master’s. There isn’t one in any single room in the house.”

It was a dark and gloomy-looking building, and had been purchased by this Company for an enlargement of their Goods Station. The value of the house had been referred to what was popularly called “a compensation jury,” and the house was called, in consequence, The Compensation House. It had become the Company’s property; but its tenant still remained in possession, pending the commencement of active building operations. My attention was originally drawn to this house because it stood directly in front of a collection of huge pieces of timber which lay near this part of the Line, and on which I sometimes sat for half an hour at a time, when I was tired by my wanderings about Mugby Junction.

It was square, cold, grey-looking, built of rough-hewn stone, and roofed with thin slabs of the same material. Its windows were few in number, and very small for the size of the building. In the great blank, grey broadside, there were only four windows. The entrance-door was in the middle of the house; there was a window on either side of it, and there were two more in the single story above. The blinds were all closely drawn, and when the door was shut, the dreary building gave no sign of life or occupation.

But the door was not always shut. Sometimes it was opened from within, with a great jingling of bolts and door-chains, and then a man would come forward and stand upon the doorstep, snuffing the air as one might do who was ordinarily kept on rather a small allowance of that element. He was stout, thickset, and perhaps fifty or sixty years old — a man whose hair was cut exceedingly close, who wore a large bushy beard, and whose eye had a sociable twinkle in it which was prepossessing. He was dressed, whenever I saw him, in a greenish-brown frock-coat made of some material which was not cloth, wore a waistcoat and trousers of light colour, and had a frill to his shirt — an ornament, by the way, which did not seem to go at all well with the beard, which was continually in contact with it. It was the custom of this worthy person, after standing for a short time on the threshold inhaling the air, to come forward into the road, and, after glancing at one of the upper windows in a half mechanical way, to cross over to the logs, and, leaning over the fence which guarded the railway, to look up and down the Line (it passed before the house) with the air of a man accomplishing a self-imposed task of which nothing was expected to come. This done, he would cross the road again, and turning on the threshold to take a final sniff of air, disappeared once more within the house, bolting and chaining the door again as if there were no probability of its being reopened for at least a week. Yet half an hour had not passed before he was out in the road again, sniffing the air and looking up and down the Line as before.

It was not very long before I managed to scrape acquaintance with this restless personage. I soon found out that my friend with the shirt-frill was the confidential servant, butler, valet, factotum, what you will, of a sick gentleman, a Mr. Oswald Strange, who had recently come to inhabit the house opposite, and concerning whose history my new acquaintance, whose name I ascertained was Masey, seemed disposed to be somewhat communicative. His master, it appeared, had come down to this place, partly for the sake of reducing his establishment — not, Mr. Masey was swift to inform me, on economical principles, but because the poor gentleman, for particular reasons, wished to have few dependants about him — partly in order that he might be near his old friend, Dr. Garden, who was established in the neighbourhood, and whose society and advice were necessary to Mr. Strange’s life. That life was, it appeared, held by this suffering gentleman on a precarious tenure. It was ebbing away fast with each passing hour. The servant already spoke of his master in the past tense, describing him to me as a young gentleman not more than five-and-thirty years of age, with a young face, as far as the features and build of it went, but with an expression which had nothing of youth about it. This was the great peculiarity of the man. At a distance he looked younger than he was by many years, and strangers, at the time when he had been used to get about, always took him for a man of seven or eight-and-twenty, but they changed their minds on getting nearer to him. Old Masey had a way of his own of summing up the peculiarities of his master, repeating twenty times over: “Sir, he was Strange by name, and Strange by nature, and Strange to look at into the bargain.”

It was during my second or third interview with the old fellow that he uttered the words quoted at the beginning of this plain narrative.

“Not such a thing as a looking-glass in all the house,” the old man said, standing beside my piece of timber, and looking across reflectively at the house opposite. “Not one.”

“In the sitting-rooms, I suppose you mean?”

“No, sir, I mean sitting-rooms and bedrooms both; there isn’t so much as a shaving-glass as big as the palm of your hand anywhere.”

“But how is it?” I asked. “Why are there no looking-glasses in any of the rooms?”

“Ah, sir!” replied Masey, “that’s what none of us can ever tell. There is the mystery. It’s just a fancy on the part of my master. He had some strange fancies, and this was one of them. A pleasant gentleman he was to live with, as any servant could desire. A liberal gentleman, and one who gave but little trouble; always ready with a kind word, and a kind deed, too, for the matter of that. There was not a house in all the parish of St. George’s (in which we lived before we came down here) where the servants had more holidays or a better table kept; but, for all that, he had his queer ways and his fancies, as I may call them, and this was one of them. And the point he made of it, sir,” the old man went on; “the extent to which that regulation was enforced, whenever a new servant was engaged; and the changes in the establishment it occasioned! In hiring a new servant, the very first stipulation made, was that about the looking-glasses. It was one of my duties to explain the thing, as far as it could be explained, before any servant was taken into the house. ‘You’ll find it an easy place,’ I used to say, ‘with a liberal table, good wages, and a deal of leisure; but there’s one thing you must make up your mind to; you must do without looking-glasses while you’re here, for there isn’t one in the house, and, what’s more, there never will be.’”

“But how did you know there never would be one?” I asked.

“Lor’ bless you, sir! If you’d seen and heard all that I’d seen and heard, you could have no doubt about it. Why, only to take one instance: I remember a particular day when my master had occasion to go into the housekeeper’s room, where the cook lived, to see about some alterations that were making, and when a pretty scene took place. The cook — she was a very ugly woman, and awful vain — had left a little bit of a looking-glass, about six inches square, upon the chimney-piece; she had got it surreptitious, and kept it always locked up; but she’d left it out, being called away suddenly, while titivating her hair. I had seen the glass, and was making for the chimney-piece as fast as I could; but master came in front of it before I could get there, and it was all over in a moment. He gave one long piercing look into it, turned deadly pale, and seizing the glass, dashed it into a hundred pieces on the floor, and then stamped upon the fragments and ground them into powder with his feet. He shut himself up for the rest of that day in his own room, first ordering me to discharge the cook, then and there, at a moment’s notice.”

“What an extraordinary thing!” I said, pondering.

“Ah, sir,” continued the old man, “it was astonishing what trouble I had with those women-servants. It was difficult to get any that would take the place at all under the circumstances. ‘What not so much as a mossul [morsel] to do one’s ’air at?’ they would say, and they’d go off, in spite of extra wages. Then those who did consent to come, what lies they would tell, to be sure! They would protest that they didn’t want to look in the glass, that they never had been in the habit of looking in the glass, and all the while that very wench would have her looking-glass, of some kind or another, hid away among her clothes upstairs. Sooner or later, she would bring it out too, and leave it about somewhere or other (just like the cook), where it was as likely as not that master might see it. And then — for girls like that have no consciences, sir — when I had caught one of ’em at it, she’d turn round as bold as brass, ‘And how am I to know whether my ’air’s parted straight?’ she’d say, just as if it hadn’t been considered in her wages that that was the very thing which she never was to know while she lived in our house. A vain lot, sir, and the ugly ones always the vainest. There was no end to their dodges. They’d have looking-glasses in the interiors of their workbox-lids, where it was next to impossible that I could find ’em, or inside the covers of hymn-books, or cookery-books, or in their caddies. I recollect one girl, a sly one she was, and marked with the small-pox terrible, who was always reading her prayer-book at odd times. Sometimes I used to think what a religious mind she’d got, and at other times (depending on the mood I was in) I would conclude that it was the marriage-service she was studying; but one day, when I got behind her to satisfy my doubts — lo and behold! it was the old story a bit of glass, without a frame, fastened into the kiver with the outside edges of the sheets of postage-stamps. Dodges! Why they’d keep their looking-glasses in the scullery or the coal-cellar, or leave them in charge of the servants next door, or with the milk-woman round the corner; but have ’em they would. And I don’t mind confessing, sir,” said the old man, bringing his long speech to an end, “that it was an inconveniency not to have so much as a scrap to shave before. I used to go to the barber’s at first, but I soon gave that up, and took to wearing my beard as my master did; likewise to keeping my hair” — Mr. Masey touched his head as he spoke — “so short, that it didn’t require any parting, before or behind.”

I sat for some time lost in amazement, and staring at my companion. My curiosity was powerfully stimulated, and the desire to learn more was very strong within me.

“Had your master any personal defect,” I inquired, “which might have made it distressing to him to see his own image reflected?”

“By no means, sir,” said the old man. “He was as handsome a gentleman as you would wish to see: a little delicate-looking and care-worn, perhaps, with a very pale face; but as free from any deformity as you or I, sir. No, sir, no: it was nothing of that.”

“Then what was it? What is it?” I asked, desperately. “Is there no one who is, or has been, in your master’s confidence?”

“Yes, sir,” said the old fellow, with his eyes turning to that window opposite. “There is one person who knows all my master’s secrets, and this secret among the rest.”

“And who is that?”

The old man turned round and looked at me fixedly. “The doctor here,” he said. “Dr. Garden. My master’s very old friend.”

“I should like to speak with this gentleman,” I said, involuntarily.

“He is with my master now,” answered Masey. “He will be coming out presently, and I think I may say he will answer any question you may like to put to him.” As the old man spoke, the door of the house opened, and a middle-aged gentleman, who was tall and thin, but who lost something of his height by a habit of stooping, appeared on the step. Old Masey left me in a moment. He muttered something about taking the doctor’s directions, and hastened across the road. The tall gentleman spoke to him for a minute or two very seriously, probably about the patient up-stairs, and it then seemed to me from their gestures that I myself was the subject of some further conversation between them. At all events, when old Masey retired into the house, the doctor came across to where I was standing, and addressed me with a very agreeable smile.

“John Masey tells me that you are interested in the case of my poor friend, sir. I am now going back to my house, and if you don’t mind the trouble of walking with me, I shall be happy to enlighten you as far as I am able.”

I hastened to make my apologies and express my acknowledgments, and we set off together. When we had reached the doctor’s house and were seated in his study, I ventured to inquire after the health of this poor gentleman.

“I am afraid there is no amendment, nor any prospect of amendment,” said the doctor. “Old Masey has told you something of his strange condition, has he not?”

“Yes, he has told me something,” I answered, “and he says you know all about it.”

Dr. Garden looked very grave. “I don’t know all about it. I only know what happens when he comes into the presence of a looking-glass. But as to the circumstances which have led to his being haunted in the strangest fashion that I ever heard of, I know no more of them than you do.”

“Haunted?” I repeated. “And in the strangest fashion that you ever heard of?”

Dr. Garden smiled at my eagerness, seemed to be collecting his thoughts, and presently went on:

—  —  —  —

I made the acquaintance of Mr. Oswald Strange in a curious way. It was on board of an Italian steamer, bound from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles. We had been travelling all night. In the morning I was shaving myself in the cabin, when suddenly this man came behind me, glanced for a moment into the small mirror before which I was standing, and then, without a word of warning, tore it from the nail, and dashed it to pieces at my feet. His face was at first livid with passion — it seemed to me rather the passion of fear than of anger — but it changed after a moment, and he seemed ashamed of what he had done. Well, continued the doctor, relapsing for a moment into a smile, of course I was in a devil of a rage. I was operating on my underjaw, and the start the thing gave me caused me to cut myself. Besides, altogether it seemed an outrageous and insolent thing, and I gave it to poor Strange in a style of language which I am sorry to think of now, but which, I hope, was excusable at the time. As to the offender himself, his confusion and regret, now that his passion was at an end, disarmed me. He sent for the steward, and paid most liberally for the damage done to the steamboat property, explaining to him, and to some other passengers who were present in the cabin, that what had happened had been accidental. For me, however, he had another explanation. Perhaps he felt that I must know it to have been no accident — perhaps he really wished to confide in someone. At all events, he owned to me that what he had done was done under the influence of an uncontrollable impulse — a seizure which took him, he said, at times — something like a fit. He begged my pardon, and entreated that I would endeavour to disassociate him personally from this action, of which he was heartily ashamed. Then he attempted a sickly joke, poor fellow, about his wearing a beard, and feeling a little spiteful, in consequence, when he saw other people taking the trouble to shave; but he said nothing about any infirmity or delusion, and shortly after left me.

In my professional capacity I could not help taking some interest in Mr. Strange. I did not altogether lose sight of him after our sea-journey to Marseilles was over. I found him a pleasant companion up to a certain point; but I always felt that there was a reserve about him. He was uncommunicative about his past life, and especially would never allude to anything connected with his travels or his residence in Italy, which, however, I could make out had been a long one. He spoke Italian well, and seemed familiar with the country, but disliked to talk about it.

During the time we spent together there were seasons when he was so little himself, that I, with a pretty large experience, was almost afraid to be with him. His attacks were violent and sudden in the last degree; and there was one most extraordinary feature connected with them all: some horrible association of ideas took possession of him whenever he found himself before a looking-glass. And after we had travelled together for a time, I dreaded the sight of a mirror hanging harmlessly against a wall, or a toilet-glass standing on a dressing-table, almost as much as he did.

Poor Strange was not always affected in the same manner by a looking-glass. Sometimes it seemed to madden him with fury; at other times, it appeared to turn him to stone: remaining motionless and speechless as if attacked by catalepsy. One night — the worst things always happen at night, and oftener than one would think on stormy nights — we arrived at a small town in the central district of Auvergne: a place but little known, out of the line of railways, and to which we had been drawn, partly by the antiquarian attractions which the place possessed, and partly by the beauty of the scenery. The weather had been rather against us. The day had been dull and murky, the heat stifling, and the sky had threatened mischief since the morning. At sundown, these threats were fulfilled. The thunderstorm, which had been all day coming up — as it seemed to us, against the wind — burst over the place where we were lodged, with very great violence.

There are some practical-minded persons with strong constitutions, who deny roundly that their fellow-creatures are, or can be, affected, in mind or body, by atmospheric influences. I am not a disciple of that school, simply because I cannot believe that those changes of weather, which have so much effect upon animals, and even on inanimate objects, can fail to have some influence on a piece of machinery so sensitive and intricate as the human frame. I think, then, that it was in part owing to the disturbed state of the atmosphere that, on this particular evening I felt nervous and depressed. When my new friend Strange and I parted for the night, I felt as little disposed to go to rest as I ever did in my life. The thunder was still lingering among the mountains in the midst of which our inn was placed. Sometimes it seemed nearer, and at other times further off; but it never left off altogether, except for a few minutes at a time. I was quite unable to shake off a succession of painful ideas which persistently besieged my mind.

It is hardly necessary to add that I thought from time to time of my travelling-companion in the next room. His image was almost continually before me. He had been dull and depressed all the evening, and when we parted for the night there was a look in his eyes which I could not get out of my memory.

There was a door between our rooms, and the partition dividing them was not very solid; and yet I had heard no sound since I parted from him which could indicate that he was there at all, much less that he was awake and stirring. I was in a mood, sir, which made this silence terrible to me, and so many foolish fancies — as that he was lying there dead, or in a fit, or what not — took possession of me, that at last I could bear it no longer. I went to the door, and, after listening, very attentively but quite in vain, for any sound, I at last knocked pretty sharply. There was no answer. Feeling that longer suspense would be unendurable, I, without more ceremony, turned the handle and went in.

It was a great bare room, and so imperfectly lighted by a single candle that it was almost impossible — except when the lightning flashed — to see into its great dark corners. A small rickety bedstead stood against one of the walls, shrouded by yellow cotton curtains, passed through a great iron ring in the ceiling. There was, for all other furniture, an old chest-of-drawers which served also as a washing-stand, having a small basin and ewer and a single towel arranged on the top of it. There were, moreover, two ancient chairs and a dressing-table. On this last, stood a large old-fashioned looking-glass with a carved frame.

I must have seen all these things, because I remember them so well now, but I do not know how I could have seen them, for it seems to me that, from the moment of my entering that room, the action of my senses and of the faculties of my mind was held fast by the ghastly figure which stood motionless before the looking-glass in the middle of the empty room.

How terrible it was! The weak light of one candle standing on the table shone upon Strange’s face, lighting it from below, and throwing (as I now remember) his shadow, vast and black, upon the wall behind him and upon the ceiling overhead. He was leaning rather forward, with his hands upon the table supporting him, and gazing into the glass which stood before him with a horrible fixity. The sweat was on his white face; his rigid features and his pale lips showed in that feeble light were horrible, more than words can tell, to look at. He was so completely stupefied and lost, that the noise I had made in knocking and in entering the room was unobserved by him. Not even when I called him loudly by name did he move or did his face change.

What a vision of horror that was, in the great dark empty room, in a silence that was something more than negative, that ghastly figure frozen into stone by some unexplained terror! And the silence and the stillness! The very thunder had ceased now. My heart stood still with fear. Then, moved by some instinctive feeling, under whose influence I acted mechanically, I crept with slow steps nearer and nearer to the table, and at last, half expecting to see some spectre even more horrible than this which I saw already, I looked over his shoulder into the looking-glass. I happened to touch his arm, though only in the lightest manner. In that one moment the spell which had held him — who knows how long? — enchained, seemed broken, and he lived in this world again. He turned round upon me, as suddenly as a tiger makes its spring, and seized me by the arm.

I have told you that even before I entered my friend’s room I had felt, all that night, depressed and nervous. The necessity for action at this time was, however, so obvious., and this man’s agony made all that I had felt, appear so trifling, that much of my own discomfort seemed to leave me. I felt that I must be strong.

The face before me almost unmanned me. The eyes which looked into mine were so scared with terror, the lips — if I may say so — looked so speechless. The wretched man gazed long into my face, and then, still holding me by the arm, slowly, very slowly, turned his head. I had gently tried to move him away from the looking-glass, but he would not stir, and now he was looking into it as fixedly as ever. I could bear this no longer, and, using such force as was necessary, I drew him gradually away, and got him to one of the chairs at the foot of the bed. “Come!” I said — after the long silence my voice, even to myself, sounded strange and hollow — “come! You are over-tired, and you feel the weather. Don’t you think you ought to be in bed? Suppose you lie down. Let me try my medical skill in mixing you a composing draught.”

He held my hand, and looked eagerly into my eyes. “I am better now,” he said, speaking at last very faintly. Still he looked at me in that wistful way. It seemed as if there were something that he wanted to do or say, but had not sufficient resolution. At length he got up from the chair to which I had led him, and beckoning me to follow him, went across the room to the dressing-table, and stood again before the glass. A violent shudder passed through his frame as he looked into it; but apparently forcing himself to go through with what he had now begun, he remained where he was, and, without looking away, moved to me with his hand to come and stand beside him. I complied.

“Look in there!” he said, in an almost inaudible tone. He was supported, as before, by his hands resting on the table, and could only bow with his head towards the glass to intimate what he meant. “Look in there!” he repeated.

I did as he asked me.

“What do you see?” he asked next.

“See?” I repeated, trying to speak as cheerfully as I could, and describing the reflection of his own face as nearly as I could. “I see a very, very pale face with sunken cheeks—”

“What?” he cried, with an alarm in his voice which I could not understand.

“With sunken cheeks,” I went on, “and two hollow eyes with large pupils.”

I saw the reflection of my friend’s face change, and felt his hand clutch my arm even more tightly than he had done before. I stopped abruptly and looked round at him. He did not turn his head towards me, but, gazing still into the looking-glass, seemed to labour for utterance.

“What,” he stammered at last. “Do — you — see it — too?”

“See what?” I asked, quickly.

“That face!” he cried, in accents of horror. “That face — which is not mine — and which — I SEE INSTEAD OF MINE — always!”

I was struck speechless by the words. In a moment this mystery was explained — but what an explanation! Worse, a hundred times worse, than anything I had imagined. What! Had this man lost the power of seeing his own image as it was reflected there before him? and, in its place, was there the image of another? Had he changed reflections with some other man? The frightfulness of the thought struck me speechless for a time — then I saw how false an impression my silence was conveying.

“No, no, no!” I cried, as soon as I could speak — “a hundred times, no! I see you, of course, and only you. It was your face I attempted to describe, and no other.”

He seemed not to hear me. “Why, look there!” he said, in a low, indistinct voice, pointing to his own image in the glass. “Whose face do you see there?”

“Why yours, of course.” And then, after a moment, I added, “Whose do you see?”

He answered, like one in a trance, “His — only his — always his!” He stood still a moment, and then, with a loud and terrific scream, repeated those words, “ALWAYS HIS, ALWAYS HIS,” and fell down in a fit before me.

—  —  —  —

I knew what to do now. Here was a thing which, at any rate, I could understand. I had with me my usual small stock of medicines and surgical instruments, and I did what was necessary: first to restore my unhappy patient, and next to procure for him the rest he needed so much. He was very ill — at death’s door for some days — and I could not leave him, though there was urgent need that I should be back in London. When he began to mend, I sent over to England for my servant — John Masey — whom I knew I could trust. Acquainting him with the outlines of the case, I left him in charge of my patient, with orders that he should be brought over to this country as soon as he was fit to travel.

That awful scene was always before me. I saw this devoted man day after day, with the eyes of my imagination, sometimes destroying in his rage the harmless looking-glass, which was the immediate cause of his suffering, sometimes transfixed before the horrid image that turned him to stone. I recollect coming upon him once when we were stopping at a roadside inn, and seeing him stand so by broad daylight. His back was turned towards me, and I waited and watched him for nearly half an hour as he stood there motionless and speechless, and appearing not to breathe. I am not sure but that this apparition seen so by daylight was more ghastly than that apparition seen in the middle of the night, with the thunder rumbling among the hills.

Back in London in his own house, where he could command in some sort the objects which should surround him, poor Strange was better than he would have been elsewhere. He seldom went out except at night, but once or twice I have walked with him by daylight, and have seen him terribly agitated when we have had to pass a shop in which looking-glasses were exposed for sale.

It is nearly a year now since my poor friend followed me down to this place, to which I have retired. For some months he has been daily getting weaker and weaker, and a disease of the lungs has become developed in him, which has brought him to his death-bed. I should add, by-the-by, that John Masey has been his constant companion ever since I brought them together, and I have had, consequently, to look after a new servant.

—  —  —  —

“And now tell me,” the doctor added, bringing his tale to an end, “did you ever hear a more miserable history, or was ever man haunted in a more ghastly manner than this man?”

I was about to reply, when we heard a sound of footsteps outside, and before I could speak old Masey entered the room, in haste and disorder.

“I was just telling this gentleman,” the doctor said: not at the moment observing old Masey’s changed manner: “how you deserted me to go over to your present master.”

“Ah! sir,” the man answered, in a troubled voice, “I’m afraid he won’t be my master long.”

The doctor was on his legs in a moment. “What! Is he worse?”

“I think, sir, he is dying,” said the old man.

“Come with me, sir; you may be of use if you can keep quiet.” The doctor caught up his hat as he addressed me in those words, and in a few minutes we had reached The Compensation House. A few seconds more and we were standing in a darkened room on the first floor, and I saw lying on a bed before me — pale, emaciated and, as it seemed, dying — the man whose story I had just heard.

He was lying with closed eyes when we came into the room, and I had leisure to examine his features. What a tale of misery they told! They were regular and symmetrical in their arrangement, and not without beauty — the beauty of exceeding refinement and delicacy. Force there was none, and perhaps it was to the want of this that the faults — perhaps the crime — which had made the man’s life so miserable were to be attributed. Perhaps the crime? Yes, it was not likely that an affliction, lifelong and terrible, such as this he had endured, would come upon him unless some misdeed had provoked the punishment. What misdeed we were soon to know.

It sometimes — I think generally — happens that the presence of anyone who stands and watches beside a sleeping man will wake him, unless his slumbers are unusually heavy. It was so now. While we looked at him, the sleeper awoke very suddenly, and fixed his eyes upon us. He put out his hand and took the doctor’s in its feeble grasp. “Who is that?” he asked next, pointing towards me.

“Do you wish him to go? The gentleman knows something of your sufferings, and is powerfully interested in your case; but he will leave us, if you wish it,” the doctor said.

“No. Let him stay.”

Seating myself out of sight, but where I could both see and hear what passed, I waited for what should follow. Dr. Garden and John Masey stood beside the bed. There was a moment’s pause.

“I want a looking-glass,” said Strange, without a word of preface.

We all started to hear him say those words.

“I am dying,” said Strange; “will you not grant me my request?”

Dr. Garden whispered to old Masey; and the latter left the room. He was not absent long, having gone no further than the next house. He held an oval-framed mirror in his hand when he returned. A shudder passed through the body of the sick man as he saw it.

“Put it down,” he said, faintly — “anywhere — for the present.” No one of us spoke. I do not think, in that moment of suspense, that we could, any of us, have spoken if we had tried.

The sick man tried to raise himself a little. “Prop me up,” he said. “I speak with difficulty — I have something to say.”

They put pillows behind him, so as to raise his head and body.

“I have presently a use for it,” he said, indicating the mirror. “I want to see—” He stopped, and seemed to change his mind. He was sparing of his words. “I want to tell you — all about it.” Again he was silent. Then he seemed to make a great effort, and spoke once more, beginning very abruptly.

“I loved my wife fondly. I loved her — her name was Lucy. She was English; but, alter we were married, we lived long abroad — in Italy. She liked the country, and I liked what she liked. She liked to draw, too, and I got her a master. He was an Italian. I will not give his name. We always called him ‘the Master.’ A treacherous insidious man this was, and, under cover of his profession, took advantage of his opportunities, and taught my wife to love him — to love him.

“I am short of breath. I need not enter into details as to how I found them out; but I did find them out. We were away on a sketching expedition when I made my discovery. My rage maddened me, and there was one at hand who fomented my madness. My wife had a maid, who, it seemed, had also loved this man — the Master — and had been ill-treated and deserted by him. She told me all. She had played the part of go-between — had carried letters. When she told me these things, it was night, in a solitary Italian town, among the mountains. ‘He is in his room now,’ she said, ‘writing to her.’

“A frenzy took possession of me as I listened to those words. I am naturally vindictive — remember that — and now my longing for revenge was like a thirst. Travelling in those lonely regions, I was armed, and when the woman said, ‘He is writing to your wife,’ I laid hold of my pistols, as by an instinct. It has been some comfort to me since, that I took them both. Perhaps, at that moment, I may have meant fairly by him — meant that we should fight. I don’t know what I meant, quite. The woman’s words, ‘He is in his own room now, writing to her,’ rung in my ears.”

The sick man stopped to take breath. It seemed an hour, though it was probably not more than two minutes, before he spoke again.

“I managed to get into his room unobserved. Indeed, he was altogether absorbed in what he was doing. He was sitting at the only table in the room, writing at a travelling-desk, by the light of a single candle. It was a rude dressing-table, and — and before him — exactly before him — there was — there was a looking-glass.

“I stole up behind him as he sat and wrote by the light of the candle. I looked over his shoulder at the letter, and I read, ‘Dearest Lucy, my love, my darling.’ As I read the words, I pulled the trigger of the pistol I held in my right hand, and killed him — killed him — but, before he died, he looked up once — not at me, but at my image before him in the glass, and his face — such a face — has been there — ever since, and mine — my face — is gone!”

He fell back exhausted, and we all pressed forward thinking that he must be dead, he lay so still.

But he had not yet passed away. He revived under the influence of stimulants. He tried to speak, and muttered indistinctly from time to time words of which we could sometimes make no sense. We understood, however, that he had been tried by an Italian tribunal, and had been found guilty; but with such extenuating circumstances that his sentence was commuted to imprisonment, during, we thought we made out, two years. But we could not understand what he said about his wife, though we gathered that she was still alive, from something he whispered to the doctor of there being provision made for her in his will.

He lay in a doze for something more than an hour after he had told his tale, and then he woke up quite suddenly, as he had done when we had first entered the room. He looked round uneasily in all directions, until his eye fell on the looking-glass.

“I want it,” he said, hastily; but I noticed that he did not shudder now as it was brought near. When old Masey approached, holding it in his hand, and crying like a child, Dr. Garden came forward and stood between him and his master, taking the hand of poor Strange in his.

“Is this wise?” he asked. “Is it good, do you think, to revive this misery of your life now, when it is so near its close? The chastisement of your crime,” he added, solemnly, “has been a terrible one. Let us hope in God’s mercy that your punishment is over.”

The dying man raised himself with a last great effort, and looked up at the doctor with such an expression on his face as none of us had seen on any face, before.

“I do hope so,” he said, faintly, “but you must let me have my way in this — for if, now, when I look, I see aright — once more — I shall then hope yet more strongly — for I shall take it as a sign.”

The doctor stood aside without another word, when he heard the dying man speak thus, and the old servant drew near, and, stooping over softly, held the looking-glass before his master. Presently afterwards, we, who stood around looking breathlessly at him, saw such a rapture upon his face, as left no doubt upon our minds that the face which had haunted him so long, had, in his last hour, disappeared.

AN ALPINE DIVORCE

Robert Barr

1893

In some natures there are no half-tones; nothing but raw primary colours. John Bodman was a man who was always at one extreme or the other. This probably would have mattered little had he not married a wife whose nature was an exact duplicate of his own.

Doubtless there exists in this world precisely the right woman for any given man to marry, and vice versa; but when you consider that a human being has the opportunity of being acquainted with only a few hundred people, and out of the few hundred that there are but a dozen or less whom he knows intimately, and out of the dozen, one or two friends at most, it will easily be seen, when we remember the number of millions who inhabit this world, that probably, since the earth was created, the right man has never yet met the right woman. The mathematical chances are all against such a meeting, and this is the reason that divorce courts exist. Marriage at best is but a compromise, and if two people happen to be united who are of an uncompromising nature there is trouble.

In the lives of these two young people there was no middle distance. The result was bound to be either love or hate, and in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Bodman it was hate of the most bitter and arrogant kind.

In some parts of the world incompatibility of temper is considered a just case for obtaining a divorce, but in England no such subtle distinction is made, and so, until the wife became criminal, or the man became both criminal and cruel, these two were linked together by a bond that only death could sever. Nothing can be worse than this state of things, and the matter was only made the more hopeless by the fact that Mrs. Bodman lived a blameless life, and her husband was no worse, but rather better, than the majority of men. Perhaps, however, that statement held only up to a certain point, for John Bodman had reached a state of mind in which he resolved to get rid of his wife at all hazards. If he had been a poor man he would probably have deserted her, but he was rich, and a man cannot freely leave a prospering business because his domestic life happens not to be happy.

When a man’s mind dwells too much on any one subject, no one can tell just how far he will go. The mind is a delicate instrument, and even the law recognises that it is easily thrown from its balance. Bodman’s friends — for he had friends — claim that his mind was unhinged; but neither his friends nor his enemies suspected the truth of the episode, which turned out to be the most important, as it was the most ominous, event in his life.

Whether John Bodman was sane or insane at the time he made up his mind to murder his wife, will never be known, but there was certainly craftiness in the method he devised to make the crime appear the result of an accident. Nevertheless, cunning is often a quality in a mind that has gone wrong.

Mrs. Bodman well knew how much her presence afflicted her husband, but her nature was as relentless as his, and her hatred of him was, if possible, more bitter than his hatred of her. Wherever he went she accompanied him, and perhaps the idea of murder would never have occurred to him if she had not been so persistent in forcing her presence upon him at all times and on all occasions. So, when he announced to her that he intended to spend the month of July in Switzerland, she said nothing, but made her preparations for the journey. On this occasion he did not protest, as was usual with him, and so to Switzerland this silent couple departed.

There is an hotel near the mountain-tops which stands on a ledge over one of the great glaciers. It is a mile and a half above the level of the sea, and it stands alone, reached by a toilsome road that zigzags up the mountain for six miles. There is a wonderful view of snow-peaks and glaciers from the verandahs of this hotel, and in the neighbourhood are many picturesque walks to points more or less dangerous.

John Bodman knew the hotel well, and in happier days he had been intimately acquainted with the vicinity. Now that the thought of murder arose in his mind, a certain spot two miles distant from this inn continually haunted him. It was a point of view overlooking everything, and its extremity was protected by a low and crumbling wall. He arose one morning at four o’clock, slipped unnoticed out of the hotel, and went to this point, which was locally named the Hanging Outlook. His memory had served him well. It was exactly the spot, he said to himself. The mountain which rose up behind it was wild and precipitous. There were no inhabitants near to overlook the place. The distant hotel was hidden by a shoulder of rock. The mountains on the other side of the valley were too far away to make it possible for any casual tourist or native to see what was going on on the Hanging Outlook. Far down in the valley the only town in view seemed like a collection of little toy houses.

One glance over the crumbling wall at the edge was generally sufficient for a visitor of even the strongest nerves. There was a sheer drop of more than a mile straight down, and at the distant bottom were jagged rocks and stunted trees that looked, in the blue haze, like shrubbery.

“This is the spot,” said the man to himself, “and tomorrow morning is the time.”

John Bodman had planned his crime as grimly and relentlessly, and as coolly, as ever he had concocted a deal on the Stock Exchange. There was no thought in his mind of mercy for his unconscious victim. His hatred had carried him far.

The next morning after breakfast, he said to his wife: “I intend to take a walk in the mountains. Do you wish to come with me?”

“Yes,” she answered briefly.

“Very well, then,” he said; “I shall be ready at nine o’clock.”

“I shall be ready at nine o’clock,” she repeated after him.

At that hour they left the hotel together, to which he was shortly to return alone. They spoke no word to each other on their way to the Hanging Outlook. The path was practically level, skirting the mountains, for the Hanging Outlook was not much higher above the sea than the hotel.

John Bodman had formed no fixed plan for his procedure when the place was reached. He resolved to be guided by circumstances. Now and then a strange fear arose in his mind that she might cling to him and possibly drag him over the precipice with her. He found himself wondering whether she had any premonition of her fate, and one of his reasons for not speaking was the fear that a tremor in his voice might possibly arouse her suspicions. He resolved that his action should be sharp and sudden, that she might have no chance either to help herself, or to drag him with her. Of her screams in that desolate region he had no fear. No one could reach the spot except from the hotel, and no one that morning had left the house, even for an expedition to the glacier — one of the easiest and most popular trips from the place.

Curiously enough, when they came within sight of the Hanging Outlook, Mrs. Bodman stopped and shuddered. Bodman looked at her through the narrow slits of his veiled eyes, and wondered again if she had any suspicion. No one can tell, when two people walk closely together, what unconscious communication one mind may have with another.

“What is the matter?” he asked gruffly. “Are you tired?”

“John,” she cried with a gasp in her voice, calling him by his Christian name for the first time in years, “don’t you think that if you had been kinder to me at first, things might have been different?”

“It seems to me,” he answered, not looking at her, “that it is rather late in the day for discussing that question.”

“I have much to regret,” she said quaveringly. “Have you nothing?”

“No,” he answered.

“Very well,” replied his wife, with the usual hardness returning to her voice. “I was merely giving you a chance. Remember that.”

Her husband looked at her suspiciously.

“What do you mean?” he asked, “giving me a chance? I want no chance nor anything else from you. A man accepts nothing from one he hates. My feeling towards you is, I imagine, no secret to you. We are tied together, and you have done your best to make the bondage insupportable.”

“Yes,” she answered, with her eyes on the ground, “we are tied together — we are tied together!”

She repeated these words under her breath as they walked the few remaining steps to the Outlook. Bodman sat down upon the crumbling wall. The woman dropped her alpenstock on the rock, and walked nervously to and fro, clasping and unclasping her hands. Her husband caught his breath as the terrible moment drew near.

“Why do you walk about like a wild animal?” he cried. “Come here and sit down beside me, and be still.”

She faced him with a light he had never before seen in her eyes — a light of insanity and of hatred.

“I walk like a wild animal,” she said, “because I am one. You spoke a moment ago of your hatred of me; but you are a man, and your hatred is nothing to mine. Bad as you are, much as you wish to break the bond which ties us together, there are still things which I know you would not stoop to. I know there is no thought of murder in your heart, but there is in mine. I will show you, John Bodman, how much I hate you.”

The man nervously clutched the stone beside him, and gave a guilty start as she mentioned murder.

“Yes,” she continued, “I have told all my friends in England that I believed you intended to murder me in Switzerland.”

“Good God!” he cried. “How could you say such a thing?”

“I say it to show how much I hate you — how much I am prepared to give for revenge. I have warned the people at the hotel, and when we left two men followed us. The proprietor tried to persuade me not to accompany you. In a few moments those two men will come in sight of the Outlook. Tell them, if you think they will believe you, that it was an accident.”

The mad woman tore from the front of her dress shreds of lace and scattered them around.

Bodman started up to his feet, crying, “What are you about?” But before he could move towards her she precipitated herself over the wall, and went shrieking and whirling down the awful abyss.

The next moment two men came hurriedly round the edge of the rock, and found the man standing alone. Even in his bewilderment he realised that if he told the truth he would not be believed.

THE UNDYING THING

Barry Pain

1893

Up and down the oak-panelled dining-hall of Mansteth the master of the house walked restlessly. At formal intervals down the long severe table were placed four silver candlesticks, but the light from these did not serve to illuminate the whole of the surroundings. It just touched the portrait of a fair-haired boy with a sad and wistful expression that hung at one end of the room; it sparkled on the lid of a silver tankard. As Sir Edric passed to and fro it lit up his face and figure. It was a bold and resolute face with a firm chin and passionate, dominant eyes. A bad past was written in the lines of it. And yet every now and then there came over it a strange look of very anxious gentleness that gave it some resemblance to the portrait of the fair-haired boy. Sir Edric paused for a moment before the portrait and surveyed it carefully, his strong brown hands locked behind him, his gigantic shoulders thrust a little forward.

“Ah, what I was!” he murmured to himself — “what I was!” Once more he commenced pacing up and down. The candles, mirrored in the polished wood of the table, had burnt low. For hours Sir Edric had been waiting, listening intently for some sound from the room above or from the broad staircase outside. There had been sounds — the wailing of a woman, a quick abrupt voice, the moving of rapid feet. But for the last hour he had heard nothing. Quite suddenly he stopped and dropped on his knees against the table:

“God, I have never thought of Thee. Thou knowest that — Thou knowest that by my devilish behaviour and cruelty I did veritably murder Alice, my first wife, albeit the physicians did maintain that she died of a decline — a wasting sickness. Thou knowest that all here in Mansteth do hate me, and that rightly. They say, too, that I am mad; but that they say not rightly, seeing that I know how wicked I am. I always knew it, but I never cared until I loved — Oh, God, I never cared!”

His fierce eyes opened for a minute, glared round the room, and closed again tightly. He went on:

“God, for myself I ask nothing; I make no bargaining with Thee. Whatsoever punishment Thou givest me to bear I will bear it; whatsoever Thou givest me to do I will do it. Whether Thou killest Eve or whether Thou keepest her in life — and never have I loved but her — I will from this night be good. In due penitence will I receive the holy Sacrament of Thy Body and Blood. And my son, the one child that I had by Alice, I will fetch back again from Challonsea, where I kept him in order that I might not look upon him, and I will be to him a father in deed and very truth. And in all things, so far as in me lieth, I will make restitution and atonement. Whether Thou hearest me or whether Thou hearest me not, these things shall be. And for my prayer, it is but this: of Thy loving kindness, most merciful God, be Thou with Eve and make her happy; and after these great pains and perils of childbirth send her Thy peace. Of Thy loving-kindness, Thy merciful loving-kindness, O God!”

Perhaps the prayer that is offered when the time for praying is over is more terribly pathetic than any other. Yet one might hesitate to say that this prayer was unanswered.

Sir Edric rose to his feet. Once more he paced the room. There was a strange simplicity about him, the simplicity that scorns an incongruity. He felt that his lips and throat were parched and dry. He lifted the heavy silver tankard from the table and raised the lid; there was still a good draught of mulled wine in it with the burnt toast, cut heart-shape, floating on the top.

“To the health of Eve and her child,” he said aloud, and drained it to the last drop.

Click, click! As he put the tankard down he heard distinctly two doors opened and shut quickly, one after the other. And then slowly down the stairs came a hesitating step. Sir Edric could bear the suspense no longer. He opened the dining-room door, and the dim light strayed out into the dark hall beyond.

“Dennison,” he said, in a low, sharp whisper, “is that you?”

“Yes, yes. I am coming, Sir Edric.”

A moment afterwards Dr. Dennison entered the room. He was very pale; perspiration streamed from his forehead; his cravat was disarranged. He was an old man, thin, with the air of proud humility. Sir Edric watched him narrowly.

“Then she is dead,” he said, with a quiet that Dr. Dennison had not expected.

“Twenty physicians — a hundred physicians could not have saved her, Sir Edric. She was—” He gave some details of medical interest.

“Dennison,” said Sir Edric, still speaking with calm and restraint, “why do you seem thus indisposed and panic-stricken? You are a physician; have you never looked upon the face of death before? The soul of my wife is with God—”

“Yes,” murmured Dennison, “a good woman, a perfect, saintly woman.”

“And,” Sir Edric went on, raising his eyes to the ceiling as though he could see through it, “her body lies in great dignity and beauty upon the bed, and there is no horror in it. Why are you afraid?”

“I do not fear death, Sir Edric.”

“But your hands — they are not steady. You are evidently overcome. Does the child live?”

“Yes, it lives.”

“Another boy — a brother for young Edric, the child that Alice bore me?”

“There — there is something wrong. I do not know what to do. I want you to come upstairs. And, Sir Edric, I must tell you, you will need your self-command.”

“Dennison, the hand of God is heavy upon me; but from this time forth until the day of my death I am submissive to it, and God send that that day may come quickly! I will follow you and I will endure.”

He took one of the high silver candlesticks from the table and stepped towards the door. He strode quickly up the staircase, Dr. Dennison following a little way behind him.

As Sir Edric waited at the top of the staircase he heard suddenly from the room before him a low cry. He put down the candlestick on the floor and leaned back against the wall listening. The cry came again, a vibrating monotone ending in a growl.

“Dennison, Dennison!”

His voice choked; he could not go on.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “it is in there. I had the two women out of the room, and got it here. No one but myself has seen it. But you must see it, too.”

He raised the candle and the two men entered the room — one of the spare bedrooms. On the bed there was something moving under cover of a blanket. Dr. Dennison paused for a moment and then flung the blanket partially back.

They did not remain in the room for more than a few seconds. The moment they got outside, Dr. Dennison began to speak.

“Sir Edric, I would fain suggest somewhat to you. There is no evil, as Sophocles hath it in his ‘Antigone,’ for which man hath not found a remedy, except it be death, and here—”

Sir Edric interrupted him in a husky voice.

“Downstairs, Dennison. This is too near.”

It was, indeed, passing strange. When once the novelty of this — this occurrence had worn off, Dr. Dennison seemed no longer frightened. He was calm, academic, interested in an unusual phenomenon. But Sir Edric, who was said in the village to fear nothing in earth, or heaven, or hell, was obviously much moved.

When they had got back to the dining-room, Sir Edric motioned the doctors to a seat.

“Now, then,” he said, “I will hear you. Something must be done — and tonight.”

“Exceptional cases,” said Dr. Dennison, “demand exceptional remedies. Well, it lies there upstairs and is at our mercy. We can let it live, or, placing one hand over the mouth and nostrils, we can — ”

“Stop,” said Sir Edric. “This thing has so crushed and humiliated me that I can scarcely think. But I recall that while I waited for you I fell upon my knees and prayed that God would save Eve. And, as I confessed unto Him more than I will ever confess unto man, it seemed to me that it were ignoble to offer a price for His favour. And I said that whatsoever punishment I had to bear, I would bear it; and whatsoever He called upon me to do, I would do it; and I made no conditions.”

“Well?”

“Now my punishment is of two kinds. Firstly, my wife, Eve, is dead. And this I bear more easily because I know that now she is numbered with the company of God’s saints, and with them her pure spirit finds happier communion than with me; I was not worthy of her. And yet she would call my roughness by gentle, pretty names. She gloried, Dennison, in the mere strength of my body, and in the greatness of my stature. And I am thankful that she never saw this — this shame that has come upon the house. For she was a proud woman, with all her gentleness, even as I was proud and bad until it pleased God this night to break me even to the dust. And for my second punishment, that, too, I must bear. This thing that lies upstairs, I will take and rear; it is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; only, if it be possible, I will hide my shame so that no man but you shall know of it.”

“This is not possible. You cannot keep a living being in this house unless it be known. Will not these women say, ‘Where is the child?’”

Sir Edric stood upright, his powerful hands linked before him, his face working in agony; but he was still resolute.

“Then if it must be known, it shall be known. The fault is mine. If I had but done sooner what Eve asked, this would not have happened. I will bear it.”

“Sir Edric, do not be angry with me, for if I did not say this, then I should be but an ill counsellor. And, firstly, do not use the word shame. The ways of nature are past all explaining; if a woman be frail and easily impressed, and other circumstances concur, then in some few rare cases a thing of this sort does happen. If there be shame, it is not upon you but upon nature — to whom one would not lightly impute shame. Yet it is true that common and uninformed people might think that this shame was yours. And herein lies the great trouble — the shame would rest also on her memory.”

“Then,” said Sir Edric, in a low, unfaltering voice, “this night for the sake of Eve I will break my word, and lose my own soul eternally.”

About an hour afterwards Sir Edric and Dr. Dennison left the house together. The doctor carried a stable lantern in his hand. Sir Edric bore in his arms something wrapped in a blanket. They went through the long garden, out into the orchard that skirts the north side of the park, and then across a field to a small dark plantation known as Hal’s Planting. In the very heart of Hal’s Planting there are some curious caves: access to the innermost chamber of them is exceedingly difficult and dangerous, and only possible to a climber of exceptional skill and courage. As they returned from these caves, Sir Edric no longer carried his burden. The dawn was breaking and the birds began to sing.

“Could not they be quiet just for this morning?” said Sir Edric wearily.

There were but few people who were asked to attend the funeral of Lady Vanquerest and of the baby which, it was said, had only survived her by a few hours. There were but three people who knew that only one body — the body of Lady Vanquerest — was really interred on that occasion. These three were Sir Edric Vanquerest, Dr. Dennison, and a nurse whom it had been found expedient to take into their confidence.

During the next six years Sir Edric lived, almost in solitude, a life of great sanctity, devoting much of his time to the education of the younger Edric, the child that he had by his first wife. In the course of this time some strange stories began to be told and believed in the neighbourhood with reference to Hal’s Planting, and the place was generally avoided.

When Sir Edric lay on his deathbed the windows of the chamber were open, and suddenly through them came a low cry. The doctor in attendance hardly regarded it, supposing that it came from one of the owls in the trees outside. But Sir Edric, at the sound of it, rose right up in bed before anyone could stay him, and flinging up his arms cried, “Wolves! wolves! wolves!” Then he fell forward on his face, dead.

And four generations passed away.

II

Towards the latter end of the nineteenth century, John Marsh, who was the oldest man in the village of Mansteth, could be prevailed upon to state what he recollected. His two sons supported him in his old age; he never felt the pinch of poverty, and he always had money in his pocket; but it was a settled principle with him that he would not pay for the pint of beer which he drank occasionally in the parlour of The Stag. Sometimes farmer Wynthwaite paid for the beer; sometimes it was Mr. Spicer from the post-office; sometimes the landlord of The Stag himself would finance the old man’s evening dissipation. In return, John Marsh was prevailed upon to state what he recollected; this he would do with great heartiness and strict impartiality, recalling the intemperance of a former Wynthwaite and the dishonesty of some ancestral Spicer while he drank the beer of their direct descendants. He would tell you, with two tough old fingers crooked round the handle of the pewter that you had provided, how your grandfather was a poor thing, “fit for nowt but to brak steeans by ta road-side.” He was so disrespectful that it was believed that he spoke truth. He was particularly disrespectful when he spoke of the most devilish family, the Vanquerests; and he never tired of recounting the stories that from generation to generation had grown up about them. It would be objected, sometimes, that the present Sir Edric, the last surviving member of the race, was a pleasant-spoken young man, with none of the family wildness and hot temper. It was for no sin of his that Hal’s Planting was haunted — a thing which everyone in Mansteth, and many beyond it, most devoutly believed. John Marsh would hear no apology for him, nor for any of his ancestors; he recounted the prophecy that an old mad woman had made of the family before her strange death, and hoped, fervently, that he might live to see it fulfilled.

The third baronet, as has already been told, had lived the latter part of his life, after his second wife’s death, in peace and quietness. Of him John Marsh remembered nothing, of course, and could only recall the few fragments of information that had been handed down to him. He had been told that this Sir Edric, who had travelled a good deal, at one time kept wolves, intending to train them to serve as dogs; these wolves were not kept under proper restraint, and became a kind of terror to the neighbourhood. Lady Vanquerest, his second wife, had asked him frequently to destroy these beasts; but Sir Edric, although it was said that he loved his second wife even more than he hated the first, was obstinate when any of his whims were crossed, and put her off with promises. Then one day Lady Vanquerest herself was attacked by the wolves; she was not bitten, but she was badly frightened. That filled Sir Edric with remorse, and, when it was too late, he went out into the yard where the wolves were kept and shot them all. A few months afterwards Lady Vanquerest died in childbirth. It was a queer thing, John Marsh noted, that it was just at this time that Hal’s Planting began to get such a bad name. The fourth baronet was, John Marsh considered, the worst of the race; it was to him that the old mad woman had made her prophecy, an incident that Marsh himself had witnessed in his childhood and still vividly remembered.

The baronet, in his old age, had been cast up by his vices on the shores of melancholy; heavy-eyed, grey-haired, bent, he seemed to pass through life as in a dream. Every day he would go out on horseback, always at a walking pace, as though he were following the funeral of his past self. One night he was riding up the village street as this old woman came down it. Her name was Ann Ruthers; she had a kind of reputation in the village, and although all said that she was mad, many of her utterances were remembered, and she was treated with respect. It was growing dark, and the village street was almost empty; but just at the lower end was the usual group of men by the door of The Stag, dimly illuminated by the light that came through the quaint windows of the old inn. They glanced at Sir Edric as he rode slowly past them, taking no notice of their respectful salutes. At the upper end of the street there were two persons. One was Ann Ruthers, a tall, gaunt old woman, her head wrapped in a shawl; the other was John Marsh. He was then a boy of eight, and he was feeling somewhat frightened. He had been on an expedition to a distant and foetid pond, and in the black mud and clay about its borders he had discovered live newts; he had three of them in his pocket, and this was to some extent a joy to him, but his joy was damped by his knowledge that he was coming home much too late, and would probably be chastised in consequence. He was unable to walk fast or to run, because Ann Ruthers was immediately in front of him, and he dared not pass her, especially at night. She walked on until she met Sir Edric, and then, standing still, she called him by name. He pulled in his horse and raised his heavy eyes to look at her. Then in clear tones she spoke to him, and John Marsh heard and remembered every word that she said; it was her prophecy of the end of the Vanquerests. Sir Edric never answered a word. When she had finished, he rode on, while she remained standing there, her eyes fixed on the stars above her. John Marsh dared not pass the mad woman; he turned round and walked back, keeping close to Sir Edric’s horse. Quite suddenly, without a word of warning, as if in a moment of ungovernable irritation, Sir Edric wheeled his horse round and struck the boy across the face with his switch.

On the following morning John Marsh — or rather, his parents — received a handsome solatium in coin of the realm; but sixty-five years afterwards he had not forgiven that blow, and still spoke of the Vanquerests as a most devilish family, still hoped and prayed that he might see the prophecy fulfilled. He would relate, too, the death of Ann Ruthers, which occurred either later on the night of her prophecy or early on the following day. She would often roam about the country all night, and on this particular night over the Vanquerest lands, where trespassers, especially at night, were not welcomed. But no one saw her, and it seemed that she had made her way to a part where no one was likely to see her; for none of the keepers would have entered Hal’s Planting by night. Her body was found there at noon on the following day, lying under the tall bracken, dead, but without any mark of violence upon it. It was considered that she had died in a fit. This naturally added to the ill-repute of Hal’s Planting. The woman’s death caused considerable sensation in the village. Sir Edric sent a messenger to the married sister with whom she had lived, saying that he wished to pay all the funeral expenses. This offer, as John Marsh recalled with satisfaction, was refused.

Of the last two baronets he had but little to tell. The fifth baronet was credited with the family temper, but he conducted himself in a perfectly conventional way, and did not seem in the least to belong to romance. He was good man of business, and devoted himself to making up, as far as he could, for the very extravagant expenditure of his predecessors. His son, the present Sir Edric, was a fine young fellow and popular in the village. Even John Marsh could find nothing to say against him; other people in the village were interested in him. It was said that he had chosen a wife in London — a Miss Guerdon — and would shortly be back to see that Mansteth Hall was put in proper order for her before his marriage at the close of the season. Modernity kills ghostly romance. It was difficult to associate this modern and handsome Sir Edric, bright and spirited, a good sportsman and a good fellow, with the doom that had been foretold for the Vanquerest family. He himself knew the tradition and laughed at it. He wore clothes made by a London tailor, looked healthy, smiled cheerfully, and, in a vain attempt to shame his own head-keeper, had himself spent a night alone in Hal’s Planting. This last was used by Mr. Spicer in argument, who would ask John Marsh what he made of it. John Marsh replied, contemptuously, that it was “nowt”. It was not so that the Vanquerest family was to end; but when the thing, whatever it was, that lived in Hal’s Planting, left it and came up to the house, to Mansteth Hall itself, then one would see the end of the Vanquerests. So Ann Ruthers had prophesied. Sometimes Mr. Spicer would ask the pertinent question, how did John Marsh know that there really was anything in Hal’s Planting? This he asked, less because he disbelieved, than because he wished to draw forth an account of John’s personal experiences. These were given in great detail, but they did not amount to very much. One night John Marsh had been taken by business — Sir Edric’s keepers would have called the business by hard names — into the neighbourhood of Hal’s Planting. He had there been suddenly startled by a cry, and had run away as though he were running for his life. That was all he could tell about the cry — it was the kind of cry to make a man lose his head and run. And then it always happened that John Marsh was urged by his companions to enter Hal’s Planting himself, and discover what was there. John pursed his thin lips together, and hinted that that also might be done one of these days. Whereupon Mr. Spicer looked across his pipe to Farmer Wynthwaite, and smiled significantly.

Shortly before Sir Edric’s return from London, the attention of Mansteth was once more directed to Hal’s Planting, but not by any supernatural occurrence. Quite suddenly, on a calm day, two trees there fell with a crash; there were caves in the centre of the plantation, and it seemed as if the roof of some big chamber in these caves had given way.

They talked it over one night in the parlour of The Stag. There was water in these caves, Farmer Wynthwaite knew it; and he expected a further subsidence. If the whole thing collapsed, what then?

“Ay,” said John Marsh: He rose from his chair, and pointed in the direction of the Hall with his thumb. “What then?”

He walked across to the fire, looked at it meditatively for a moment, and then spat in it.

“A trewly wun’ful owd mon,” said Farmer Wynthwaite as he watched him.

III

In the smoking-room at Mansteth Hall sat Sir Edric with his friend and intended brother-in-law, Dr. Andrew Guerdon. Both men were on the verge of middle-age; there was hardly a year’s difference between them. Yet Guerdon looked much the older man; that was, perhaps, because he wore a short, black beard, while Sir Edric was clean shaven. Guerdon was thought to be an enviable man. His father had made a fortune in the firm of Guerdon, Guerdon and Bird; the old style was still retained at the bank, although there was no longer a Guerdon in the firm. Andrew Guerdon had a handsome allowance from his father, and had also inherited money through his mother. He had taken the degree of Doctor of Medicine; he did not practise but he was still interested in science, especially in out-of-the-way science. He was unmarried, gifted with perpetually good health, interested in life, popular. His friendship with Sir Edric dated from their college days. It had for some years been almost certain that Sir Edric would marry his friend’s sister, Ray Guerdon, although the actual betrothal had only been announced that season.

On a bureau in one corner of the room were spread a couple of plans and various slips of paper. Sir Edric was wrinkling his brows over them, dropping cigar-ash over them, and finally getting angry over them. He pushed back his chair irritably, and turned towards Guerdon.

“Look here, old man!” he said. “I desire to curse the original architect of this house — to curse him in his down-sitting and his uprising.”

“Seeing that the original architect had gone to where beyond these voices there is peace, he won’t be offended. Neither shall I. But why worry yourself? You’ve been rooted to that blessed bureau all day, and now, after dinner, when every self-respecting man chucks business, you return to it again — even as a sow returns to her wallowing in the mire.”

“Now, my good Andrew, do be reasonable. How on earth can I bring Ray to such a place as this? And it’s built with such ingrained malice and vexatiousness that one can’t live in it as it is, and can’t alter it without having the whole shanty tumble down about one’s ears. Look at this plan now. That thing’s what they’re pleased to call a morning room. If the window had been here there would have been an uninterrupted view of open country. So what does this forsaken fool of an architect do? He sticks it there, where you see it on the plan, looking straight on to a blank wall with a stable yard on the other side of it. But that’s a trifle. Look here again—”

“I won’t look any more. This place is all right. It was good enough for your father and mother and several generations before them until you arose to improve the world; it was good enough for you until you started to get married. It’s a picturesque place, and if you begin to alter it you’ll spoil it.” Guerdon looked round the room critically. “Upon my word,” he said, “I don’t know of any house where I like the smoking-room as well as I like this. It’s not too big, and yet it’s fairly lofty; it’s got those comfortable-looking oak-panelled walls. That’s the right kind of fireplace, too, and these corner cupboards are handy.”

“Of course this won’t remain the smoking-room. It has the morning sun, and Ray likes that, so I shall make it into her boudoir. It is a nice room, as you say.”

“That’s it, Ted, my boy,” said Guerdon bitterly; “take a room which is designed by nature and art to be a smoking-room and turn it into a boudoir. Turn it into the very deuce of a boudoir with the morning sun laid on for ever and ever. Waste the twelfth of August by getting married on it. Spend the winter in foreign parts, and write letters that you can breakfast out of doors, just as if you’d created the mildness of the climate yourself. Come back in the spring and spend the London season in the country in order to avoid seeing anybody who wants to see you. That’s the way to do it; that’s the way to get yourself generally loved and admired!”

“That’s chiefly imagination,” said Sir Edric. “I’m blest if I can see why I should not make this house fit for Ray to live in.”

“It’s a queer thing: Ray was a good girl, and you weren’t a bad sort yourself. You prepare to go into partnership, and you both straightway turn into despicable lunatics. I’ll have a word or two with Ray. But I’m serious about this house. Don’t go tinkering it; it’s got a character of its own, and you’d better leave it. Turn half Tottenham Court Road and the culture thereof — Heaven help it! — into your town house if you like, but leave this alone.”

“Haven’t got a town house — yet. Anyway I’m not going to be unsuitable; I’m not going to feel myself at the mercy of a big firm. I shall supervise the whole thing myself. I shall drive over to Challonsea tomorrow afternoon and see if I can’t find some intelligent and fairly conscientious workmen.”

“That’s all right; you supervise them and I’ll supervise you. You’ll be much too new if I don’t look after you. You’ve got an old legend, I believe, that the family’s coming to a bad end; you must be consistent with it. As you are bad, be beautiful. By the way, what do you yourself think of the legend?”

“It’s nothing,” said Sir Edric, speaking, however, rather seriously. “They say that Hal’s Planting is haunted by something that will not die. Certainly an old woman, who for some godless reason of her own made her way there by night, was found there dead on the following morning; but her death could be, and was, accounted for by natural causes. Certainly, too, I haven’t a man in my employ who’ll go there by night now.”

“Why not?”

“How should I know? I fancy that a few of the villagers sit boozing at The Stag in the evening, and like to scare themselves by swopping lies about Hal’s Planting. I’ve done my best to stop it. I once, as you know, took a rug, a revolver and a flask of whisky and spent the night there myself. But even that didn’t convince them.”

“Yes, you told me. By the way, did you hear or see anything?”

Sir Edric hesitated before he answered. Finally he said:

“Look here, old man, I wouldn’t tell this to anyone but yourself. I did think that I heard something. About the middle of the night I was awakened by a cry; I can only say that it was the kind of cry that frightened me. I sat up, and at that moment I heard some great, heavy thing go swishing through the bracken behind me at a great rate. Then all was still; I looked about, but I could find nothing. At last I argued as I would argue now that a man who is just awake is only half awake, and that his powers of observation, by hearing or any other sense, are not to be trusted. I even persuaded myself to go to sleep again, and there was no more disturbance. However, there’s a real danger there now. In the heart of the plantation there are some caves and a subterranean spring; lately there has been some slight subsidence there, and the same sort of thing will happen again in all probability. I wired today to an expert to come and look at the place; he has replied that he will come on Monday. The legend says that when the thing that lives in Hal’s Planting comes up to the Hall the Vanquerests will be ended. If I cut down the trees and then break up the place with a charge of dynamite I shouldn’t wonder if I spoiled that legend.”

Guerdon smiled.

“I’m inclined to agree with you all through. It’s absurd to trust the immediate impressions of a man just awakened; what you heard was probably a stray cow.”

“No cow,” said Sir Edric impartially. “There’s a low wall all round the place — not much of a wall, but too much for a cow.”

“Well, something else — some equally obvious explanation. In dealing with such questions, never forget that you’re in the nineteenth century. By the way, your man’s coming on Monday. That reminds me today’s Friday, and as an indisputable consequence tomorrow’s Saturday, therefore, if you want to find your intelligent workmen it will be of no use to go in the afternoon.”

“True,” said Sir Edric, “I’ll go in the morning.” He walked to a tray on a side table and poured a little whisky into a tumbler. “They don’t seem to have brought any seltzer water,” he remarked in a grumbling voice.

He rang the bell impatiently.

“Now why don’t you use those corner cupboards for that kind of thing? If you kept a supply there, it would be handy in case of accidents.”

“They’re full up already.”

He opened one of them and showed that it was filled with old account-books and yellow documents tied up in bundles. The servant entered.

“Oh, I say, there isn’t any seltzer. Bring it, please.”

He turned again to Guerdon.

“You might do me a favour when I’m away tomorrow, if there’s nothing else that you want to do. I wish you’d look through all these papers for me. They’re all old. Possibly some of them ought to go to my solicitor, and I know that a lot of them ought to be destroyed. Some few may be of family interest. It’s not the kind of thing that I could ask a stranger or a servant to do for me, and I’ve so much on hand just now before my marriage — ”

“But of course, my dear fellow, I’ll do it with pleasure.”

“I’m ashamed to give you all this bother. However, you said that you were coming here to help me, and I take you at your word. By the way, I think you’d better not say anything to Ray about the Hal’s Planting story.”

“I may be some of the things that you take me for, but really I am not a common ass. Of course I shouldn’t tell her.”

“I’ll tell her myself, and I’d sooner do it when I’ve got the whole thing cleared up. Well, I’m really obliged to you.”

“I needn’t remind you that I hope to receive as much again. I believe in compensation. Nature always gives it and always requires it. One finds it everywhere, in philology and onwards.”

“I could mention omissions.”

“They are few, and make a belief in a hereafter to supply them logical.”

“Lunatics, for instance?”

“Their delusions are often their compensation. They argue correctly from false premises. A lunatic believing himself to be a millionaire has as much delight as money can give.”

“How about deformities or monstrosities?”

“The principle is there, although I don’t pretend that the compensation is always adequate. A man who is deprived of one sense generally has another developed with unusual acuteness. As for monstrosities of at all a human type one sees none; the things exhibited in fairs are, almost without exception, frauds. They occur rarely, and one does not know enough about them. A really good text-book on the subject would be interesting. Still, such stories as I have heard would bear out my theory — stories of their superhuman strength and cunning, and of the extraordinary prolongation of life that has been noted, or is said to have been noted, in them. But it is hardly fair to test my principle by exceptional cases. Besides, anyone can prove anything except that anything’s worth proving.”

“That’s a cheerful thing to say. I wouldn’t like to swear that I could prove how the Hal’s Planting legend started; but I fancy, do you know, that I could make a very good shot at it.”

“Well?”

“My great-grandfather kept wolves — I can’t say why. Do you remember the portrait of him? — not the one when he was a boy, the other. It hangs on the staircase. There’s now a group of wolves in one corner of the picture. I was looking carefully at the picture one day and thought that I detected some over-painting in that corner; indeed, it was done so roughly that a child would have noticed it if the picture had been hung in a better light. I had the over-painting removed by a good man, and underneath there was that group of wolves depicted. Well, one of these wolves must have escaped, got into Hal’s Planting, and scared an old woman or two; that would start a story, and human mendacity would do the rest.”

“Yes,” said Guerdon meditatively, “that doesn’t sound improbable. But why did your great-grandfather have the wolves painted out?”

IV

Saturday morning was fine, but very hot and sultry. After breakfast, when Sir Edric had driven off to Challonsea, Andrew Guerdon settled himself in a comfortable chair in the smoking-room. The contents of the corner cupboard were piled up on a table by his side. He lit his pipe and began to go through the papers and put them in order. He had been at work almost a quarter of an hour when the butler entered rather abruptly, looking pale and disturbed.

“In Sir Edric’s absence, sir, it was thought that I had better come to you for advice. There’s been an awful thing happened.”

“Well?”

“They’ve found a corpse in Hal’s Planting about half an hour ago. It’s the body of an old man, John Marsh, who used to live in the village. He seems to have died in some kind of a fit. They were bringing it here, but I had it taken down to the village where his cottage is. Then I sent to the police and to a doctor.”

There was a moment or two’s silence before Guerdon answered.

“This is a terrible thing. I don’t know of anything else that you could do. Stop; if the police want to see the spot where the body was found, I think that Sir Edric would like them to have every facility.”

“Quite so, sir.”

“And no one else must be allowed there.”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

The butler withdrew.

Guerdon arose from his chair and began to pace up and down the room.

“What an impressive thing a coincidence is!” he thought to himself. “Last night the whole of the Hal’s Planting story seemed to me not worth consideration. But this second death there — it can be only coincidence. What else could it be?”

The question would not leave him. What else could it be? Had that dead man seen something there and died in sheer terror of it? Had Sir Edric really heard something when he spent that night there alone? He returned to his work, but he found that he got on with it but slowly. Every now and then his mind wandered back to the subject of Hal’s Planting. His doubts annoyed him. It was unscientific and unmodern of him to feel any perplexity, because a natural and rational explanation was possible; he was annoyed with himself for being perplexed.

After luncheon he strolled round the grounds and smoked a cigar. He noticed that a thick bank of dark, slate-coloured clouds was gathering in the west. The air was very still. In a remote corner of the garden a big heap of weeds was burning; the smoke went up perfectly straight. On the top of the heap light flames danced; they were like the ghosts of flames in the strange light. A few big drops of rain fell. The small shower did not last for five seconds. Guerdon glanced at his watch. Sir Edric would be back in an hour, and he wanted to finish his work with the papers before Sir Edric’s return, so he went back into the house once more.

He picked up the first document that came to hand. As he did so, another, smaller, and written on parchment, which had been folded in with it, dropped out. He began to read the parchment; it was written in faded ink, and the parchment itself was yellow and in many places stained. It was the confession of the third baronet — he could tell that by the date upon it. It told the story of that night when he and Dr. Dennison went together carrying a burden through the long garden out into the orchard that skirts the north side of the park, and then across a field to a small, dark plantation. It told how he made a vow to God and did not keep it. These were the last words of the confession:

“Already upon me has the punishment fallen, and the devil’s wolves do seem to hunt me in my sleep nightly. But I know that there is worse to come. The thing that I took to Hal’s Planting is dead. Yet it will come back again to the Hall, and then will the Vanquerests be at an end. This writing I have committed to chance, neither showing it nor hiding it, and leaving it to chance if any man shall read it.”

Underneath there was a line written in darker ink, and in quite a different handwriting. It was dated fifteen years later, and the initials R.D. were appended to it:

“It is not dead. I do not think that it will ever die.”

When Andrew Guerdon had finished reading this document, he looked slowly round the room. The subject had got on his nerves, and he was almost expecting to see something. Then he did his best to pull himself together. The first question he put to himself was this: “Has Ted ever seen this?” Obviously he had not. If he had, he could not have taken the tradition of Hal’s Planting so lightly, nor have spoken of it so freely. Besides, he would either have mentioned the document to Guerdon, or he would have kept it carefully concealed. He would not have allowed him to come across it casually in that way. “Ted must never see it,” thought Guerdon to himself. He then remembered the pile of weeds he had seen burning in the garden. He put the parchment in his pocket, and hurried out. There was no one about. He spread the parchment on the top of the pile, and waited until it was entirely consumed. Then he went back to the smoking-room; he felt easier now.

“Yes,” thought Guerdon, “if Ted had first of all heard of the finding of that body, and then had read that document, I believe that he would have gone mad. Things that come near us affect us deeply.”

Guerdon himself was much moved. He clung steadily to reason; he felt himself able to give a natural explanation all through, and yet he was nervous. The net of coincidence had closed in around him; the mention of Sir Edric’s confession of the prophecy which had subsequently become traditional in the village alarmed him. And what did that last line mean? He supposed that R.D. must be the initials of Dr. Dennison. What did he mean by saying that the thing was not dead? Did he mean that it had been gifted with some preternatural strength and vitality and had survived, though Sir Edric did not know it? He recalled what he had said about the prolongation of the lives of such things. If it still survived, why had it never been seen? Had it joined to the wild hardiness of the beast a cunning that was human — or more than human? How could it have lived? There was water in the caves, he reflected, and food could have been secured — a wild beast’s food. Or did Dr. Dennison mean that though the thing itself was dead, its wraith survived and haunted the place? He wondered how the doctor had found Sir Edric’s confession, and why he had written that line at the end of it. As he sat thinking, a low rumble of thunder in the distance startled him. He felt a touch of panic — a sudden impulse to leave Mansteth at once and, if possible, to take Ted with him. Ray could never live there. He went over the whole thing in his mind again and again, at one time calm and argumentative about it, and at another shaken by blind horror.

Sir Edric, on his return from Challonsea a few minutes afterwards, came straight to the smoking-room where Guerdon was. He looked tired and depressed. He began to speak at once:

“You needn’t tell me about it — about John Marsh. I heard about it in the village.”

“Did you? It’s a painful occurrence, although, of course — ”

“Stop. Don’t go into it. Anything can be explained — I know that.”

“I went through those papers and account-books while you were away. Most of them may just as well be destroyed; but there are a few — I put them aside there — which might be kept. There was nothing of any interest.”

“Thanks; I’m much obliged to you.”

“Oh, and look here, I’ve got an idea. I’ve been examining the plans of the house, and I’m coming round to your opinion. There are some alterations which should be made, and yet I’m afraid that they’d make the place look patched and renovated. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to know what Ray thought about it.”

“That’s impossible. The workmen come on Monday, and we can’t consult her before then. Besides, I have a general notion what she would like.”

“We could catch the night express to town at Challonsea, and — ”

Sir Edric rose from his seat angrily and hit the table.

“Good God! don’t sit there hunting up excuses to cover my cowardice, and making it easy for me to bolt. What do you suppose the villagers would say, and what would my own servants say, if I ran away tonight? I am a coward — I know it. I’m horribly afraid. But I’m not going to act like a coward if I can help it.”

“Now, my dear chap, don’t excite yourself. If you are going to care at all — to care as much as the conventional damn — for what people say, you’ll have no peace in life. And I don’t believe you’re afraid. What are you afraid of?”

Sir Edric paced once or twice up and down the room, and then sat down again before replying.

“Look here, Andrew, I’ll make a clean breast of it. I’ve always laughed at the tradition; I forced myself, as it seemed at least, to disprove it by spending a night in Hal’s Planting; I took the pains even to make a theory which would account for its origin. All the time I had a sneaking, stifled belief in it. With the help of my reason I crushed that; but now my reason has thrown up the job, and I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the Undying Thing that is in Hal’s Planting. I heard it last night. John Marsh saw it last night — they took me to see the body, and the face was awful; and I believe that one day it will come from Hal’s Planting — ”

“Yes,” interrupted Guerdon, “I know. And at present I believe as much. Last night we laughed at the whole thing, and we shall live to laugh at it again, and be ashamed of ourselves for a couple of superstitious old women. I fancy that beliefs are affected by weather — there’s thunder in the air.”

“No,” said Sir Edric, “my belief has come to stay.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to test it. On Monday I can begin to get to work, and then I’ll blow up Hal’s Planting with dynamite. After that we shan’t need to believe — we shall know. And now let’s dismiss the subject. Come down into the billiard-room and have a game. Until Monday I won’t think of the thing again.”

Long before dinner, Sir Edric’s depression seemed to have completely vanished. At dinner he was boisterous and amused. Afterwards he told stories and was interesting.

•   •   •

It was late at night; the terrific storm that was raging outside had awoke Guerdon from sleep. Hopeless of getting to sleep again, he had arisen and dressed, and now sat in the window-seat watching the storm. He had never seen anything like it before; and every now and then the sky seemed to be torn across as if by hands of white fire. Suddenly he heard a tap at his door, and looked round. Sir Edric had already entered; he also had dressed. He spoke in a curious, subdued voice.

“I thought you wouldn’t be able to sleep through this. Do you remember that I shut and fastened the dining-room window?”.

“Yes, I remember it.”

“Well, come in here.”

Sir Edric led the way to his room, which was immediately over the dining-room. By leaning out of the window they could see that the dining-room window was open wide.

“Burglar,” said Guerdon meditatively.

“No,” Sir Edric answered, still speaking in a hushed voice. “It is the Undying Thing — it has come for me.”

He snatched up the candle, and made towards the staircase; Guerdon caught up the loaded revolver which always lay on the table beside Sir Edric’s bed and followed him. Both men ran down the staircase as though there were not another moment to lose. Sir Edric rushed at the dining-room door, opened it a little, and looked in. Then he turned to Guerdon, who was just behind him.

“Go back to your room,” he said authoritatively.

“I won’t,” said Guerdon. “Why? What is it?”

Suddenly the comers of Sir Edric’s mouth shot outward into the hideous grin of terror.

“It’s there! It’s there!” he gasped.

“Then I come in with you.”

“Go back!”

With a sudden movement, Sir Edric thrust Guerdon away from the door, and then, quick as light, darted in, and locked the door behind him.

Guerdon bent down and listened. He heard Sir Edric say in a firm voice:

“Who are you? What are you?”

Then followed a heavy, snorting breathing, a low, vibrating growl, an awful cry, a scuffle.

Then Guerdon flung himself at the door. He kicked at the lock, but it would not give way. At last he fired his revolver at it. Then he managed to force his way into the room. It was perfectly empty. Overhead he could hear footsteps; the noise had awakened the servants; they were standing, tremulous, on the upper landing.

Through the open window access to the garden was easy. Guerdon did not wait to get help; and in all probability none of the servants could have been persuaded to come with him. He climbed out alone, and, as if by some blind impulse, started to run as hard as he could in the direction of Hal’s Planting. He knew that Sir Edric would be found there.

But when he got within a hundred yards of the plantation, he stopped. There had been a great flash of lightning, and he saw that it had struck one of the trees. Flames darted about the plantation as the dry bracken caught. Suddenly, in the light of another flash, he saw the whole of the trees fling their heads upwards; then came a deafening crash, and the ground slipped under him, and he was flung forward on his face. The plantation had collapsed, fallen through into the caves beneath it. Guerdon slowly regained his feet; he was surprised to find that he was unhurt. He walked on a few steps, and then fell again; this time he had fainted away.

THE WEIRD VIOLIN

Anonymous

1893

The great Polish violinist, S———, was strolling aimlessly about the town, on a sunny, but cold afternoon, in November of a certain year. He was to play, at night, at one of the great concerts which made the town so musically famous, and, according to his usual custom, he was observing passers-by, looking in shop windows, and thinking of anything rather than the approaching ordeal. Not that he was nervous, for none could be less so, but he came to his work all the fresher for an hour or two of idle forgetfulness, and astonished his audiences the more.

Turning out of the busiest street, he ambled into a comparatively quiet thoroughfare, and, throwing away an inch of cigar-end, produced a new havannah, lighting up with every sign of enjoyment. Now, it was part of his rule, when out on these refreshing excursions, to avoid music shops, and he had already passed half-a-dozen without doing more than barely recognise them. It is therefore very remarkable that, walking by a large music warehouse in this quiet thoroughfare, he should suddenly stop, and, after remaining in doubt for a few moments, go straight to the window, and look in.

He had not seen anything when he first passed, and, indeed, he had merely ascertained, out of the corner of his eye, that one of the forbidden shops was near. Why, then, did he feel impelled to return?

The window was stocked, as all such windows are, with instruments, music, and such appurtenances as resin, bows, chin-rests, mutes, strings, bridges and pegs. An old Guanerius, valued at several hundred guineas, lay alongside a shilling set of bones, and a flageolet, an ocarina, and several mouth-organs were gracefully grouped upon a gilt-edged copy of “Elijah.”

Amongst the carefully-arranged violins was a curious old instrument the like of which the virtuoso had never seen before, and at this he now stared with all his eyes. It was an ugly, squat violin, of heavy pattern, and ancient appearance. The maker, whoever he had been, had displayed considerable eccentricity throughout its manufacture, but more especially in the scroll, which, owing to some freak, he had carved into the semblance of a hideous, grinning face. There was something horribly repulsive about this strange work of art, and yet it also possessed a subtle fascination. The violinist, keeping his eyes upon the face, which seemed to follow his movements with fiendish persistency, slowly edged to the door, and entered the shop.

The attendant came forward, and recognising the well-known performer, bowed low.

“That is a curious-looking fiddle in the window,” began the artist, at once, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the fiend.

“Which one, sir?” inquired the attendant. “Oh, the one with the remarkable scroll, you mean. I’ll get it for you.” Drawing aside a little curtain, he dived into the window-bay, and produced the instrument, whose face seemed to be grinning more maliciously than ever.

“A fair tone, sir,” added the man, “but nothing to suit you, I’m sure.”

As soon as Herr S——— touched the neck of the violin he gripped it convulsively, and raised the instrument to his chin. Then, for a few moments, he stood, firm as a rock, his eyes fixed upon the awe-stricken attendant, evidently without seeing him.

“A bow,” said the musician, at length, in a low voice. He stretched out his disengaged hand and took it, without moving his eyes. Then he stopped four strings with his long fingers, and drew the horse-hair smartly over them with one rapid sweep, producing a rich chord in a minor key.

A slight shiver passed over his frame as the notes were struck, and the look of concentration upon his face, changed to one of horror; but he did not cease. Slowly drooping his gaze, the performer met the gibing glance of the scroll-face, and though his own countenance blanched, and his lips tightened, as if to suppress a cry, the bow was raised again, and the violin spoke.

Did the demon whisper to those moving, nervous fingers? It almost seemed to be doing so; and surely such a melody as came from the instrument was born of no human mind. It was slow and measured, but no solemnity was suggested; it thrilled the frame, but with terror, not delight; it was a chain of sounds, which like a sick man’s passing fancy, slipped out of the memory as soon as it was evolved, and was incapable of being recalled.

Slowly, when the last strains were lost, the great violinist dropped both arms to his side, and stood for a few moments, grasping violin and bow, without speaking. There were drops of perspiration on his forehead, and he was pale and weary-looking; when he spoke, it was in a faint voice, and he seemed to address himself to something invisible.

“I cannot endure it now,” he said. “I will play again tonight.”

“Do you wish to play on the instrument at this evening’s concert, sir?” inquired the dealer, not without some astonishment at the choice, much as the performance had affected him.

“Yes — yes, of course!” was the reply, given with some irritability, the speaker having apparently roused himself from his semi-stupor.

As the dealer took back the fiddle, he chanced to turn it back uppermost. It was a curiously marked piece of wood, a black patch spreading over a large portion, and throwing an ugly blur upon the otherwise exquisite purfling.

“See!” gasped the artist, pointing a shaking finger at this blotch, and clutching at the shopkeeper’s shoulder. “Blood!”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated the other, shrinking back in alarm. “Are you ill, sir?”

“Blood, blood!” repeated the half-demented musician, and he staggered out of the shop.

•   •   •

It was night, and the concert-room was crowded to excess. The performers upon the platform, accustomed as they were to such sights, could not but gaze with interest at the restless sea of eager, expectant faces which stretched before them.

That indescribable noise, a multitude of subdued murmurs, accompanied by the discordant scraping of strings, and blowing of reeds, was at its height; now and then a loud trombone would momentarily assert itself, or an oboe’s plaintive notes would rise above the tumult; and, in short, the moment of intense excitement which immediately precedes the entrance of the conductor was at hand.

Suddenly, the long-continued confusion ceased, and, for an incalculably short space of time, silence reigned. Then a storm of deafening applause burst forth; necks were craned, and eyes strained in vain attempts to catch an early glimpse of the great violinist who was to open the concert by playing a difficult Concerto of Spohr.

It was noticed, that as the virtuoso followed the grey-haired conductor to the centre of the platform, he was unusually pale; and those who were seated at no great distance from the orchestra, observed also that he carried a curious violin, instead of the Stradivarius upon which he was wont to perform.

A tap on the conductor’s desk, a short, breathless silence, and the sweet strains of the opening bars issued from the instruments of a hundred able musicians.

The soloist, with a sinking at the heart which he could scarcely account for, raised the violin to his shoulder, and saw, for the first time, that it had been re-strung. As he invariably left stringing and tuning to others, this would appear to have been a matter of no moment, and yet it had a strange effect upon him. Again that shudder passed through his body, and again he unwillingly met the glance of those diabolical eyes upon the scroll. Horror of horrors! was the face alive, or was he going mad?

The band, which had swelled out to a loud forte, now dropped to a pianissimo. The moment had arrived. Herr S——— raised his bow, and commenced the lovely adagio.

What had come to him? Where were the concert room, the orchestra, the anxious crowd of people? What sounds were these? This was not Spohr, this sweet melody so like, and yet so unlike the weird music which he had played in the dealer’s shop. What subtle magic had so acted upon those strains that their horror, their cruel mockery had entirely vanished, and sweet, pure harmony alone remained?

It seemed to the player that he stood within a small, but comfortably furnished room. Two figures were in the room, those of a beautiful young girl, and of a dark, handsome, foreign-looking man.

There was something in the face of the latter which vividly recalled the face upon the scroll, and, strange to say, a counterpart of the violin itself rested under the man’s chin.

The girl was seated at a harpsichord, and, as she played, her companion accompanied her upon his strange instrument. From the costume of both, the dreamer concluded that they were phantoms of a hundred years ago.

“Ernestine,” the man was saying, in a low voice, as he passed his bow over the strings, “tell me tonight that you have not dismissed me forever. I can wait for your love.”

“It is useless,” replied the girl — “oh, it is quite useless! Why importune me further? I could never love you, even if I were not already promised to another.”

A savage light gleamed in the man’s eye, and more than ever he looked like the face on the violin; but he did not immediately reply, and the music went on.

“You tell me it is useless,” he said, at length, “and I tell you that it is useless. Useless for you to think of him. Do you hear?” he continued, lowering his violin, and leaning towards her. “You shall never marry him; I swear it by my soul.”

The girl shrank from him, and the music ceased. Though he did not know it, the dreaming violinist had reached the conclusion of the adagio movement. He did not hear the deafening plaudits which greeted the fall of his bow; he knew nothing of the enthusiasm of the orchestra, or the praise of the conductor; he heard no more music.

Look! what is this? The girl has seated herself upon a couch, and her lover, his violin still in his left hand, is kneeling at her feet, passionately imploring her to listen. She expostulates for awhile, then repulses him and rises. A malignant fire darts from the furious foreigner’s eyes; something bright gleams in his hand; he rushes forward, raises his arm to strike—

•   •   •

The presto movement had commenced, and an extraordinary circumstance soon made itself apparent to the audience. The violinist was running away with the band. Greatly to the horror of the conductor, the tempo had to be increased until a prestissimo was reached. Still the performer was not satisfied, there seemed no limit to his powers tonight; his fingers literally flew up and down the fingerboard; his bow shot to-and-fro with incredible swiftness; and yet the music grew quicker, quicker, until the unhappy conductor, who with difficulty pulled along the toiling band, felt that a fiasco was inevitable.

On, on rushed the fingers and the bow, faster, and faster still; a few of the bandsmen fell off from sheer exhaustion, and stared, horror-stricken, at the mad violinist. Some of the listeners rose in alarm, and many were only detained, by extreme anxiety, from bursting into loud and frantic applause.

Suddenly, with the loud snap of a string, the spell was broken. The orchestra, unable now to proceed, stopped in utter confusion, and a loud sigh of released suspense went up from thousands of throats. Then the whole mass rose in sudden horror, as the violinist dropped his instrument with a crash upon the platform, stared wildly around, clasped a hand to his side, and, with a strange cry, fell to the ground insensible.

•   •   •

For weeks the great violinist lay between life and death; then nature reasserted herself, and he recovered. But it was long, very long, ere he could again appear in public; whilst the weird and mysterious violin never again sent forth its strange and mysterious influence. It had been hopelessly shattered in that last night of its performance, which had well-nigh proved fatal to the world-famed player.

THE TRUE STORY
OF A VAMPIRE

Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock

1894

Vampire stories are generally located in Styria; mine is also. Styria is by no means the romantic kind of place described by those who have certainly never been there. It is a flat, uninteresting country, only celebrated for its turkeys, its capons, and the stupidity of its inhabitants. Vampires generally arrive at night, in carriages drawn by two black horses.

Our Vampire arrived by the commonplace means of the railway train, and in the afternoon. You must think I am joking, or perhaps that by the word “Vampire” I mean a financial vampire. No, I am quite serious. The Vampire of whom I am speaking, who laid waste our hearth and home was a real vampire.

Vampires are generally described as dark, sinister looking, and singularly handsome. Our Vampire was, on the contrary, rather fair, and certainly was not at first sight sinister-looking, and though decidedly attractive in appearance, not what one would call singularly handsome.

Yes, he desolated our home, killed my brother — the one object of my adoration — also my dear father. Yet, at the same time, I must say that I myself came under the spell of has fascination, and, in spite of all, have no ill-will towards him now.

Doubtless you have read in the papers passim of “The Baroness and her beasts.” It is to tell how I came to spend most of my useless wealth on an asylum for stray animals that I am writing this.

I am old now; what happened then was when I was a little girl of about thirteen. I will begin by describing our household. We were Poles; our name was Wronski: we lived in Styria, where we had a castle. Our household was very limited. It consisted, with the exclusion of domestics, of only my father, our governess — a worthy Belgian named Mademoiselle Vonnaert — my brother, and myself. Let me begin with my father: he was old, and both my brother and I were children of his old age. Of my mother I remember nothing: she died in giving birth to my brother, who was only one year, or not as much, younger than myself. Our father was studious, continually occupied in reading books, chiefly on recondite subjects and in all kinds of unknown languages. He had a long white beard, and wore habitually a black velvet skull-cap.

How kind he was to us! It was more than I could tell. Still it was not I who was the favourite. His whole heart went out to Gabriel — Gabryel as we spelt it in Polish. He was always called by the Russian abbreviation davril — I mean of course, my brother, who had a resemblance to the only portrait of my mother, a slight chalk sketch which hung in my father’s study. But I was by no means jealous: my brother was and has been the only love of my life. It is for his sake that I am now keeping in Westbourne Park a home for stray cats and dogs.

I was at that time, as I said before, a little girl; my name was Carmela. My long tangled hair was always all over the place, and never would be combed straight. I was not pretty — at least, looking at a photograph of me at that time, I do not think I could describe myself as such. Yet at the same time, when I look at the photograph, I think my expression may have been pleasing to some people: irregular features, large mouth, and large wild eyes.

I was by way of being naughty — not so naughty as Gabriel in the opinion of Mlle Vonnaert. Mlle Vonnaert, I may interpose, was a wholly excellent person, middle-aged, who really did speak good French, although she was a Belgian, and could also make herself understood in German, which, as you may or may not know, is the current language of Styria.

I find it difficult to describe my brother Gabriel; there was something about him strange and superhuman, or perhaps I should rather say praeterhuman, something between the animal and the divine. Perhaps the Greek idea of the Faun might illustrate what I mean; but that will not do either. He had large, wild, gazelle-like eyes. His hair, like mine, was in a perpetual tangle — that point he had in common with me, and indeed, as I afterwards heard, our mother having been of gipsy race, it will account for much of the innate wildness there was in our natures. I was wild enough, but Gabriel was much wilder. Nothing would induce him to put on shoes and stockings, except on Sundays — when he also allowed his hair to be combed. But only by me. How shall I describe the grace of that lovely mouth, shaped verily “en arc d’amour.” I always think of the text in the Psalm, “Grace is shed forth on thy lips, therefore has God blessed thee eternally” — lips that seemed to exhale the very breath of life. Then that beautiful, lithe, living, elastic form!

He could run faster than any deer; spring like a squirrel to the topmost branch of a tree. He might have stood for the sign and symbol of vitality itself. Seldom could he be induced by Mlle Vonnaert to learn lessons; but when he did so, he learnt with extraordinary quickness. He would play upon every conceivable instrument, holding a violin here, there, and everywhere except the right place: manufacturing instruments for himself out of reeds — even sticks. Mlle Vonnaert made futile efforts to induce him to learn to play the piano. I suppose he was what was called spoilt, though merely in the superficial sense of the word. Our father allowed him to indulge in every caprice.

One of his peculiarities, when quite a little child, was horror at the sight of meat. Nothing on earth would induce him to taste it. Another thing which was particularly remarkable about him was his extraordinary power over animals. Everything seemed to come tame to his hand. Birds would sit on his shoulder. Then sometimes Mlle Vonnaert and I would lose him in the woods — he would suddenly dart away. Then we would find him singing softly or whistling to himself with all manner of woodland creatures around him — hedgehogs, little foxes, wild rabbits, marmots, squirrels, and such like. He would frequently bring these things home with him and insist on keeping them. This strange menagerie was the terror of poor Mlle Vonnaert’s heart. He chose to live in a little room at the top of a turret; but which, instead of going upstairs, he chose to reach by means of a very tall chestnut tree, through the window. But in contradiction of all this, it was his custom to serve every Sunday Mass in the parish church, with hair nicely combed and with white surplice and red cassock. He looked as demure and tamed as possible. Then came the element of the divine. What an expression of ecstasy there was in those glorious eyes!

Thus far I have not been speaking about the Vampire. However, let me begin with my narrative at last. One day my father had to go to the neighbouring town — as he frequently had. This time he returned accompanied by a guest. The gentleman, he said, had missed his train, through the late arrival of another at our station, which was a junction, and he would therefore, as trains were not frequent in our parts, have had to wait there all night. He had joined in conversation with my father in the too-late-arriving train from the town: and had consequently accepted my father’s invitation to stay the night at our house. But of course, you know, in those out-of-the-way parts we are almost patriarchal in our hospitality.

He was announced under the name of Count Vardalek — the name being Hungarian. But he spoke German well enough: not with the monotonous accentuation of Hungarians, but rather, if anything, with a slight Slavonic intonation. His voice was peculiarly soft and insinuating. We soon afterwards found that he could talk Polish, and Mlle Vonnaert vouched for his good French. Indeed, he seemed to know all languages. But let me give my first impressions. He was rather tall with fair wavy hair, rather long, which accentuated a certain effeminacy about his smooth face. His figure had something — I cannot say what — serpentine about it. The features were refined; and he had long, slender, magnetic-looking hands, a somewhat long sinuous nose, a graceful mouth, and an attractive smile, which belied the intense sadness of the expression of the eyes. When he arrived his eyes were half closed — indeed they were habitually so — so that I could not decide their colour. He looked worn and wearied. I could not possibly guess his age.

Suddenly Gabriel burst into the room; a yellow butterfly was clinging to his hair. He was carrying in his arms a little squirrel. Of course he was bare-legged as usual. The stranger looked up at his approach; then I noticed his eyes. They were green and seemed to dilate and grow larger. Gabriel stood stock-still, with a startled look, like that of a bird fascinated by a serpent. But nevertheless he held out his hand to the newcomer. Vardalek, taking his hand — I don’t know why I noticed this trivial thing — pressed the pulse with his forefinger. Suddenly Gabriel darted from the room and rushed upstairs, going to his turret-room this time by the staircase instead of the tree. I was in terror of what the Count might think of him. Great was my relief when he came down in his velvet Sunday suit, and shoes and stockings. I combed his hair, and set him generally right.

When the stranger came down to dinner his appearance had somewhat altered; he looked much younger. There was an elasticity of the skin, combined with a delicate complexion, rarely to be found in a man. Before, he had struck me as being very pale.

Well, at dinner we were all charmed with him, especially my father. He seemed to be thoroughly acquainted with all my father’s particular hobbies. Once, when my father was relating some of his military experiences, he said something about a drummer-boy who was wounded in battle. His eyes opened completely again and dilated: this time with a particularly disagreeable expression, dull and dead, yet at the same time animated by some horrible excitement. But this was only momentary.

The chief subject of his conversation with my father was about certain mystical books which my father had just lately picked up, and which he could not make out, but Vardalek seemed completely to understand. At dessert-time my father asked him if he were in a great hurry to reach his destination: if not, would he not stay with us a little while: though our place was out of the way, he would find much that would interest him in his library.

He answered, “I am in no hurry. I have no particular reason for going to that place at all, and if I can be of service to you in deciphering these books, I shall be only too glad.” He added with a smile which was bitter, very bitter. “You see, I am a cosmopolitan, a wanderer on the face of the earth.”

After dinner my father asked him if he played the piano. He said, “Yes, I can a little,” and he sat down at the piano. Then he played a Hungarian csardas — wild, rhapsodic, wonderful. That is the music which makes men mad. He went on in the same strain.

Gabriel stood stock-still by the piano, his eyes dilated and fixed, his form quivering. At last he said very slowly, at one particular motive — for want of a better word you may call it the relache of a csardas, by which I mean that point where the original quasi-slow movement begins again — “Yes, I think I could play that.”

Then he quickly fetched his fiddle and self-made xylophone, and did actually, alternating the instruments, render the same very well indeed. Vardalek looked at him, and said in a very sad voice, “Poor child! you have the soul of music within you.”

I could not understand why he should seem to commiserate instead of congratulate Gabriel on what certainly showed an extraordinary talent.

Gabiel was shy even to the wild animals who were tame to him. Never had he taken to a stranger. Indeed, as a rule, if any stranger came to the house by chance, he would hide himself, and I had to bring him up his food to the turret chamber. You may imagine what was my surprise when I saw him walking about hand in hand with Vardalek the next morning, in the garden, talking livelily with him, and showing his collection of pet animals which he had gathered from the woods, and for which we had had to fit up a regular zoological gardens. He seemed utterly under the domination of Vardalek. What surprised us was (for otherwise we liked the stranger, especially for being kind to him) that he seemed, though not noticeably at first — except perhaps to me, who noticed everything with regard to him — to be gradually losing his general health and vitality. He did not become pale as yet; but there was a certain languor about his movements which certainly there was by no means before.

My father got more and more devoted to Count Vardalek. He helped him in his studies: and my father would hardly allow him to go away, which he did sometimes — to Trieste, he said. He always came back, bringing us presents of strange Oriental jewellery or textiles.

I knew all kinds of people came to Trieste, Orientals included. Still, there was a strangeness and magnificence about these things which I was sure even then could not possibly have come from such a place as Trieste, memorable to me chiefly for its necktie shops.

When Vardalek was away, Gabriel was continually asking for him and talking about him. Then at the same time he seemed to regain his old vitality and spirits. Vardalek always returned looking much older, wan, and weary. Gabriel would rush to meet him, and kiss him on the mouth. Then he gave a slight shiver and after a little while began to look quite young again.

Things continued like this for some time. My father would not hear of Vardalek’s going away permanently. He came to be an inmate of our house. I indeed, and Mlle Vonnaert also, could not help noticing what a difference there was altogether about Gabriel. But my father seemed totally blind to it.

One night I had gone downstairs to fetch something which I had left in the drawing-room. As I was going up again I passed Vardelek’s room. He was playing on a piano, which had been specially put there for him, one of Chopin’s nocturnes, very beautifully. I stopped, leaning on the banisters to listen.

Something white appeared on the dark staircase. We believed in ghosts in our parts. I was transfixed with terror, and clung to the banisters. What was my astonishment to see Gabriel walking slowly down the staircase, his eyes fixed as though in a trance! This terrified me even more than a ghost would. Could I believe my senses? Could that be Gabriel?

I simply could not move. Gabriel, clad in his long white nightshirt, came downstairs and opened the door. He left it open. Vardalek still continued playing, but talked as he played.

He said — this time speaking in Polish — Nie umiem wyrazic jak ciechi kocham — “My darling, I fain would spare thee; but thy life is my life, and I must live, I who would rather die. Will God not have any mercy on me? Oh! oh! life; oh, the torture of life!” Here he struck one agonized and strange chord, then continued playing softly, “O Gabriel, my beloved! my life, yes life — oh, why life? I am sure this is but a little that I demand of thee. Surely thy superabundance of life can spare a little to one who is already dead. No, stay,” he said now almost harshly, “what must be, must be!”

Gabriel stood there, quite still and with the same fixed vacant expression. He was evidently walking in his sleep. Vardalek played on, then said, “Ah!” with a sigh of terrible agony. Then very gently he said, “Go now, Gabriel; it is enough.” At that, Gabriel went out of the room and ascended the staircase at the same slow pace, with the same unconscious stare. Vardalek struck the piano, and although he did not play loudly, it seemed as though the strings would break. You never heard music so strange and so heart-rending

I only know I was found by Mlle Vonnaert in the morning, in an unconscious state, at the foot of the stairs. Was it a dream after all? I am sure now that it was not. I thought then it might be, and said nothing to anyone about it. Indeed, what could I say?

Well, to let me cut a long story short, Gabriel, who had never known a moment’s sickness in his life, grew ill: and we had to send to Gratz for a doctor, who could give no explanation of Gabriel’s strange illness. Gradual wasting away, he said: absolutely no organic complaint. What could this mean?

My father at last became conscious of the fact that Gabriel was ill. His anxiety was fearful. The last trace of grey faded from his beard and it became quite white. We sent to Vienna for doctors. But all with the same result.

Gabriel was generally unconscious, and when conscious, only seemed to recognize Vardalek, who sat continually by his bedside, nursing him with the utmost tenderness.

One day I was alone in the room: and Vardalek cried suddenly, almost fiercely, “Send for a priest at once, at once,” he repeated. “It is now almost too late!”

Gabriel stretched out his arms spasmodically, and put them round Vardalek’s neck. This was the only movement he had made for some time. Vardalek bent down and kissed him on the lips. I rushed downstairs and the priest was sent for. When I came back Vardalek was not there. The priest administered extreme unction. I think Gabriel was already dead, although we did not think so at the time.

Vardalek had utterly disappeared; and when we looked for him he was nowhere to be found; nor have I seen or heard of him since.

My father died very soon afterwards: suddenly aged, and bent down with grief. And so the whole of the Wronski property came into my sole possesion. And here I am, an old woman, generally laughed at for keeping, in memory of Gabriel, an asylum for stray animals — and — people do not, as a rule, believe in Vampires!

THE WOMAN
OF THE SAETER

Jerome K. Jerome

1894

Wild-reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening’s verandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful traveller to suppose. Under the charge of your guide, a very young man with the dreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you leave the farmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at the desolate hut which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will be your somewhat cheerless headquarters.

Next morning, in the chill, mist-laden dawn, you rise; and, after a breakfast of coffee and dried fish, shoulder your Remington, and step forth silently into the raw, damp air; the guide locking the door behind you, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock.

For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or wind through the pines, speaking in whispers, lest your voice reach the quick ears of your prey, that keeps its head ever pressed against the wind. Here and there, in the hollows of the hills lie wide fields of snow, over which you pick your steps thoughtfully, listening to the smothered thunder of the torrent, tunnelling its way beneath your feet, and wondering whether the frozen arch above it be at all points as firm as is desirable. Now and again, as in single file you walk cautiously along some jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green world, three thousand feet below you; though you gaze not long upon the view, for your attention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the guide, lest by deviating to the right or left you find yourself at one stride back in the valley — or, to be more correct, are found there.

These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and invigorating. But a reindeer you never see, and unless, overcoming the prejudices of your British-bred conscience, you care to take an occasional pop at a fox, you had better have left your rifle at the hut, and, instead, have brought a stick which would have been helpful. Notwithstanding which the guide continues sanguine, and in broken English, helped out by stirring gesture, tells of the terrible slaughter generally done by sportsmen under his superintendence, and of the vast herds that generally infest these fields; and when you grow sceptical upon the subject of Reins he whispers alluringly of Bears.

Once in a way you will come across a track, and will follow it breathlessly for hours, and it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whether the explanation is suicide, or a reprehensible tendency on the part of the animal towards practical joking, you are left to decide for yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your rest, you abandon the chase.

But I speak from personal experience merely.

All day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only for an hour at noon to eat some dried venison and smoke a pipe beneath the shelter of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards Michael knocked over a ryper (a bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of your way) with his gun-barrel, which incident cheered us a little; and, later on, our flagging spirits were still further revived by the discovery of apparently very recent deer-tracks. These we followed, forgetful, in our eagerness, of the lengthening distance back to the hut, of the fading daylight, of the gathering mist. The track led us higher and higher, farther and farther into the mountains, until on the shores of a desolate rock-bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood staring at one another, and the snow began to fall.

Unless in the next half-hour we could chance upon a saeter, this meant passing the night upon the mountain. Michael and I looked at the guide; but though, with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness, he put a bold face upon it, we could see that in that deepening darkness he knew no more than we did. Wasting no time on words, we made straight for the nearest point of descent, knowing that any human habitation must be far below us.

Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes and bleeding hands, the darkness pressing closer round us. Then suddenly it became black — black as pitch — and we could only hear each other. Another step might mean death. We stretched out our hands, and felt each other. Why we spoke in whispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid of our own voices. We agreed there was nothing for it but to stop where we were till morning, clinging to the short grass; so we lay there side by side, for what may have been five minutes or may have been an hour. Then, attempting to turn, I lost my grip and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch the ground, but the incline was too steep. How far I fell I could not say, but at last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my foot: it did not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with my hand. It seemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along to the right, then to the left. I shouted with joy. It was a fence.

Rising and groping about me, I found an opening, and passed through, and crept forward with palms outstretched until I touched the logs of a hut; then, feeling my way round, discovered the door, and knocked. There came no response, so I knocked louder; then pushed, and the heavy woodwork yielded, groaning. But the darkness within was even darker than the darkness without. The others had contrived to crawl down and join me. Michael struck a wax vesta [match] and held it up, and slowly the room came out of the darkness and stood round us.

Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance about him, our guide uttered a cry, and rushed out into the night. We followed to the door, and called after him, but only a voice came to us out of the blackness, and the only words that we could catch, shrieked back in terror, were: “Saetervronen! Saetervronen!” (“The woman of the saeter”).

“Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose,” said Michael. “In these mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company. Let us make a fire. Perhaps, when he sees the light, his desire for food and shelter may get the better of his fears.”

We felt about in the small enclosure round the house, and gathered juniper and birch-twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open stove built in the corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried reindeer and bread in our bag, and on that and the ryper and the contents of our flasks we supped. Afterwards, to while away the time, we made an inspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on.

It was an old log-built saeter [hut]. Some of these mountain farmsteads are as old as the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beasts and demons were upon its blackened rafters, and on the lintel, in runic letters, ran this legend: “Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager.” The house consisted of two large apartments. Originally, no doubt, these had been separate dwellings standing beside one another, but they were now connected by a long, low gallery. Most of the scanty furniture was almost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles of a comparatively recent date had been added. All was now, however, rotting and falling into decay.

The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last occupants. Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and dirt encrusted on them. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face downwards on the table, while many others were scattered about both rooms, together with much paper, scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in shreds about the windows; a woman’s cloak, of an antiquated fashion, drooped from a nail behind the door. In an oak chest we found a tumbled heap of yellow letters. They were of various dates, extending over a period of four months; and with them, apparently intended to receive them, lay a large envelope, inscribed with an address in London that has since disappeared.

Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples, we read them by the dull glow of the burning juniper twigs, and, as we lay aside the last of them, there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night long it rose and died away, and rose again, and died away again; whether born of our brain or of some human thing, God knows.

And these, a little altered and shortened, are the letters:

Extract from first letter:

I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into the black waters of the fiord. The house consists of two rooms — or, rather, it is two cabins connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however, during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has gone to sleep; and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile cynically, I know, and say, “Humph, I wonder will she say the same when they have been married six years instead of six months.”) At the rate I am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the spring, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we will walk and talk together “amid these storm-reared temples of the gods.” I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to “cudgel my brains,” as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will make my name.

Part of the third letter, the second being mere talk about the book (a history apparently) that the man was writing:

My Dear Joyce, — I have written you two letters — this will make the third — but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are kindly people towards strangers — to say nothing of the inducements of trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat question having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and made my way down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell you. Nearing the village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense surprise, instead of returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if I were some wild animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would permit. In the village the same experience awaited me. The children ran from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey-haired old man appeared to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the explanation of the mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this house in which we are living. My things were brought up here by the two men who accompanied me from Drontheim, but the natives are afraid to go near the place, and prefer to keep as far as possible from anyone connected with it.

The story is that the house was built by one Hund, “a maker of runes” (one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his young wife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maiden stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.

Forgive me if I am telling you what you know, but a “saeter” is the name given to the upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent the cattle, generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here for three months these girls will live in their lonely huts, entirely shut off from the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or three such stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day, looked after by the farmers’ daughters, as in the days of Hund, “maker of runes.”

Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and tap lightly at Hund’s door. Hund had built himself two cabins, one behind the other (these are now, as I think I have explained to you, connected by a passage); the smaller one was the homestead; in the other he carved and wrote, so that while the young wife slept the “maker of runes” and the saeter woman sat whispering.

One night, however, the wife learnt all things, but said no word. Then, as now, the ravine in front of the enclosure was crossed by a slight bridge of planks, and over this bridge the woman of the saeter passed and re-passed each night. On a day when Hund had gone down to fish in the fiord, the wife took an axe, and hacked and hewed at the bridge, yet it still looked firm and solid; and that night, as Hund sat waiting in his workshop, there struck upon his ears a piercing cry, and a crashing of logs and rolling rock, and then again the dull roaring of the torrent far below.

But the woman did not die unavenged; for that winter a man, skating far down the fiord, noticed a curious object embedded in the ice; and when, stooping, he looked closer, he saw two corpses, one gripping the other by the throat, and the bodies were the bodies of Hund and his young wife.

Since then, they say, the woman of the saeter haunts Hund’s house, and if she sees a light within she taps upon the door, and no man may keep her out. Many, at different times, have tried to occupy the house, but strange tales are told of them. “Men do not live at Hund’s saeter,” said my old grey-haired friend, concluding his tale, “they die there.”

I have persuaded some of the braver of the villagers to bring what provisions and other necessaries we require up to a plateau about a mile from the house and leave them there. That is the most I have been able to do. It comes somewhat as a shock to one to find men and women — fairly educated and intelligent as many of them are — slaves to fears that one would expect a child to laugh at. But there is no reasoning with superstition.

Extract from the same letter, but from a part seemingly written a day or two later:

At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had heard it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the last stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already. At night instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping at the door; and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear for my own common sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and the twilight was thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly looking up from my reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side of the ravine, the figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her head, and I could not see her face. I took off my cap, and called out a good-night to her, but she never moved or spoke. Then — God knows why, for my brain was full of other thoughts at the time — a clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue grew dry and parched. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across the yawning gorge that divided us; and slowly she moved away, and passed into the gloom, and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel, and shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not to do so.

From a letter dated eleven days later:

She has come. I have known she would, since that evening I saw her on the mountain; and last night she came, and we have sat and looked into each other’s eyes. You will say, of course, that I am mad — that I have not recovered from my fever — that I have been working too hard — that I have heard a foolish tale, and that it has filled my overstrung brain with foolish fancies: I have told myself all that. But the thing came, nevertheless — a creature of flesh and blood? a creature of air? a creature of my own imagination? — what matter? it was real to me.

It came last night, as I sat working, alone. Each night I have waited for it, listened for it — longed for it, I know now. I heard the passing of its feet upon the bridge, the tapping of its hand upon the door, three times — tap, tap, tap. I felt my loins grow cold, and a pricking pain about my head; and I gripped my chair with both hands, and waited, and again there came the tapping — tap, tap, tap. I rose and slipped the bolt of the door leading to the other room, and again I waited, and again there came the tapping — tap, tap, tap. Then I opened the heavy outer door, and the wind rushed past me, scattering my papers, and the woman entered in, and I closed the door behind her. She threw her hood back from her head, and unwound a kerchief from about her neck, and laid it on the table. Then she crossed and sat before the fire, and I noticed her bare feet were damp with the night dew.

I stood over against her and gazed at her, and she smiled at me — a strange, wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words, for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said, “Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here.”

How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman held her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the other room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed out, closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of the inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and must have fallen asleep in my chair.

•   •   •

I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of the kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my chair to hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and my wife sat with her elbows on the table and her head between her hands, watching me with a look in her eyes that was new to me.

She kissed me, though her lips were cold; and I argued to myself that the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the day, passing the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take the kerchief from a locked chest and look at it.

I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that all the rest has been my imagination; that, if not, then my strange visitant was no spirit, but a woman; and that, if human thing knows human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is a three-hours’ climb to a strong man, and the paths are dangerous even in daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What woman would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood flow cold through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to her. I will stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing or only air.

The fifth letter:

My Dear Joyce, — Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read to you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may one day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you, can laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away — putting the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud.

She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers, and fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn into my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my being passes out of me, and is hers. I make no attempt to work. I sit listening for her footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her feet upon the grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No word is uttered between us. Each day I say: “When she comes tonight I will speak to her. I will stretch out my hand and touch her.” Yet when she enters, all thought and will goes out from me.

Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her wondrous beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she started from her chair; and, turning, I thought I saw a white face pressed against the window, but as I looked it vanished. Then she drew her cloak about her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I always draw now, and stole into the other room, and, taking down the lantern, held it above the bed. But Muriel’s eyes were closed as if in sleep.

Extract from the sixth letter:

It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this woman with whom I live, whom I call “wife.” I shrink from the blow of her cold lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has learnt; I feel it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck, and calls me sweetheart, and smoothes my hair with her soft, false hands. We speak mocking words of love to one another, but I know her cruel eyes are ever following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!

Part of the seventh letter:

This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be back until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we were mere specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain shut me from view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my way, running and stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other side of the mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary work. Often I had to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and twice I reached a high point only to have to descend again. But at length I crossed the ridge, and crept down to a spot from where, concealed, I could spy upon my own house. She — my wife — stood by the flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such as butchers use, was in her hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with her arm behind her, as one stands whose back aches with long stooping in some cramped position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel smile about her lips.

Then I re-crossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting until evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the house she saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and in answer I waved my hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away into the torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to her that I had seen. Let her devil’s work remain undisturbed. Let it prove to me what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a spirit, then the bridge wilt bear it safely; if it be woman—

But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing, why does it sit gazing at me, never speaking? why does my tongue refuse to question it? why does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as in a dream? Yet if it be spirit, why do I hear the passing of her feet? and why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?

I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I am alone, waiting, listening. If it be spirit, she will come to me; and if it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm — unless it be a demon mocking me.

I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm, above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward crashing of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now. It is cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing through the room as I sit writing.

I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing pier, until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the brim with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into mocking laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is creeping nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is but the fever in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was strong. The cry is but a single one among the many voices of the mountain. Yet still I listen; and it rises, clear and shrill, above the moaning of the pines, above the sobbing of the waters. It beats like blows upon my skull, and I know that she will never come again.

Extract from the last letter:

I shall address an envelope to you, and leave it among these letters. Then, should I never come back, some chance wanderer may one day find and post them to you, and you will know.

My books and writings remain untouched. We sit together of a night — this woman I call “wife” and I — she holding in her hands some knitted thing that never grows longer by a single stitch, and I with a volume before me that is ever open at the same page. And day and night we watch each other stealthily, moving to and fro about the silent house; and at times, looking round swiftly, I catch the smile upon her lips before she has time to smooth it away.

We speak like strangers about this and that, making talk to hide our thoughts. We make a pretence of busying ourselves about whatever will help us to keep apart from one another.

At night, sitting here between the shadows and the dull glow of the smouldering twigs, I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt to listen for, and I start from my seat, and softly open the door and look out. But only the Night stands there. Then I close-to the latch, and she — the living woman — asks me in her purring voice what sound I heard, hiding a smile as she stoops low over her work; and I answer lightly, and, moving towards her, put my arm about her, feeling her softness and her suppleness, and wondering, supposing I held her close to me with one arm while pressing her from me with the other, how long before I should hear the cracking of her bones.

For here, amid these savage solitudes, I also am grown savage. The old primeval passions of love and hate stir within me, and they are fierce and cruel and strong, beyond what you men of the later ages could understand. The culture of the centuries has fallen from me as a flimsy garment whirled away by the mountain wind; the old savage instincts of the race lie bare. One day I shall twine my fingers about her full white throat, and her eyes will slowly come towards me, and her lips will part, and the red tongue creep out; and backwards, step by step, I shall push her before me, gazing the while upon her bloodless face, and it will be my turn to smile. Backwards through the open door, backwards along the garden path between the juniper bushes, backwards till her heels are overhanging the ravine, and she grips life with nothing but her little toes, I shall force her, step by step, before me. Then I shall lean forward, closer, closer, till I kiss her purpling lips, and down, down, down, past the startled sea-birds, past the white spray of the foss, past the downward peeping pines, down, down, down, we will go together, till we find the thing that lies sleeping beneath the waters of the fiord.

•   •   •

With these words ended the last letter, unsigned. At the first streak of dawn we left the house, and, after much wandering, found our way back to the valley. But of our guide we heard no news. Whether he remained still upon the mountain, or whether by some false step he had perished upon that night, we never learnt.

MIRIAM’S GHOST

A Christmas Story

J. W. Hollingsworth

1897

Captain Desmond leaned back in the open carriage with an unusual sense of enjoyment and relief, as his gaze took in spots of peculiar interest in the changing views of the country road, along which he was being rapidly whirled to his destination. The close atmosphere of a first-class carriage of an express train from which he had emerged, after a four hours journey not half-an-hour since, had left its usually cramped depression upon an active man used to open-air exposure, and he felt the rush of the wintry breeze upon his face with keen pleasure.

After the conclusion of the Afghan War, in which Hugh Desmond had gained both honour and distinction for the great ability he had displayed, in the execution of several difficult and arduous commissions, in which untiring watchfulness and marked bravery had placed his name in the forefront of those valued at the War Office, he had now arrived in England on leave of absence, after an unusually long period of service in India.

The Desmonds were an old and extremely aristocratic family, who traced their origin back to a time previous to the period of the Norman Conquest, and to whom the part of the country towards which he was being rapidly driven, had formerly belonged up to the reign of Henry VIII, when the main portion of the Desmond family became open adherents of the Protestant cause and the Reformation. But during the conflict of the two succeeding reigns the vast estates were lost to his family, and had been repeatedly bought and re-sold; the present owner, an extremely wealthy banker, being the grandson of the freeholder. The Maitland family had been bosom friends of Desmond’s father, and so, very soon after his return to England, he was a Christmas guest at Gurthford Manor, which was now visible from the acclivity he had reached on the road, and about a mile distant. A few minutes later the road commenced to descend gradually, leading through a wooded district on both sides of the way, terminating at Gurthford Park, upon entering the gates of which disclosed an avenue in a splendid forest of pine trees, which shortly after opened upon pasture land with the ancient Manor and Priory in full view in the sunshine of the wintry afternoon. On Desmond’s arrival at the mansion a welcome reception awaited him, and he was soon engaged in rapid conversation with his host and family.

It wanted but three days to Christmas, and several guests were yet to arrive on a Christmas visit, and a large house party was arranged for the coming festival. The shadows deepened, and soon after the well-lighted and curtained room enhanced the comfort of the ruddy firelight, and the cheerful conversation was brought to a temporary close by his being compelled to retire to his room to dress for dinner. Less than an hour later the family were seated to dinner. The head of the family, Mr. Maitland, was a well preserved and handsome man rather under sixty. He himself had been an only son, and, with the exception of the private fortunes of his two sisters, had inherited the Manor and the adjoining estates, together with an immense fortune and successive interest in the large banking firm which his great grandfather had founded. Thus born heir to a very large inheritance, he was a rich man and had long since withdrawn from any active part in financial business of the banking firm. He married early and had in family two sons, Horace and Gilbert, now aged twenty-two and seventeen, and three daughters, Frances, Emily, and Lucy. The elder sister was about twenty-five years of age, her second sister was about three years younger though rather fairer and not quite so tall, yet bore a remarkable likeness to her. Lucy was a girl of fifteen. Mrs. Maitland was nearly ten years younger than her husband.

All without exception who have travelled for long in any far distant country, especially for years, realize in a most extraordinary manner the peculiarly happy sensation experienced upon returning to their native home. Hugh Desmond loved his country with a wonderful devotion, and his enjoyment at this moment was of that transcendent character which baffles description. He was a brave, generous, and devoted man in disposition, whose only personal regard was his honour, and at thirty years of age he was a singularly handsome man and a perfect type of an English gentleman. A sudden and new life was dawning upon him unconsciously this winter’s afternoon, and illuminating his soul with an intoxicating rosy light, and uniting him with that abode in the realms of happiness which is perhaps the most blissful. He was seated next to the mother of Frances Maitland, but his gaze unavoidably rested again upon Frances, who was in truth a very beautiful woman. Tall and lithe of stature, the exquisite proportions of her form and figures were enhanced by a deep blue velvet winter dress, the rich folds affording a vivid contrast to the creamy whiteness of her arms. Her rich dark-brown hair fell in a profusion of natural ringlets over her temples and massing away from them over her head and drooping to the back of her neck. Her forehead was low and broad, her eyes deep, soft clear brown, with delicately arched eyebrows and long drooping lashes which looked almost black in their depth. Her nose was straight, with that finely chiselled arching at the nostrils which is called spiritual. Her lips were exquisitely formed with that upward turn at the corners called “Cupids bow,” and denoting sweetness and amiability of temper, and which always indicates a noble self-sacrificing character. The expression which lent its peculiar charm to her very intelligent face was that of patient innocence. It was the happiest evening of his life, and later, when she sang for him, the sweet penetrating tones of her voice thrilled the depths of his soul, and, as it were, filled him with its melody. When a girl of little more than sixteen he had loved her, and after an absence of nearly ten years, that love awakened with a tenfold force. Her beauty had matured and developed into not only a glorious womanhood, but a powerful and exalted soul, the influence of which once thoroughly established, was not to be forgotten, and especially by such a highly appreciative man as Hugh Desmond, whose heart throbbed faster at the kind pressure of her hand, ere he retired for the night.

Christmas Eve brought with it not only a full house party for whom accommodation was arranged, but an unexpected lady guest as the last moment, whose comfort was a matter of consideration at a time when the family were alone.

“I should not like to let her share a room or to go into an unused one,” observed Mrs. Maitland to her husband.

“Might I suggest,” said Hugh, “that it would give me a great pleasure if the lady could have my room which is so very comfortable, and I should be quite safe and at home in an unoccupied one, for I have been used for many years to far greater exposures, to frequent inclemency, as regards my surroundings, to have any fear of a damp room.”

“The difficulty is of another nature, Captain,” replied Mr. Maitland, “though one of the best rooms in the house, it has been seldom used for years, for more than a night at a time; it has a bad reputation,” and a smile crossed his face as he uttered the words — “it is called the Haunted Room.”

Hugh’s face lit up at the words. “The very adventure I have longed for as an experience for years. Pray gratify my wish now you have the chance; lest such an one might not occur again during my lifetime,” and he added “but I have no belief in apparitions, and I shall be disappointed if I do not go. Please let me have my own way.”

All, especially Frances Maitland, endeavoured to deter him, for a look of apprehension crossed her face, but he persisted the more in his wish and broke into a merry peal of laughter.

“Let me tell you,” said Mr. Maitland, “that it will be difficult to induce the servants to go there, and none of us ever do; it is kept locked, Captain.”

Remonstrance was in vain, Desmond’s merriment was infectious, and amidst the laughter he had provoked he enquired if there was any legend attached to the Haunted Room, and who was the ghost.

“It is said to be the ghost of the Miriam Desmond, who was one of the last of your known ancestors in England,” was the reply. “She became a nun, and her two brothers went away no one knew whither; she is called by the country folks, ‘the White Lady,’ and that she is at times seen is a firmly rooted superstition.”

“That clinches the matter,” returned Hugh, “as long as I stay, please let me be there. I have a right to be with my ancestors who could not possibly harm me; yet I may not hope for a visit from one of them.”

The bell was rung and when the aged butler received his instructions to convey to the housekeeper, with orders to assist her as rapidly as possible, for the Captain’s occupation, his pale scared face told its own story. But he was a trusted servant and did not express his opinion. Fires were ordered to be lighted and kept going with the windows open for occupation on the succeeding night, as the lady visitor would not arrive till the morning of Christmas Day. That Christmas morn dawned as the happiest Hugh Desmond had ever known; his very eyelids enclosed with a great wonderment and half self-questioning of its reality. But it was all real and true, and breakfast would again bring him into the presence of Frances Maitland. It was a brilliant winter’s day, clear and sunshiny, and free from snow. The large house party gave the family the full complement of guests, and at the evening party were assembled a number of neighbouring friends and children, which filled the spacious rooms, lighted and garlanded for the season’s festivities; and as the evening wore on, the happy enjoyment seemed to deepen and gather greater happiness, as singing and dancing gave place to story-telling, and blind man’s buff, and forfeits. The elderly lady visitor at the latter was the judge, and, alike with others, the lips of Frances Maitland met those of Hugh beneath the mistletoe, and his heart bounded with rapture, and a rosy haze blinded his vision for the moment. Now and again the guests would seek the cool of the conservatory, and amidst the soft glow of the Chinese lanterns Hugh and Frances stood by the rippling fountain, and, drawing her to him, he kissed her head, saying, “I love you; you cannot tell how much I love you,” and again their lips met in a long, loving kiss, and then, arm in arm, they sauntered back and joined again in the waltz and country dance till a late hour, and the younger guests began to depart. It was approaching the midnight hour before the family and friends separated for the night, and Hugh, in a whirl of happiness and joy, took his way to his apartment.

As he entered the haunted room for the first time, and set his candle upon the table, and then closed the door after him, he then remembered his conversation regarding it with Mr. Maitland. It was a much larger apartment than the one he had vacated, being nearly or quite square with high, and, in places, carved and panelled oak wainscotting, polished, and black with age. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth and wide and heavy curtains overhung the window which appeared so large that he was impelled to draw aside the folds, when he found that the extensive window, which attracted his notice, was really three gothic-shaped windows, the centre one being the largest, with the curious diamond-shaped panes of glass, with leaden glazing, and latticed, opening outwards.

Hugh glanced at the fastenings of the windows; they were all secure, and then re-placed the curtains; then walking to the fireplace seated himself in the comfortable easy chair, and glanced round at the antique chamber with mingled wonder and admiration, for he could not but feel impressed with the solemn grandeur of the room; but equally he wondered at himself, for yet in a few moments his sensations had unaccountably passed from the most joyous hilarity to a feeling of sad and sorrowful regret, tempered with anxiety. The room was quite warm, perceptibly so, for the fire had been well kept up since the previous day; he felt no sign of chill or cold, yet the sudden transition was so great that an instant after he strove to ridicule himself for letting the remembrance of the legend weigh upon his spirits.

Hugh shook himself, stooped down, took off his boots, and put on his slippers; then, walking to the door, opened it, and put the boots outside; as he did so a rush of joyous warmth seemed to pervade his being, and instinctively he stepped out with his slippered feet and stood alone in the silent dark corridor. The change was remarkable beyond description, his whole being thrilled with a great comfort; then he turned, and re-entering the room closed the door, and turning the handle of the key in the lock felt the handle of the door. It was fast.

Once more he felt as though he had entered a tomb. He glanced at the very large, old, and handsome four-post bedstead, and ejaculated mentally, “I shall soon get spoiled at this rate; soft and easy quarters seem to be enervating, this is a proof of it.”

Rapidly preparing himself, he undressed, extinguished the light, and went to bed, feeling tired, partly, but longing most for sleep till morning. He lay watching the flickering shadows cast by the slowly declining firelight. He closed his eyes and sought repose, and tried to think of Frances, but it was with a sad anxious feeling that he longed for the morning, and now and again he dozed. Then he fell asleep. He awoke with a slight start as though some noise had awakened him, and turning, listened, but the most profound silence reigned, and then thinking he must have started in his sleep, drowsiness was again stealing over him, when the distant Church bell began to strike. Arousing himself for the moment, he listened attentively, for the bell was tolling the warning for the hour, then with the few seconds pause came the solemn deep-toned single stroke of one o’clock.

“Only one,” he mused, as he closed his eyes again, “I could have slept only a few minutes; I thought it later,” and soon he slept profoundly once more. How long he slept he could not tell, but again his slumber was broken in the same manner; he started awake, and feeling intense weariness listened. Perfect, stilly silence reigned, and longing for sleep he strove to quiet himself. Soon he fell in a half-sleep, and was again disturbed by a strange hollow and distant booming sound. Conjecturing that it might be an unclosed door jarring with the draught, he nearly slept again, when the same sound was repeated, and notwithstanding his every effort to compose himself, for the desire for sleep became almost hungry with its intensity, he repeatedly awoke with the same sound occurring at intervals of two or three minutes.

He asked himself what it could be, and whether in the house or far distant; or whether it was really a sound, or noise, or a deception of his senses. But the noise kept on. At the same short intervals of about two minutes came the weird boom, seeming to come from the depths of space, and to strike upon the centre of his being. And now a new feeling came over him more prominent than the distant weird disturbance, an awful thirst for sleep, and he knew that he was fighting, and as it were almost struggling, for repose. But strive as he might, there was no intermission. Then he ceased to feel it, and a feeling of relief, mingled with dread, came over him lest it should disturb him again. Once more he slept, but with his senses acutely strained even in sleep, when a new and shocking sound struck upon his ear — the awful sound to a true man of a woman’s sob of intense suffering and sorrow; the deep drawn quivering sob of a woman in the extremity of anguish, weird, unearthly, distant, but yet still seeming to be within a few feet of Desmond.

A sensitive chord of his soul had been aroused, and from its depths mingled sympathy, grief, and compassion welled up, and with it regret, for he could think of no distant female friend who might be imagined to be in danger or suffering. But the desire for sleep became an agony, and closing his eyes again he strove to drown his senses, and almost succeeded when the same detonation already described, commenced again; it kept on in the same way, at the same intervals, and though prostrate with weariness, repose eluded him, and with each repetition his blood seemed to collide in its course, and he gasped for breath; it kept on, it grew insufferable, he could bear no more. Turning upon his back he swept the hair from his heated forehead with his hand, and with his arms flung wide gave up all hope of rest, and resolved to keep awake the rest of the night.

Now that Desmond was fully awake, intense silence prevailed. His senses were undisturbed. Yet he dreaded to sleep again. Then he remembered the strange reputation of the chamber in which he was, and he thought the coincidence remarkable, but resolved to make no mention of his impression on the morrow.

A new impulse came over him to get up and dress himself, and give up all prospect of sleep that night. He arose, struck a match, and lit his candle and looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past two o’clock.

He dressed himself completely, put on his slippers, and seated himself in the easy chair, and leant back, gazing at the last expiring glow of the hollows left of the dying fire, and though his limbs almost ached with weariness, and he longed for rest, he yet felt glad he had risen and the reflection struck him that in an hour at most the candle would be burnt out, and he would be in the dark. He got up, walked softly to the window and drew aside one of the curtains. It was a brilliant moonlight. He flung all the curtains wide till the three large windows were bare, and the room was flooded with moonlight. Then he walked to the table and extinguished the candle, and the room seemed lighter than before, and he re-seated himself, and as he leant back in his chair, he grew more composed, pacified almost, but for the feeling of compassionate regret at the memory of the sound of that sob.

Perhaps half an hour passed, it seemed so long, and he grew chilly; he resolved to lie down again; at least, it would be warmer. His large, fur-lined railway and driving rug hung over a chair back, and he lay down, spread it wide over him, drew it beneath his feet by raising them, and in a few moments he was quite warm.

He rested, looking at the moonlight; then he dozed and opened his eyes again, looking at the window; then he dozed again; then he slept.

How long he slept he knew not, but he was aroused by something very gently touching his wrist. He opened his eyes, at first drowsily; then his orbits expanded to their fullest limit, and his blood seemed to grow cold. He could not utter a sound; his tongue became as rigid as his fixed gaze and motionless limbs. He was no longer alone.

Close to his bedside and in the full flood of the clear moonlight, with her hand outstretched to him in an attitude of supplication, was the figure of a small lady, clad in white from head to foot. Captain Hugh Desmond was a very brave man, an admirable soldier, regarding his utter fearlessness of death, added to his love of danger and perilous adventure, but never throughout his military career had he experienced the sensations of appalling dread which for the first few moments overcame him at this meeting between the earthly and the unearthly. But the spasm of horror was only for a few moments, the wraith was not only that of a small and delicate woman, but of a supplicant, compassion rose within him, and determination to aid her to the best of his ability gave him back the use of his limbs. He rose upon his elbow, slowly at first, disengaged his limbs from the folds of the rug, and regaining his feet, stood before her.

Her face, raised as it was appealingly, scarcely reached the level of his breast as he stood by her side awaiting her will and wish.

She stretched out her hand to him, her left hand which he took gently in his right. The touch was perceptibly hard, the bones of the tiny hand were fleshless and the slender finger joints were rigidly straight and drawn together as in the attitude of death, and as he gently took that fleshless hand in his, he noticed that the finely pointed bones of the fore and middle fingers were broken and absent.

With that touch all was changed. No need was there for words or human language. Desmond knew all from moment to moment, her will, wish, motive, and the longing to transmit her memory’s records of the past.

Holding her by her fleshless hand, he walked by her side to the door which he unlocked, and threw open for her to pass. She guided him out into the dark corridor by that hand he constantly held, along through the black darkness, dark no longer now, for with them went a new and strange light, more like the light of day than the moonlight they had left.

Onward she led him, across the corridor, down a short corridor to the right, then a little way down a parallel corridor to the left, and across it to the heavy, black, oak-panelled woodwork. She paused at one of the dark alcoves, by her wish, and he knew what to do. He pressed a mound of heavy carving at the side, and the back of the recess gave way on its hinges, and they passed through the secret doorway — the same light going with them as they passed on noiselessly, but for the almost inaudible sound of Desmond’s slippered feet, to the head of some wooden stairs, by means of which they descended to a stone passage with a window in it, similar in the diamond-glazing to the one in the chamber he had left, but that the recess of several feet in depth, was enclosed by a grating of iron bars of vast strength let into the solid stonework.

Crossing the vault they approached a partition of heavy wooden planks resembling the corner of a store-room. A wooden door was ajar. Desmond put forth his hand and drew it open. It was a double partition door, and the corner angle swung open at the touch, and as its double hinges revolved, they entered the vault through the wide corner opening. It was filled with the same light that seemed to form part of them, and they stood still contemplating a weird and awful sight which met his view.

There were large, rough wooden shelves in front, and to the right, and on these shelves, sideways, in the repose of death or sleep, lay two human skeletons, where, to all appearance, they had been for centuries. Long he gazed in pain and sorrow at the awful spectacle, as he still held her by her hand. Then he turned and looked upon her upturned face in its silent appeal, with deep sorrowful compassion and regret; he felt so sorry for her and her awful life, suffering, and death. The same transmitted power of memory revealed all, as she stood by him, the garments of the white nun alone concealing the fleshless form which was beneath, and the white hood concealing all but the wide, vacant orbits of the face of death, upturned to him in appeal. He understood all, then; the record of an awful crime, an unknown murder, through which she, the innocent one, suffered, and that which was buried beneath his feet, which belonged by right of birth to her and to the heirs of Desmond, and now to him, last of the race of the line direct. He felt all the gratitude he owed to his wronged ancestress through all the centuries of the past, but, above all, he felt that deep unfathomable sorrow and regret that is helpless and utterly unavailing.

Desmond turned away; gently and slowly he led his ghostly companion back the way they came. They re-ascended the wooden staircase. At his touch the great oak slab resumed its place, and she led him to his chamber door, and once more, with that awful face upturned to his in the appeal for compassion. She slowly withdrew her hand from his in silent farewell, and gave the adieu that would be only broken in the vista of eternity, when all see us as they are seen.

The visitor passed away, and with her faded the guiding light. Desmond turned, and entering the room, closed the door, and, lighting his candle, threw himself upon his knees by the bed-side and prayed as he had never prayed before for the peace and rest of the unhappy soul he had bidden farewell to. Then he threw himself upon the bed, and he, the strong man, burst into an agony of weeping, and sobbed like a child till his pillow was wet with tears.

With this paroxysm of grief came relief; he was calmer, but exhausted, and he closed his eyes to avoid seeing the great wheel rays caused by the candle light upon his humid eyes. Greater quietude stole over him till his thoughts wandered, and he forgot all in a deep slumber, which lasted till the butler knocking at his door awoke him at eight o’clock, and he sat up and called out, “Thank you.”

Desmond’s head ached slightly, but he felt refreshed, and thought that he must have slept for three hours at least, as the memory of that terrible night’s adventure crowded in upon his waking thoughts, for his pillow was still damp.

“The candle must have burnt out,” he said to himself, as he got upon his feet and approached the table; but he looked in blank astonishment when he perceived the extinguisher upon the candle as he left it when he lay down for the second time, for when the “White Nun” parted from him, he had only closed, but not locked, the door. With three or four hasty strides he crossed to the door and turned the handle; it was locked as he had left it, when he placed his boots outside the night before. “By Jove,” he exclaimed aloud in bewilderment, “it must have been, it actually was a dream after all. But what a vision; I thought it real till this moment.” His toilet was completed before the breakfast bell sounded, and he went down to the breakfast-room as it ceased ringing.

Frances and Mr. Maitland were in the dining-room when he entered, and their warm greeting was accompanied by Mr. Maitland exclaiming, “Why, Desmond, you look as though you had seen a ghost.”

“I certainly had a wonderful dream of a White Nun,” replied Hugh, relating the substance of what has been recorded. The recital formed the topic of conversation, till its minutest details were ended.

“There are several people living who describe the ‘White Lady’ exactly as you do,” observed Mr. Maitland. “But your account of the night walk with her has something truly new and extraordinary about it, and if you like, presently, we will visit the place you speak of. You will be able to guide us.”

Hugh acquiesced, and soon after the table was cleared. All but Mrs. Maitland accompanied him up-stairs to his room, from the door of which he led them into the next corridor to the right, which, unlike his story, terminated at the end in a solid wall, which he at once observed.

“But where,” questioned Mr. Maitland, “was the parallel corridor you speak of?”

“Right here,” replied Hugh, placing his hand upon the solid wall, “but there is no corridor, nor even woodwork here.”

“Well, this is the marvellous part of your vision, Desmond; behind this wall is a corridor strongly resembling what you describe,” rejoined his host, “and some twenty-five years ago, owing to the dampness of the old unused building, at the same time that improvements were being carried out, I had a complete separating wall built up from the basement to the roof at this juncture at great expense, but if you like we can enter it from the Priory ground.”

With keenly excited interest all at once agreed, and in a few minutes were dressed for the short walk round to the old Priory Garden. Horace procured a lighted lantern from the head gardener, which he carried with him, together with the keys, and in a few moments were not only inside the ancient building but ascending to that upper part which brought them back to the Manor side, and in a few minutes they entered the gallery.

As they did so Hugh Desmond uttered an exclamation of amazement. “This is the corridor,” he cried out, “wait a minute.” Then when they had nearly reached the other end on the right hand side where all along the massive black oak woodwork was intact, he said, “This is the place,” laying his hand upon a raised goblin face in one of the broad buttress posts of the alcoves, “I know it from the distance from the window, but it is solid, it will not yield.”

“This is wonderful,” mused Mr. Maitland, “and you were never here nor heard of it before?”

“Never!” returned Captain Desmond.

Meanwhile Horace had taken out his pocket knife, and, opening the blade, stooped down to the floor and probed with the point all along the recess, with Hugh at his side, but the point struck solid wood. Then he tried the one indicated by Hugh, on which he uttered a cry of alarm. The blade repeatedly penetrated like under a door. Then he worked away till it passed from post to post.

“See, it will go in under like a door,” he said; and then he tried the next. It was solid, like the first, and so were all the others. Yet on close examination, the recess seemed as solid as all the rest. The goblin head was pressed with force, but without result.

“Wait, and I will get a hammer,” cried Horace, and he went off to the gardener’s house.

In a few minutes he returned with a large hammer, a branch log about eighteen inches long, and a sack. The sack was folded and laid against the curved goblin face, the billet was held with both hands, while Mr. Maitland struck careful heavy blows upon the reverse end, using it as a ram.

“It is giving,” exclaimed Gilbert as he felt it, and examination proved the truth of this, the prominent circle surrounding the face was going in. Several more heavy blows sent it further, and then, at four more, it went in suddenly, giving way with a crash and a clinking rattle at the back of the woodwork, which quivered at the side. The goblin face was driven into the hole and the shock had apparently loosened the seemingly solid background. Then Hugh and Horace pressed carefully against this, and, by degrees, it yielded with a groaning, rasping noise, as at last the massive, rusted iron hinges gave way, and the secret door stood wide open, revealing to Captain Desmond’s unutterable astonishment the landing and wooden staircase of his dream of last night, and he recoiled as he trod on something snake-like buried in the accumulated dust of centuries. On examination, it proved to be a loose piece of rope, but so old and decayed that it fell apart in pieces when lifted up with the hand. At the side of the stairway lay a large loose beam, as by the aid of the lantern they carefully descended the stairs, a dank and noisome odour from the vaults smelling of damp and decay, assailed their nostrils, and Hugh Desmond instinctively held out his hand for the lantern, which in the black darkness for caution he held near the ground. The dust of centuries, cobwebs, and decay were visible at every step; twenty yards further, the wide passage terminated in several divided cellars, as they afterwards found. But Hugh crossed this first vault in the direction of some woodwork, and then exclaimed, “Here are some bars.” “And exactly such as you described except the window,” said Horace.

“The recess is identical with the description,” said Mr. Maitland, “and the window is likely to be at the end, though perhaps buried.”

They commenced to examine the woodwork which formed an angle with the next vault. Hugh passed the lantern up and down each right angle, and they found the only perceptible aperture near the first corner, but it would not yield to the hand.

Gilbert went back and brought the hammer and log of wood. They first used the hammer handle, and then inserted the log, a few blows widened the opening sufficiently for two to get double hold and force it open. The heavy planking jarred and vibrated with their effort, and gave way with a crash. Mr. Maitland stepped hurriedly on one side as the whole corner fell over with a great noise. It was a double awing door which had broken off the hinges, which were rusted away, and as they all perceived the wonderful coincidence, they shrank away from the wide entrance, and conversed in low, hushed tones, whilst the girls kept close to their father.

“Let us view the inside,” said Mr. Maitland.

Thus admonished, Captain Desmond, holding the lantern before him, led the way. The interior appeared like a long unused spare vault, with wide shelves at right angles at the side and back, and all, with Hugh Desmond, at one and the same time, uttered a cry of horror, for on the raised shelves, encrusted and black with decay and mildew, and the dust of centuries, lay unmistakably the remains of bones, falling apart and separated in places, but all that was left of what had certainly once been two human beings.

At last Captain Desmond spoke, and addressing Mr. Maitland in a broken voice, articulated the words, “It is all true, the legend,” and glancing at their pale faces, added, “I have without doubt seen the ghost of Miriam Desmond.”

“A real vision, Hugh, without a doubt, but what of that which is buried, where is that? That which was once hers, and is now yours.”

“I cannot recall,” replied Hugh, but advancing and touching the ground with his foot, “This is the place.”

“But what are these?” again asked Mr. Maitland, indicating the human remains.

“I cannot recall,” at length said Hugh, “but I believe they are the evidences of, or connected with, some unknown crime, and I fear she was the victim. I am sorry, for last night I felt I knew all.”

“Hugh, my dear boy,” said Mr. Maitland, “listen to me. I firmly believe this is the hand of Providence. I do not doubt that treasure lies buried here, and I tell you now, I am certain it belongs to you and you alone by right, and that these are the remains of the lost Desmonds. Whatever lies buried here shall be yours. I will see the Vicar of Gurthford this afternoon, and so search all the records we can find.”

“Thank you, sir,” returned Hugh Desmond absently. “I cannot describe the grief I feel for my ill-fated kinswoman of past ages, and possibly her brothers. May Heaven give rest to her soul.”

“Amen,” said Mr. Maitland.

•   •   •

After having seen that the building was closed, Mr. Maitland took the keys back with him to his study, and directed the members of his family to make no further mention of the incidents of the morning, as the account would cause vulgar excitement, and do no good.

The Vicar returned to lunch with Mr. Maitland, visited the remains with him, and decided they had better be reverently enclosed and interred in the old burial ground of the Priory, and an order was sent to the neighbouring town for a suitable casket of the requisite dimensions, and in a few days this was carried out, and the Vicar and Dr. Thornhurst, who obtained special aid from London, compiled careful records of all the circumstantial evidences. The next day, after the interment, in company with Hugh Desmond and Dr. Thornhurst, Mr. Maitland returned to the secret vault, where a man sent for for the occasion, commenced to dig. At the depth of a few feet beneath the brickwork they came upon stones carefully laid in order, beneath which, buried in dry sand and enclosed in stones beneath, and all around as above, in wonderful preservation, a strong heavy oak chest, and nothing more; it was heavy and was conveyed to Hugh’s room, the haunted chamber, where he still preferred to sleep, for since Christmas night his rest had been peaceful and unbroken. The ground was filled in, the secret door was repaired with new hinges and a lock, for on forcing it open the ancient mechanism was broken, being rusty and decayed. The whole being carried out under the supervision of an expert from London, skilled in investigation.

The oak chest was forced open by Hugh in the presence of Mr. Maitland and his sons the next day. It was found to contain an iron box. This in turn had to be forced, and contained, wrapped in a piece of worked tapestry about three yards square, which had been used as a wrapper, and, when carefully unwound, disclosed a large carved ebony casket with ring handles of the same wood in almost perfect preservation. To one of the handles a key was attached by strong worsted thread, and upon being cut off and used, after several attempts with the aid of oil, at last turned the lock and the lid opened readily. Upon the top of its contents lay three folded parchments. The first bearing the date September 29th, 1553, and written in the quaint old English of the time, but quite legible ran as follows:

I, Miriam Desmond, being about to take the veil and forsake the world, give and bequeath to my dear brothers, John and Henry Desmond, and to their heirs forever as a family inheritance, my necklace and bracelets, jewels, and tiara of diamonds, which I inherited at the death of my dear mother, to keep or use and dispose of as they may deem fit, for their own welfare, they being in peril, and may heaven preserve them.

Miriam Desmond.

The next:

The last Will and Testament
of John and Henry Desmond:

Gurthford Manor,
Nov. 17th, 1553.

I, John Desmond, being of sound and disposing mind, and in the first place sole heir of the Desmond estates, together with and in mutual agreement with, my own brother, Henry Desmond; in the second place, we the said John Desmond and Henry Desmond, have agreed for purposes of security, to secrete and bury the Desmond coronet and jewels, and the tiara and jewels of our only sister, Miriam, together with the deed of her gift to us, also, herewith, in addition, the title deed of the Desmond Estates; the motive being that we deem our lives and property in peril of forfeiture from religious and political enemies, we being Protestants. For this reason, we have decided to leave our native country for safety. But, as sons of the race of Desmond, we cannot be dishonest to our trust, or wrong our posterity of this inheritance by sale or disposal, and so have mutually buried the casket containing these jewels here, where they may be preserved by secrecy, for the possession of our true heirs in the future, and in safety. The secret of this hiding place will remain with me alone to be handed down even from father to son hereafter.

Signed by each in each other’s presence.

John Desmond.

Henry Desmond.

The third parchment was an exceedingly ancient title deed in Latin and Old English of the Desmond lands, and property of the Tenth Century.

These were carefully laid aside, and the coronet, tiara, bracelets, necklace, rings, and orders, which were packed with extraordinary care in pieces of parchment and woven linen, were next opened to view by Hugh Desmond, amidst expressions of wonder and admiration, mingled with regret, at their beauty and enormous value; diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds glittered in rival brilliancy, and many of these precious stones were of great size. After some conversation had passed, Mr. Maitland at length asked Hugh, “What he should do with the great fortune he had thus possessed?”

“Strictly carry out the intentions of the testators,” replied Hugh.

“A resolution worthy of a Desmond,” returned Mr. Maitland, “and may this great fortune bring you equal happiness.”

When valued, the contents of the ebony casket were estimated by experts to be worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds.

Hugh Desmond’s visit to Gurthford was greatly prolonged, during which careful investigations were made, and the specialist from the investigations department arrived at the conclusion that the remains of the two human beings found, were those of the Desmond brothers, one of whom was married and left three children. These two brothers were supposed to have been murdered as they were never heard of after the year 1554. From the examination it was deemed likely that the mechanism of the secret door, which was evidently moved in order to open the secret panel from the inside by the aid of a rope hanging from above, and which had probably given way and imprisoned them alive, and the vast strength of the oak door had resisted every effort to escape. The beam found on the stairs was thought to have been used in an attempt to break it open, but in vain.

The fate of Miriam Desmond is unknown.

The wife of Henry Desmond had taken refuge in Holland or Germany with her children, and the descendants returned to England in 1593, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

One sunshiny autumn day, in the succeeding year, Captain Hugh Desmond stood at the Communion rails with Frances Maitland in Garthford Church, where they were united in marriage, and for many years enjoyed great happiness. They were blessed with a family of both sons and daughters. Under the dispensations made during his lifetime, subject to the discharge of certain conditions, which were fulfilled after his death, the whole of the Desmond estates, together with the freehold, forever reverted to Captain Hugh Desmond, and his children inherited their rights.

The story of “The Haunted Chamber” is to this day a family legend, but “Miriam’s Ghost” was never seen or heard of from that Christmas night of Hugh Desmond’s vision.

THE STORY OF
YAND MANOR HOUSE

E. and H. Heron

1898

By looking through the notes of Mr. Flaxman Low, one sometimes catches through the steel-blue hardness of facts, the pink flush of romance, or more often the black corner of a horror unnameable. The following story may serve as an instance of the latter. Mr. Low not only unravelled the mystery at Yand, but at the same time justified his lifework to M. Thierry, the well-known French critic and philosopher.

At the end of a long conversation, M. Thierry, arguing from his own standpoint as a materialist, had said:

“The factor in the human economy which you call ‘soul’ cannot be placed.”

“I admit that,” replied Low. “Yet, when a man dies, is there not one factor unaccounted for in the change that comes upon him? Yes! For though his body still exists, it rapidly falls to pieces, which proves that that has gone which held it together.”

The Frenchman laughed, and shifted his ground.

“Well, for my part, I don’t believe in ghosts! Spirit manifestations, occult phenomena — is not this the ashbin into which a certain clique shoot everything they cannot understand, or for which they fail to account?”

“Then what should you say to me, Monsieur, if I told you that I have passed a good portion of my life in investigating this particular ashbin, and have been lucky enough to sort a small part of its contents with tolerable success?” replied Flaxman Low.

“The subject is doubtless interesting — but I should like to have some personal experience in the matter,” said Thierry dubiously.

“I am at present investigating a most singular case,” said Low. “Have you a day or two to spare?”

Thierry thought for a minute or more.

“I am grateful,” he replied. “But, forgive me, is it a convincing ghost?”

“Come with me to Yand and see. I have been there once already, and came away for the purpose of procuring information from MSS. to which I have the privilege of access, for I confess that the phenomena at Yand lie altogether outside any former experience of mine.”

Low sank back into his chair with his hands clasped behind his head — a favourite position of his — and the smoke of his long pipe curled up lazily into the golden face of an Isis, which stood behind him on a bracket. Thierry, glancing across, was struck by the strange likeness between the faces of the Egyptian goddess and this scientist of the nineteenth century. On both rested the calm, mysterious abstraction of some unfathomable thought. As he looked, he decided.

“I have three days to place at your disposal.”

“I thank you heartily,” replied Low. “To be associated with so brilliant a logician as yourself in an inquiry of this nature is more than I could have hoped for! The material with which I have to deal is so elusive, the whole subject is wrapped in such obscurity and hampered by so much prejudice, that I can find few really qualified persons who care to approach these investigations seriously. I go down to Yand this evening, and hope not to leave without clearing up the mystery.”

“You will accompany me?”

“Most certainly. Meanwhile pray tell me something of the affair.”

“Briefly the story is as follows. Some weeks ago I went to Yand Manor House at the request of the owner, Sir George Blackburton, to see what I could make of the events which took place there. All they complain of is the impossibility of remaining in one room — the dining-room.”

“What then is he like, this M. le Spook?” asked the Frenchman, laughing.

“No one has ever seen him, or for that matter heard him.”

“Then how—”

“You can’t see him, nor hear him, nor smell him,” went on Low, “but you can feel him and — taste him!”

“Mon Dieu! But this is singular! Is he then of so bad a. flavour?”

“You shall taste for yourself,” answered Flaxman Low smiling. “After a certain hour no one can remain in the room, they are simply crowded out.”

“But who crowds them out?” asked Thierry.

“That is just what I hope we may discover tonight or tomorrow.”

The last train that night dropped Mr. Flaxman Low and his companion at a little station near Yand. It was late, but a trap in waiting soon carried them to the Manor House. The big bulk of the building stood up in absolute blackness before them.

“Blackburton was to have met us, but I suppose he has not yet arrived,” said Low. “Hullo! the door is open,” he added as he stepped into the hall.

Beyond a dividing curtain they now perceived a light. Passing behind this curtain they found themselves at the end of the long hall, the wide staircase opening up in front of them.

“But who is this?” exclaimed Thierry.

Swaying and stumbling at every step, there tottered slowly down the stairs the figure of a man.

He looked as if he had been drinking, his face was livid, and his eyes sunk into his head.

“Thank Heaven you’ve come! I heard you outside,” he said in a weak voice.

“It’s Sir George Blackburton,” said Low, as the man lurched forward and pitched into his arms.

They laid him down on the rugs and tried to restore consciousness.

“He has the air of being drunk, but it is not so,” remarked Thierry. “Monsieur has had a bad shock of the nerves. See the pulses drumming in his throat.”

In a few minutes Blackburton opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.

“Come. I could not remain there alone. Come quickly.”

They went rapidly across the hall, Blackburton leading the way down a wide passage to a double-leaved door, which, after a perceptible pause, he threw open, and they all entered together.

On the great table in the centre stood an extinguished lamp, some scattered food, and a big, lighted candle. But the eyes of all three men passed at once to a dark recess beside the heavy, carved chimneypiece, where a rigid shape sat perched on the back of a huge, oak chair.

Flaxman Low snatched up the candle and crossed the room towards it.

On the top of the chair, with his feet upon the arms, sat a powerfully-built young man huddled up. His mouth was open, and his eyes twisted upwards. Nothing further could be seen from below but the ghastly pallor of cheek and throat.

“Who is this?” cried Low. Then he laid his hand gently on the man’s knee.

At the touch the figure collapsed in a heap upon the floor, the gaping, set, terrified face turned up to theirs.

“He’s dead!” said Low after a hasty examination. “I should say he’s been dead some hours.”

“Oh, Lord! Poor Batty!” groaned Sir George, who was entirely unnerved. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“Who is he?” said Thierry, “and what was he doing here?”

“He’s a gamekeeper of mine. He was always anxious to try conclusions with the ghost, and last night he begged me to lock him in here with food for twenty-four hours. I refused at first, but then I thought if anything happened while he was in here alone, it would interest you. Who could imagine it would end like this?”

“When did you find him?” asked Low.

“I only got here from my mother’s half an hour ago. I turned on the light in the hall and came in here with a candle. As I entered the room, the candle went out, and — and — I think I must be going mad.”

“Tell us everything you saw,” urged Low.

“You will think I am beside myself; but as the light went out and I sank almost paralysed into an armchair, I saw two barred eyes looking at me!”

“Barred eyes? What do you mean?”

“Eyes that looked at me through thin vertical bars, like the bars of a cage. What’s that?”

With a smothered yell Sir George sprang back. He had approached the dead man and declared something had brushed his face.

“You were standing on this spot under the overmantel. I will remain here. Meantime, my dear Thierry, I feel sure you will help Sir George to carry this poor fellow to some more suitable place,” said Flaxman Low.

When the dead body of the young gamekeeper had been carried out, Low passed slowly round and about the room. At length he stood under the old carved overmantel, which reached to the ceiling and projected bodily forward in quaint heads of satyrs and animals. One of these on the side nearest the recess represented a griffin with a flanged mouth. Sir George had been standing directly below this at the moment when he felt the touch on his face. Now alone in the dim, wide room, Flaxman Low stood on the same spot and waited. The candle threw its dull yellow rays on the shadows which seemed to gather closer and wait also. Presently a distant door banged, and Low, leaning forward to listen, distinctly felt something on the back of his neck!

He swung round. There was nothing! He searched carefully on all sides, then put his hand up to the griffin’s head. Again came the same soft touch, this time upon his hand, as if something had floated past on the air.

This was definite. The griffin’s head located it. Taking the candle to examine more closely, Low found four long black hairs depending from the jagged fangs. He was detaching them when Thierry reappeared.

“We must get Sir George away as soon as possible,” he said.

“Yes, we must take him away, I fear,” agreed Low. “Our investigation must be put off till tomorrow.”

On the following day they returned to Yand. It was a large country-house, pretty and old-fashioned, with lattice windows and deep gables, that looked out between tall shrubs and across lawns set with large vases, where peacocks sunned themselves on the velvet turf. The church spire peered over the trees on one side; and an old wall covered with ivy and creeping plants, and pierced at intervals with arches, alone separated the gardens from the churchyard.

The haunted room lay at the back of the house. It was square and handsome, and furnished in the style of the last century. The oak overmantel reached to the ceiling, and a wide window, which almost filled one side of the room, gave a view of the west door of the church.

Low stood for a moment at the open window looking out at the level sunlight which flooded the lawns and parterres.

“See that door sunk in the church wall to the left?” said Sir George’s voice at his elbow. “That is the door of the family vault. Cheerful outlook, isn’t it?”

“I should like to walk across there presently,” remarked Low.

“What! Into the vault?” asked Sir George, with a harsh laugh. “I’ll take you if you like. Anything else I can show you or tell you?”

“Yes. Last night I found this hanging from the griffin’s head,” said Low, producing the thin wisp of black hair. “It must have touched your cheek as you stood below. Do you know to whom it can belong?”

“It’s a woman’s hair! No, the only woman who has been in this room to my knowledge for months is an old servant with grey hair, who cleans it,” returned Blackburton. “I’m sure it was not here when I locked Batty in.”

“It is human hair, exceedingly coarse and long uncut,” said Low; “but it is not necessarily a woman’s.”

“It is not mine at any rate, for I’m sandy; and poor Batty was fair. Good-night; I’ll come round for you in the morning.”

Presently, when the night closed in, Thierry and Low settled down in the haunted room to await developments. They smoked and talked deep into the night. A big lamp burned brightly on the table, and the surroundings looked homely and desirable.

Thierry made a remark to that effect, adding that perhaps the ghost might see fit to omit his usual visit.

“Experience goes to prove that ghosts have a cunning habit of choosing persons either credulous or excitable to experiment upon,” he added.

To M. Thierry’s surprise, Flaxman Low agreed with him.

“They certainly choose suitable persons,” he said, “that is, not credulous persons, but those whose senses are sufficiently keen to detect the presence of a spirit. In my own investigations, I try to eliminate what you would call the supernatural element. I deal with these mysterious affairs as far as possible on material lines.”

“Then what do you say of Batty’s death? He died of fright — -simply.”

“I hardly think so. The manner of his death agrees in a peculiar manner with what we know of the terrible history of this room. He died of fright and pressure combined. Did you hear the doctor’s remark? It was significant. He said: ‘The indications are precisely those I have observed in persons who have been crushed and killed in a crowd!’”

“That is sufficiently curious, I allow. I see that it is already past two o’clock. I am thirsty; I will have a little seltzer.” Thierry rose from his chair, and, going to the side-board, drew a tumblerful from the syphon. “Pah! What an abominable taste!”

“What? The seltzer?”

“Not at all?” returned the Frenchman irritably. “I have not touched it yet. Some horrible fly has flown into my mouth, I suppose. Pah! Disgusting!”

“What is it like?” asked Flaxman Low, who was at the moment wiping his own mouth with his handkerchief.

“Like? As if some repulsive fungus had burst in the mouth.”

“Exactly. I perceive it also. I hope you are about to be convinced.”

“What?” exclaimed Thierry, turning his big figure round and staring at Low. “You don’t mean—”

As he spoke the lamp suddenly went out.

“Why, then, have you put the lamp out at such a moment?” cried Thierry, “I have not put it out. Light the candle beside you on the table.”.Low heard the Frenchman’s grunt of satisfaction as he found the candle, then the scratch of a match. It sputtered and went out. Another match and another behaved in the same manner, while Thierry swore freely under his breath.

“Let me have your matches, Monsieur Flaxman; mine are, no doubt damp,” he said at last.

Low rose to feel his way across the room. The darkness was dense.

“It is the darkness of Egypt — it may be felt. Where then are you, my dear friend?” he heard Thierry saying, but the voice seemed a long way off.

“I am coming,” he answered, “but it’s so hard to get along.” After Low had spoken the words, their meaning struck him.

He paused and tried to realise in what part of the room he was. The silence was profound, and the growing sense of oppression seemed like a nightmare. Thierry’s voice sounded again, faint and receding.

“I am suffocating, Monsieur Flaxman, where are you? I am near the door. Ach!”

A strangling bellow of pain and fear followed, that scarcely reached Low through the thickening atmosphere.

“Thierry, what is the matter with you?” he shouted. “Open the door.”

But there was no answer. What had become of Thierry in that hideous, clogging gloom! Was he also dead, crushed in some ghastly fashion against the wall? What was this? The air had become palpable to the touch, heavy, repulsive, with the sensation of cold humid flesh!

Low pushed out his hands with a mad longing to touch a table, a chair, anything but this clammy, swelling softness that thrust itself upon him from every side, baffling him and filling his grasp.

He knew now that he was absolutely alone — struggling against what? His feet were slipping in his wild efforts to feel the floor — the dank flesh was creeping upon his neck, his cheek — his breath came short and labouring as the pressure swung him gently to and fro, helpless, nauseated!

The clammy flesh crowded upon him like the bulk of some fat, horrible creature; then came a stinging pain on the cheek. Low clutched at something — there was a crash and a rush of air — -The next sensation of which Mr. Flaxman Low was conscious was one of deathly sickness. He was lying on wet grass, the wind blowing over him, and all the clean, wholesome smells of the open air in his nostrils.

He sat up and looked about him. Dawn was breaking windily in the east, and by its light he saw that he was on the lawn of Yand Manor House. The latticed window of the haunted room above him was open. He tried to remember what had happened. He took stock of himself, in fact, and slowly felt that he still held something clutched in his right hand — something dark-coloured, slender, and twisted. It might have been a long shred of bark or the cast skin of an adder — it was impossible to see in the dim light.

After an interval the recollection of Thierry recurred to him. Scrambling to his feet, he raised himself to the window-sill and looked in. Contrary to his expectation, there was no upsetting of furniture; everything remained in position as when the lamp went out. His own chair and the one Thierry had occupied were just as when they had arisen from them. But there was no sign of Thierry.

Low jumped in by the window. There was the tumbler full of seltzer, and the litter of matches about it. He took up Thierry’s box of matches and struck a light. It flared, and he lit the candle with ease. In fact, everything about the room was perfectly normal; all the horrible conditions prevailing but a couple of hours ago had disappeared.

But where was Thierry? Carrying the lighted candle, he passed out of the door, and searched in the adjoining rooms. In one of them, to his relief, he found the Frenchman sleeping profoundly in an armchair.

Low touched his arm. Thierry leapt to his feet, fending off an imaginary blow with his arm.

Then he turned his scared face on Low.

“What! You, Monsieur Flaxman! How have you escaped?”

“I should rather ask you how you escaped,” said Low, smiling at the havoc the night’s experiences had worked on his friend’s looks and spirits.

“I was crowded out of the room against the door. That infernal thing — what was it? — with its damp, swelling flesh, enclosed me!” A shudder of disgust stopped him. “I was a fly in an aspic. I could not move. I sank into the stifling pulp. The air grew thick. I called to you, but your answers became inaudible. Then I was suddenly thrust against the door by a huge hand — it felt like one, at least. I had a struggle for my life, I was all but crushed, and then, I do not know how, I found myself outside the door. I shouted to you in vain. Therefore, as I could not help you, I came here, and — I will confess it, my dear friend — I locked and bolted the door. After some time I went again into the hall and listened; but, as I heard nothing, I resolved to wait until daylight and the return of Sir George.”

“That’s all right,” said Low. “It was an experience worth having.”

“But, no! Not for me! I do not envy you your researches into mysteries of this abominable description. I now comprehend perfectly that Sir George has lost his nerve if he has had to do with this horror. Besides, it is entirely impossible to explain these things.”

At this moment they heard Sir George’s arrival, and went out to meet him.

“I could not sleep all night for thinking of you!” exclaimed Blackburton on seeing them; “and I came along as soon as it was light. Something has happened.”

“But certainly something has happened,” cried M. Thierry shaking his head solemnly; “something of the most bizarre, of the most horrible! Monsieur Flaxman, you shall tell Sir George this story. You have been in that accursed room all night, and remain alive to tell the tale!”

As Low came to the conclusion of the story Sir George suddenly exclaimed:

“You have met with some injury to your face, Mr. Low.”

Low turned to the mirror. In the now strong light three parallel weals from eye to mouth could be seen.

“I remember a stinging pain like a lash on my cheek. What would you say these marks were caused by, Thierry?” asked Low.

Thierry looked at them and shook his head.

“No one in their senses would venture to offer any explanation of the occurrences of last night,” he replied.

“Something of this sort, do you think?” asked Low again, putting down the object he held in his hand on the table.

Thierry took it up and described it aloud.

“A long and thin object of a brown and yellow colour and twisted like a sabre-bladed corkscrew,” then he started slightly and glanced at Low.

“It’s a human nail, I imagine,” suggested Low.

“But no human being has talons of this kind — except, perhaps, a Chinaman of high rank.”

“There are no Chinamen about here, nor ever have been, to my knowledge,” said Blackburton shortly. “I’m very much afraid that, in spite of all you have so bravely faced, we are no nearer to any rational explanation.”

“On the contrary, I fancy I begin to see my way. I believe, after all, that I may be able to convert you, Thierry,” said Flaxman Low.

“Convert me?”

“To a belief in the definite aim of my work. But you shall judge for yourself. What do you make of it so far? I claim that you know as much of the matter as I do.”

“My dear good friend, I make nothing of it,” returned Thierry, shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his hands. “Here we have a tissue of unprecedented incidents that can be explained on no theory whatever.”

“But this is definite,” and Flaxman Low held up the blackened nail.

“And how do you propose to connect that nail with the black hairs — with the eyes that looked through the bars of a cage — the fate of Batty, with its symptoms of death by pressure and suffocation — our experience of swelling flesh, that something which filled and filled the room to the exclusion of all else? How are you going to account for these things by any kind of connected hypothesis?” asked Thierry, with a shade of irony.

“I mean to try,” replied Low.

At lunch time Thierry inquired how the theory was getting on.

“It progresses,” answered Low. “By the way, Sir George, who lived in this house for some time prior to, say, 1840? He was a man — it may have been a woman, but, from the nature of his studies, I am inclined to think it was a man — who was deeply read in ancient necromancy, Eastern magic, mesmerism, and subjects of a kindred nature. And was he not buried in the vault you pointed out?”

“Do you know anything more about him?” asked Sir George in surprise.

“He was I imagine,” went on Flaxman Low reflectively, “hirsute and swarthy, probably a recluse, and suffered from a morbid and extravagant fear of death.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I only asked about it. Am I right?”

“You have described my cousin, Sir Gilbert Blackburton, in every particular. I can show you his portrait in another room.”

As they stood looking at the painting of Sir Gilbert Blackburton, with his long, melancholy, olive face and thick, black beard, Sir George went on. “My grandfather succeeded him at Yand. I have often heard my father speak of Sir Gilbert, and his strange studies and extraordinary fear of death. Oddly enough, in the end he died rather suddenly, while he was still hale and strong. He predicted his own approaching death, and had a doctor in attendance for a week or two before he died. He was placed in a coffin he had had made on some plan of his own and buried in the vault. His death occurred in 1842 or 1843. If you care to see them I can show you some of his papers, which may interest you.”

Mr. Flaxman Low spent the afternoon over the papers. When evening came, he rose from his work with a sigh of content, stretched himself, and joined Thierry and Sir George in the garden.

They dined at Lady Blackburton’s, and it was late before Sir George found himself alone with Mr. Flaxman Low and his friend.

“Have you formed any opinion about the thing which haunts the Manor House?” he asked anxiously.

Thierry elaborated a cigarette, crossed his legs, and added: “If you have in truth come to any definite conclusion, pray let us hear it, my dear Monsieur Flaxman.”

“I have reached a very definite and satisfactory conclusion,” replied Low. “The Manor House is haunted by Sir Gilbert Blackburton, who died, or, rather, who seemed to die, on the 15th of August, 1842.”

“Nonsense! The nail fifteen inches long at the least — how do you connect it with Sir Gilbert?” asked Blackburton testily.

“I am convinced that it belonged to Sir Gilbert,” Low answered.

“But the long black hair like a woman’s?”

“Dissolution in the case of Sir Gilbert was not complete — not consummated, so to speak — as I hope to show you later. Even in the case of dead persons the hair and nails have been known to grow. By a rough calculation as to the growth of nails in such cases, I was enabled to indicate approximately the date of Sir Gilbert’s death. The hair too grew on his head.”

“But the barred eyes? I saw them myself!” exclaimed the young man.

“The eyelashes grow also. You follow me?”

“You have, I presume, some theory in connection with this?” observed Thierry. “It must be a very curious one.”

“Sir Gilbert in his fear of death appears to have mastered and elaborated a strange and ancient formula by which the grosser factors of the body being eliminated, the more ethereal portions continue to retain the spirit, and the body is thus preserved from absolute disintegration. In this manner true death may be indefinitely deferred. Secure from the ordinary chances and changes of existence, this spiritualised body could retain a modified life practically forever.”

“This is a most extraordinary idea, my dear fellow,” remarked Thierry.

“But why should Sir Gilbert haunt the Manor House, and one special room?”

“The tendency of spirits to return to the old haunts of bodily life is almost universal. We cannot yet explain the reason of this attraction of environment.”

“But the expansion — the crowding substance which we ourselves felt? You cannot meet that difficulty,” said Thierry persistently.

“Not as fully as I could wish, perhaps. But the power of expanding and contracting to a degree far beyond our comprehension is a well-known attribute of spiritualised matter.”

“Wait one little moment, my dear Monsieur Flaxman,” broke in Thierry’s voice after an interval; “this is very clever and ingenious indeed. As a theory I give it my sincere admiration. But proof — proof is what we now demand.”

Flaxman Low looked steadily at the two incredulous faces.

“This,” he said slowly, “is the hair of Sir Gilbert Blackburton, and this nail is from the little finger of his left hand. You can prove my assertion by opening the coffin.”

Sir George, who was pacing up and down the room impatiently, drew up.

“I don’t like it at all, Mr. Low, I tell you frankly. I don’t like it at all. I see no object in violating the coffin. I am not concerned to verify this unpleasant theory of yours. I have only one desire; I want to get rid of this haunting presence, whatever it is.”

“If I am right,” replied Low, “the opening of the coffin and exposure of the remains to strong sunshine for a short time will free you forever from this presence.”

In the early morning, when the summer sun struck warmly on the lawns of Yand, the three men carried the coffin from the vault to a quiet spot among the shrubs where, secure from observation, they raised the lid.

Within the coffin lay the semblance of Gilbert Blackburton, maned to the ears with long and coarse black hair. Matted eyelashes swept the fallen cheeks, and beside the body stretched the bony hands, each with its dependent sheaf of switch-like nails. Low bent over and raised the left hand gingerly.

The little finger was without a nail!

Two hours later they came back and looked again. The sun had in the meantime done its work; nothing remained but a fleshless skeleton and a few half-rotten shreds of clothing.

The ghost of Yand Manor House has never since been heard of.

When Thiery bade Flaxman Low good-bye, he said:

“In time, my dear Monsieur Flaxman, you will add another to our sciences. You establish your facts too well for my peace of mind.”

THE BLACK LADY
OF BRIN TOR

Guy Boothby

1904

I have seen some curious sights, and have taken part in some equally curious affairs, in the course of my career, but I can safely assert that the story I am going to tell you now equals, if it does not excel, anything I have ever known. I had just returned from South America, where I had been ranching for a good number of years, and, having been more successful than the majority of men who go in for that occupation, had returned to the Old Country with the intention of making it my home for the remainder of my existence.

If you are prepared to spend the money it would not seem difficult to find a house of the description you require. Yet only those who have tried it know what a serious business it can be. One will be too large, and without sufficient land, another too small and with more land than you care to be bothered with. My wife and I visited innumerable places, and at last were beginning to despair of ever finding what we wanted. Then, quite by chance, I happened to hear of the property with which this story is connected. It was necessary for me to visit Plymouth in order to meet a friend who was returning from Australia. The beauty of Devon is proverbial, and never better than in the autumn. After my long absence abroad it had a charm for me that I find it difficult to express in words. The dark red soil, the luxuriant hedgerows, the babbling brooks, and the vast solitude of Dartmoor appeal to me with overwhelming force. This was the county for me, if only I could find the description of place for which I had been so long and wearily searching. While I was awaiting the arrival of my friend’s vessel I made it my business to call on one of the leading house agents in order to make inquiries. Alas for my hopes. He had nothing on his books that I cared even to consider. I tried another, and yet a third, but with the same result. There were houses in plenty in the town, but they were useless; there were others in the immediate neighbourhood, but each had some drawback. I bade the last agent “good-afternoon” and returned to my hotel, very disappointed at my ill-success. That evening my friend arrived, and, in the pleasure of welcoming him, I forgot, for the time being, my quest of a residence. I was nearer success, however, than I, imagined.

On descending to the coffee-room next morning, I found a letter upon my plate. It was from the first agent upon whom I had called on the previous day. Quite by chance, he said, he had happened to hear of an estate situated in a charming little village on the edge of the moor. The house was an old and picturesque one, and the property consisted of some seventy acres. Some slight repairs would have to be effected, for the reason that the house had not been inhabited for some considerable time — the owner being abroad and unable to keep it up. In conclusion, it was stated that the estate would either be let on lease or sold outright. I carefully studied the particulars enclosed, and, as I did so, began to feel that it really looked as if I had at last discovered what I wanted. When my friend descended I told him the news, and invited him to remain a day longer in order to come out with me and inspect it. He consented to do so, and that afternoon we chartered a carriage and drove out.

There are reasons why I suppress the name of the village. They will, I expect, be obvious to you. Give a dog a bad name and hang him may apply as well to a property as to the canine race.

The Hall, as the place was called, was on the further side of the village, and was on the very edge of the moor. The agent had described it exactly when he declared it to be a picturesque old building. If stood on high ground, and immediately behind it rose the steep side of Erin Tor, crowned with enormous boulders that gave it a strangely wild appearance. The house itself was approached by a lengthy carriage drive, and, as I learned later, had been built in the days of the early Georges. From the first moment that I saw it I liked it. We drew up at the steps and alighted. Upon my ringing the bell the door was opened to us by an elderly party of the housekeeper persuasion, who soon revealed the fact that she was as deaf as a post, and not only deaf but as stupid as a. mule — if a mule can be said to be stupider than anything else. I presented her with the order to view, whereupon she examined it as if it were a bank note for a thousand pounds, and she was not quite certain as to whether it was genuine. At last, however, she condescended to admit us, and we entered the large, square hall. It ~was paved, and I must confess did not present a very inviting appearance. The oak panelling, however, was handsome, while the grand staircase was massive and finely carved. With no very good grace the old woman threw open the door of the room which I judged to be the dining-room, thence we proceeded on our tour of investigation. The house, with the exception of the kitchen and bedroom, was quite unfurnished, and certainly stood in need of repair. It possessed, however, great possibilities, and I felt sure that, when furnished and put in proper order, it would make a charming dwelling. The old woman’s husband, who was as decrepit as his wife, took charge of us when we left the house and conducted us to the stables, thence through the garden to the glass houses. These had evidently been allowed to go to rack and ruin for a very long time past. By the time our inspection was finished the afternoon was well advanced, and, if we desired to get back to Plymouth in time for dinner, it behoved us to start at once.

That evening I wrote a long description of what I had seen to my wife, inviting her to join me in order that I might have her opinion. Next day she arrived. She proved to be as charmed with it as I was, and by the end of the week following, matters were in excellent trim for my becoming its owner. As soon as necessary legal formalities had been complied with, my wife set off for London on furniture-buying thoughts intent, while I remained behind to hurry on the work that had to be completed before we could come into residence. At last — it was the second week in November, if my memory serves me — the furniture began to arrive. A makeshift bedroom was prepared for me, and I exchanged the hotel in Plymouth for my own abode.

For the next few days my life was not altogether a bed of roses. Everything had to be arranged, the servants were new, while the furnisher’s men required strict supervision to prevent them from spending the greater part of their time at the village inn. However, it was all done at last, and I felt that, when my wife gave it the few finishing touches which only a woman can do, it would be as nearly perfect as a man could wish to have his home.

It was on the day that my wife arrived that the first serious circumstance occurred, which it is the purpose of this story to relate. We had finished dinner and were sitting in our drawing-room discussing affairs in general, and wondering when the butler was going to bring in the coffee.

“I told him we would have it immediately after dinner,” said my wife.

I rang the bell, and almost immediately he appeared to answer it.

He looked round the room in surprise, as if he expected to find a third person present.

“We will have coffee, Simpson,” said my wife. “Always let us have it as soon after dinner as possible.”

“You will excuse me, madam, but I thought you were engaged with a lady.”

“I have seen no lady.”

He looked at her in bewilderment. “A lady came up the hall,” he said, “just as you left the dining hall, and I thought she came in here.”

I looked at the man sharply; apparently he was sober.

“You must have dreamt it,” I continued.

“No, sir, I did not. I saw her quite distinctly, and would know her again anywhere. She seemed in great trouble, so that is why I did not disturb you. I am very sorry, sir.”

He departed to bring in the coffee. When he returned I asked him to describe the person in question more minutely. I gathered that she was tall, and had a beautiful face, but with a very sad expression. She was dressed entirely in black, and had what he called “a black lace shawl” upon her head. The man was deeply in earnest, but I could make neither head nor tail of it.

“Let us look round,” I said. “I am quite certain that the hall door has not been opened since dinner, and if she is in the house now we shall doubtless find her.”

Accompanied by my wife we set off, visited all the rooms on the ground floor, not omitting the servants’ hall. My wife questioned the maids, but one and all asserted that they had not been into the hall since dinner. We next tried all the rooms upstairs with the same result. Simpson’s mysterious black lady, if she had existed, was certainly not in the house. I felt more than ever convinced that the man must have fallen asleep in his pantry and have dreamt it. But we were not done with her yet. A week or so afterwards, and when we were quite settled in, one of the maids who had been down to the village declared that, on a path that led through the shrubbery to a side gate, she had met a lady who seemed in great distress. According to the girl’s story she was wringing her hands. It was too dark for the maid to see her face.

“You are quite sure of what you are saying?” I asked, when Simpson brought the girl into my presence.

“I am quite sure, sir,” was her reply. “I held the gate open for her to pass through.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“Not a word, sir! She just went by me as if she did not see me.”

“This is really one of the strangest things I have ever heard,” I said to my wife,’ when we were alone together. “I wonder who the woman is, and by what right she trespasses on my grounds? If I meet her I shall put the question to her.”

Christmas was now drawing near, and we had invited a large house party to spend the festive season with us. Among the number was a young fellow named Desborough, who had just got his troop in a Lancer regiment. We had placed him in a room in the bachelors’ wing, which was the oldest portion of the house. He and I were the first two to reach the drawing-room before dinner.

“I say, old man,” he began, “how many people have you got in the house?”

I told him.

“Yes, but who is the other one? The lady with the sorrowful countenance, and a jolly pretty one at that!”

“There is no one else,” I replied. “I have given you the names of all of them.”

“Well, that’s funny! For I’ll swear she was no housemaid, and I’ve seen your wife’s maid. Are you sure you are not rotting me?”

“Perfectly sure! Describe this mysterious individual to me.”

“Well, I’m not much of a hand at that sort of work, but I know that she was jolly good looking, with what looked like a lace mantilla on her head, and she seemed to be in rare trouble. She was wringing her hands, and looked so sorrowfully at me that for a moment I was almost tempted to ask her what was the matter.”

“Wait here a moment,” I said. “I’ll run upstairs and see if I can discover who this person can be.”

I did so, muttering as I went that I was getting a little tired of the lady’s visits to my house. But though I searched the bachelors’ wing, and such other rooms as I could enter, no trace of her could I discover. I returned to the drawing-room and informed Desborough of my ill-success.

“Well, you can say what you like,” he answered. “I saw her as plainly as I can see you now.”

Thus the matter dropped for the time being.

My wife was the next to be favoured with a glimpse of her. It was Christmas Eve, and the ladies had been down to the church to decorate the edifice for next day. It was almost dark when they started to return. My wife remained behind the party for about ten minutes to discuss certain matters with the Vicar. It was snowing heavily when she left the church, and the country looked indescribably beautiful in the light of the full moon. Her version of the story is that she had just left the shrubbery and was passing along the path that ran at the foot of the terrace, when she looked up and saw a woman, dressed in black, leaning with her hands upon it, looking down upon her. She declares to this day that she was too surprised to be frightened, or to say or do anything. Then the woman walked away from her, wringing her hands as if she were in great grief. Three minutes could not have elapsed before I had been told, and was out on the terrace in pursuit. I looked about, but there was no sign of her, and, stranger still, there was not a footmark other than my own upon the snow. The matter was getting beyond me. I could not make head nor tail of it.

Next day, after morning service, I took the Vicar aside and asked him if he could give me any clue to the mystery. I told him the matter was getting serious. The servants declared that it was a ghost, and, in consequence, were threatening to leave me.

“Well, I will not deny,” he said, “that something of this sort of thing has been village gossip for a great many years, and more than one person has laid claim to having seen it. Personally, I have never done so. The story goes that it is the spirit of a Spanish woman who was once the mistress of the house. If you will come into the church again I will show you a tablet to her memory.”

I followed him and discovered the inscription in question. It described her (for reasons already stated I will not give her name) as being the wife of the owner of the house, and also set forth the fact that she had died in the year 1782.

“There’s not much to be gained from that,” I said, “but the coincidence is, to say the least of it, singular.”

I thanked him and rejoined my party.

That evening was devoted to the usual amusements associated with the occasion. I am afraid we were all very juvenile, and must have shocked the grave Simpson. We played dumb crambo, acted charades, and at last came to thought-reading. In my turn I went out of the room while an experiment was preparing. The hall was brilliantly lighted, and I give you my word that I had no thought of the mysterious lady at that moment. Suddenly I looked up to see her passing along the corridor at the top of the great staircase in the direction of the bachelors’ quarter. Seizing a hat and coat I ran up the stairs just in time to see her turning the corner of the corridor. I set off in pursuit. She was evidently making her way to a little door that led By a flight of steps to the garden below. By the time I reached it she had disappeared; but, throwing open the door, I saw her passing swiftly along the garden path towards the shrubbery. Donning my hat and drawing on my coat I continued my chase. She passed out of the wicket gate and turned into the narrow lane that led towards the Tor. It was the night of full moon, and was almost as light as day. Without leaving any track upon the snow she sped on at such a rate that I had great difficulty in keeping her in sight. At last she reached the foot of the Tor and began the ascent. This was more than I had bargained for, for it must be remembered that my feet were in evening dress shoes, and that the snow was lying inches deep upon the ground. However, having come so far, I was determined to see what the end of it would be. Staggering, falling, I began the climb, the black figure speeding on ahead of me, never pausing for a moment. At last it reached the summit and stood, while perhaps I could have counted twenty, upon the topmost boulder. It made a weird picture, I can assure you. Then she raised her arms above her head and fell through the air to the rocks, nearly two hundred feet below. On my honour it was so real that I gave a great cry as I saw it. I scrambled down to see if there was any sign of her, but there was none. The tragedy ended with her death. I went home scarcely able to believe the evidence of my senses.

Next day I took Desborough up the Tor with me and described the scene to him. I believe he thought I had dreamt it all. We stood at the foot and looked up at it.

“By Jove, it would be a ghastly place to take a leap from,” he said. “Is that a cave up there?”

He pointed half-way up the face of the cliff. There certainly was a cave there.

“Perhaps that is the clue to the mystery,” I cried. “A man could be lowered to it from the top. As soon as the snow goes, I’ll have a look at it.”

A week later I took several of my men and a strong rope, and visited the Tor once more. After taking every precaution they lowered me over the cliff till I reached the narrow entrance to the cave. I managed to squeeze myself in, and then lit a candle which I had brought with me. Three steps took me into a fair-sized cavern, and showed me as strange and terrible a sight as man has ever looked upon. Stretched out upon the floor was the skeleton of a man; scattered around him were remains of books and what may once have been a blanket. I took up one of the books, and inside the cover found the name of the man whose wife’s tablet I had seen in the village church on Christmas Day. Later on I examined it carefully. Inside was written, “I am dying of starvation. They will not let my wife bring me food. I have destroyed the papers. Farewell, my own beloved wife.” Thus the mystery was solved. The poor remains were brought down from their long resting-place and decently interred. Since then the Black Lady, as the village folk call her, has not been seen. I do not pretend to account for it. I simply give you the story.

THE DEATH CHILD

Guy Boothby

1904

One summer night, about three years after I took to the pearling trade in the Pacific, five of us — John Browdie, a Yorkshireman, standing six feet two in his socks; a Londoner, whom we called the scholar, more on account of his mannerisms than his learning, I fancy; Harry the Digger; Sailor Jim, and myself — sat yarning on the fo’c’sle of the lugger Waterwitch, anchored off the New Guinea Coast. It was about the hottest night of the year, and save for the gentle flip-flap of the water alongside, and the wear of the cable in the hawse hole, everything was so still that you could even distinguish the sound of the waves breaking on the beach more than two miles away.

The lights of Port Moresby winked at us over our starboard quarter, while away to port shone the riding light of the Merrie England Government steamer. The stars shimmered like gold dust strewn across the sky, and, as if to show that there still remained some sort of touch with England, the Great Bear just lifted above the northern horizon.

On three occasions the Yorkshireman had embarked upon the narration of a mysterious story, which we had all heard a dozen times before, setting forth, at interminable length, the adventures of his grandfather at a certain West Riding race meeting; but we invariably managed to stave him off in time.

As the talk slackened he saw his opportunity, and commenced at once—

“Yo’ see, nout would do for gran’fer, but ’e mun see t’ Leger run, an’ as ’e was a’goin oop t’ moor—”

I drummed my foot against the hatch, while the scholar, who had been ashore that afternoon, said hastily from the cable range—

“Do any of you remember the wreck of the Kate Kearney?”

The Yorkshireman saw another chance in the silence that followed, and hastened to make the most of it.

“Ho’d tha tongue, lad!” he said, “Wha’s t’ use o’ bringin’ that oop now? It’s rude to interrupt, and you mun first ’ear tell o’ ma gran’fer an’—”

“But what about the Kate Kearney?” I asked quickly.

Before the north countryman could get another word in, the scholar had begun his story—

“It is rather a curious story, and it was something that happened to me ashore today that made me think of it. First and foremost you must bear in mind that this yarn is not make-believe. At least a dozen men now on their road to — well, never mind where — are convinced of its truth; and all I can say is, if you want further proof, well, you have only to adopt Papuan Lizzie yourself, and see what comes of it.

“She was, or is I should say, since she is still very much alive, a New Guinea native from the Lakoli River; fifty miles or so away down there under the moon. ‘The Yankee Pirate’ (shot last year in the Solomon Group) blackbirded her by mistake, when she was about six years old, in spite of a curse from her infuriated hag of a mother who raced the party down the beach, swearing that whoever had to do with the child would surely die. It was a beautiful curse, so the Yankee told me, and on it the story I’m going to tell you hangs.

“Of course the whole ship’s company laughed at the idea of anything happening to them — it would have been strange, if they hadn’t — but just mark how perfectly the curse worked out!

“Before I go any further I must explain to you that these things happened at a time when Government agents were unthought of, and when an adult Kanaka landed in Port Mackay meant a solid gain of nearly twenty pounds to the man who brought him over. Legalized slavery it may have been, but the money was there safe and sound nevertheless.”

“Lad! I’m jealous tha knaws’t too much about yon times,” said Browdie with emphasis.

The scholar glanced over the side to where the copper sheathing glittered in the moonlight, and then up at the motionless vane upon the mast-head, before he continued—

“Most of the Kanakas out of that shipment went to the Eureka Sugar Company’s plantation on the Pioneer River, and with them went Lizzie. The manager’s wife, a kind-hearted soul, took pity on the miserable coffee-coloured little urchin, and allowed her to spend the greater part of her time playing with her own children. Within a week, two of them found their way into the sugar house and were killed in the machinery, and the mother, who saw the accident, is now in a Brisbane lunatic asylum.

“Three months later the company was in liquidation, the plantation was shut up, and the Kanakas were dispersed to the four winds of heaven. Nobody seemed to want Lizzie, so she passed from hand to hand up the coast, stopping here and there for a few weeks at a time, but always being moved on by the fatalities that followed in her wake. At last she reached Townsville, the capital of the North, as you know its inhabitants grandiloquently term it. Here it looked as if she were going to be allowed to settle down for a while. But the kind lady who was struck by her forlornness and took charge of her, developed typhoid fever in some inexplicable fashion within a month of her arrival, and died a fortnight later, throwing the child upon the world once more. Her executors were at a loss to know what to do with the brat, so they were only too grateful when a kind-hearted gentleman came forward and said that he would take her off their hands, and carry her home to England as a present to his wife. He left Townsville in the mail boat Carrysfort, and as the world has good reason to be aware, that ill-fated vessel struck an uncharted rock off Cape York, and went to the bottom in something under three minutes, taking with her every living soul on board save four.

“Papuan Lizzie was one of the four who did not find a watery grave. She was thrown overboard to three Lascars who were clinging to a spar alongside. How it came about it is impossible to say, but the men were never heard of again; Lizzie, however, was picked up by a béche-de-mer schooner a few hours later, and carried to Thursday Island. Unfortunately her fame had preceded her, and it was there that she received for the first time the name of the ‘Death Child.’ For some days no one would have anything to do with her, and consequently she wandered about the beach as miserable an urchin as could have been found in the whole Western Pacific. Then a zealous missionary, anxious to prove how idle and wicked such suspicions were, gave her a home.

“For nearly six months all went well, and bit by bit the ugly little creature developed an affection for her guardian that was as grotesque as the cause of it was pathetic. He had begun, and would have finished, her education if the curse had not uncoiled itself, and led him to interfere in a drunken street brawl; during which Rhotoma Sam stabbed him to the heart for his pains, and thus deprived Lizzie of another protector.

“After this, for three months or so, the record of her movements is more or less uncertain. I believe she went down to the D’Entrecasteax Group in the trading schooner Skylark, and probability is given to the theory by the fact that the Skylark left Port Moresby, and was never heard of again.

“When next I saw her Lizzie was back in Thursday Island, uglier and more impish than ever, and so convinced was everyone of her Satanic association that not a mother’s son or daughter would take her in, or befriend her in any way. Consequently she was compelled to live by herself in Tommy Burns’ old hut in the gully behind the Chinese Gardens.

“Now, among the multifarious inhabitants of the Island at that time was a former mate of the Kate Kearney, the vessel we were speaking of just now, a vindictive sort of a fellow named Benman, who had a great and undying hatred for Captain Edwards, of the same craft. He used to say that the captain had concocted a plot to get him discharged from the company’s service, and he vowed that come what might, he would be even with his enemy before many years had passed. The captain, in total ignorance of this hatred and believing that Benman liked him rather than otherwise, wrote in a friendly sort of way, asking him, as a personal favour, to find a suitable black maid for his wife.

“Seeing his way to as devilish piece of mischief as ever was planned, Benman chuckled to himself and began to make enquiries.

“When, a month later, the Kate Kearney put in for stores he hunted up Papuan Lizzie and sent her aboard with a polite little note, recommending her, and saying how glad he was to have a chance of being useful to his old friend. Mrs. Edwards, who was an invalid took a great fancy to her new handmaid and as soon as they were at sea, set about completing the education the unfortunate missionary had begun.

“Leaving Thursday Island the Kate Kearney sailed on a trading cruise among the Islands. The ship’s company included the captain, his mate, a supercargo, an Englishman fresh from home, three Solomon boys, and a half-caste Philippine Islander. Also Papuan Lizzie, who detested lessons or work of any kind, and spent most of her time on the main hatch, huddled up like a native idol, blinking at the sun. Then the curse, which had not made any visible mischief for well-nigh three months, began to think about business once more. On this occasion it took the form of a mutiny.

“One sunny afternoon the Kate Kearney lay becalmed off Arurai in the Kingsmills. The sea alongside was as smooth as glass, and almost as transparent, while overhead the spars and rigging stood out double-sized against the azure sky.

“The skipper and mate were pacing the deck, wondering from what quarter they might expect the wind, and talking of things in general. Coming aft they leaned over the taffrail to watch a shark struggle astern.

“Then the half-caste Portuguese, who had been lolling against the wheel with nothing to do, save to hatch mischief and to dream of the spree he intended having when next he got ashore, suddenly received a signal from the fo’c’sle, made up his mind, and drawing a revolver from his belt, shot both men dead. Next moment the vessel, from being an inanimate mass upon the sunlit waters, became surcharged with life. The supercargo, who was below, asleep, alarmed by the noise, ran up the companion ladder, rifle in hand. But the murderer, who had the advantage of him, fired as soon as his head appeared, and the white man fell backwards down the ladder into the cuddy, dead as a doornail, shot through the skull.

“By this time the ship was in an uproar. The remainder of the hands made their appearance from their hiding places and set to work to throw the bodies overboard to the sharks they had been watching less than half an hour before. When this was done, the half-caste assumed command. The Englishman was given the chance of serving, or of sharing the fate of his companions. Naturally he chose the former alternative. Mrs. Edwards terminated an interview with the ringleader by throwing herself overboard, while Papuan Lizzie sat on the hatch and cried very bitterly, for she loved her kind benefactress, and would willingly have put a knife into the back of the half-caste, only she was afraid. She was not of course to know that she was the cause of all the trouble.

“For three months the Rolling Wave, alias the Kate Kearney, did an amazing trade among the Islands. At the end of that time her hold was full to bursting, of pearl shell, copra, tortoiseshell, and dried béche-de-mer.

“Then, quite by chance, for there was no navigator aboard worthy of the name, they reached Ponape, a Spanish settlement of the Caroline Group, and anchored outside the reef. When all was snug the half-caste went ashore, leaving the crew to gamble and quarrel among themselves as they pleased. Though he did not know it, they were hatching another mutiny among themselves, and this time against himself, for they had come to the conclusion that he was carrying things with far too high a hand.

“As soon as he returned, and dusk fell, the Englishman, who was friendly with neither party, seized his opportunity, slipped down the cable, and also made for the shore. It was a long swim, and the sea was running high under a freshening gale.

“Ponape, with its few hundred natives and sprinkling of Spaniards, is not by any means a big place, so he discovered the Governor’s residence without very much searching, and poured his thrilling tale of mutiny and murder into that official’s ear.

“The Governor immediately ordered out his state army, an officer and ten men, all as zealous as himself, and with great pomp and circumstance issued the command that the schooner Rolling Wave should be boarded and seized.

“In spite of the increasing storm, the army put off and eventually got alongside without resistance from the mutineers, who at the time were below. The only visible occupant of the vessel was Papuan Lizzie, who was crying under the lee of the deckhouse aft.

“Having placed sentries at the entrance to the companion ladder, the Governor went below with the balance of his men. He found the ship’s company engaged on cut-throat euchre, and you can imagine their astonishment when they saw the soldiers enter.

“They fought like wild cats, but it was only to discover that sheath knives and bare fists are of small avail even against Spanish swords and derelict muskets. Having ironed them, the Commander-in-Chief placed them under a strong guard and then searched the ship.

“While he was occupied in this fashion he forgot to take stock of the weather. When they had come aboard it was working up for a storm; now it was such a night as you seldom see. A cyclone was sweeping down upon the Island, and even the usually placid water inside the reef was white with driven foam. By the time those on board arrived at an understanding of their position, it had torn up the schooner’s straining cables, and was racing her along the treacherous line of rocks, at more than racing pace. Eventually she went to pieces close in shore, and out of the eighteen souls aboard her, including the Governor, the soldiers and their prisoners, only two escaped alive. One was the Englishman I have already mentioned, who had accompanied the boarding party to see what happened, the other was Papuan Lizzie, who, strange to relate, was landed high and dry on the beach without scratch or injury. Two days later the Englishman left in a schooner for Tahiti, and for the time being that was the last he saw of that queer little atom we used to call the ‘Death Child.’”

Harry the Digger, put down his pipe.

“Hold on, my lad,” he said very quietly, “you haven’t told us how you learnt these things.”

“Well,” said the scholar with a quiet chuckle, “it seems to me I should know something about them, considering I was the Englishman who gave the information to the authorities, and who was allowed to live on condition he joined the mutineers.”

“A neatly worked out yarn,” I continued; “and pray did you ever hear what became of the Death Child after that?”

“She remained in Ponape for upwards of two years, I believe, and then managed to make her way, how I cannot explain, across the Pacific until she reached Port Moresby once more.”

“Here?” we cried in astonishment. “You don’t mean to say she’s in Port Moresby at this moment?”

“Most certainly I do,” he replied. “I saw her only today when I went ashore. It was my meeting with her that made me think of telling you the story. But you mustn’t run away with the notion that she’s the same Liz. She’s a changed character altogether.”

“In what way is she changed?”

“She’s grown up and a married woman. You remember Pat Dolson, the man who was in Thursday Island a year or two back, who claimed to have been an Oxford Don, and who had the reputation of being able to drink more mixed liquor at one sitting, and to be able to swear in a greater variety of tongues, than any other white man in the Pacific? You do? Well, then, he’s her husband. They were married a month ago.”

“Surely you’re joking. What on earth made him marry her? Is the man mad?”

“It looks like it, does it not? At any rate, he’s gone to pieces now. I never saw such a wreck of a man in my life before. Lives out in the bush among the niggers, dresses in the native style, and if ever I saw a man on the borders of the jumps he was that one. He talked an awful lot of nonsense to me about Fate-Destiny-Powers of Darkness, and goodness only knows what else, mixing it up with Greek and Latin quotations. Said he was bewitched by Liz, and that it was ordained from the first that he should marry her — so how could he help himself? I told him he was a fool for his pains, and that he deserved to come to just the sort of end he prophesied. All the time I was talking Liz sat at the door of the hut, watching me out of half-closed eyes, with that devilish smile of hers upon her face. When I left she stopped me in the bush, and showing all her teeth in a grin, asked me if I didn’t think she would make him ‘one big all the same first-class wife.’”

“What did you say?”

“I can’t remember exactly, but I fancy I consigned her to the place where wives who make promises before marriage and don’t fulfil them afterwards are popularly supposed to go. As it was, she—”

The scholar stopped suddenly, and held up his hand.

“Hark!” he cried. “What was that?”

We sat silent, listening, but all we could hear was the soft murmur of the water alongside, and the gentle creaking of the spars as the tiny vessel rocked at her anchor. Then there was a sound a short distance away on our starboard bow, that made us all leap to our feet like one man. It was the cry of a person in sore distress.

“It’s someone drowning!” cried sailor Jim, who was always ready to jump to a conclusion. “I’ve heard that cry too often not to know it. Here! let’s get the boat away at once, or we’ll be too late to rescue him.”

As he spoke he ran to the davits, but before he could let go the falls the sound reached our ears again, and this time it came from close under the counter.

“Schooner ahoy!” it said. “Take me aboard.”

A moment later we were all at the taffrail, craning our necks over the side in an attempt to discover who the man might be, and to render him any assistance that might be in our power.

He did not seem to be in need of so much help as he had led us to believe, for he presently scrambled on board, and having gained the deck shook himself like a Newfoundland dog. He was stark naked, and had long black hair that trailed upon his shoulders. Taken altogether, he did not make a pretty picture.

“Good heavens, Dolson!” cried the scholar with a gasp, as he recognized the man before us. “You don’t mean to say it’s you? What on earth has brought you out here like this?”

But Dolson only gave a queer sort of grunt, and threw down upon the deck a native basket constructed of some sweet-smelling reed. After that he sat down on the main hatch, and hid his face in his hands. We stood round and watched him, unable to make head or tail of it all. Undoubtedly he was crazy.

“She said she had bewitched me,” he began after a pause. “Because I beat her she cursed me only this evening. ‘You shall not find your death on land,’ says she, ‘nor shall you be drowned in water. Your death shall come to you through me, and though I be dead yet shall I be there to see you die.’ It’s a lie! She is dead, it is true, for I killed her myself. But she will not see me die. Of that I am certain.

So absorbed were we in watching him and listening to his ravings, that we entirely failed to notice a canoe which had come softly up alongside, nor the black figure which had made its way aboard over the bows. Had we done so we should probably have warned Dolson, but it was Fate that kept us otherwise employed so that we should not see. An arm went up, and then a poisoned spear came aft, travelling straight for the naked figure seated on the hatch. It caught him full and fair in the chest, between the shoulders, and a few seconds later Dolson was squirming upon the deck, and his murderer had disappeared into the night again. In his agony Dolson chanced to touch the basket he had brought on board with him, and under the impetus thus given to it the contents rolled out, and into the circle of light made by the lantern which someone had thoughtfully brought up from below. To our horror, we discovered that the black ball rolling and bobbing towards the bulwarks was neither more nor less than the head of Papuan Lizzie — the Death Child — severed at the trunk. The eyes were open, and the mouth was set in a diabolical leer. As I noticed this horror, the man whom we called Dolson gave up the ghost, and thus his wife’s prophecy came true. He had not died on land, nor was he drowned in water; his death came to him through her agency, and though her body was not present, still her eyes were there, and saw him breathe his last.

And yet there are some people who, having read this story, will say they do not believe in witchcraft, nor will they own that they have any faith in the power of a curse.

THE TOWER

Barry Pain

1911

In the billiard-room of the Cabinet Club, shortly after midnight, two men had just finished a game. A third had been watching it from the lounge at the end of the room. The winner put up his cue, slipped on his coat, and with a brief “Good-night” passed out of the room. He was tall, dark, clean-shaven and foreign in appearance. It would not have been easy to guess his nationality, but he did not look English.

The loser, a fair-haired boy of twenty-five, came over to the lounge and dropped down by the side of the elderly man who had been watching the billiards.

“Silly game, ain’t it, doctor?” he said cheerfully. The doctor smiled.

“Yes,” he said, “Vyse is a bit too hot for you, Bill.”

“A bit too hot for anything,” said the boy. “He never takes any trouble; he never hesitates; he never thinks; he never takes an easy shot when there’s a brilliant one to be pulled off. It’s almost uncanny.”

“Ah,” said the doctor, reflectively, “it’s a queer thing. You’re the third man whom I have heard say that about Vyse within the last week.”

“I believe he’s quite all right — good sort of chap, you know. He’s frightfully clever too — speaks a lot of beastly difficult Oriental languages — does well at any game he takes up.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “he is clever; and he is also a fool.”

“What do you mean? He’s eccentric, of course. Fancy his buying that rotten tower — a sweet place to spend Christmas in all alone, I don’t think.”

“Why does he say he’s going there?”

“Says he hates the conventional Christmas, and wants to be out of it; says also that he wants to shoot duck.”

“That won’t do,” said the doctor. “He may hate the conventional Christmas. He may, and he probably will, shoot duck. But that’s not his reason for going there.”

“Then what is it?” asked the boy.

“Nothing that would interest you much, Bill. Vyse is one of the chaps that want to know too much. He’s playing about in a way that every medical man knows to be a rotten, dangerous way. Mind, he may get at something; if the stories are true he has already got at a good deal. I believe it is possible for a man to develop in himself certain powers at a certain price.”

“What’s the price?”

“Insanity, as often as not. Here, let’s talk about something pleasanter. Where are you yourself going this Christmas, by the way?”

“My sister has taken compassion upon this lone bachelor. And you?”

“I shall be out of England,” said the doctor. “Cairo, probably.”

The two men passed out into the hall of the club.

“Has Mr. Vyse gone yet?” the boy asked the porter.

“Not yet, Sir William. Mr. Vyse is changing in one of the dressing-rooms. His car is outside.”

The two men passed the car in the street, and noticed the luggage in the tonneau. The driver, in his long leather coat, stood motionless beside it, waiting for his master. The powerful headlight raked the dusk of the street; you could see the paint on a tired woman’s cheek as she passed through it on her way home at last.

“See his game?” said Bill.

“Of course,” said the doctor. “He’s off to the marshes and that blessed tower of his tonight.”

“Well, I don’t envy him — holy sort of amusement it must be driving all that way on a cold night like this. I wonder if the beggar ever goes to sleep at all?”

They had reached Bill’s chambers in Jermyn Street.

“You must come in and have a drink,” said Bill.

“Don’t think so, thanks,” said the doctor; “it’s late, you know.”

“You’d better,” said Bill, and the doctor followed him in.

A letter and a telegram were lying on the table in the diminutive hall. The letter had been sent by messenger, and was addressed to Sir William Orlsey, Bart., in a remarkably small handwriting. Bill picked it up, and thrust it into his pocket at once, unopened. He took the telegram with him into the room where the drinks had been put out, and opened it as he sipped his whisky-and-soda.

“Great Scot!” he exclaimed.

“Nothing serious, I hope,” said the doctor.

“I hope not. I suppose all children have got to have the measles some time or another; but it’s a bit unlucky that my sister’s three should all go down with it just now. That does for her house-party at Christmas, of course.”

A few minutes later, when the doctor had gone, Bill took the letter from his pocket and tore it open. A cheque fell from the envelope and fluttered to the ground. The letter ran as follows:

Dear Bill, — I could not talk to you tonight, as the doctor, who happens to disapprove of me, was in the billiard-room. Of course, I can let you have the hundred you want, and enclose it herewith with the utmost pleasure. The time you mention for repayment would suit me all right, and so would any other time. Suit your own convenience entirely.

I have a favour to ask of you. I know you are intending to go down to the Leylands’ for Christmas. I think you will be prevented from doing so. If that is the case, and you have no better engagement, would you hold yourself at my disposal for a week? It is just possible that I may want a man like you pretty badly. There ought to be plenty of duck this weather, but I don’t know that I can offer any other attraction — Very sincerely yours,

Edward Vyse.

Bill picked up the cheque, and thrust it into the drawer with a feeling of relief. It was a queer invitation, he thought — funnily worded, with the usual intimations of time and place missing. He switched off the electric lights and went into his bedroom. As he was undressing a thought struck him suddenly.

“How the deuce,” he said aloud, “did he know that I should be prevented from going to Polly’s place?” Then he looked round quickly. He thought that he had heard a faint laugh just behind him. No one was there, and Bill’s nerves were good enough. In twenty minutes he was fast asleep.

•   •   •

The cottage, built of grey stone, stood some thirty yards back from the road, from which it was screened by a shrubbery. It was an ordinary eight-roomed cottage, and it did well enough for Vyse and his servants and one guest — if Vyse happened to want a guest. There was a pleasant little walled garden of a couple of acres behind the cottage. Through a doorway in the further wall one passed into a stunted and dismal plantation, and in the middle of this rose the tower, far higher than any of the trees that surrounded it.

Sir William Orlsey had arrived just in time to change before dinner. Talk at dinner had been of indifferent subjects — the queer characters of the village and the chances of sport on the morrow. Bill had mentioned the tower, and his host had hastened to talk of other things. But now that dinner was over, and the man who had waited on them had left the room, Vyse of his own accord returned to the subject.

“Danvers is a superstitious ass,” he observed, “and he’s in quite enough of a funk about that tower as it is; that’s why I wouldn’t give you the story of it while he was in the room. According to the village tradition, a witch was burned on the site where the tower now stands, and she declared that where she burned the devil should have his house. The lord of the manor at that time, hearing what the old lady had said, and wishing to discourage house-building on that particular site, had it covered with a plantation, and made it a condition of his will that this plantation should be kept up.”

Bill lit a cigar. “Looks like checkmate,” he said. “However, seeing that the tower is actually there—”

“Quite so. This man’s son came no end of a cropper, and the property changed hands several times. It was divided and sub-divided. I, for instance, only own about twenty acres of it. Presently there came along a scientific old gentleman and bought the piece that I now have. Whether he knew of the story, or whether he didn’t, I cannot say, but he set to work to build the tower that is now standing in the middle of the plantation. He may have intended it as an observatory. He got the stone for it on the spot from his own quarry, but he had to import his labour, as the people in these parts didn’t think the work healthy. Then one fine morning before the tower was finished they found the old gentleman at the bottom of his quarry with his neck broken.”

“So,” said Bill, “they say of course that the tower is haunted. What is it that they think they see?”

“Nothing. You can’t see it. But there are people who think they have touched it and have heard it.”

“Rot, ain’t it?”

“I don’t know exactly. You see, I happen to be one of those people.”

“Then, if you think so, there’s something in it. This is interesting. I say, can’t we go across there now?”

“Certainly, if you like. Sure you won’t have any more wine? Come along, then.”

The two men slipped on their coats and caps. Vyse carried a lighted stable-lantern. It was a frosty moonlit night, and the path was crisp and hard beneath their feet. As Vyse slid back the bolts of the gate in the garden wall, Bill said suddenly, “By the way, Vyse, how did you know that I shouldn’t be at the Leylands’ this Christmas? I told you I was going there.”

“I don’t know. I had a feeling that you were going to be with me. It might have been wrong. Anyhow, I’m very glad you’re here. You are just exactly the man I want. We’ve only a few steps to go now. This path is ours. That cart-track leads away to the quarry where the scientific gentleman took the short cut to further knowledge. And here is the door of the tower.”

They walked round the tower before entering. The night was so still that, unconsciously, they spoke in lowered voices and trod as softly as possible. The lock of the heavy door groaned and screeched as the key turned. The light of the lantern fell now on the white sand of the floor and on a broken spiral staircase on the further side. Far up above one saw a tangle of beams and the stars beyond them. Bill heard Vyse saying that it was left like that after the death in the quarry.

“It’s a good solid bit of masonry,” said Bill, “but it ain’t a cheerful spot exactly. And, by Jove! it smells like a menagerie.”

“It does,” said Vyse, who was examining the sand on the floor.

Bill also looked down at the prints in the sand. “Some dog’s been in here.”

“No,” said Vyse, thoughtfully. “Dogs won’t come in here, and you can’t make them. Also, there were no marks on the sand when I left the place and locked the door this afternoon. Queer, isn’t it?”

“But the thing’s a blank impossibility. Unless, of course, we are to suppose that—”

He did not finish his sentence, and, if he had finished it, it would not have been audible. A chorus of grunting, growling and squealing broke out almost from under his feet, and he sprang backwards. It lasted for a few seconds, and then died slowly away.

“Did you hear that?” Vyse asked quietly.

“I should rather think so.”

“Good; then it was not subjective. What was it?”

“Only one kind of beast makes that row. Pigs, of course — a whole drove of them. It sounded as if they were in here, close to us. But as they obviously are not, they must be outside.”

“But they are not outside,” said Vyse. “Come and see.”

They hunted the plantation through and through with no result, and then locked the tower door and went back to the cottage. Bill said very little. He was not capable of much self-analysis, but he was conscious of a sudden dislike of Vyse. He was angry that he had ever put himself under an obligation to this man. He had wanted the money for a gambling debt, and he had already repaid it. Now he saw Vyse in the light of a man with whom one should have no dealings, and the last man from whom one should accept a kindness. The strange experience that he had just been through filled him with loathing far more than with fear or wonder. There was something unclean and diabolical about the whole thing that made a decent man reluctant to question or to investigate. The filthy smell of the brutes seemed still to linger in his nostrils. He was determined that on no account would he enter the tower again, and that as soon as he could find a decent excuse he would leave the place altogether.

A little later, as he sat before the log fire and filled his pipe, he turned to his host with a sudden question: “I say, Vyse, why did you want me to come down here? What’s the meaning of it all?”

“My dear fellow,” said Vyse, “I wanted you for the pleasure of your society. Now, don’t get impatient. I also wanted you because you are the most normal man I know. Your confirmation of my experiences in the tower is most valuable to me. Also, you have good nerves, and, if you will forgive me for saying so, no imagination. I may want help that only a man with good nerves would be able to give.”

“Why don’t you leave the thing alone? It’s too beastly.”

Vyse laughed. “I’m afraid my hobby bores you. We won’t talk about it. After all, there’s no reason why you should help me?”

“Tell me just what it is that you wanted.”

“I wanted you if you heard this whistle” — he took an ordinary police whistle down from the mantelpiece — “any time tonight or tomorrow night, to come over to the tower at once and bring a revolver with you. The whistle would be a sign that I was in a tight place — that my life, in fact, was in danger. You see, we are dealing here with something preternatural, but it is also something material; in addition to other risks, one risks ordinary physical destruction. However, I could see that you were repelled by the sight and the sound of those beasts, whatever they may be; and I can tell you from my own experience that the touch of them is even worse. There is no reason why you should bother yourself any further about the thing.”

“You can take the whistle with you,” said Bill. “If I hear it I will come.”

“Thanks,” said Vyse, and immediately changed the subject. He did not say why he was spending the night in the tower, or what it was he proposed to do there.

•   •   •

It was three in the morning when Bill was suddenly startled out of his sleep. He heard the whistle being blown repeatedly. He hurried on some clothes and dashed down into the hall, where his lantern lay all ready for him. He ran along the garden path and through the door in the wall until he got to the tower. The sound of the whistle had ceased now, and everything was horribly still. The door of the tower stood wide open, and without hesitation Bill entered, holding his lantern high.

The tower was absolutely empty. Not a sound was to be heard. Bill called Vyse by name twice loudly, and then again the awful silence spread over the place.

Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, he took the track that led to the quarry, well knowing what he would find at the bottom of it.

•   •   •

The jury assigned the death of Vyse as an accident, and said that the quarry should be fenced in. They had no explanation to offer of the mutilation of the face, as if by the teeth of some savage beast.

BRICKETT BOTTOM

Amyas Northcote

1922

The Reverend Arthur Maydew was the hard-working incumbent of a large parish in one of our manufacturing towns. He was also a student and a man of no strong physique, so that when an opportunity was presented to him to take an annual holiday by exchanging parsonages with an elderly clergyman, Mr. Roberts, the Squarson of the Parish of Overbury, and an acquaintance of his own, he was glad to avail himself of it.

Overbury is a small and very remote village in one of our most lovely and rural counties, and Mr. Roberts had long held the living of it.

Without further delay we can transport Mr. Maydew and his family, which consisted only of two daughters, to their temporary home. The two young ladies, Alice and Maggie, the heroines of this narrative, were at that time aged twenty-six and twenty-four years respectively. Both of them were attractive girls, fond of such society as they could find in their own parish and, the former especially, always pleased to extend the circle of their acquaintance. Although the elder in years, Alice in many ways yielded place to her sister, who was the more energetic and practical and upon whose shoulders the bulk of the family cares and responsibilities rested. Alice was inclined to be absent-minded and emotional and to devote more of her thoughts and time to speculations of an abstract nature than her sister.

Both of the girls, however, rejoiced at the prospect of a period of quiet and rest in a pleasant country neighbourhood, and both were gratified at knowing that their father would find in Mr. Roberts’ library much that would entertain his mind, and in Mr. Roberts’ garden an opportunity to indulge freely in his favourite game of croquet. They would have, no doubt, preferred some cheerful neighbours, but Mr. Roberts was positive in his assurances that there was no one in the neighbourhood whose acquaintance would be of interest to them.

The first few weeks of their new life passed pleasantly for the Maydew family. Mr. Maydew quickly gained renewed vigour in his quiet and congenial surroundings, and in the delightful air, while his daughters spent much of their time in long walks about the country and in exploring its beauties.

One evening late in August the two girls were returning from a long walk along one of their favourite paths, which led along the side of the Downs. On their right, as they walked, the ground fell away sharply to a narrow glen, named Brickett Bottom, about three-quarters of a mile in length, along the bottom of which ran a little-used country road leading to a farm, known as Blaise’s Farm, and then onward and upward to lose itself as a sheep track on the higher Downs. On their side of the slope some scattered trees and bushes grew, but beyond the lane and running up over the farther slope of the glen was a thick wood, which extended away to Carew Court, the seat of a neighbouring magnate, Lord Carew. On their left the open Down rose above them and beyond its crest lay Overbury.

The girls were walking hastily, as they were later than they had intended to be and were anxious to reach home. At a certain point at which they had now arrived the path forked, the right hand branch leading down into Brickett Bottom and the left hand turning up over the Down to Overbury.

Just as they were about to turn into the left hand path Alice suddenly stopped and pointing downwards exclaimed:

“How very curious, Maggie! Look, there is a house down there in the Bottom, which we have, or at least I have, never noticed before, often as we have walked up the Bottom.”

Maggie followed with her eyes her sister’s pointing finger. “I don’t see any house,” she said.

“Why, Maggie,” said her sister, “can’t you see it! A quaint-looking, old-fashioned red brick house, there just where the road bends to the right. It seems to be standing in a nice, well-kept garden too.”

Maggie looked again, but the light was beginning to fade in the glen and she was short-sighted to boot.

“I certainly don’t see anything,” she said. “but then I am so blind and the light is getting bad; yes, perhaps I do see a house,” she added, straining her eyes.

“Well, it is there,” replied her sister, “and tomorrow we will come and explore it.” Maggie agreed readily enough, and the sisters went home, still speculating on how they had happened not to notice the house before and resolving firmly on an expedition thither the next day. However, the expedition did not come off as planned, for that evening Maggie slipped on the stairs and fell, spraining her ankle in such a fashion as to preclude walking for some time.

Notwithstanding the accident to her sister, Alice remained possessed by the idea of making further investigations into the house she had looked down upon from the hill the evening before; and the next day, having seen Maggie carefully settled for the afternoon, she started off for Brickett Bottom. She returned in triumph and much intrigued over her discoveries, which she eagerly narrated to her sister.

Yes. There was a nice, old-fashioned red brick house, not very large and set in a charming, old-world garden in the Bottom. It stood on a tongue of land jutting out from the woods, just at the point where the lane, after a fairly straight course from its junction with the main road half a mile away, turned sharply to the right in the direction of Blaise’s Farm. More than that, Alice had seen the people of the house, whom she described as an old gentleman and a lady, presumably his wife. She had not clearly made out the gentleman, who was sitting in the porch, but the old lady, who had been in the garden busy with her flowers, had looked up and smiled pleasantly at her as she passed. She was sure, she said, that they were nice people and that it would be pleasant to make their acquaintance.

Maggie was not quite satisfied with Alice’s story. She was of a more prudent and retiring nature than her sister; she had an uneasy feeling that, if the old couple had been desirable or attractive neighbours, Mr. Roberts would have mentioned them, and knowing Alice’s nature she said what she could to discourage her vague idea of endeavouring to make acquaintance with the owners of the red brick house.

On the following morning, when Alice came to her sister’s room to inquire how she did, Maggie noticed that she looked pale and rather absent-minded, and, after a few commonplace remarks had passed, she asked:

“What is the matter, Alice? You don’t look yourself this morning.” Her sister gave a slightly embarrassed laugh.

“Oh, I am all right,” she replied, “only I did not sleep very well. I kept on dreaming about the house. It was such an odd dream too; the house seemed to be home, and yet to be different.”

“What, that house in Brickett Bottom?” said Maggie. “Why, what is the matter with you, you seem to be quite crazy about the place?”

“Well, it is curious, isn’t it, Maggie, that we should have only just discovered it, and that it looks to be lived in by nice people? I wish we could get to know them.”

Maggie did not care to resume the argument of the night before and the subject dropped, nor did Alice again refer to the house or its inhabitants for some little time. In fact, for some days the weather was wet and Alice was forced to abandon her walks, but when the weather once more became fine she resumed them, and Maggie suspected that Brickett Bottom formed one of her sister’s favourite expeditions. Maggie became anxious over her sister, who seemed to grow daily more absent-minded and silent, but she refused to be drawn into any confidential talk, and Maggie was nonplussed.

One day, however, Alice returned from her afternoon walk in an unusually excited state of mind, of which Maggie sought an explanation. It came with a rush. Alice said that, that afternoon, as she approached the house in Brickett Bottom, the old lady, who as usual was busy in her garden, had walked down to the gate as she passed and had wished her good day.

Alice had replied and, pausing, a short conversation had followed. Alice could not remember the exact tenor of it, but, after she had paid a compliment to the old lady’s flowers, the latter had rather diffidently asked her to enter the garden for a closer view. Alice had hesitated, and the old lady had said “Don’t be afraid of me, my dear, I like to see young ladies about me and my husband finds their society quite necessary to him.” After a pause she went on: “Of course nobody has told you about us. My husband is Colonel Paxton, late of the Indian Army, and we have been here for many, many years. It’s rather lonely, for so few people ever see us. Do come in and meet the Colonel.”

“I hope you didn’t go in,” said Maggie rather sharply.

“Why not?” replied Alice.

“Well, I don’t like Mrs. Paxton asking you in that way,” answered Maggie. “I don’t see what harm there was in the invitation,” said Alice.

“I didn’t go in because it was getting late and I was anxious to get home; but—”

“But what?” asked Maggie.

Alice shrugged her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “I have accepted Mrs. Paxton’s invitation to pay her a little visit tomorrow.” And she gazed defiantly at Maggie.

Maggie became distinctly uneasy on hearing of this resolution. She did not like the idea of her impulsive sister visiting people on such slight acquaintance, especially as they had never heard them mentioned before. She endeavoured by all means, short of appealing to Mr. Maydew, to dissuade her sister from going, at any rate until there had been time to make some inquiries as to the Paxtons. Alice, however, was obdurate.

What harm could happen to her? she asked. Mrs. Paxton was a charming old lady. She was going early in the afternoon for a short visit. She would be back for tea and croquet with her father and, anyway, now that Maggie was laid up, long solitary walks were unendurable and she was not going to let slip the chance of following up what promised to be a pleasant acquaintance.

Maggie could do nothing more. Her ankle was better and she was able to get down to the garden and sit in a long chair near her father, but walking was still quite out of the question, and it was with some misgivings that on the following day she watched Alice depart gaily for her visit, promising to be back by half-past four at the very latest.

The afternoon passed quietly till nearly five, when Mr. Maydew, looking up from his book, noticed Maggie’s uneasy expression and asked:

“Where is Alice?”

“Out for a walk,” replied Maggie; and then after a short pause she went on: “And she has also gone to pay a call on some neighbours whom she has recently discovered.”

“Neighbours,” ejaculated Mr. Maydew, “what neighbours? Mr. Roberts never spoke of any neighbours to me.”

“Well, I don’t know much about them,” answered Maggie. “Only Alice and I were out walking the day of my accident and saw or at least she saw, for I am so blind I could not quite make it out, a house in Brickett Bottom. The next day she went to look at it closer, and yesterday she told me that she had made the acquaintance of the people living in it. She says that they are a retired Indian officer and his wife, a Colonel and Mrs. Paxton, and Alice describes Mrs. Paxton as a charming old lady, who pressed her to come and see them. So she has gone this afternoon, but she promised me she would be back long before this.”

Mr. Maydew was silent for a moment and then said:

“I am not well pleased about this. Alice should not be so impulsive and scrape acquaintance with absolutely unknown people. Had there been nice neighbours in Brickett Bottom, I am certain Mr. Roberts would have told us.”

The conversation dropped; but both father and daughter were disturbed and uneasy and, tea having been finished and the clock striking half-past five, Mr. Maydew asked Maggie:

“When did you say Alice would be back?”

“Before half-past four at the latest, father.”

“Well, what can she be doing? What can have delayed her? You say you did not see the house,” he went on.

“No,” said Maggie, “I cannot say I did. It was getting dark and you know how short-sighted I am.”

“But surely you must have seen it at some other time,” said her father.

“That is the strangest part of the whole affair,” answered Maggie. “We have often walked up the Bottom, but I never noticed the house, nor had Alice till that evening. I wonder,” she went on after a short pause, “if it would not be well to ask Smith to harness the pony and drive over to bring her back. I am not happy about her — I am afraid—”

“Afraid of what?” said her father in the irritated voice of a man who is growing frightened. “What can have gone wrong in this quiet place? Still, I’ll send Smith over for her.”

So saying he rose from his chair and sought out Smith, the rather dull-witted gardener-groom attached to Mr. Roberts’ service.

“Smith,” he said, “I want you to harness the pony at once and go over to Colonel Paxton’s in Brickett Bottom and bring Miss Maydew home.”

The man stared at him.

“Go where, sir?” he said.

Mr. Maydew repeated the order and the man, still staring stupidly, answered: “I never heard of Colonel Paxton, sir. I don’t know what house you mean.” Mr. Maydew was now growing really anxious.

“Well, harness the pony at once,” he said; and going back to Maggie he told her of what he called Smith’s stupidity, and asked her if she felt that her ankle would be strong enough to permit her to go with him and Smith to the Bottom to point out the house.

Maggie agreed readily and in a few minutes the party started off. Brickett Bottom, although not more than three-quarters of a mile away over the Downs, was at least three miles by road; and as it was nearly six o’clock before Mr. Maydew left the Vicarage, and the pony was old and slow, it was getting late before the entrance to Brickett Bottom was reached. Turning into the lane the cart proceeded slowly up the Bottom, Mr. Maydew and Maggie looking anxiously from side to side, whilst Smith drove stolidly on looking neither to the right nor left.

“Where is the house?” said Mr. Maydew presently.

“At the bend of the road,” answered Maggie, her heart sickening as she looked out through the failing light to see the trees stretching their ranks in unbroken formation along it. The cart reached the bend. “It should be here,” whispered Maggie.

They pulled up. Just in front of them the road bent to the right round a tongue of land, which, unlike the rest of the right hand side of the road, was free from trees and was covered only by rough grass and stray bushes. A closer inspection disclosed evident signs of terraces having once been formed on it, but of a house there was no trace.

“Is this the place?” said Mr. Maydew in a low voice.

Maggie nodded.

“But there is no house here,” said her father. “What does it all mean? Are you sure of yourself, Maggie? Where is Alice?”

Before Maggie could answer a voice was heard calling “Father! Maggie!” The sound of the voice was thin and high and, paradoxically, it sounded both very near and yet as if it came from some infinite distance. The cry was thrice repeated and then silence fell. Mr. Maydew and Maggie stared at each other.

“That was Alice’s voice,” said Mr. Maydew huskily, “she is near and in trouble, and is calling us. Which way did you think it came from, Smith?” he added, turning to the gardener.

“I didn’t hear anybody calling,” said the man. “Nonsense!” answered Mr. Maydew.

And then he and Maggie both began to call “Alice. Alice. Where are you?” There was no reply and Mr. Maydew sprang from the cart, at the same time bidding Smith to hand the reins to Maggie and come and search for the missing girl. Smith obeyed him and both men, scrambling up the turfy bit of ground, began to search and call through the neighbouring wood. They heard and saw nothing, however, and after an agonised search Mr. Maydew ran down to the cart and begged Maggie to drive on to Blaise’s Farm for help leaving himself and Smith to continue the search. Maggie followed her father’s instructions and was fortunate enough to find Mr. Rumbold, the farmer, his two sons and a couple of labourers just returning from the harvest field. She explained what had happened, and the farmer and his men promptly volunteered to form a search party, though Maggie, in spite of her anxiety, noticed a queer expression on Mr. Rumbold’s face as she told him her tale.

The party, provided with lanterns, now went down the Bottom, joined Mr. Maydew and Smith and made an exhaustive but absolutely fruitless search of the woods near the bend of the road. No trace of the missing girl was to be found, and after a long and anxious time the search was abandoned, one of the young Rumbolds volunteering to ride into the nearest town and notify the police.

Maggie, though with little hope in her own heart, endeavoured to cheer her father on their homeward way with the idea that Alice might have returned to Overbury over the Downs whilst they were going by road to the Bottom, and that she had seen them and called to them in jest when they were opposite the tongue of land.

However, when they reached home there was no Alice and, though the next day the search was resumed and full inquiries were instituted by the police, all was to no purpose. No trace of Alice was ever found, the last human being that saw her having been an old woman, who had met her going down the path into the Bottom on the afternoon of her disappearance, and who described her as smiling but looking “queerlike.”

This is the end of the story, but the following may throw some light upon it.

The history of Alice’s mysterious disappearance became widely known through the medium of the Press and Mr. Roberts, distressed beyond measure at what had taken place, returned in all haste to Overbury to offer what comfort and help he could give to his afflicted friend and tenant. He called upon the Maydews and, having heard their tale, sat for a short time in silence. Then he said:

“Have you ever heard any local gossip concerning this Colonel and Mrs. Paxton?”

“No,” replied Mr. Maydew, “I never heard their names until the day of my poor daughter’s fatal visit.”

“Well,” said Mr. Roberts, “I will tell you all I can about them, which is not very much, I fear.” He paused and then went on: “I am now nearly seventy-five years old, and for nearly seventy years no house has stood in Brickett Bottom. But when I was a child of about five there was an old-fashioned, red brick house standing in a garden at the bend of the road, such as you have described. It was owned and lived in by a retired Indian soldier and his wife, a Colonel and Mrs. Paxton. At the time I speak of, certain events having taken place at the house and the old couple having died, it was sold by their heirs to Lord Carew, who shortly after pulled it down on the ground that it interfered with his shooting. Colonel and Mrs. Paxton were well known to my father, who was the clergyman here before me, and to the neighbourhood in general. They lived quietly and were not unpopular, but the Colonel was supposed to possess a violent and vindictive temper. Their family consisted only of themselves, their daughter and a couple of servants, the Colonel’s old Army servant and his Eurasian wife. Well, I cannot tell you details of what happened, I was only a child; my father never liked gossip and in later years, when he talked to me on the subject, he always avoided any appearance of exaggeration or sensationalism. However, it is known that Miss Paxton fell in love with and became engaged to a young man to whom her parents took a strong dislike. They used every possible means to break off the match, and many rumours were set on foot as to their conduct — undue influence, even cruelty were charged against them. I do not know the truth, all I can say is that Miss Paxton died and a very bitter feeling against her parents sprang up. My father, however, continued to call, but was rarely admitted. In fact, he never saw Colonel Paxton after his daughter’s death and only saw Mrs. Paxton once or twice. He described her as an utterly broken woman, and was not surprised at her following her daughter to the grave in about three months’ time. Colonel Paxton became, if possible, more of a recluse than ever after his wife’s death and himself died not more than a month after her under circumstances which pointed to suicide. Again a crop of rumours sprang up, but there was no one in particular to take action, the doctor certified Death from Natural Causes, and Colonel Paxton, like his wife and daughter, was buried in this churchyard. The property passed to a distant relative, who came down to it for one night shortly afterwards; he never came again, having apparently conceived a violent dislike to the place, but arranged to pension off the servants and then sold the house to Lord Carew, who was glad to purchase this little island in the middle of his property. He pulled it down soon after he had bought it, and the garden was left to relapse into a wilderness.”

Mr. Roberts paused. “Those are all the facts,” he added.

“But there is something more,” said Maggie.

Mr. Roberts hesitated for a while. “You have a right to know all,” he said almost to himself; then louder he continued: “What I am now going to tell you is really rumour, vague and uncertain; I cannot fathom its truth or its meaning. About five years after the house had been pulled down a young maidservant at Carew Court was out walking one afternoon. She was a stranger to the village and a newcomer to the Court. On returning home to tea she told her fellow-servants that as she walked down Brickett Bottom, which place she described clearly, she passed a red brick house at the bend of the road and that a kind-faced old lady had asked her to step in for a while. She did not go in, not because she had any suspicions of there being anything uncanny, but simply because she feared to be late for tea.

“I do not think she ever visited the Bottom again and she had no other similar experience, so far as I am aware.

“Two or three years later, shortly after my father’s death, a travelling tinker with his wife and daughter camped for the night at the foot of the Bottom. The girl strolled away up the glen to gather blackberries and was never seen or heard of again. She was searched for in vain — of course, one does not know the truth — and she may have run away voluntarily from her parents, although there was no known cause for her doing so.

“That,” concluded Mr. Roberts, “is all I can tell you of either facts or rumours; all that I can now do is to pray for you and for her.”

THE ASTROLOGER’S LEGACY

Roger Pater

1923

26 May, St. Philip’s feast, is the squire’s birthday, and every year he celebrates the day by giving a little dinner party to a few very intimate friends. But, as he says, rather sadly, “I have outlived most of my generation;” and, for some years past, the whole number, including the host and a guest or two who may be staying at the Hall, has seldom reached as many as ten.

On the first birthday for which I was present there were only half a dozen of us in all at the dinner. These were, first, Father Bertrand, an English Dominican Friar, and one of the squire’s oldest friends, who usually spent some weeks with him every summer. Second, Sir John Gervase, a local baronet and antiquarian, who, besides being an F.S.A., and one of the greatest living authorities on stained glass, was also one of the few Catholic gentry in the neighbourhood of Stanton Rivers. The third was Herr Aufrecht, a German professor, who had come to England to study some manuscripts in the British Museum, and had brought a letter of introduction from a common friend in Munich. Fourth, there was the rector of the next parish, who had been a Fellow of one of the colleges at Cambridge for most of his life, but had accepted the living, which was in the gift of his college, a few years previously, and had since become very intimate with the old squire, who, with myself, completed the number.

The mansion of Stanton Rivers is built round a little quadrangle, of which the servants’ quarters and kitchen occupy the north side, the dining-room being at the north end of the west wing. When we are alone, however, the squire has all meals served in the morning-room; a small, cheerful apartment on the east side of the house, with dull, ivory-coloured walls, hung with exquisite old French pastels, and furnished entirely with Chippendale furniture, designed expressly for the squire’s grandfather by the famous cabinet-maker; the original contract and bills for which are preserved in the family archives.

The birthday dinner, however, as befits an “institution”, is always served in the dining-room proper, which is approached through the beautiful long apartment, stretching the whole length of the west wing, which the squire has made into the library. The dining-room is large and finely proportioned, and has its original Jacobean decoration, the walls being panelled in dark oak, with a carved cornice and plaster ceiling delicately moulded with a strapwork design, in which the cockle shells of the Rivers escutcheon are repeated again and again in combination with the leopards’ heads of Stanton. The broad, deep fireplace has polished steel “dogs” instead of a grate, and above it is a carved overmantel reaching to the ceiling, and emblazoned with all the quarterings the united families can boast, with their two mottoes, which combine so happily. Sans Dieu rien and Garde ta Foy [Without God nothing and Keep your faith].

I think the squire would prefer not to use the dining-room even for his birthday dinner, but he hasn’t the heart to sadden Avison, the butler, by suggesting this. Indeed, the occasion is Avison’s annual opportunity, and he glories in decking out the table with the finest things the house possesses in the way of family plate, glass, and china: while Mrs. Parkin, the cook, and Saunders, the gardener, in their respective capacities, second his efforts with the utmost zeal.

The evening was an exquisite one, and we sat in the library talking and watching the changing effects of the fading lights as they played on the garden before the windows, until Avison threw open the folding doors and announced that dinner was served. Hitherto I had only seen the room in dSshabille, and it was quite a surprise to see how beautiful it now looked. The dark panelling, reflecting the warm sunset glow which came in through the broad mullioned windows, formed a perfect background to the dinner-table, with its shaded candles, delicate flowers, and gleams of light from glass and plate: and I felt that Avison’s effort was really an artistic triumph. The same thought, I fancy, struck the rest of the guests, for no sooner had Father Bertrand said grace than Sir John burst out in admiration:

“My dear squire, what exquisite things you do possess! Someday I shall come and commit a burglary on you. Your glass and silver are a positive temptation.”

The host smiled, but I noticed that his eyes were fixed on the centre of the table, and that the eyelids were slightly drawn down, an expression I had learned to recognize as a sign of annoyance, carefully controlled. Following his gaze, I glanced at the table-centre, but before I could decide what it was, the German professor, who was sitting next me, broke out in a genial roar:

“Mein Gott, Herr Pater, but what is this?” and he pointed to the exquisite piece of plate in the centre of the table.

“We call it the Cellini fountain, Herr Aufrecht,” answered the squire, “though it is certainly not a fountain, but a rose-water dish, and I can give you very little evidence that it is really Cellini’s work.”

“Effidence,” exclaimed the German — “it has its own effidence. What more want you? None but Benvenuto could broduce such a one. But how did you come to possess it?”

There was no doubt about the eyelids now, and I feared the other guests would notice their host’s annoyance, but the squire controlled his voice perfectly as he answered:

“Oh, it has been in the family for more than three centuries; Sir Hubert Rivers, the ancestor whose portrait hangs at the foot of the stairs, is believed to have brought it back from Italy.”

I thought I could guess the cause of his annoyance now, for the ancestor in question had possessed a most unenviable reputation, and, by a strange trick of heredity, the squire’s features were practically a reproduction of Sir Hubert’s — a fact which was a source of no little secret chagrin to the saintly old priest. Fortunately, at this point, the rector turned the conversation down another channel; Herr Aufrecht did not pursue the subject further, and the squire’s eyelids soon regained their normal elevation.

As the meal advanced the German came out as quite a brilliant talker, and the conversational ball was kept up so busily between Father Bertrand, the rector, and himself that the other three of us had little to do but listen and be entertained. A good deal of the talk was above my head, however, and during these periods my attention came back to the great rose-water dish which shone and glittered in the centre of the table.

In the first place I had never seen it before, which struck me as a little odd, for Avison had discovered my enthusiasm for old silver, and so had taken me to the pantry and displayed all the plate for my benefit. However, I concluded that so valuable a piece was probably put away in the strong-room, which would account for its not appearing with the rest.

What puzzled me more was the unusual character of the design, for every curve and line of the beautiful piece seemed purposely arranged to concentrate the attention on a large globe of rock crystal, which formed the centre and summit of the whole. The actual basin, filled with rose-water, extended beneath this ball, which was supported by four exquisite silver figures, and the constant play of reflected lights between the water and the crystal was so fascinating that I wondered the idea had never been repeated; yet, so far as my knowledge went, the design was unique.

Seated as I was, at the foot of the table, I faced the squire, and after a while I noticed that he, too, had dropped out of the conversation, and had his gaze fixed on the crystal globe. All at once his eyes dilated and his lips parted quickly, as if in surprise, while his gaze became concentrated with an intensity that startled me. This lasted for fully a minute, and then Avison happened to take away his plate. The distraction evidently broke the spell, whatever it was, for he began to talk again, and, as it seemed to me, kept his eyes carefully away from the crystal during the rest of the meal.

After we had drunk the squire’s health, we retired to the library, where Avison brought us coffee, and about ten o’clock Sir John’s carriage was announced. He had promised to give the rector a lift home, so the two of them soon departed together, and only the professor and Father Bertrand were left with the squire and myself. I felt a little afraid lest Herr Aufrecht should return to the subject of the Cellini fountain, but to my surprise, as soon as the other two were gone, the squire himself brought up the subject, which I thought he wished to avoid.

“You seemed interested in the rose-water fountain, Herr Aufrecht,” he remarked, “would you like to examine it now that the others are gone?”

The German beamed with delight, and accepted the proposal volubly, while the squire rang the bell for Avison, and ordered him to bring the Cellini fountain to the library for Herr Aufrecht to see. The butler looked almost as pleased as the professor, and in a minute the splendid piece of plate was placed on a small table, arranged in the full light of a big shaded lamp.

The professor’s flow of talk stopped abruptly as the conversationalist gave place to the connoisseur. Seating himself beside the little table, he produced a pocket lens, and proceeded to examine every part of the fountain with minute care, turning it slowly round as he did so. For fully five minutes he sat in silence, absorbed in his examination, and I noticed that his attention returned continually to the great crystal globe, supported by the four lovely figures, which formed the summit of the whole. Then he leaned back in his chair and delivered his opinion.

“It is undoubtedly by Cellini,” he said, “and yet the schema is not like him. I think the patron for whom he laboured did compel him thus to fashion it. That great crystal ball at top — no, it is not what Benvenuto would do of himself. Thing you not so?” and he turned to the squire with a look of interrogation.

“I will tell you all I know about it in a minute, professor,” answered the old priest, “but first please explain to me why you think Cellini was not left free in the design.”

“Ach so,” replied the German, “it is the crystal globe. He is too obvious, too assertive; how is it you say in English, he ‘hit you in the eye’. You haf read the Memoirs of Benvenuto?”

The squire nodded.

“Ach, then you must see it, yourself. Do you not remember the great morse he make, the cope-clasp for Clemens septimus? The Pope show to him his great diamond, and demand a model for a clasp with it set therein. The other artists, all of them, did make the diamond the centre of the whole design. But Cellini? No. He put him at the feet of God the Father, so that the lustre of the great gem would set off all the work, but should not dominate the whole, for ars est celare artem [the art is to hide the art]. Now here,” and he laid his hand upon the crystal globe, “here it is otherwise.

“These statuettes, they are perfection, in efery way they are worth far more than is the crystal. Yet, the great ball, he crush them, he kill them. You see him first, last, all the time. No, he is there for a purpose, but the purpose is not that of the design, not an artistic purpose, no. I am sure of it, he is there for use.”

As he finished speaking, he turned quickly towards the squire, and looked up at him with an air of conviction. I followed his example, and saw the old priest smiling quietly with an expression of admiration and agreement.

“You are perfectly right, professor,” he said quietly, “the crystal was put there with a purpose, at least so I firmly believe; and I expect you can tell us also what the purpose was.”

“No, no, Herr Pater,” answered the other. “If you know the reason, why make I guesses at it? Better you should tell us all about it, is it not so?”

“Very well,” replied the squire, and he seated himself beside the little table. Father Bertrand and myself did the same, and when we were all settled, he turned to the professor and began:

•   •   •

“I mentioned at dinner that this piece of plate was brought from Italy by Sir Hubert Rivers, and, first of all, I must tell you something about him. He was born about the year 1500, and lived to be over ninety years old, so his life practically coincides with the sixteenth century. His father died soon after Hubert came of age, and he thus became a person of some importance while still quite young. He was knighted by Henry VIII a year or two later, and soon afterwards was sent to Rome in the train of the English Ambassador.

“There his brilliant parts attracted attention, and he soon abandoned his diplomatic position to become a member of the Papal entourage, though without any official position. When the breach between Henry and the Pope took place, he attached himself to the suite of the Imperial Ambassador, thus avoiding any trouble with his own sovereign, who could not afford to quarrel still further with the Emperor, as well as any awkward questions as to his religious opinions.

“Of his life in Rome I can tell you practically nothing, but if tradition be true, he was a typical son of the Renaissance. He played with art, literature, and politics; and he more than played with astrology and the black arts, being, in fact, a member of the famous, or infamous, Academy. You may remember how that institution, which was founded in the fifteenth century by the notorious Pomponio Leto, used to hold its meetings in one of the catacombs. Under Paul II the members were arrested and tried for heresy, but nothing could be actually proved against them, and afterwards they were supposed by their contemporaries to have reformed. We know now that in reality things went from bad to worse. The study of paganism led them on to the worship of Satan, and eventually suspicion was again aroused, and a further investigation ordered.

“Sir Hubert got wind of this in time, however, so he availed himself of his position in the household of the Imperial Ambassador, and quietly retired to Naples. There he lived till he was over eighty, and no one in England ever expected him to return. But he did so, bringing with him a great store of books and manuscripts, some pictures, and this piece of plate; and he died and was buried here in the last decade of the sixteenth century.

“His nephew, who came in for the estates on his death, was a devout Catholic, and had been educated at St. Omers. He made short work with Sir Hubert’s manuscripts, most of which he burned, as being heretical or worse, but he spared one volume, which contains an inventory of the things brought from Naples. Among the items mentioned is this fountain. In fact, it has a whole page to itself, with a little sketch and a note of its attribution to Cellini, besides some other words, which I have never been able to make out. But I think it is clear that the crystal was used for evil purposes, and that is why I dislike seeing it on the table. If Avison had asked me, I should have forbidden him to produce it.”

•   •   •

“Then I am very glad he did not ask you, mein Herr,” observed the German, bluntly, “for I should not then have seen him. But this inventory you speak of, is it permitted that I study it?”

“Certainly, Herr Aufrecht,” replied the squire, and walking to one of the bookcases, he unlocked the glass doors and took out a small volume, bound in faded red leather with gilt ornaments.

“This is the book,” he said; “I will find you the page with the sketch,” and a minute later he handed the volume to the professor. I glanced across and saw a little drawing, unquestionably depicting the piece of plate before us, with some lines of writing beneath; the whole in faded ink, almost the colour of rust.

The professor’s lens came out again and, with its aid, he read out the description beneath the picture.

“‘Item. Vasculum argenteum, crystallo ornatum in quattuor statuas imposito. Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi. Quo crystallo Roma in ritibus nostris pontifex noster Pomponius olim uti solebat.’”

(Item. A vessel of silver, adorned with a crystal supported on four statuettes. The work of Benvenuto, most famous of goldsmiths. This crystal our Pontiff Pomponius was wont to use in our rites at Rome in days gone by.)

“Well, that sounds conclusive enough,” said Father Bertrand, who had been listening intently. “Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi, could only mean Cellini; and the last sentence certainly sounds very suspicious, though it doesn’t give one much to go upon as to the use made of the crystal.”

“But there is more yet,” broke in Herr Aufrecht, “it is in another script and much fainter.” He peered into the page with eyes screwed up, and then exclaimed in surprise, “Why, it is Greek!”

“Indeed,” said the squire, with interest, “that accounts for my failure to read it. I’m afraid I forgot all the Greek I ever knew as soon as I left school.”

Meanwhile the professor had produced his pocket-book, and was jotting down the words as he deciphered them, while Father Bertrand and myself took the opportunity to examine the work on the little plaques which adorned the base of the fountain.

“I haf him all now,” announced Herr Aufrecht, triumphantly, after a few minutes. “Listen and I will translate him to you,” and after a little hesitation he read out the following:

In the globe all truth is recorded, of the present, the past and the future.

To him that shall gaze it is shown; whosoever shall seek he shall find. O Lucifer, star of the morn, give ear to the voice of thy servant,

Enter and dwell in my heart, who adore thee as master and lord.

Fabius Britannicus.

“Fabius Britannicus,” exclaimed the squire, as the professor ceased reading, “why, those are the words on the base of the pagan altar in the background of Sir Hubert’s portrait!”

“I doubt not he was named Fabius Britannicus in the Academia,” answered the German; “all the members thereof did receive classical names in place of their own.”

“It must be that,” said the squire; “so he really was a worshipper of Satan. No wonder tradition paints him in such dark colours. But, why — of course,” he burst out, “I see it all now, that explains everything.”

We all looked up, surprised at his vehemence, but he kept silent, until Father Bertrand said gently:

“I think, Philip, you can tell us something more about all this; will you not do so? ”

The old man hesitated for a little while and then answered: “Very well, if you wish it, you shall hear the story; but I must ask you to excuse me giving you the name. Although the principal actor in it has been dead many years now, I would rather keep his identity secret.

•   •   •

“When I was still quite a young man, and before I decided to take orders, I made friends in London with a man who was a spiritualist. He was on terms of intimacy with Home, the medium, and he himself possessed considerable gifts in the same direction. He often pressed me to attend some of their seances, which I always refused to do, but our relations remained quite friendly, and at length he came down here on a visit to Stanton Rivers.

“The man was a journalist by profession, a critic and writer on matters artistic, so one evening, although we were quite alone at dinner, I told the butler, Avison’s predecessor, to put out the Cellini fountain for him to see. I did not warn him what to expect, as I wanted to get his unbiased opinion, but the moment he set eyes on it, he burst out in admiration, and, like our friend the professor tonight, he pronounced it to be unquestionably by Benvenuto himself.

“I said it was always believed to be his work, but purposely told him nothing about Sir Hubert, or my suspicions as to the original use of the crystal, and he did not question me about its history. As the meal advanced, however, he became curiously silent and self-absorbed. Sometimes I had to repeat what I was saying two or three times before he grasped the point; and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, so that it was a real relief when the butler put the decanters on the table and left us to ourselves.

“My friend was sitting on my right, at the side of the table, so that we could talk to each other more easily, and I noticed that he kept his gaze fixed on the fountain in front of him. After all it was a very natural thing for him to do, and at first I did not connect his silence and distraction with the piece of plate.

“All at once he leaned forward until his eyes were not two feet away from the great crystal globe, into which he gazed with the deepest attention, as if fascinated. It is difficult to convey to you how intense and concentrated his manner became. It was as if he looked right into the heart of the globe — not at it, if you understand, but at something inside it, something beneath the surface, and that something of a compelling, absorbing nature which engrossed every fibre of his being in one act of profound attention.

“For a minute or two he sat like this in perfect silence, and I noticed the sweat beginning to stand out on his forehead, while his breath came audibly between his lips, under the strain. Then, all at once, I felt I must do something, and without stopping to deliberate I said in a loud tone, ‘I command you to tell me what it is you see.’

“As I spoke, a kind of shiver ran through his frame, but his eyes never moved from the crystal ball. Then his lips moved, and after some seconds came a faint whisper, uttered as if with extreme difficulty, and what he said was something like this:

“‘There is a low, flat arch, with a kind of slab beneath it, and a picture at the back. There is a cloth on the slab, and on the cloth a tall gold cup, and lying in front of it is a thin white disc. By the side is a monster, like a huge toad,’ and he shuddered, ‘but it is much too big to be a toad. It glistens, and its eyes have a cruel light in them. Oh, it is horrible!’ Then all at once the voice leaped to a shrill note, and he spoke very rapidly, as if the scene were changing quicker than he could describe it.

“‘The man in front — the one with a cross on the back of his cloak — is holding a dagger in his hand. He raises it and strikes at the white disc. He has pierced it with the dagger. It bleeds! The white cloth beneath it is all red with blood. But the monster — some of the blood has fallen upon it as it spurted out, and the toad is writhing now as if in agony. Ah! it leaps down from the slab, it is gone. All present rise up in confusion; there is a tumult. They rush away down the dark passages. Only one remains, the man with the cross on his back. He is lying insensible upon the ground. On the slab still stands the gold cup and white disc with the bloodstained cloth, and the picture behind and the voice sank to an inaudible whisper, as if the speaker were exhausted.

“Almost without thinking, I put a question to him before the sight should fade entirely. ‘The picture, what is it like?’ But instead of answering he merely whispered ‘Irene, da calda,’ and fell back as if exhausted in his chair.”

•   •   •

There was silence for a few moments.

“And your friend, the spiritualist,” began Father Bertrand, “could he tell you nothing more of what he saw?”

“I did not ask him,” answered the old priest, “for, when he came to himself, he seemed quite ignorant of what he had told me during his trance. But, some years afterwards, I got some further light on the incident, and that in quite an unexpected way. Just wait a minute, and I will show you what I believe to be the picture he saw at the back of the niche!” And the old man walked to one of the bookcases and selected a large folio volume.

“The picture I am going to show you is an exact copy of one of the frescoes in the catacombs of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, where I came upon it, quite unexpectedly, during my period in Rome as a student; it has been reproduced since by Lanciani in one of his books. Ah, here it is,” and he laid the album on the table.

There, before us, was a copy of an undeniable catacomb fresco depicting an “agape” or love-feast! a group of figures symbolical both of the Last Supper and the communion of the elect. Above it were the contemporary inscriptions, “irene da calda” and “agape misce mi”, while round about were scrawled, in characters evidently much more recent, a number of names: “POMPONIUS, FABIANUS, RUFFUS, LETUS, VOLSCUS, FABIUS” and others, all of them members of the notorious Academy. There they had written them in charcoal, and there they still remain today, as evidence how the innermost recesses of a Christian catacomb were profaned, and the cult of Satan practised there, by the neo-pagans of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

We sat looking at the picture in silence for a minute or so, and then Herr Aufrecht turned to the Dominican.

“Fra Bertrand,” he said, “you are Master in Theologia, what is your opinion of all this? ”

The friar hesitated for a moment before he answered.

“Well, Herr Aufrecht,” he said at length, “the Church has never ceased to teach the possibility of diabolical possession, and for my part I see no reason why a thing,” and he pointed to the crystal, “should not become ‘possessed’ in much the same way as a person can. But if you ask my opinion on the practical side of the question, I should say that, since Father Philip here cannot legally part with his heirloom, he certainly acts wisely in keeping it under lock and key.”