A Book of Ghosts: 22
Author: Various authors
Date: 1836-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Ghost Stories; Supernatural Fiction; Weird Fiction; Horror
Description: A collection of thirteen stories of the uncanny and the macabre by various anonymous authors, compiled by ECM.
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less, and in the USA

A BOOK OF GHOSTS
– 22 –

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 1837 ~ 1928. This book is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS:

- The Were-wolf
–1837
by H. B. Marryatt
(1792–1848)

- The Last House in C—— Street
–1856
by Dinah Mulock (Mrs Craik)
(1826–1887)

- To Be Taken with a Grain of Salt
–1865
by Charles Dickens
(1812–1870)

- Not to Be Taken at Bed-time
–1865
by Rosa Mulholland
(1841–1921)

- No Living Voice
–1872
by Thomas Street Millington
(1821–1906)

- The Story of the Rippling Train
–1887
by Mary Louisa Molesworth
(1839–1921)

- The Nameless Village
–1896
by J. E. Thomas
(?–?)

- Jerry Bundler
–1897
by W. W.Jacobs
(1863–1943)

- The Case of Vincent Pyrwhit
–1901
by Barry Pain
(1865–1928)

- A Professor of Egyptology
–1904
by Guy Boothby
(1867–1905)

- The Eternity of Forms
–1911
by Jack London
(1876–1916)

- A School Story
–1911
by M. R. James
(1862–1936)

- Mr. Jones
–1928
by Edith Wharton
(1862–1937)

THE WERE-WOLF

H. B. Marryatt

1837

My father was not born, or originally a resident, in the Hartz Mountains; he was the serf of an Hungarian nobleman, of great possessions, in Transylvania; but, although a serf, he was not by any means a poor or illiterate man. In fact, he was rich, and his intelligence and respectability were such, that he had been raised by his lord to the stewardship; but, whoever may happen to be born a serf, a serf must he remain, even though he become a wealthy man; such was the condition of my father. My father had been married for about five years; and, by his marriage, had three children — my eldest brother Caesar, myself (Hermann), and a sister named Marcella. Latin is still the language spoken in that country; and that will account for our high-sounding names. My mother was a very beautiful woman, unfortunately more beautiful than virtuous: she was seen and admired by the lord of the soil; my father was sent away upon some mission; and, during his absence, my mother, flattered by the attentions, and won by the assiduities, of this nobleman, yielded to his wishes. It so happened that my father returned very unexpectedly, and discovered the intrigue. The evidence of my mother’s shame was positive: he surprised her in the company of her seducer! Carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he watched the opportunity of a meeting taking place between them, and murdered both his wife and her seducer. Conscious that, as a serf, not even the provocation which he had received would be allowed as a justification of his conduct, he hastily collected together what money he could lay his hands upon, and, as we were then in the depth of winter, he put his horses to the sleigh, and taking his children with him, he set off in the middle of the night, and was far away before the tragic circumstance had transpired. Aware that he would be pursued, and that he had no chance of escape if he remained in any portion of his native country (in which the authorities could lay hold of him), he continued his flight without intermission until he had buried himself in the intricacies and seclusion of the Hartz Mountains. Of course, all that I have now told you I learned afterwards. My oldest recollections are knit to a rude, yet comfortable cottage, in which I lived with my father, brother, and sister. It was on the confines of one of those vast forests which cover the northern part of Germany; around it were a few acres of ground, which, during the summer months, my father cultivated, and which, though they yielded a doubtful harvest, were sufficient for our support. In the winter we remained much in doors, for, as my father followed the chase, we were left alone, and the wolves, during that season, incessantly prowled about. My father had purchased the cottage, and land about it, of one of the rude foresters, who gain their livelihood partly by hunting, and partly by burning charcoal, for the purpose of smelting the ore from the neighbouring mines; it was distant about two miles from any other habitation. I can call to mind the whole landscape now: the tall pines which rose up on the mountain above us, and the wide expanse of forest beneath, on the topmost boughs and heads of whose trees we looked down from our cottage, as the mountain below us rapidly descended into the distant valley. In summer time the prospect was beautiful; but during the severe winter, a more desolate scene could not well be imagined.

I said that, in the winter, my father occupied himself with the chase; every day he left us, and often would he lock the door, that we might not leave the cottage. He had no one to assist him, or to take care of us — indeed, it was not easy to find a female servant who would live in such a solitude; but, could he have found one, my father would not have received her, for he had imbibed a horror of the sex, as a difference of his conduct toward us, his two boys, and my poor little sister, Marcella, evidently proved. You may suppose we were sadly neglected; indeed, we suffered much, for my father, fearful that we might come to some harm, would not allow us fuel, when he left the cottage; and we were obliged, therefore, to creep under the heaps of bears’-skins, and there to keep ourselves as warm as we could until he returned in the evening, when a blazing fire was our delight. That my father chose this restless sort of life may appear strange, but the fact was that he could not remain quiet; whether from remorse for having committed murder, or from the misery consequent on his change of situation, or from both combined, he was never happy unless he was in a state of activity. Children, however, when left much to themselves, acquire a thoughtfulness not common to their age. So it was with us; and during the short cold days of winter we would sit silent, longing for the happy hours when the snow would melt, and the leaves burst out, and the birds begin their songs, and when we should again be set at liberty.

Such was our peculiar and savage sort of life until my brother Caesar was nine, myself seven, and my sister five, years old, when the circumstances occurred on which is based the extraordinary narrative which I am about to relate.

One evening my father returned home rather later than usual; he had been unsuccessful, and, as the weather was very severe, and many feet of snow were upon the ground, he was not only very cold, but in a very bad humour. He had brought in wood, and we were all three of us gladly assisting each other in blowing on the embers to create the blaze, when he caught poor little Marcella by the arm and threw her aside; the child fell, struck her mouth, and bled very much. My brother ran to raise her up. Accustomed to ill usage, and afraid of my father, she did not dare to cry, but looked up in his face very piteously. My father drew his stool nearer to the hearth, muttered something in abuse of women, and busied himself with the fire, which both my brother and I had deserted when our sister was so unkindly treated. A cheerful blaze was soon the result of his exertions; but we did not, as usual, crowd round it. Marcella, still bleeding, retired to a corner, and my brother and I took our seats beside her, while my father hung over the fire gloomily and alone. Such had been our position for about half-an-hour, when the howl of a wolf, close under the window of the cottage, fell on our ears. My father started up, and seized his gun; the howl was repeated, he examined the priming, and then hastily left the cottage, shutting the door after him. We all waited (anxiously listening), for we thought that if he succeeded in shooting the wolf, he would return in a better humour; and although he was harsh to all of us, and particularly so to our little sister, still we loved our father, and loved to see him cheerful and happy, for what else had we to look up to? And I may here observe, that perhaps there never were three children who were fonder of each other; we did not, like other children, fight and dispute together; and if, by chance, any disagreement did arise between my elder brother and me, little Marcella would run to us, and kissing us both, seal, through her entreaties, the peace between us. Marcella was a lovely, amiable child; I can recall her beautiful features even now — Alas! poor little Marcella.

We waited for some time, but the report of the gun did not reach us, and my elder brother then said, “Our father has followed the wolf, and will not be back for some time. Marcella, let us wash the blood from your mouth, and then we will leave this corner, and go to the fire and warm ourselves.”

We did so, and remained there until near midnight, every minute wondering, as it grew later, why our father did not return. We had no idea that he was in any danger, but we thought that he must have chased the wolf for a very long time. “I will look out and see if father is coming,” said my brother Caesar, going to the door. “Take care,” said Marcella, “the wolves must be about now, and we cannot kill them, brother.” My brother opened the door very cautiously, and but a few inches; he peeped out. — “I see nothing,” said he, after a time, and once more he joined us at the fire. “We have had no supper,” said I, for my father usually cooked the meat as soon as he came home; and during his absence we had nothing but the fragments of the preceding day.

“And if our father comes home after his hunt, Caesar,” said Marcella, “he will be pleased to have some supper; let us cook it for him and for ourselves.” Caesar climbed upon the stool, and reached down some meat — I forget now whether it was venison or bear’s meat; but we cut off the usual quantity, and proceeded to dress it, as we used to do under our father’s superintendence. We were all busied putting it into the platters before the fire, to await his coming, when we heard the sound of a horn. We listened — there was a noise outside, and a minute afterwards my father entered, ushering in a young female, and a large dark man in a hunter’s dress.

Perhaps I had better now relate, what was only known to me many years afterwards. When my father had left the cottage, he perceived a large white wolf about thirty yards from him; as soon as the animal saw my father, it retreated slowly, growling and snarling. My father followed; the animal did not run, but always kept at some distance; and my father did not like to fire until he was pretty certain that his ball would take effect: thus they went on for some time, the wolf now leaving my father far behind, and then stopping and snarling defiance at him, and then again, on his approach, setting off at speed.

Anxious to shoot the animal (for the white wolf is very rare), my father continued the pursuit for several hours, during which he continually ascended the mountain.

You must know that there are peculiar spots on those mountains which are supposed, and, as my story will prove, truly supposed, to be inhabited by the evil influences; they are well known to the huntsmen, who invariably avoid them. Now, one of these spots, an open space in the pine forests above us, had been pointed out to my father as dangerous on that account. But, whether he disbelieved these wild stories, or whether, in his eager pursuit of the chase, he disregarded them, I know not; certain, however, it is that he was decoyed by the white wolf to this open space, when the animal appeared to slacken her speed. My father approached, came close up to her, raised his gun to his shoulder, and was about to fire, when the wolf suddenly disappeared. He thought that the snow on the ground must have dazzled his sight, and he let down his gun to look for the beast — but she was gone; how she could have escaped over the clearance, without his seeing her, was beyond his comprehension. Mortified at the ill success of his chase, he was about to retrace his steps, when he heard the distant sound of a horn. Astonishment at such a sound — at such an hour — in such a wilderness, made him forget for the moment his disappointment, and he remained riveted to the spot. In a minute the horn was blown a second time, and at no great distance; my father stood still, and listened: a third time it was blown. I forget the term used to express it, but it was the signal which, my father well knew, implied that the party was lost in the woods. In a few minutes more my father beheld a man on horseback, with a female seated on the crupper, enter the cleared space, and ride up to him. At first, my father called to mind the strange stories which he had heard of the supernatural beings who were said to frequent these mountains; but the nearer approach of the parties satisfied him that they were mortals like himself. As soon as they came up to him, the man who guided the horse accosted him.

“Friend Hunter, you are out late, the better fortune for us: we have ridden far, and are in fear of our lives, which are eagerly sought after. These mountains have enabled us to elude our pursuers; but if we find not shelter and refreshment, that will avail us little, as we must perish from hunger and the inclemency of the night. My daughter, who rides behind me, is now more dead than alive — say, can you assist us in our difficulty?”

“My cottage is some few miles distant,” replied my father, “but I have little to offer you besides a shelter from the weather; to the little I have you are welcome. May I ask whence you come?”

“Yes, friend, it is no secret now; we have escaped from Transylvania, where my daughter’s honour and my life were equally in jeopardy!”

This information was quite enough to raise an interest in my father’s heart. He remembered his own escape: he remembered the loss of his wife’s honour, and the tragedy by which it was wound up. He immediately, and warmly, offered all the assistance which he could afford them.

“There is no time to be lost, then, good sir,” observed the horseman; “my daughter is chilled with the frost, and cannot hold out much longer against the severity of the weather.”

“Follow me,” replied my father, leading the way towards his home.

“I was lured away in pursuit of a large white wolf,” observed my father; “it came to the very window of my hut, or I should not have been out at this time of night.”

“The creature passed by us just as we came out of the wood,” said the female in a silvery tone.

“I was nearly discharging my piece at it,” observed the hunter; “but since it did us such good service, I am glad that I allowed it to escape.”

In about an hour and a half, during which my father walked at a rapid pace, the party arrived at the cottage, and, as I said before, came in.

“We are in good time, apparently,” observed the dark hunter, catching the smell of the roasted meat, as he walked to the fire and surveyed my brother and sister, and myself. “You have young cooks here, Mynheer.” “I am glad that we shall not have to wait,” replied my father. “Come, mistress, seat yourself by the fire; you require warmth after your cold ride.” “And where can I put up my horse, Mynheer?” observed the huntsman. “I will take care of him,” replied my father, going out of the cottage door.

The female must, however, be particularly described. She was young, and apparently twenty years of age. She was dressed in a travelling dress, deeply bordered with white fur, and wore a cap of white ermine on her head. Her features were very beautiful, at least I thought so, and so my father has since declared. Her hair was flaxen, glossy and shining, and bright as a mirror; and her mouth, although somewhat large when it was open, showed the most brilliant teeth I have ever beheld. But there was something about her eyes, bright as they were, which made us children afraid; they were so restless, so furtive; I could not at that time tell why, but I felt as if there was cruelty in her eye; and when she beckoned us to come to her, we approached her with fear and trembling. Still she was beautiful, very beautiful. She spoke kindly to my brother and myself, patted our heads, and caressed us; but Marcella would not come near her; on the contrary, she slunk away, and hid herself in the bed, and would not wait for the supper, which half an hour before she had been so anxious for.

My father, having put the horse into a close shed, soon returned, and supper was placed upon the table. When it was over, my father requested that the young lady would take possession of his bed, and he would remain at the fire, and sit up with her father. After some hesitation on her part, this arrangement was agreed to, and I and my brother crept into the other bed with Marcella, for we had as yet always slept together.

But we could not sleep; there was something so unusual, not only in seeing strange people, but in having those people sleep at the cottage, that we were bewildered. As for poor little Marcella, she was quiet, but I perceived that she trembled during the whole night, and sometimes I thought that she was checking a sob. My father had brought out some spirits, which he rarely used, and he and the strange hunter remained drinking and talking before the fire. Our ears were ready to catch the slightest whisper — so much was our curiosity excited.

“You said you came from Transylvania?” observed my father.

“Even so, Mynheer,” replied the hunter. “I was a serf to the noble house of — ; my master would insist upon my surrendering up my fair girl to his wishes; it ended in my giving him a few inches of my hunting-knife.”

“We are countrymen, and brothers in misfortune,” replied my father, taking the huntsman’s hand, and pressing it warmly.

“Indeed! Are you, then, from that country?”

“Yes; and I too have fled for my life. But mine is a melancholy tale.”

“Your name?” inquired the hunter.

“Krantz.”

“What! Krantz of — I have heard your tale; you need not renew your grief by repeating it now. Welcome, most welcome, Mynheer, and, I may say, my worthy kinsman. I am your second cousin, Wilfred of Barnsdorf,” cried the hunter, rising up and embracing my father.

They filled their horn mugs to the brim, and drank to one another, after the German fashion. The conversation was then carried on in a low tone; all that we could collect from it was, that our new relative and his daughter were to take up their abode in our cottage, at least for the present. In about an hour they both fell back in their chairs, and appeared to sleep.

“Marcella, dear, did you hear?” said my brother in a low tone.

“Yes,” replied Marcella, in a whisper; “I heard all. Oh! brother, I cannot bear to look upon that woman — I feel so frightened.”

My brother made no reply, and shortly afterwards we were all three fast asleep.

When we awoke the next morning, we found that the hunter’s daughter had risen before us. I thought she looked more beautiful than ever. She came up to little Marcella and caressed her; the child burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

But, not to detain you with too long a story, the huntsman and his daughter were accommodated in the cottage. My father and he went out hunting daily, leaving Christina with us. She performed all the household duties; was very kind to us children; and, gradually, the dislike even of little Marcella wore away. But a great change took place in my father; he appeared to have conquered his aversion to the sex, and was most attentive to Christina. Often, after her father and we were in bed, would he sit up with her, conversing in a low tone by the fire. I ought to have mentioned, that my father and the huntsman Wilfred, slept in another portion of the cottage, and that the bed which he formerly occupied, and which was in the same room as ours, had been given up to the use of Christina. These visitors had been about three weeks at the cottage, when, one night, after we children had been sent to bed, a consultation was held. My father had asked Christina in marriage, and had obtained both her own consent and that of Wilfred; after this a conversation took place, which was, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows:

“You may take my child, Mynheer Krantz, and my blessing with her, and I shall then leave you and seek some other habitation — it matters little where.”

“Why not remain here, Wilfred?”

“No, no, I am called elsewhere; let that suffice, and ask no more questions. You have my child.”

“I thank you for her, and will duly value her; but there is one difficulty.”

“I know what you would say; there is no priest here in this wild country: true, neither is there any law to bind; still must some ceremony pass between you, to satisfy a father. Will you consent to marry her after my fashion? if so, I will marry you directly.”

“I will,” replied my father.

“Then take her by the hand. Now, Mynheer, swear.”

“I swear,” repeated my father.

“By all the spirits of the Hartz Mountains—”

“Nay, why not by Heaven?” interrupted my father.

“Because it is not my humour,” rejoined Wilfred; “if I prefer that oath, less binding perhaps, than another, surely you will not thwart me.”

“Well, be it so then; have your humour. Will you make me swear by that in which I do not believe?”

“Yet many do so, who in outward appearance are Christians,” rejoined Wilfred; “say, will you be married, or shall I take my daughter away with me?”

“Proceed,” replied my father, impatiently.

“I swear by all the spirits of the Hartz Mountains, by all their power for good or for evil, that I take Christina for my wedded wife; that I will ever protect her, cherish her, and love her; that my hand shall never be raised against her to harm her.”

My father repeated the words after Wilfred.

“And if I fail in this, my vow, may all the vengeance of the spirits fall upon me and upon my children; may they perish by the vulture, by the wolf, or other beasts of the forest; may their flesh be torn from their limbs, and their bones blanch in the wilderness; all this I swear.”

My father hesitated, as he repeated the last words; little Marcella could not restrain herself, and as my father repeated the last sentence, she burst into tears. This sudden interruption appeared to discompose the party, particularly my father; he spoke harshly to the child, who controlled her sobs, burying her face under the bed-clothes.

Such was the second marriage of my father. The next morning, the hunter Wilfred mounted his horse and rode away.

My father resumed his bed, which was in the same room as ours; and things went on much as before the marriage, except that our new mother-in-law did not show any kindness towards us; indeed, during my father’s absence, she would often beat us, particularly little Marcella, and her eyes would flash fire, as she looked eagerly upon the fair and lovely child.

One night, my sister awoke me and my brother.

“What is the matter?” said Caesar.

“She has gone out,” whispered Marcella.

“Gone out!”

“Yes, gone out at the door, in her nightclothes,” replied the child; “I saw her get out of bed, look at my father to see if he slept, and then she went out at the door.”

What could induce her to leave her bed, and all undressed to go out, in such bitter wintry weather, with the snow deep on the ground, was to us incomprehensible; we lay awake, and in about an hour we heard the growl of a wolf, close under the window.

“There is a wolf,” said Caesar, “she will be torn to pieces.”

“Oh, no!” cried Marcella.

In a few minutes afterwards our mother-in-law appeared; she was in her nightdress, as Marcella had stated. She let down the latch of the door, so as to make no noise, went to a pail of water, and washed her face and hands, and then slipped into the bed where my father lay.

We all three trembled, we hardly knew why, but we resolved to watch the next night: we did so — and not only on the ensuing night, but on many others, and always at about the same hour, would our mother-in-law rise from her bed, and leave the cottage — and after she was gone, we invariably heard the growl of a wolf under our window, and always saw her, on her return, wash herself before she retired to bed. We observed, also, that she seldom sat down to meals, and that when she did, she appeared to eat with dislike; but when the meat was taken down, to be prepared for dinner, she would often furtively put a raw piece into her mouth.

My brother Caesar was a courageous boy; he did not like to speak to my father until he knew more. He resolved that he would follow her out, and ascertain what she did. Marcella and I endeavoured to dissuade him from this project; but he would not be controlled, and, the very next night he lay down in his clothes, and as soon as our mother-in-law had left the cottage, he jumped up, took down my father’s gun, and followed her.

You may imagine in what a state of suspense Marcella and I remained, during his absence. After a few minutes, we heard the report of a gun. It did not awaken my father, and we lay trembling with anxiety. In a minute afterwards we saw our mother-in-law enter the cottage — her dress was bloody. I put my hand to Marcella’s mouth to prevent her crying out, although I was myself in great alarm. Our mother-in-law approached my father’s bed, looked to see if he was asleep, and then went to the chimney, and blew up the embers into a blaze.

“Who is there?” said my father, waking up.

“Lie still, dearest,” replied my mother-in-law, “it is only me; I have lighted the fire to warm some water; I am not quite well.”

My father turned round and was soon asleep; but we watched our mother-in-law. She changed her linen, and threw the garments she had worn into the fire; and we then perceived that her right leg was bleeding profusely, as if from a gun-shot wound. She bandaged it up, and then dressing herself, remained before the fire until the break of day.

Poor little Marcella, her heart beat quick as she pressed me to her side — so indeed did mine. Where was our brother, Caesar? How did my mother-in-law receive the wound unless from his gun? At last my father rose, and then, for the first time I spoke, saying, “Father, where is my brother, Caesar?”

“Your brother!” exclaimed he, “why, where can he be?”

“Merciful Heaven! I thought as I lay very restless last night,” observed our mother-in-law, “that I heard somebody open the latch of the door; and, dear me, husband, what has become of your gun?”

My father cast his eyes up above the chimney, and perceived that his gun was missing. For a moment he looked perplexed, then seizing a broad axe, he went out of the cottage without saying another word.

He did not remain away from us long: in a few minutes he returned, bearing in his arms the mangled body of my poor brother; he laid it down, and covered up his face.

My mother-in-law rose up, and looked at the body, while Marcella and I threw ourselves by its side wailing and sobbing bitterly.

“Go to bed again, children,” said she sharply. “Husband,” continued she, “your boy must have taken the gun down to shoot a wolf, and the animal has been too powerful for him. Poor boy! He has paid dearly for his rashness.”

My father made no reply; I wished to speak — to tell all — but Marcella, who perceived my intention, held me by the arm, and looked at me so imploringly, that I desisted.

My father, therefore, was left in his error; but Marcella and I, although we could not comprehend it, were conscious that our mother-in-law was in some way connected with my brother’s death.

That day my father went out and dug a grave, and when he laid the body in the earth, he piled up stones over it, so that the wolves should not be able to dig it up. The shock of this catastrophe was to my poor father very severe; for several days he never went to the chase, although at times he would utter bitter anathemas and vengeance against the wolves.

But during this time of mourning on his part, my mother-in-law’s nocturnal wanderings continued with the same regularity as before.

At last, my father took down his gun, to repair to the forest; but he soon returned, and appeared much annoyed.

“Would you believe it, Christina, that the wolves — perdition to the whole race — have actually contrived to dig up the body of my poor boy, and now there is nothing left of him but his bones?”

“Indeed!” replied my mother-in-law. Marcella looked at me, and I saw in her intelligent eye all she would have uttered.

“A wolf growls under our window every night, father,” said I.

“Aye, indeed? — why did you not tell me, boy? — wake me the next time you hear it.”

I saw my mother-in-law turn away; her eyes flashed fire, and she gnashed her teeth.

My father went out again, and covered up with a larger pile of stones the little remnants of my poor brother which the wolves had spared. Such was the first act of the tragedy.

The spring now came on: the snow disappeared, and we were permitted to leave the cottage; but never would I quit, for one moment, my dear little sister, to whom, since the death of my brother, I was more ardently attached than ever; indeed I was afraid to leave her alone with my mother-in-law, who appeared to have a particular pleasure in ill-treating the child. My father was now employed upon his little farm, and I was able to render him some assistance.

Marcella used to sit by us while we were at work, leaving my mother-in-law alone in the cottage. I ought to observe that, as the spring advanced, so did my mother decrease her nocturnal rambles, and that we never heard the growl of the wolf under the window after I had spoken of it to my father.

One day, when my father and I were in the field, Marcella being with us, my mother-in-law came out, saying that she was going into the forest, to collect some herbs my father wanted, and that Marcella must go to the cottage and watch the dinner. Marcella went, and my mother-in-law soon disappeared in the forest, taking a direction quite contrary to that in which the cottage stood, and leaving my father and I, as it were, between her and Marcella.

About an hour afterwards we were startled by shrieks from the cottage, evidently the shrieks of little Marcella. “Marcella has burnt herself, father,” said I, throwing down my spade. My father threw down his, and we both hastened to the cottage. Before we could gain the door, out darted a large white wolf, which fled with the utmost celerity. My father had no weapon; he rushed into the cottage, and there saw poor little Marcella expiring; her body was dreadfully mangled, and the blood pouring from it had formed a large pool on the cottage floor. My father’s first intention had been to seize his gun and pursue, but he was checked by this horrid spectacle; he knelt down by his dying child, and burst into tears: Marcella could just look kindly on us for a few seconds, and then her eyes were closed in death.

My father and I were still hanging over my poor sister’s body, when my mother-in-law came in. At the dreadful sight she expressed much concern, but she did not appear to recoil from the sight of blood, as most women do.

“Poor child!” said she, “it must have been that great white wolf which passed me just now, and frightened me so — she’s quite dead, Krantz.”

“I know it — I know it!” cried my father in agony.

I thought my father would never recover from the effects of this second tragedy: he mourned bitterly over the body of his sweet child, and for several days would not consign it to its grave, although frequently requested by my mother-in-law to do so. At last he yielded, and dug a grave for her close by that of my poor brother, and took every precaution that the wolves should not violate her remains.

I was now really miserable, as I lay alone in the bed which I had formerly shared with my brother and sister. I could not help thinking that my mother-in-law was implicated in both their deaths, although I could not account for the manner; but I no longer felt afraid of her: my little heart was full of hatred and revenge.

The night after my sister had been buried, as I lay awake, I perceived my mother-in-law get up and go out of the cottage. I waited for some time, then dressed myself, and looked out through the door, which I half-opened. The moon shone bright, and I could see the spot where my brother and my sister had been buried; and what was my horror, when I perceived my mother-in-law busily removing the stones from Marcella’s grave.

She was in her white nightdress, and the moon shone full upon her. She was digging with her hands, and throwing away the stones behind her with all the ferocity of a wild beast. It was some time before I could collect my senses and decide what I should do. At last, I perceived that she had arrived at the body, and raised it up to the side of the grave. I could bear it no longer; I ran to my father and awoke him.

“Father! father!” cried I, “dress yourself, and get your gun.”

“What!” cried my father, “the wolves are there, are they?”

He jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and in his anxiety did not appear to perceive the absence of his wife. As soon as he was ready, I opened the door, he went out, and I followed him.

Imagine his horror, when (unprepared as he was for such a sight) he beheld, as he advanced towards the grave, not a wolf, but his wife, in her nightdress, on her hands and knees, crouching by the body of my sister, and tearing off large pieces of the flesh, and devouring them with all the avidity of a wolf. She was too busy to be aware of our approach. My father dropped his gun, his hair stood on end; so did mine; he breathed heavily, and then his breath for a time stopped. I picked up the gun and put it into his hand. Suddenly he appeared as if concentrated rage had restored him to double vigour; he levelled his piece, fired, and with a loud shriek, down fell the wretch whom he had fostered in his bosom.

“God of Heaven!” cried my father, sinking down upon the earth in a swoon, as soon as he had discharged his gun.

I remained some time by his side before he recovered. “Where am I?” said he, “what has happened? — Oh! — yes, yes! I recollect now. Heaven forgive me!”

He rose and we walked up to the grave; what again was our astonishment and horror to find that instead of the dead body of my mother-in-law, as we expected, there was lying over the remains of my poor sister, a large, white she wolf.

“The white wolf!” exclaimed my father, “the white wolf which decoyed me into the forest — I see it all now — I have dealt with the spirits of the Hartz Mountains.”

For some time my father remained in silence and deep thought. He then carefully lifted up the body of my sister, replaced it in the grave, and covered it over as before, having struck the head of the dead animal with the heel of his boot, and raving like a madman. He walked back to the cottage, shut the door, and threw himself on the bed; I did the same, for I was in a stupor of amazement.

Early in the morning we were both roused by a loud knocking at the door, and in rushed the hunter Wilfred.

“My daughter! — man — my daughter! — where is my daughter!” cried he in a rage.

“Where the wretch, the fiend, should be, I trust,” replied my father, starting up and displaying equal choler; “where she should be — in hell! — Leave this cottage or you may fare worse.”

“Ha-ha!” replied the hunter, “would you harm a potent spirit of the Hartz Mountains? Poor mortal, who must needs wed a were wolf.”

“Out, demon! I defy thee and thy power.”

“Yet shall you feel it; remember your oath — your solemn oath — never to raise your hand against her to harm her.”

“I made no compact with evil spirits.”

“You did; and if you failed in your vow, you were to meet the vengeance of the spirits. Your children were to perish by the vulture, the wolf—”

“Out, out, demon!”

“And their bones blanch in the wilderness. Ha!-ha!”

My father, frantic with rage, seized his axe, and raised it over Wilfred’s head to strike.

“All this I swear,” continued the huntsman, mockingly.

The axe descended; but it passed through the form of the hunter, and my father lost his balance, and fell heavily on the floor.

“Mortal!” said the hunter, striding over my father’s body, “we have power over those only who have committed murder. You have been guilty of a double murder — you shall pay the penalty attached to your marriage vow. Two of your children are gone; the third is yet to follow — and follow them he will, for your oath is registered. Go — it were kindness to kill thee — your punishment is — that you live!”

THE LAST HOUSE
IN C—— STREET

Dinah Craik

1856

I am not a believer in ghosts in general; I see no good in them. They come — that is, are reported to come — so irrelevantly, purposelessly — so ridiculously, in short — that one’s common sense as regards this world, one’s supernatural sense of the other, are alike revolted. Then nine out of ten “capital ghost stories” are so easily accounted for; and in the tenth, when all natural explanation fails, one who has discovered the extraordinary difficulty there is in all society in getting hold of that very slippery article called a fact, is strongly inclined to shake a dubious head, ejaculating, “Evidence! It is all a question of evidence!”

But my unbelief springs from no dogged or contemptuous scepticism as to the possibility — however great the improbability — of that strange impression upon, or communication to, spirit in matter, from spirit wholly immaterialised, which is vulgarly called “a ghost”. There is no credulity more blind, no ignorance more childish, that that of the sage who tries to measure “heaven and earth and the things under the earth”, with the small two-foot rule of his own brains.

The presumption of mere folly alone would argue concerning any mystery of the universe, “It is inexplicable, and therefore impossible.”

Premising these opinions, though simply as opinions, I am about to relate what I must confess seems to me a thorough ghost story; its external and circumstantial evidence being indisputable, while its psychological causes and results, though not easy of explanation, are still more difficult to be explained away. The ghost, like Hamlet’s, was “an honest ghost”. From her daughter — an old lady, who, bless her good and gentle memory! — has since learned the secrets of all things — I heard this veritable tale.

“My dear,” said Mrs. MacArthur to me — it was in the early days of table-moving, when young folk ridiculed and elder folk were shocked at the notion of calling up one’s departed ancestors into one’s dinner-table, and learning the wonders of the angelic world by the bobbings of a hat or the twirlings of a plate; — “My dear,” continued the old lady, “I do not like trifling with spirits.”

“Why not? Do you believe in them?”

“A little.”

“Did you ever see one?”

“Never. But once, I heard one.”

She looked serious, as if she hardly liked to speak about it, either from a sense of awe or from fear of ridicule. But it was impossible to laugh at any illusions of the gentle old lady, who never uttered a harsh or satirical word to a living soul. Likewise the evident awe with which she mentioned the circumstance was rather remarkable in one who had a large stock of common sense, little wonder, and no ideality.

I was very curious to hear Mrs. MacArthur’s ghost story.

“My dear, it was a long time ago, so long that you may fancy I forget and confuse the circumstances. But I do not. Sometimes I think one recollects more clearly things that happened in one’s teens — I was eighteen that year — than a great many nearer events. And besides, I had other reasons for remembering vividly everything belonging to this time, — for I was in love, you must know.”

She looked at me with a mild deprecating smile, as if hoping my youthfulness would not consider the thing so very impossible or ridiculous. No; I was all interest at once.

“In love with Mr. MacArthur,” I said, scarcely as a question, being at that Arcadian time of life when one takes as a natural necessity, and believes in as an undoubted truth, that all people, that is, good people, marry their first love.

“No, my dear; not with Mr. MacArthur.”

I was so astonished, so completely dumbfounded — for I had woven a sort of ideal round my good old friend — that I suffered Mrs. MacArthur to nit in silence for full five minutes. My surprise was not lessened when she said, with a gratified little smile — “He was a young gentleman of good parts; and he was very fond of me. Proud, too, rather. For though you might not think it, my dear, I was actually a beauty in those days.”

I had very little doubt of it. The slight lithe figure, the tiny hands and feet, — if you had walked behind Mrs. MacArthur down the street you might have taken her for a young woman still. Certainly, people lived slower and easier in the last generation than in ours.

“Yes, I was the beauty of Bath. Mr. Everest fell in love with me there. I was much gratified; for I had just been reading Miss Burney’s Cecilia, and I thought him exactly like Mortimer Delvil. A very pretty story, Cecilia; did you ever read it?”

“No.” And, to arrive quicker at her tale, I leaped to the only conclusion which could reconcile the two facts of my good old friend having had a lover named Everest, and being now Mrs. MacArthur. “Was it his ghost you saw?”

“No, my dear, no; thank goodness, he is alive still. He calls here sometimes; he has been a faithful friend to our family. Ah!” with a slow shake of the head, half pleased, half pensive, “you would hardly believe, my dear, what a very pretty fellow he was.”

One could scarcely smile at the odd phrase, pertaining to last-century novels and to the loves of our great-grandmothers. I listened patiently to the wandering reminiscences which still further delayed the ghost story.

“But, Mrs. MacArthur, was it in Bath that you saw or heard what I think you were going to tell me? The ghost, you know?”

“Don’t call it that; it sounds as if you were laughing at it. And you must not, for it is really true; as true as that I sit here, an old lady of seventy-five, and that then I was a young gentlewoman of eighteen. Nay, my dear, I will tell you all about it. We had been staying in London, my father and mother, Mr. Everest, and I. He had persuaded them to take me; he wanted to show me a little of the world, though even his world was but a narrow one, my dear, — for he was a law student, living poorly and working hard.He took lodgings for us near the Temple; in C——— Street, the last house there, looking on to the river. He was very fond of the river; and often of evenings, when his work was too heavy to let him take us to Ranelagh or to the play, he used to walk with my father and mother and me up and down the Temple Gardens. Were you ever in the Temple Gardens? It is a pretty place now — a quiet, grey nook in the midst of noise and bustle; the stars look wonderful through those great trees; but still it is not like what it was then, when I was a girl.”

Ah! No; impossible.

—  —  —  —

It was in the Temple Gardens, my dear, that I remember we took our last walk — my mother, Mr. Everest, and I — before she went home to Bath. She was very anxious and restless to go, being too delicate for London gaieties. Besides, she had a large family at home, of which I was the eldest; and we were anxiously expecting another baby in a month or two. Nevertheless, my dear mother had gone about with me, taken me to all the shows and sights that I, a hearty and happy girl, longed to see, and entered into them with almost as great enjoyment as my own. But tonight she was pale, rather grave, and steadfastly bent on returning home. We did all we could to persuade her to the contrary, for on the next night but one was to have been the crowning treat of all our London pleasures: we were to see Hamlet at Drury-lane, with John Kemble and Sarah Siddons! Think of that, my dear. Ah! You have no such sights now. Even my grave father longed to go, and urged in his mild way that we should put off our departure.

But my mother was determined.

At last Mr. Everest said — I could show you the very spot where he stood, with the river — it was high water — lapping against the wall, and the evening sun shining on the Southwark houses opposite. He said — it was very wrong, of course, my dear; but then he was in love, and might be excused — “Madam,” said he, “it is the first time I ever knew you think of yourself alone.”

“Myself, Edmond?”

“Pardon me, but would it not be possible for you to return home, leaving behind, for two days only, Dr. Thwaite and Mistress Dorothy?”

“Leave them behind — leave them behind!” She mused over the words.

“What say you, Dorothy?”

I was silent. In very truth, I had never been parted from her in all my life. It had never crossed my mind to wish to part from her, or to enjoy any pleasure without her, till — till within the last three months. “Mother, don’t suppose I —”

But here I caught sight of Mr. Everest and stopped.

“Pray continue, Mistress Dorothy.”

No, I could not. He looked so vexed, so hurt; and we had been so happy together. Also, we might not meet again for years, for the journey between London and Bath was then a serious one, even to lovers; and he worked very hard — had few pleasures in his life. It did indeed seem almost selfish of my mother. Though my lips said nothing, perhaps my sad eyes said only too much, and my mother felt it.

She walked with us a few yards, slowly and thoughtfully. I could see her now, with her pale, tired face, under the cherry-coloured ribbons of her hood. She had been very handsome as a young woman, and was most sweet-looking still — my dear, good mother!

“Dorothy, we will discuss this no more. I am very sorry, but I must go home. However, I will persuade your father to remain with you till the week’s end. Are you satisfied!”

“No,” was the first filial impulse of my heart; but Edmund pressed my arm with such an entreating look, that almost against my will I answered “Yes.” Mr. Everest overwhelmed my mother with his delight and gratitude. She walked up and down for some time longer, leaning on his arm — she was very fond of him; then stood looking on the river, upwards and downwards.

“I suppose this is my last walk in London. Thank you for all the care you have taken of me. And when I am gone home — mind, oh, mind, Edmond, that you take special care of Dorothy.”

These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, fixed themselves on my mind — first, from gratitude, not unmingled with regret, as if I had not been so considerate to her as she to me; afterwards — But we often err, my dear, in dwelling too much on that word. We finite creatures have only to deal with “now” — nothing whatever to do with “afterwards”. In this case, I have ceased to blame myself or others. Whatever was, being past, was right to be, and could not have been otherwise.

My mother went home next morning, alone. We were to follow in a few days, though she would not allow us to fix any time. Her departure was so hurried that I remember nothing about it, save her answer to my father’s urgent desire — almost command — that if anything went amiss she would immediately let him know.

“Under all circumstances, wife,” he reiterated, “this you promise?”

“I promise.”

Though when she was gone, he declared she need not have said it so earnestly, since we should be at home almost as soon as the slow Bath coach could take her there and bring us back a letter.

And besides, there was nothing likely to happen. But he fidgeted a good deal, being unused to her absence in their happy wedded life. He was, like most men, glad to blame anybody but himself, and the whole day, and the next, was cross at intervals with both Edmond and me; but we bore it — and patiently.

“It will be all right when we get him to the theatre. He has no real cause for anxiety about her. What a dear woman she is, and a precious — your mother, Dorothy!”

I rejoiced to hear my lover speak thus, and thought there hardly ever was young gentlewoman so blessed as I.

We went to the play. Ah, you know nothing of what a play is, nowadays. You never saw John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Though in dresses and shows it was far inferior to the Hamlet you took me to see last week, my dear — and though I perfectly well remember being on the point of laughing when in the most solemn scene, it became clearly evident that the Ghost had been drinking. Strangely enough, no after events connected therewith ever were able to drive from my mind the vivid impression of this my first play. Strange, also, that the play should have been Hamlet. Do you think that Shakespeare believed in — in what people call “ghosts?”

—  —  —  —

I could not say; but I thought Mrs. MacArthur’s ghost very long in coming.

“Don’t, my dear — don’t; do anything but laugh at it.”

She was visibly affected, and it was not without an effort that she proceeded in her story.

—  —  —  —

I wish you to understand exactly my position that night — a young girl, her head full of the enchantment of the stage — her heart of something not less engrossing. Mr. Everest had supped with us, leaving us both in the best of spirits; indeed my father had gone to bed, laughing heartily at the remembrance of the antics of Mr. Grimaldi, which had almost obliterated the Queen and Hamlet from his memory, on which the ridiculous always took a far stronger hold than the awful or sublime.

I was sitting — let me see — at the window, chatting with my maid Patty, who was brushing the powder out of my hair. The window was open half-way, and looking out on the Thames; and the summer night being very warm and starry, made it almost like sitting out of doors. There was none of the awe given by the solitude of a closed room, when every sound is magnified, and every shadow seems alive.

As I said, we had been chatting and laughing; for Patty and I were both very young, and she had a sweetheart, too. She, like every one of our household, was a warm admirer of Mr. Everest. I had just been half scolding, half smiling at her praises of him, when St Paul’s great clock came booming over the silent river.

“Eleven,” counted Patty. “Terrible late we be, Mistress Dorothy: not like Bath hours, I reckon.”

“Mother will have been in bed an hour ago,” said I, with a little self-reproach at not having thought of her till now.

The next minute my maid and I both started up with a simultaneous exclamation.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes, a bat flying against the window.”

“But the lattices are open, Mistress Dorothy.”

So they were; and there was no bird or bat or living thing about — only the quiet summer night, the river, and the stars. I be certain sure I heard it. And I think it was like — just a bit like — somebody tapping.

“Nonsense, Patty!” But it had struck me thus — though I said it was a bat. It was exactly like the sound of fingers against a pane — very soft, gentle fingers, such as, in passing into her flower-garden, my mother used often to tap outside the schoolroom casement at home.

“I wonder, did father hear anything. It — the bird, you know, Patty — might have flown at his window, too?”

“Oh, Mistress Dorothy!” Patty would not be deceived. I gave her the brush to finish my hair, but her hand shook too much. I shut the window, and we both sat down facing it.

At that minute, distinct, clear, and unmistakable, like a person giving a summons in passing by, we heard once more the tapping on the pane. But nothing was seen; not a single shadow came between us and the open air; the bright starlight.

Startled I was, and awed, but I was not frightened. The sound gave me even an inexplicable delight. But I had hardly time to recognize my feelings, still less to analyze them, when a loud cry came from my father’s room.

“Dolly, — Dolly!”

Now my mother and I had both one name, but he always gave her the old-fashioned pet name — I was invariably Dorothy. Still I did not pause to think, but ran to his locked door and answered.

It was a long time before he took any notice, though I heard him talking to himself, and moaning. He was subject to bad dreams, especially before his attacks of gout. So my first alarm lightened. I stood listening, knocking at intervals, until at last he replied.

“What do ’ee want, child?”

“Is anything the matter, father?”

“Nothing. Go to thy bed, Dorothy.”

“Did you not call? Do you want anyone?”

“Not thee. O Dolly, my poor Dolly,” — and he seemed to be almost sobbing, “why did I let thee leave me?”

“Father, you are not going to be ill? It is not the gout, is it?” (for that was the time when he wanted my mother most, and, indeed, when he was wholly unmanageable by an one but her.)

“Go away. Get to thy bed, girl; I don’t want ’ee.”

I thought he was angry with me for having been in some sort the cause of our delay, and retired very miserable. Patty and I sat up a good while longer, discussing the dreary prospect of my father’s having a fit of the gout here in London lodgings, with only us to nurse him, and my mother away. Our alarm was so great that we quite forgot the curious circumstance which had first attracted us, till Patty spoke up from her bed on the floor.

“I hope master beant going to be very ill, and that noise — you know — came for a warning. Do ’ee think it was a bird, Mistress Dorothy?”

“Very likely. Now, Patty, let us go to sleep.”

But I did not, for all night I heard my father groaning at intervals. I was certain it was the gout, and wished from the bottom of my heart that we had gone home with mother.

What was my surprise when, quite early, I heard him rise and go down, just as if nothing was ailing him! I found him sitting at the breakfast-table in his travelling coat, looking very haggard and miserable, but evidently bent on a journey.

“Father, you are not going to Bath?”

“Yes, I be.”

“Not till the evening coach starts,” I cried, alarmed. “We can’t, you know!”

“I’ll take a post-chaise, then. We must be off in an hour.”

An hour! The cruel pain of parting — (my dear, I believe I used to feel things keenly when I was young) — shot through me — through and through. A single hour, and I should have said good-bye to Edmond — one of those heart-breaking farewells when we seem to leave half of our poor young life behind us, forgetting that the only real parting is when there is no love left to part from. A few years, and I wondered how I could have crept away and wept in such intolerable agony at the mere bidding good-bye to Edmond — Edmond, who loved me!

Every minute seemed a day till he came in, as usual, to breakfast. My red eyes and my father’s corded trunk explained all.

“Dr. Thwaite, you are not going?”

“Yes, I am,” repeated my father. He sat moodily leaning on the table — would not taste his breakfast.

“Not till the night coach, surely? I was to take you and Mistress Dorothy to see Mr. Benjamin West, the king’s painter.”

“Let king and painters alone, lad; I am going home to my Dolly.”

Mr. Everest used many arguments, gay and grave, upon which I hung with earnest conviction and hope. He made things so clear always; he was a man of much brighter parts than my father, and had great influence over him.

“Dorothy,” he whispered, “Help me to persuade the Doctor. It is so little time I beg for, only a few hours; and before so long a parting.” — Ay, longer than he thought, or I.

“Children,” cried my father at last, “you are a couple of fools. Wait till you have been married twenty years. I must go to my Dolly. I know there is something amiss at home.”

I should have felt alarmed, but I saw Mr. Everest smile; and besides, I was yet glowing under his fond look, as my father spoke of our being “married twenty years”.

“Father, you have surely no reason for thinking this? If you have, tell us.”

My father just lifted his head, and looked at me woefully in the face.

“Dorothy, last night, as sure as I see you now, I saw your mother.”

“Is that all?” cried Mr. Everest, laughing: “why, my good sir, very likely you did; you were dreaming about her.”

“I had not gone to sleep.”

“How did you see her?”

“Coming into my room, just as she used to do in our bedroom at home, with the candle in her hand and the baby asleep on her arm.”

“Did she speak?” asked Mr. Everest, with another and rather satirical smile; “remember, you saw Hamlet last night. Indeed, sir — indeed, Dorothy — it was a mere dream. I do not believe in ghosts; it would be an insult to common sense, to human wisdom — nay, even to Divinity itself.”

Edmond spoke so earnestly, justly, and withal so affectionately, that perforce I agreed; and even my father began to feel rather ashamed of his own weakness. He, a sensible man and the head of a family, to yield to a mere superstitious fancy, springing probably from a hot supper and an over-excited brain! To the same cause Mr. Everest attributed the other incident, which somewhat hesitatingly I told him.

“Dear, it was a bird; nothing but a bird. One flew in at my window last spring; it had hurt itself, and I kept it, and nursed it, and petted it. It was such a pretty gentle little thing, it put me in mind of Dorothy.”

“Did it?” said I.

“And at last it got well and flew away.”

“Ah! that was not like Dorothy.”

Thus, my father being persuaded, it was not hard to persuade me. We settled to remain till evening. Edmond and I, with my maid Patty, went about together chiefly in Mr. West’s Gallery, and in the quiet shade of our favourite Temple Gardens. And if for those four stolen hours, and the sweetness in them, I afterwards suffered untold remorse and bitterness, I have entirely forgiven myself, as I know my dear mother would have forgiven me, long ago.

—  —  —  —

Mrs. MacArthur stopped, wiped her eyes, and then continued — speaking more in the matter-of-fact way that old people speak in, than she had been lately doing.

“Well, my dear, where was I?”

“In the Temple Gardens.”

—  —  —  —

Yes, yes. Then we came home to dinner. My father always enjoyed his dinner, and his nap afterwards; he had nearly recovered himself now: only looked tired from loss of rest. Edmond and I sat in the window, watching the barges and wherries down the Thames; there were no steam-boats then, you know. Someone knocked at the door with a message for my father, but he slept so heavily he did not hear. Mr. Everest went to see what it was; I stood at the window. I remember mechanically watching the red sail of a Margate hoy that was going down the river, and thinking with a sharp pang how dark the room seemed to grow, in a moment, with Edmond not there.

Re-entering, after a somewhat long absence, he never looked at me, but went straight to my father.

“Sir, it is almost time for you to start;” (oh! Edmond). “There is a coach at the door; and, pardon me, but I think you should travel quickly.”

My father sprang to his feet.

“Dear Sir, wait one moment; I have received news from Bath. You have another little daughter, sir, and—”

“Dolly, my Dolly!” Without another word my father rushed away, leaped into the post-chaise that was waiting and drove off.

“Edmond!” I gasped.

“My poor little girl — my own Dorothy!”

By the tenderness of his embrace, less lover-like than brother-like — by his tears, for I could feel them on my neck — I knew, as well as if he had told me, that I should never see my dear mother any more.

—  —  —  —

“She had died in childbirth,” continued the old lady after a long pause — “died at night, at the same hour and minute that I had heard the tapping on the windowpane, and my father had thought he saw her coming into his room with a baby on her arm.”

“Was the baby dead, too?”

“They thought so then, but it afterwards revived.”

“What a strange story!”

“I do not ask you to believe in it. How and why and what it was I cannot tell; I only know that it assuredly was as I have told it.”

“And Mr. Everest?” I inquired, after some hesitation.

The old lady shook her head. “Ah, my dear, you may perhaps learn — though I hope you will not — how very, very seldom things turn out as one expects when one is young. After that day I did not see Mr. Everest for twenty years.”

“How wrong of him — how—”

“Don’t blame him; it was not his fault. You see, after that time my father took a prejudice against him — not unnatural, perhaps; and she was not there to make things straight. Besides, my own conscience was very sore, and there were the six children at home, and the little baby had no mother: so at last I made up my mind. I should have loved him just the same if we had waited twenty years. I told him so: but he could not see things in that light. Don’t blame him, my dear, don’t blame him. It was as well, perhaps, as it happened.”

“Did he marry?”

“Yes, after a few years; and loved his wife dearly. When I was about one-and-thirty, I married Mr. MacArthur. So neither of us was unhappy, you see — at least, not more so than most people; and we became sincere friends afterwards. Mr. and Mrs. Everest come to see me still, almost every Sunday. Why, you foolish child, you are not crying?”

Ay, I was — but scarcely at the ghost story.

TO BE TAKEN
WITH A GRAIN OF SALT

Charles Dickens

1865

I have always noticed a prevalent want of courage, even among persons of superior intelligence and culture, as to imparting their own psychological experiences when those have been of a strange sort. Almost all men are afraid that what they could relate in such wise would find no parallel or response in a listener’s internal life, and might be suspected or laughed at. A truthful traveller, who should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning it; but the same traveller, having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of thought, vision (so-called), dream, or other remarkable mental impression, would hesitate considerably before he would own to it. To this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity in which such subjects are involved. We do not habitually communicate our experiences of these subjective things as we do our experiences of objective creation. The consequence is, that the general stock of experience in this regard appears exceptional, and really is so, in respect of being miserably imperfect.

In what I am going to relate, I have no intention of setting up, opposing, or supporting, any theory whatever. I know the history of the Bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case of the wife of a late Astronomer Royal as related by Sir David Brewster, and I have followed the minutest details of a much more remarkable case of Spectral Illusion occurring within my private circle of friends. It may be necessary to state as to this last, that the sufferer (a lady) was in no degree, however distant, related to me. A mistaken assumption on that head might suggest an explanation of a part of my own case, — but only a part, — which would be wholly without foundation. It cannot be referred to my inheritance of any developed peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all similar experience, nor have I ever had any at all similar experience since.

It does not signify how many years ago, or how few, a certain murder was committed in England, which attracted great attention. We hear more than enough of murderers as they rise in succession to their atrocious eminence, and I would bury the memory of this particular brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in Newgate Jail. I purposely abstain from giving any direct clue to the criminal’s individuality.

When the murder was first discovered, no suspicion fell — or I ought rather to say, for I cannot be too precise in my facts, it was nowhere publicly hinted that any suspicion fell — on the man who was afterwards brought to trial. As no reference was at that time made to him in the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that any description of him can at that time have been given in the newspapers. It is essential that this fact be remembered.

Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper, containing the account of that first discovery, I found it to be deeply interesting, and I read it with close attention. I read it twice, if not three times. The discovery had been made in a bedroom, and, when I laid down the paper, I was aware of a flash — rush — flow — I do not know what to call it, — no word I can find is satisfactorily descriptive, — in which I seemed to see that bedroom passing through my room, like a picture impossibly painted on a running river. Though almost instantaneous in its passing, it was perfectly clear; so clear that I distinctly, and with a sense of relief, observed the absence of the dead body from the bed.

It was in no romantic place that I had this curious sensation, but in chambers in Piccadilly, very near to the corner of St. James’s Street. It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy-chair at the moment, and the sensation was accompanied with a peculiar shiver which started the chair from its position. (But it is to be noted that the chair ran easily on castors.) I went to one of the windows (there are two in the room, and the room is on the second floor) to refresh my eyes with the moving objects down in Piccadilly. It was a bright autumn morning, and the street was sparkling and cheerful. The wind was high. As I looked out, it brought down from the Park a quantity of fallen leaves, which a gust took, and whirled into a spiral pillar. As the pillar fell and the leaves dispersed, I saw two men on the opposite side of the way, going from West to East. They were one behind the other. The foremost man often looked back over his shoulder. The second man followed him, at a distance of some thirty paces, with his right hand menacingly raised. First, the singularity and steadiness of this threatening gesture in so public a thoroughfare attracted my attention; and next, the more remarkable circumstance that nobody heeded it. Both men threaded their way among the other passengers with a smoothness hardly consistent even with the action of walking on a pavement; and no single creature, that I could see, gave them place, touched them, or looked after them. In passing before my windows, they both stared up at me. I saw their two faces very distinctly, and I knew that I could recognise them anywhere. Not that I had consciously noticed anything very remarkable in either face, except that the man who went first had an unusually lowering appearance, and that the face of the man who followed him was of the colour of impure wax.

I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife constitute my whole establishment. My occupation is in a certain Branch Bank, and I wish that my duties as head of a Department were as light as they are popularly supposed to be. They kept me in town that autumn, when I stood in need of change. I was not ill, but I was not well. My reader is to make the most that can be reasonably made of my feeling jaded, having a depressing sense upon me of a monotonous life, and being “slightly dyspeptic.” I am assured by my renowned doctor that my real state of health at that time justifies no stronger description, and I quote his own from his written answer to my request for it.

As the circumstances of the murder, gradually unravelling, took stronger and stronger possession of the public mind, I kept them away from mine by knowing as little about them as was possible in the midst of the universal excitement. But I knew that a verdict of Wilful Murder had been found against the suspected murderer, and that he had been committed to Newgate for trial. I also knew that his trial had been postponed over one Sessions of the Central Criminal Court, on the ground of general prejudice and want of time for the preparation of the defence. I may further have known, but I believe I did not, when, or about when, the Sessions to which his trial stood postponed would come on.

My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room, are all on one floor. With the last there is no communication but through the bedroom. True, there is a door in it, once communicating with the staircase; but a part of the fitting of my bath has been — and had then been for some years — fixed across it. At the same period, and as a part of the same arrangement, — the door had been nailed up and canvased over.

I was standing in my bedroom late one night, giving some directions to my servant before he went to bed. My face was towards the only available door of communication with the dressing-room, and it was closed. My servant’s back was towards that door. While I was speaking to him, I saw it open, and a man look in, who very earnestly and mysteriously beckoned to me. That man was the man who had gone second of the two along Piccadilly, and whose face was of the colour of impure wax.

The figure, having beckoned, drew back, and closed the door. With no longer pause than was made by my crossing the bedroom, I opened the dressing-room door, and looked in. I had a lighted candle already in my hand. I felt no inward expectation of seeing the figure in the dressing-room, and I did not see it there.

Conscious that my servant stood amazed, I turned round to him, and said: “Derrick, could you believe that in my cool senses I fancied I saw a —”

As I there laid my hand upon his breast, with a sudden start he trembled violently, and said, “O Lord, yes, sir! A dead man beckoning!”

Now I do not believe that this John Derrick, my trusty and attached servant for more than twenty years, had any impression whatever of having seen any such figure, until I touched him. The change in him was so startling, when I touched him, that I fully believe he derived his impression in some occult manner from me at that instant.

I bade John Derrick bring some brandy, and I gave him a dram, and was glad to take one myself. Of what had preceded that night’s phenomenon, I told him not a single word. Reflecting on it, I was absolutely certain that I had never seen that face before, except on the one occasion in Piccadilly. Comparing its expression when beckoning at the door with its expression when it had stared up at me as I stood at my window, I came to the conclusion that on the first occasion it had sought to fasten itself upon my memory, and that on the second occasion it had made sure of being immediately remembered.

I was not very comfortable that night, though I felt a certainty, difficult to explain, that the figure would not return. At daylight I fell into a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened by John Derrick’s coming to my bedside with a paper in his hand.

This paper, it appeared, had been the subject of an altercation at the door between its bearer and my servant. It was a summons to me to serve upon a Jury at the forthcoming Sessions of the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey. I had never before been summoned on such a Jury, as John Derrick well knew. He believed — I am not certain at this hour whether with reason or otherwise — that that class of Jurors were customarily chosen on a lower qualification than mine, and he had at first refused to accept the summons. The man who served it had taken the matter very coolly. He had said that my attendance or non-attendance was nothing to him; there the summons was; and I should deal with it at my own peril, and not at his.

For a day or two I was undecided whether to respond to this call, or take no notice of it. I was not conscious of the slightest mysterious bias, influence, or attraction, one way or other. Of that I am as strictly sure as of every other statement that I make here. Ultimately I decided, as a break in the monotony of my life, that I would go.

The appointed morning was a raw morning in the month of November. There was a dense brown fog in Piccadilly, and it became positively black and in the last degree oppressive East of Temple Bar. I found the passages and staircases of the Court-House flaringly lighted with gas, and the Court itself similarly illuminated. I think that, until I was conducted by officers into the Old Court and saw its crowded state, I did not know that the Murderer was to be tried that day. I think that, until I was so helped into the Old Court with considerable difficulty, I did not know into which of the two Courts sitting my summons would take me. But this must not be received as a positive assertion, for I am not completely satisfied in my mind on either point.

I took my seat in the place appropriated to Jurors in waiting, and I looked about the Court as well as I could through the cloud of fog and breath that was heavy in it. I noticed the black vapour hanging like a murky curtain outside the great windows, and I noticed the stifled sound of wheels on the straw or tan that was littered in the street; also, the hum of the people gathered there, which a shrill whistle, or a louder song or hail than the rest, occasionally pierced. Soon afterwards the Judges, two in number, entered, and took their seats. The buzz in the Court was awfully hushed. The direction was given to put the Murderer to the bar. He appeared there. And in that same instant I recognised in him the first of the two men who had gone down Piccadilly.

If my name had been called then, I doubt if I could have answered to it audibly. But it was called about sixth or eighth in the panel, and I was by that time able to say, “Here!” Now, observe. As I stepped into the box, the prisoner, who had been looking on attentively, but with no sign of concern, became violently agitated, and beckoned to his attorney. The prisoner’s wish to challenge me was so manifest, that it occasioned a pause, during which the attorney, with his hand upon the dock, whispered with his client, and shook his head. I afterwards had it from that gentleman, that the prisoner’s first affrighted words to him were, “At all hazards, challenge that man!” But that, as he would give no reason for it, and admitted that he had not even known my name until he heard it called and I appeared, it was not done.

Both on the ground already explained, that I wish to avoid reviving the unwholesome memory of that Murderer, and also because a detailed account of his long trial is by no means indispensable to my narrative, I shall confine myself closely to such incidents in the ten days and nights during which we, the Jury, were kept together, as directly bear on my own curious personal experience. It is in that, and not in the Murderer, that I seek to interest my reader. It is to that, and not to a page of the Newgate Calendar, that I beg attention.

I was chosen Foreman of the Jury. On the second morning of the trial, after evidence had been taken for two hours (I heard the church clocks strike), happening to cast my eyes over my brother jurymen, I found an inexplicable difficulty in counting them. I counted them several times, yet always with the same difficulty. In short, I made them one too many.

I touched the brother jurymen whose place was next me, and I whispered to him, “Oblige me by counting us.” He looked surprised by the request, but turned his head and counted. “Why,” says he, suddenly, “we are Thirt — ; but no, it’s not possible. No. We are twelve.”

According to my counting that day, we were always right in detail, but in the gross we were always one too many. There was no appearance — no figure — to account for it; but I had now an inward foreshadowing of the figure that was surely coming.

The Jury were housed at the London Tavern. We all slept in one large room on separate tables, and we were constantly in the charge and under the eye of the officer sworn to hold us in safekeeping. I see no reason for suppressing the real name of that officer. He was intelligent, highly polite, and obliging, and (I was glad to hear) much respected in the City. He had an agreeable presence, good eyes, enviable black whiskers, and a fine sonorous voice. His name was Mr. Harker.

When we turned into our twelve beds at night, Mr. Harker’s bed was drawn across the door. On the night of the second day, not being disposed to lie down, and seeing Mr. Harker sitting on his bed, I went and sat beside him, and offered him a pinch of snuff. As Mr. Harker’s hand touched mine in taking it from my box, a peculiar shiver crossed him, and he said, “Who is this?”

Following Mr. Harker’s eyes, and looking along the room, I saw again the figure I expected, — the second of the two men who had gone down Piccadilly. I rose, and advanced a few steps; then stopped, and looked round at Mr. Harker. He was quite unconcerned, laughed, and said in a pleasant way, “I thought for a moment we had a thirteenth juryman, without a bed. But I see it is the moonlight.”

Making no revelation to Mr. Harker, but inviting him to take a walk with me to the end of the room, I watched what the figure did. It stood for a few moments by the bedside of each of my eleven brother jurymen, close to the pillow. It always went to the right-hand side of the bed, and always passed out crossing the foot of the next bed. It seemed, from the action of the head, merely to look down pensively at each recumbent figure. It took no notice of me, or of my bed, which was that nearest to Mr. Harker’s. It seemed to go out where the moonlight came in, through a high window, as by an aërial flight of stairs.

Next morning at breakfast, it appeared that everybody present had dreamed of the murdered man last night, except myself and Mr. Harker.

I now felt as convinced that the second man who had gone down Piccadilly was the murdered man (so to speak), as if it had been borne into my comprehension by his immediate testimony. But even this took place, and in a manner for which I was not at all prepared.

On the fifth day of the trial, when the case for the prosecution was drawing to a close, a miniature of the murdered man, missing from his bedroom upon the discovery of the deed, and afterwards found in a hiding-place where the Murderer had been seen digging, was put in evidence. Having been identified by the witness under examination, it was handed up to the Bench, and thence handed down to be inspected by the Jury. As an officer in a black gown was making his way with it across to me, the figure of the second man who had gone down Piccadilly impetuously started from the crowd, caught the miniature from the officer, and gave it to me with his own hands, at the same time saying, in a low and hollow tone, — before I saw the miniature, which was in a locket, — “I was younger then, and my face was not then drained of blood.” It also came between me and the brother juryman to whom I would have given the miniature, and between him and the brother juryman to whom he would have given it, and so passed it on through the whole of our number, and back into my possession. Not one of them, however, detected this.

At table, and generally when we were shut up together in Mr. Harker’s custody, we had from the first naturally discussed the day’s proceedings a good deal. On that fifth day, the case for the prosecution being closed, and we having that side of the question in a completed shape before us, our discussion was more animated and serious. Among our number was a vestryman, — the densest idiot I have ever seen at large, — who met the plainest evidence with the most preposterous objections, and who was sided with by two flabby parochial parasites; all the three impanelled from a district so delivered over to Fever that they ought to have been upon their own trial for five hundred Murders. When these mischievous blockheads were at their loudest, which was towards midnight, while some of us were already preparing for bed, I again saw the murdered man. He stood grimly behind them, beckoning to me. On my going towards them, and striking into the conversation, he immediately retired. This was the beginning of a separate series of appearances, confined to that long room in which we were confined. Whenever a knot of my brother jurymen laid their heads together, I saw the head of the murdered man among theirs. Whenever their comparison of notes was going against him, he would solemnly and irresistibly beckon to me.

It will be borne in mind that down to the production of the miniature, on the fifth day of the trial, I had never seen the Appearance in Court. Three changes occurred now that we entered on the case for the defence. Two of them I will mention together, first. The figure was now in Court continually, and it never there addressed itself to me, but always to the person who was speaking at the time. For instance: the throat of the murdered man had been cut straight across. In the opening speech for the defence, it was suggested that the deceased might have cut his own throat. At that very moment, the figure, with its throat in the dreadful condition referred to (this it had concealed before), stood at the speaker’s elbow, motioning across and across its windpipe, now with the right hand, now with the left, vigorously suggesting to the speaker himself the impossibility of such a wound having been self-inflicted by either hand. For another instance: a witness to character, a woman, deposed to the prisoner’s being the most amiable of mankind. The figure at that instant stood on the floor before her, looking her full in the face, and pointing out the prisoner’s evil countenance with an extended arm and an outstretched finger.

The third change now to be added impressed me strongly as the most marked and striking of all. I do not theorise upon it; I accurately state it, and there leave it. Although the Appearance was not itself perceived by those whom it addressed, its coming close to such persons was invariably attended by some trepidation or disturbance on their part. It seemed to me as if it were prevented, by laws to which I was not amenable, from fully revealing itself to others, and yet as if it could invisibly, dumbly, and darkly overshadow their minds. When the leading counsel for the defence suggested that hypothesis of suicide, and the figure stood at the learned gentleman’s elbow, frightfully sawing at its severed throat, it is undeniable that the counsel faltered in his speech, lost for a few seconds the thread of his ingenious discourse, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and turned extremely pale. When the witness to character was confronted by the Appearance, her eyes most certainly did follow the direction of its pointed finger, and rest in great hesitation and trouble upon the prisoner’s face. Two additional illustrations will suffice. On the eighth day of the trial, after the pause which was every day made early in the afternoon for a few minutes’ rest and refreshment, I came back into Court with the rest of the Jury some little time before the return of the Judges. Standing up in the box and looking about me, I thought the figure was not there, until, chancing to raise my eyes to the gallery, I saw it bending forward, and leaning over a very decent woman, as if to assure itself whether the Judges had resumed their seats or not. Immediately afterwards that woman screamed, fainted, and was carried out. So with the venerable, sagacious, and patient Judge who conducted the trial. When the case was over, and he settled himself and his papers to sum up, the murdered man, entering by the Judges’ door, advanced to his Lordship’s desk, and looked eagerly over his shoulder at the pages of his notes which he was turning. A change came over his Lordship’s face; his hand stopped; the peculiar shiver, that I knew so well, passed over him; he faltered, “Excuse me, gentlemen, for a few moments. I am somewhat oppressed by the vitiated air;” and did not recover until he had drunk a glass of water.

Through all the monotony of six of those interminable ten days, — the same Judges and others on the bench, the same Murderer in the dock, the same lawyers at the table, the same tones of question and answer rising to the roof of the court, the same scratching of the Judge’s pen, the same ushers going in and out, the same lights kindled at the same hour when there had been any natural light of day, the same foggy curtain outside the great windows when it was foggy, the same rain pattering and dripping when it was rainy, the same footmarks of turnkeys and prisoner day after day on the same sawdust, the same keys locking and unlocking the same heavy doors, — through all the wearisome monotony which made me feel as if I had been Foreman of the Jury for a vast period of time, and Piccadilly had flourished coevally with Babylon, the murdered man never lost one trace of his distinctness in my eyes, nor was he at any moment less distinct than anybody else. I must not omit, as a matter of fact, that I never once saw the Appearance which I call by the name of the murdered man look at the Murderer. Again and again I wondered, “Why does he not?” But he never did.

Nor did he look at me, after the production of the miniature, until the last closing minutes of the trial arrived. We retired to consider, at seven minutes before ten at night. The idiotic vestryman and his two parochial parasites gave us so much trouble that we twice returned into Court to beg to have certain extracts from the Judge’s notes re-read. Nine of us had not the smallest doubt about those passages, neither, I believe, had anyone in the Court; the dunder-headed triumvirate, having no idea but obstruction, disputed them for that very reason. At length we prevailed, and finally the Jury returned into Court at ten minutes past twelve.

The murdered man at that time stood directly opposite the Jury-box, on the other side of the Court. As I took my place, his eyes rested on me with great attention; he seemed satisfied, and slowly shook a great gray veil, which he carried on his arm for the first time, over his head and whole form. As I gave in our verdict, “Guilty,” the veil collapsed, all was gone, and his place was empty.

The Murderer, being asked by the Judge, according to usage, whether he had anything to say before sentence of Death should be passed upon him, indistinctly muttered something which was described in the leading newspapers of the following day as “a few rambling, incoherent, and half-audible words, in which he was understood to complain that he had not had a fair trial, because the Foreman of the Jury was prepossessed against him.” The remarkable declaration that he really made was this: “My Lord, I knew I was a doomed man, when the Foreman of my Jury came into the box. My Lord, I knew he would never let me off, because, before I was taken, he somehow got to my bedside in the night, woke me, and put a rope round my neck.”

NOT TO BE TAKEN
AT BED-TIME

Rosa Mulholland

1865

This is the legend of a house called the Devil’s Inn, standing in the heather on the top of the Connemara mountains, in a shallow valley hollowed between five peaks. Tourists sometimes come in sight of it on September evenings; a crazy and weather-stained apparition, with the sun glaring at it angrily between the hills, and striking its shattered windowpanes. Guides are known to shun it, however.

The house was built by a stranger, who came no one knew whence, and whom the people nicknamed Coll Dhu (Black Coll), because of his sullen bearing and solitary habits. His dwelling they called the Devil’s Inn, because no tired traveller had ever been asked to rest under its roof, nor friend known to cross its threshold. No one bore him company in his retreat but a wizen-faced old man, who shunned the good-morrow of the trudging peasant when he made occasional excursions to the nearest village for provisions for himself and master, and who was as secret as a stone concerning all the antecedents of both.

For the first year of their residence in the country, there had been much speculation as to who they were, and what they did with themselves up there among the clouds and eagles. Some said that Coll Dhu was a scion of the old family from whose hands the surrounding lands had passed; and that, embittered by poverty and pride, he had come to bury himself in solitude, and brood over his misfortunes. Others hinted of crime, and flight from another country; others again whispered of those who were cursed from birth, and could never smile, nor yet make friends with a fellow-creature till the day of their death. But when two years had passed, the wonder had somewhat died out, and Coll Dhu was little thought of, except when a herd looking for sheep crossed the track of a big dark man walking the mountains gun in hand, to whom he did not dare say “Lord save you!” when a housewife rocking her cradle of a winter’s night, crossed herself as gust of storm thundered over her cabin-roof, with the exclamation, “Oh, it’s Coll Dhu that has enough o’ the fresh air about his head up there us night, the crature!”

Coll Dhu had lived thus in his solitude for some years, when it became down that Colonel Blake, the new lord of the soil, was coming to visit the country. By climbing one of the peaks encircling his eyrie, Coll could look sheer down a mountainside, and see in miniature beneath him, a grey old dwelling with ivied chimneys and weather-slated walls, standing amongst straggling trees and grim warlike rocks, that gave it the look of a fortress, gazing out to the Atlantic forever with the eager eyes of all its windows, as if demanding perpetually, “What tidings from the New World?”

He could see now masons and carpenters crawling about below, like ants in the sun, over-running the old house from base to chimney, daubing here and knocking there, tumbling down walls that looked to Coll, up among the clouds, like a handful of jack-stones, and building up others that looked like the toy fences in a child’s Farm. Throughout several months he must have watched the busy ants at their task of breaking and mending again, disfiguring and beautifying; but when all was done he had not the curiosity to stride down and admire the handsome panelling of the new billiard-room, nor yet the fine view which the enlarged bay-window in the drawing-room commanded of the watery highway to Newfoundland.

Deep summer was melting into autumn, and the amber streaks of decay were beginning to creep out and trail over the ripe purple of moor and mountain, when Colonel Blake, his only daughter, and a party of friends, arrived in the country. The grey house below was alive with gaiety, but Coll Dhu no longer found an interest in observing it from his eyrie. When he watched the sun rise or set, he chose to ascend some crag that looked on no human habitation. When he sallied forth on his excursion, gun in hand, he set his face towards the most isolated wastes, dipping into the loneliest valleys, and scaling the nakedest ridges. When he came by chance within call of other excursionists, gun in hand he plunged into the shade of some hollow, and avoided an encounter. Yet it was fated, for all that, that he and Colonel Blake should meet.

Toward the evening of one bright September day, the wind changed, and in half an hour the mountains were wrapped in a thick blinding mist. Coll Dhu was far from his den, but so well had he searched these mountains, and inured himself to their climate, that neither storm, rain, nor fog, had power to disturb him. But while he stalked on his way, a faint and agonised cry from a human voice reached him through the smothering mist. He quickly tracked the sound, and gained the side of a man who was stumbling along in danger of death at every step.

“Follow me!” said Coll Dhu to this man, and, in an hour’s time, brought him safely to the lowlands, and up to the walls of the eager-eyed mansion.

“I am Colonel Blake,” said the frank soldier, when, having left the fog behind him, they stood in the starlight under the lighted windows. “Pray tell me quickly to whom I owe my life.”

As he spoke. he glanced up at his benefactor, a large man with a sombre sunburned face.

“Colonel Blake,” said Coll Dhu, after a strange pause, “your father suggested to my father to stake his estates at the gaming table. They were staked, and the tempter won. Both are dead; but you and I live, and I have sworn to injure you.”

The colonel laughed good humouredly at the uneasy face above him.

“And you began to keep your oath tonight by saving my life?” said he. “Come! I am a soldier, and know how to meet an enemy; but I had far rather meet a friend. I shall not be happy till you have eaten my salt. We have merrymaking tonight in honour of my daughter’s birthday. Come in and join us?”

Coll Dhu looked at the earth doggedly.

“I have told you,” he said, “who and what I am, and I will not cross your threshold.”

But at this moment (so runs my story) a French window opened among the flower-beds by which they were standing, and a vision appeared which stayed the words on Coll’s tongue. A stately girl, clad in white satin, stood framed in the ivied window, with the warm light from within streaming around her richly-moulded figure into the night. Her face was as pale as her gown, her eyes were swimming in tears, but a firm smile sat on her lips as she held out both hands to her father. The light behind her, touched the glistening folds of her dress — the lustrous pearls round her throat — the coronet of blood-red roses which encircled the knotted braids at the back of her head. Satin, pearls, and roses — had Coll Dhu, of the Devil’s Inn, never set eyes upon such things before?

Evleen Blake was no nervous tearful miss. A few quick words — “Thank God! you’re safe; the rest have been home an hour” — and a tight pressure of her father’s fingers between her own jewelled hands, were all that betrayed the uneasiness she had suffered.

“Faith, my love, I owe my life to this brave gentleman!” said the blithe colonel. “Press him to come in and be our guest, Evleen. He wants to retreat to his mountains, and lose himself again in the fog where I found him; or, rather where he found me! Come, sir” (to Coll), “you must surrender to this fair besieger.”

An introduction followed. “Coll Dhu!” murmured Evleen Blake, for she had heard the common tales of him; but with a frank welcome she invited her father’s preserver to taste the hospitality of that father’s house.

“I beg you to come in. sir,” she said; “but for you our gaiety must have been turned into mourning. A shadow will be upon our mirth if our benefactor disdains to join in it.”

With a sweet grace, mingled with a certain hauteur from which she was never free, she extended her white hand to the tall looming figure outside the window; to have it grasped and wrung in a way that made the proud girl’s eyes flash their amazement, and the same little hand clench itself in displeasure, when it had hid itself like an outraged thing among the shining folds of her gown. Was this Coll Dhu mad, or rude?

The guest no longer refused to enter, but followed the white figure into a little study where a lamp burned; and the gloomy stranger, the bluff colonel, and the young mistress of the house, were fully discovered to each other’s eyes. Evleen glanced at the newcomer’s dark face, and shuddered with a feeling of indescribable dread and dislike; then, to her father, accounted for the shudder after a popular fashion, saying lightly: “There is someone walking over my grave.” So Coll Dhu was present at Evleen Blake’s birthday ball. Here he was, under a roof which ought to have been his own, a stranger, known only by a nickname, shunned and solitary. Here he was, who had lived among the eagles and foxes, lying in wait with a fell purpose, to be revenged on the son of his father’s foe for poverty and disgrace, for the broken heart of a dead mother, for the loss of a self-slaughtered father, for the dreary scattering of brothers and sisters. Here he stood, a Samson shorn of his strength; and all because a haughty girl had melting eyes, a winning mouth, and looked radiant in satin and roses.

Peerless where many were lovely, she moved among her friends, trying to be unconscious of the gloomy fire of those strange eyes which followed her unweariedly wherever she went. And when her father begged her to be gracious to the unsocial guest whom he would fain conciliate, she courteously conducted him to see the new picture-gallery adjoining the drawing-rooms; explained under what odd circumstances the colonel had picked up this little painting or that; using every delicate art her pride would allow to achieve her father’s purpose, whilst maintaining at the same time her own personal reserve; trying to divert the guest’s oppressive attention from herself to the objects for which she claimed her notice. Coll Dhu followed his conductress and listened to her voice, but what she said mattered nothing; nor did she wring many words of comment or reply from his lips, until they paused in a retired corner where the light was dim, before a window from which the curtain was withdrawn. The sashes were open, and nothing was visible but water; the night Atlantic, with the full moon riding high above a bank of clouds, making silvery tracks outward towards the distance of infinite mystery dividing two worlds. Here the following little scene is said to have been enacted.

“This window of my father’s own planning, is it not creditable to his taste?” said the young hostess, as she stood, herself glittering like a dream of beauty, looking on the moonlight.

Coll Dhu made no answer; but suddenly, it is said, asked her for a rose from a cluster of flowers that nestled in the lace on her bosom.

For the second time that night Evleen Blake’s eyes flashed with no gentle light. But this man was the saviour of her father. She broke off a blossom, and with such good grace, and also with such queen-like dignity as she might assume, presented it to him. Whereupon, not only was the rose seized, but also the hand that gave it, which was hastily covered with kisses.

Then her anger burst upon him.

“Sir,” she cried, “if you are a gentleman you must be mad! If you are not mad, then you are not a gentleman!”

“Be merciful” said Coll Dhu; “I love you. My God, I never loved a woman before! Ah!” he cried, as a look of disgust crept over her face, “You hate me. You shuddered the first time your eyes met mine. I love you, and you hate me!”

“I do,” cried Evleen, vehemently, forgetting everything but her indignation. “Your presence is like something evil to me. Love me? — your looks poison me. Pray, sir, talk no more to me in this strain.”

“I will trouble you no longer,” said Coll Dhu. And, stalking to the window, he placed one powerful hand upon the sash, and vaulted from it out of her sight.

•   •   •

Bare-headed as he was, Coll Dhu strode off to the mountains, but not towards his own home. All the remaining dark hours of that night he is believed to have walked the labyrinths of the hills, until dawn began to scatter the clouds with a high wind. Fasting, and on foot from sunrise the morning before, he was then glad enough to see a cabin right in his way. Walking in, he asked for water to drink, and a corner where he might throw himself to rest.

There was a wake in the house, and the kitchen was full of people, all wearied out with the night’s watch; old men were dozing over their pipes in the chimney-corner, and here and there a woman was fast asleep with her head on a neighbour’s knee. All who were awake crossed themselves when Coll Dhu’s figure darkened the door, because of his evil name; but an old man of the house invited him in, and offering him milk, and promising him a roasted potato by-and-by, conducted him to a small room off the kitchen, one end of which was strewed with heather, and where there were only two women sitting gossiping over a fire.

“A traveller,” said the old man, nodding his head at the women, who nodded back, as if to say “he has the traveller’s right.” And Coll Dhu flung himself on the heather, in the furthest corner of the narrow room.

The women suspended their talk for a while; but presently, guessing the intruder to be asleep, resumed it in voices above a whisper. There was but a patch of window with the grey dawn behind it, but Coll could see the figures by the firelight over which they bent: an old woman sitting forward with her withered hands extended to the embers, and a girl reclining against the hearth wall, with her healthy face, bright eyes, and crimson draperies, glowing by turns in the flickering blaze.

“I do’ know,” said the girl, “but it’s the quarest marriage iver I h’ard of. Sure it’s not three weeks since he tould right an’ left that he hated her like poison!”

“Whist, asthoreen!” said the colliagh [hag], bending forward confidentially: “throth an’ we all known that o’ him. But what could he do, the crature! When she put the burragh-bos on him!”

“The what?” asked the girl.

“Then the burragh-bos machree-o? That’s the spanchel o’ death, avourneen; an’ well she has him tethered to her now, bad luck to her!”

The old woman rocked herself and stilled the Irish cry breaking from her wrinkled lips by burying her face in her cloak.

“But what is it?” asked the girl, eagerly. “What’s the burragh-bos, anyways, an where did she get it?”

“Och, och! it’s not fit for comm’ over to young ears, but cuggir (whisper), acushla! It’s a sthrip o’ the skin o’ a corpse, peeled from the crown o’ the head to the heel, without crack or split, or the charm’s broke; an’ that, rowled up, an’ put on a sthring roun’ the neck o’ the wan that’s cowld by the wan that wants to be loved. An’ sure enough it puts the fire in their hearts, hot an’ sthrong, afore twinty-four hours is gone.”

The girl had started from her lazy attitude, and gazed at her companion with eyes dilated by horror.

“Marciful Saviour!” she cried. “Not a sowl on airth would bring the curse out o’ heaven by sich a black doin’!”

“Aisy, Biddeen alanna! an’ there’s wan that does it, an’ isn’t the divil. Arrah, asthoreen, did ye niver hear tell o’ Pexie na Pishrogie, that lives betune two hills o’ Maam Turk?”

“I h’ard o’ her,” said the girl, breathlessly.

“Well, sorra bit lie, but it’s hersel’ that does it. She’ll do it for money any day. Sure they hunted her from the graveyard o’ Salruck, where she had the dead raised; an’ glory be to God! they would ha’ murthered her, only they missed her thracks, an’ couldn’t bring it home to her afther.”

“Whist, a-wauher” (my mother), said the girl; “here’s the thraveller getting’ up to set off on his road again! Och, then, it’s the short rest he tuk, the sowl!”

It was enough for Coll, however. He had got up, and now went back to the kitchen, where the old man had caused a dish of potatoes to be roasted, and earnestly pressed his visitor to sit down and eat of them. This Coll did readily; having recruited his strength by a meal, he betook himself to the mountains again, just as the rising sun was flashing among the waterfalls. and sending the night mists drifting down the glens. By sundown the same evening he was striding over the hills of Maam Turk, asking of herds his way to the cabin of one Pexie na Pishrogie.

In a hovel on a brown desolate heath, with scared-looking hills flying off into the distance on every side, he found Pexie: a yellow-faced hag, dressed in a dark-red blanket, with elf-locks of coarse black hair protruding from under an orange kerchief swathed round her wrinkled jaws. She was bending over a pot upon her fire, where herbs were simmering, and she looked up with an evil glance when Col Dhu darkened her door.

“The burragh-bos is it her honour wants?” she asked, when he had made known his errand.

“Ay, ay; but the arighad, the arighad (money) for Pexie. The burragh-bos is ill to get.”

“I will pay,” said Coll Dhu, laying a sovereign on the bench before her.

The witch sprang upon it, and chuckling, bestowed on her visitor a glance which made even Coll Dhu shudder.

“Her honour is a fine king,” she said, “an’ her is fit to get the burragh-bos. Ha! ha! her sall get the burragh-bos from Pexie. But the arighad is not enough. More, more!”

She stretched out her claw-like hand, and Coll dropped another sovereign into it. Whereupon she fell into more horrible convulsions of delight.

“Hark ye!” cried Coll. “I have paid you well, but if your infernal charm does not work, I will have you hunted for a witch!”

“Work!” cried Pexie, rolling up her eyes. “If Pexie’s charrm not work, then her honour come back here an’ carry these bits o’ mountain away on her back. Ay, her will work. If the colleen hate her honour like the old diaoul hersel’, still an’ withal her love will love her honour like her own white sowl afore the sun sets or rises. That, (with a furtive leer,) or the colleen dhas go wild mad afore wan hour.”

“Hag!” returned Coll Dhu; “the last part is a hellish invention of your own. I heard nothing of madness. If you want more money, speak out, but play none of your hideous tricks on me.”

The witch fixed her cunning eyes on him, and took her cue at once from his passion.

“Her honour guess thrue,” she simpered; “it is only the little bit more arighad poor Pexie want.”

Again the skinny hand was extended. Coll Dhu shrank from touching it, and threw his gold upon the table.

“King, king!” chuckled Pexie. “Her honour is a grand king. Her honour is fit to get the buragh-bos. The colleen dhas sall love her like her own white sowl. Ha, ha!”

“When shall I get it?” asked Coll Dhu, impatiently.

“Her honour sall come back to Pexie in so many days. do-deag (twelve), so many days, fur that the burragh-bos is hard to get. The lonely graveyard is far away, an’ dead man is hard to raise—”

“Silence!” cried Coll Dhu; “not a word more. I will have your hideous charm, but what it is, or where you get it, I will not know.”

Then, promising to come back in twelve days, he took his departure. Turning to look back when a little way across the heath, he saw Pexie gazing after him, standing on her black hill in relief against the lurid flames of the dawn, seeming to his dark imagination like a fury with all hell at her back.

At the appointed time Coll Dhu got the promised charm. He sewed it with perfumes into a cover of cloth of gold, and slung it to a fine-wrought chain. Lying in a casket which had once held the jewels of Coll’s broken-hearted mother, it looked a glittering bauble enough. Meantime the people of the mountains were cursing over their cabin fires, because there had been another unholy raid upon their graveyard, and were banding themselves to hunt the criminal down.

•   •   •

A fortnight passed. How or where could Coll Dhu find an opportunity to put the charm round the neck of the colonel’s proud daughter? More gold was dropped into Pexie’s greedy claw, and then she promised to assist him in his dilemma.

Next morning the witch dressed herself in decent garb, smoothed her elf-locks under a snowy cap, smoothed the evil wrinkles out of her face, and with a basket on her arm locked the door of the hovel, and took her way to the lowlands. Pexie seemed to have given up her disreputable calling for that of a simple mushroom-gatherer. The housekeeper at the grey house bought poor Muireade’s mushrooms of her every morning. Every morning she left unfailingly a nosegay of wild flowers for Miss Evleen Blake, “God bless her! She had never seen the darling young lady with her own two longing eyes, but sure hadn’t she heard tell of her sweet purty face, miles away!” And at last, one morning, whom should she meet but Miss Evleen herself returning along from a ramble. Whereupon poor Muireade “made bold” to present her flowers in person.

“Ah,” said Evleen, “it is you who leave me the flowers every morning? They are very sweet.”

Muireade had sought her only for a look at her beautiful face. And now that she had seen it, as bright as the sun, and as fair as the lily, she would take up her basket and go away contented. Yet she lingered a little longer.

“My lady never walk up big mountain?” said Pexie.

“No,” said Evleen, laughing; she feared she could not walk up a mountain.

“Ah yes; my lady ought to go, with more gran’ ladies an’ gentlemen, ridin’ on purty little donkeys, up the big mountains. Oh, gran’ things up big mountains for my lady to see!”

Thus she set to work, and kept her listener enchained for an hour, while she related wonderful stories of those upper regions. And as Evleen looked up to the burly crowns of the hills, perhaps she thought there might be sense in this wild old woman’s suggestion. It ought to be a grand world up yonder.

Be that as it may, it was not long after this when Coll Dhu got notice that a party from the grey house would explore the mountains next day; that Evleen Blake would be one of the number; and that he, Coll, must prepare to house and refresh a crowd of weary people, who in the evening should be brought, hungry and faint, to his door. The simple mushroom gatherer should be discovered laying in her humble stock among the green places between the hills, should volunteer to act as guide to the party, should lead them far out of their way through the mountains and up and down the most toilsome ascents and across dangerous places; to escape safely from which, the servants should be told to throw away the baskets of provision which they carried.

Coll Dhu was not idle. Such a feast was set forth, as had never been spread so near the clouds before. We are told of wonderful dishes furnished by unwholesome agency, and from a place believed much hotter than is necessary for purposes of cookery. We are told also how Coll Dhu’s barren chambers were suddenly hung with curtains of velvet, and with fringes of gold; how the blank white walls glowed with delicate colours and gilding; how gems of pictures sprang into sight between the panels; how the tables blazed with plate and gold, and glittered with the rarest glass; how such wines flowed, as the guests had never tasted; how servants in the richest livery, amongst whom the wizen-faced old man was a mere nonentity, appeared, and stood ready to carry in the wonderful dishes, at whose extraordinary fragrance the eagles came pecking to the windows, and the foxes drew near the walls, snuffing. Sure enough, in all good time, the weary party came within sight of the Devil’s Inn, and Coll Dhu sallied forth to invite them across his lonely threshold. Colonel Blake (to whom Evleen, in her delicacy, had said no word of the solitary’s strange behaviour to herself) hailed his appearance with delight, and the whole party sat down to Coll’s banquet in high good humour. Also, it is said, in much amazement at the magnificence of the mountain recluse.

All went in to Coll’s feast, save Evleen Blake, who remained standing on the threshold of the outer door; weary, but unwilling to rest there; hungry, but unwilling to eat there. Her white cambric dress was gathered on her arms, crushed and sullied with the toils of the day; her bright cheek was a little sunburned; her small dark head with its braids a little tossed, was bared to the mountain air and the glory of the sinking sun; her hands were loosely tangled in the strings of her hat; and her foot sometimes tapped the threshold-stone. So she was seen.

The peasants tell that Coll Dhu and her father came praying her to enter, and that the magnificent servants brought viands to the threshold; but no step would she move inward, no morsel would she taste.

“Poison, poison!” she murmured, and threw the food in handfuls to the foxes, who were snuffing on the heath.

But it was different when Muireade, the kindly old woman, the simple mushroom gatherer, with all the wicked wrinkles smoothed out of her face, came to the side of the hungry girl, and coaxingly presented a savoury mess of her own sweet mushrooms, served on a common earthen platter.

“An’ darlin’, my lady, poor Muireade her cook them hersel’, an’ no thing o’ this house touch them or look at poor Muireade’s mushrooms.”

Then Evleen took the platter and ate a delicious meal. Scarcely was it finished when a heavy drowsiness fell upon her, and, unable to sustain herself on her feet, she presently sat down upon the door-stone. Leaning her head against the framework of the door, she was soon in a deep sleep, or trance. So she was found.

“Whimsical, obstinate little girl!” said the colonel, putting his hand on the beautiful slumbering head. And taking her in his arms, he carried her into a chamber which had been (say the storytellers) nothing but a bare and sorry closet in the morning but which was now fitted up with Oriental splendour. And here on a luxurious couch she was laid, with a crimson coverlet wrapping her feet. And here in the tempered light coming through jewelled glass, where yesterday had been a coarse rough-hung window, her father looked his last upon her lovely face.

The colonel returned to his host and friends, and by-and-by the whole party sallied forth to see the after-glare of a fierce sunset swathing the hills in flames. It was not until they had gone some distance that Coll Dhu remembered to go back and fetch his telescope. He was not long absent. But he was absent long enough to enter that glowing chamber with a stealthy step, to throw a light chain around the neck of the sleeping girl, and to slip among the folds of her dress the hideous glittering burragh-bos.

After he had gone away again, Pexie came stealing to the door, and, opening it a little, sat down on the mat outside, with her cloak wrapped round her. An hour passed, and Evleen Blake still slept, her breathing scarcely stirring the deadly bauble on her breast. After that, she began to murmur and moan, and Pexie pricked up her ears. Presently a sound in the room told that the victim was awake and had risen. Then Pexie put her face to the aperture of the door and looked in, gave a howl of dismay, and fled from the house, to be seen in that country no more.

The light was fading among the hills, and the ramblers were returning towards the Devil’s Inn, when a group of ladies who were considerably in advance of the rest, met Evleen Blake advancing towards them on the heath, with her hair disordered as by sleep, and no covering on her head. They noticed something bright, like gold, shifting and glancing with the motion of her figure. There had been some jesting among them about Evleen’s fancy for falling asleep on the doorstep instead of coming in to dinner, and they advanced laughing, to rally her on the subject. But she stared at them in a strange way, as if she did not know them, and passed on. Her friends were rather offended, and commented on her fantastic humour; only one looked after her, and got laughed at by her companions for expressing uneasiness on the wilful young lady’s account.

So they kept their way, and the solitary figure went fluttering on, the white robe blushing, and the fatal burragh-bos glittering in the reflection from the sky. A hare crossed her path, and she laughed out loudly, and clapping her hands, sprang after it. Then she stopped and asked questions of the stones, striking them with her open palm because they would not answer. (An amazed little herd sitting behind a rock, witnessed these strange proceedings.) By-and-by she began to call after the birds, in a wild shrill way startling the echoes of the hills as she went along. A party of gentlemen returning by a dangerous path, heard the unusual sound and stopped to listen.

“What is that?” asked one.

“A young eagle,” said Coll Dhu, whose face had become livid; “they often give such cries.”

“It was uncommonly like a woman’s voice!” was the reply; and immediately another wild note rang towards them from the rocks above: a bare saw-like ridge, shelving away to some distance ahead, and projecting one hungry tooth over an abyss. A few more moments and they saw Evleen Blake’s light figure fluttering out towards this dizzy point.

“My Evleen!” cried the colonel, recognising his daughter, “she is mad to venture on such a spot!”

“Mad!” repeated Coll Dhu. And then dashed off to the rescue with all the might and swiftness of his powerful limbs.

When he drew near her, Evleen had almost reached the verge of the terrible rock. Very cautiously he approached her, his object being to seize her in his strong arms before she was aware of his presence, and carry her many yards away from the spot of danger. But in a fatal moment Evleen turned her head and saw him. One wild ringing cry of hate and horror, which startled the very eagles and scattered a flight of curlews above her head, broke from her lips. A step backward brought her within a foot of death.

One desperate though wary stride, and she was struggling in Coll’s embrace. One glance in her eyes, and he saw that he was striving with a mad woman. Back, back, she dragged him, and he had nothing to grasp by. The rock was slippery and his shod feet would not cling to it. Back, back! A hoarse panting, a dire swinging to and fro; and then the rock was standing naked against the sky, no one was there, and Coll Dhu and Evleen Blake lay shattered far below.

NO LIVING VOICE

Thomas Street Millington

1872

“How do you account for it?”

“I don’t account for it at all. I don’t pretend to understand it.”

“You think, then, that it was really supernatural?”

“We know so little what Nature comprehends — what are its powers and limits — that we can scarcely speak of anything that happens as beyond it or above it.”

“And you are certain that this did happen?”

“Quite certain; of that I have no doubt whatever.”

These sentences passed between two gentlemen in the drawing-room of a country house, where a small family party was assembled after dinner; and in consequence of a lull in the conversation occurring at the moment they were distinctly heard by nearly everybody present. Curiosity was excited, and enquiries were eagerly pressed as to the nature or super nature of the event under discussion. “A ghost story!” cried one; “oh! delightful! we must and will hear it.” “Oh! please, no,” said another; “I should not sleep all night — and yet I am dying with curiosity.”

Others seemed inclined to treat the question rather from a rational or psychological point of view, and would have started a discussion upon ghosts in general, each giving his own experience; but these were brought back by the voice of the hostess, crying, “Question, question!” and the first speakers were warmly urged to explain what particular event had formed the subject of their conversation.

“It was you, Mr. Browne, who said you could not account for it; and you are such a very matter-of-fact person that we feel doubly anxious to hear what wonderful occurrence could have made you look so grave and earnest.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Browne. “I am a matter-of-fact person, I confess; and I was speaking of a fact; though I must beg to be excused saying any more about it. It is an old story; but I never even think of it without a feeling of distress; and I should not like to stir up such keen and haunting memories merely for the sake of gratifying curiosity. I was relating to Mr. Smith, in few words, an adventure which befell me in Italy many years ago, giving him the naked facts of the case, in refutation of a theory which he had been propounding.”

“Now we don’t want theories, and we won’t have naked facts; they are hardly proper at any time, and at this period of the year, with snow upon the ground, they would be most unseasonable; but we must have that story fully and feelingly related to us, and we promise to give it a respectful hearing, implicit belief, and unbounded sympathy. So draw round the fire, all of you, and let Mr. Browne begin.”

Poor Mr. Browne turned pale and red, his lips quivered, his entreaties to be excused became quite plaintive; but his good nature and perhaps, also, the consciousness that he could really interest his hearers, led him to overcome his reluctance; and after exacting a solemn promise that there should be no jesting or levity in regard to what he had to tell, he cleared his throat twice or thrice, and in a hesitating nervous tone began as follows:

—  —  —  —

It was in the spring of 18—. I had been at Rome during the Holy Week, and had taken a place in the diligence for Naples. There were two routes: one by way of Terracina and the other by the Via Latina, more inland. The diligence, which made the journey only twice a week, followed these routes alternately, so that each road was traversed only once in seven days. I chose the inland route, and after a long day’s journey arrived at Ceprano, where we halted for the night. The next morning we started again very early, and it was scarcely yet daylight when we reached the Neapolitan frontier, at a short distance from the town.

There our passports were examined, and to my great dismay I was informed that mine was not en regle. It was covered, indeed, with stamps and signatures, not one of which had been procured without some cost and trouble; but one “visa” yet was wanting, and that the all-important one, without which none could enter the kingdom of Naples. I was obliged therefore to alight, and to send my wretched passport back to Rome, my wretched self being doomed to remain under police surveillance at Ceprano, until the diligence should bring it back to me on that day week, at soonest.

I took up my abode at the hotel where I had passed the previous night, and there I presently received a visit from the Capo di Polizia, who told me very civilly that I must present myself, every morning and evening at his bureau, but that I might have liberty to “circulate” in the neighbourhood during the day. I grew so weary of this dull place, that after I had explored the immediate vicinity of the town I began to extend my walks to a greater distance, and as I always reported myself to the police before night I met with no objection on their part.

One day, however, when I had been as far as Alatri and was returning on foot, night overtook me. I had lost my way, and could not tell how far I might be from my destination. I was very tired and had a heavy knapsack on my shoulders, packed with stones and relics from the ruins of the old Pelasgic fortress which I had been exploring, besides a number of old coins and a lamp or two which I had purchased there. I could discern no signs of any human habitation, and the hills, covered with wood, seemed to shut me in on every side.

I was beginning to think seriously of looking out for some sheltered spot under a thicket in which to pass the night, when the welcome sound of a footstep behind me fell upon my ears. Presently a man dressed in the usual long shaggy coat of a shepherd overtook me, and hearing of my difficulty offered to conduct me to a house at a short distance from the road, where I might obtain a lodging; before we reached the spot he told me that the house in question was an inn and that he was the landlord of it. He had not much custom, he said, so he employed himself in shepherding during the day; but he could make me comfortable, and give me a good supper also, better than I should expect, to look at him; but he had been in different circumstances once, and had lived in service in good families, and knew how things ought to be, and what a signore like myself was used to.

The house to which he took me seemed, like its owner, to have seen better days. It was a large rambling place and much dilapidated, but it was tolerably comfortable within; and my landlord, after he had thrown off his sheepskin coat, prepared me a good and savoury meal, and sat down to look at and converse with me while I ate it. I did not much like the look of the fellow; but he seemed anxious to be sociable and told me a great deal about his former life when he was in service, expecting to receive similar confidences from me. I did not gratify him much, but one must talk of something, and he seemed to think it only proper to express an interest in his guests and to learn as much of their concerns as they would tell him.

I went to bed early, intending to resume my journey as soon as it should be light. My landlord took up my knapsack, and carried it to my room, observing as he did so that it was a great weight for me to travel with. I answered jokingly that it contained great treasures, referring to my coins and relics; of course he did not understand me, and before I could explain he wished me a most happy little night, and left me.

The room in which I found myself was situated at the end of a long passage; there were two rooms on the right side of this passage, and a window on the left, which looked out upon a yard or garden. Having taken a survey of the outside of the house while smoking my cigar after dinner, when the moon was up, I understood exactly the position of my chamber — the end room of a long narrow wing, projecting at right angles from the main building, with which it was connected only by the passage and the two side rooms already mentioned. Please to bear this description carefully in mind while I proceed.

Before getting into bed, I drove into the floor close to the door a small gimlet which formed part of a complicated pocket-knife which I always carried with me, so that it would be impossible for anyone to enter the room without my knowledge; there, was a lock to the door, but the key would not turn in it; there was also a bolt, but it would not enter the hole intended for it, the door having sunk apparently from its proper level. I satisfied, myself, however, that the door was securely fastened by my gimlet, and soon fell asleep.

How can I describe the strange and horrible sensation which oppressed me as I woke out of my first slumber? I had been sleeping soundly, and before I quite recovered consciousness I had instinctively risen from my pillow, and was crouching forward, my knees drawn up, my hands clasped before my face, and my whole frame quivering with horror.

I saw nothing, felt nothing; but a sound was ringing in my ears which seemed to make my blood run cold. I could not have supposed it possible that any mere sound, whatever might be its nature, could have produced such a revulsion of feeling or inspired such intense horror as I then experienced. It was not a cry of terror that I heard — that would have roused me to action — nor the moaning of one in pain — that would have distressed me, and called forth sympathy rather than aversion. True, it was like the groaning of one in anguish and despair, but not like any mortal voice: it seemed too dreadful, too intense, for human utterance. The sound had begun while I was fast asleep — close to the head of my bed — close to my very pillow; it continued after I was wide awake — a long, loud, hollow, protracted groan, making the midnight air reverberate, and then dying gradually away until it ceased entirely. It was some minutes before I could at all recover from the terrible impression which seemed to stop my breath and paralyse my limbs.

At length I began to look about me, for the night was not entirely dark, and I could discern the outlines of the room and the several pieces of furniture in it. I then got out of bed, and called aloud, “Who is there? What is the matter? Is anyone ill?” I repeated these enquiries in Italian and in French, but there was none that answered. Fortunately I had some matches in my pocket and was able to light my candle. I then examined every part of the room carefully, and especially the wall at the head of my bed, sounding it with my knuckles; it was firm and solid there, as in all other places. I unfastened my door, and explored the passage and the two adjoining rooms, which were unoccupied and almost destitute of furniture; they had evidently not been used for some time. Search as I would I could gain no clue to the mystery.

Returning to my room, I sat down upon the bed in great perplexity, and began to turn over in my mind whether it was possible I could have been deceived — whether the sounds which caused me such distress might be the offspring of some dream or nightmare; but to that conclusion I could not bring myself at all, much as I wished it, for the groaning had continued ringing in my ears long after I was wide awake and conscious. While I was thus reflecting, having neglected to close the door which was opposite to the side of my bed where I was sitting, I heard a soft footstep at a distance, and presently a light appeared at the further end of the passage. Then I saw the shadow of a man cast upon the opposite wall; it moved very slowly, and presently stopped. I saw the hand raised, as if making a sign to someone, and I knew from the fact of the shadow being thrown in advance that there must be a second person in the rear by whom the light was carried. After a short pause they seemed to retrace their steps, without my having had a glimpse of either of them, but only of the shadow which had come before and which followed them as they withdrew. It was then a little after one o’clock, and I concluded they were retiring late to rest, and anxious to avoid disturbing me, though I have since thought that it was the light from my room which caused their retreat. I felt half inclined to call to them, but I shrank, without knowing why, from making known what had disturbed me, and while I hesitated they were gone; so I fastened my door again, and resolved to sit up and watch a little longer by myself.

But now my candle was beginning to burn low, and I found myself in this dilemma: either I must extinguish it at once, or I should be left without the means of procuring a light in case I should be again disturbed. I regretted that I had not called for another candle while there were people yet moving in the house, but I could not do so now without making explanations; so I grasped my box of matches, put out my light, and lay down, not without a shudder, in the bed.

For an hour or more I lay awake thinking over what had occurred, and by that time I had almost persuaded myself that I had nothing but my own morbid imagination to thank for the alarm which I had suffered. “It is an outer wall,” I said to myself; “they are all outer walls, and the house is built of stone; it is impossible that any sound could be heard through such a thickness. Besides, it seemed to be in my room, close to my ear. What an idiot I must be, to be excited and alarmed about nothing; I’ll think no more about it.” So I turned on my side, with a smile (rather a forced one) at my own foolishness, and composed myself to sleep.

At that instant I heard, with more distinctness than I ever heard any other sound in my life, a gasp, a voiceless gasp, as if someone were in agony for breath, biting at the air, or trying with desperate efforts to cry out or speak. It was repeated a second and a third time; then there was a pause; then again that horrible gasping; and then a long-drawn breath, an audible drawing up of the air into the throat, such as one would make in heaving a deep sigh. Such sounds as these could not possibly have been heard unless they had been close to my ear; they seemed to come from the wall at my head, or to rise up out of my pillow. That fearful gasping, and that drawing in of the breath, in the darkness and silence of the night, seemed to make every nerve in my body thrill with dreadful expectation. Unconsciously I shrank away from it, crouching down as before, with my face upon my knees. It ceased, and immediately a moaning sound began, which lengthened out into an awful, protracted groan, waxing louder and louder, as if under an increasing agony, and then dying away slowly and gradually into silence; yet painfully and distinctly audible even to the last.

As soon as I could rouse myself from the freezing horror which seemed to penetrate even to my joints and marrow, I crept away from the bed, and in the furthest corner of the room lighted with shaking hand my candle, looking anxiously about me as I did so, expecting some dreadful revelation as the light flashed up. Yet, if you will believe me, I did not feel alarmed or frightened; but rather oppressed, and penetrated with an unnatural, overpowering, sentiment of awe. I seemed to be in the presence of some great and horrible mystery, some bottomless depth of woe, or misery, or crime. I shrank from it with a sensation of intolerable loathing and suspense. It was a feeling akin to this which prevented me from calling to my landlord. I could not bring myself to speak to him of what had passed; not knowing how nearly he might be himself involved in the mystery. I was only anxious to escape as quietly as possible from the room and from the house. The candle was now beginning to flicker in its socket, but the stars were shining outside, and there was space and air to breathe there, which seemed to be wanting in my room; so I hastily opened my window, tied the bedclothes together for a rope, and lowered myself silently and safely to the ground.

There was a light still burning in the lower part of the house; but I crept noiselessly along, feeling my way carefully among the trees, and in due time came upon a beaten track which led me to a road, the same which I had been travelling on the previous night. I walked on, scarcely knowing whither, anxious only to increase my distance from the accursed house, until the day began to break, when almost the first object I could see distinctly was a small body of men approaching me.

It was with no small pleasure that I recognized at their head my friend the Capo di Polizia. “Ah!” he cried, “unfortunate Inglese, what trouble you have given me! Where have you been? God be praised that I see you safe and sound! But how? What is the matter with you? You look like one possessed.”

I told him how I had lost my way, and where I had lodged.

“And what happened to you there?” he cried, with a look of anxiety.

“I was disturbed in the night. I could not sleep. I made my escape, and here I am. I cannot tell you more.”

“But you must tell me more, dear sir; forgive me; you must tell me everything. I must know all that passed in that house. We have had it under our surveillance for a long time, and when I heard in what direction you had gone yesterday, and had not returned, I feared you had got into some mischief there, and we were even now upon our way to look for you.”

I could not enter into particulars, but I told him I had heard strange sounds, and at his request I went back with him to the spot. He told me by the way that the house was known to be the resort of banditti; that the landlord harboured them, received their ill-gotten goods, and helped them to dispose of their booty.

Arrived at the spot, he placed his men about the premises and instituted a strict search, the landlord and the man who was found in the house being compelled to accompany him. The room in which I had slept was carefully examined; the floor was of plaster or cement, so that no sound could have have passed through it; the walls were sound and solid, and there was nothing to be seen that could in any way account for the strange disturbance I had experienced. The room on the ground-floor underneath my bedroom was next inspected; it contained a quantity of straw, hay, firewood, and lumber. It was paved with brick, and on turning over the straw which was heaped together in a corner it was observed that the bricks were uneven, as if they had been recently disturbed.

“Dig here,” said the officer, “we shall find something hidden here, I imagine.”

The landlord was evidently much disturbed. “Stop,”’ he cried. “I will tell you what lies there; come away out of doors, and you shall know all about it.”

“Dig, I say. We will find out for ourselves.”

“Let the dead rest,” cried the landlord, with a trembling voice. “For the love of heaven come away, and hear what I shall tell you.”

“Go on with your work,” said the sergeant to his men, who were now plying pickaxe and spade.

“I can’t stay here and see it,” exclaimed the landlord once more. “Hear then! It is the body of my son, my only son — let him rest, if rest he can. He was wounded in a quarrel, and brought home here to die. I thought he would recover, but there was neither doctor nor priest at hand, and in spite of all that we could do for him he died. Let him alone now, or let a priest first be sent for; he died unconfessed, but it was not my fault; it may not be yet too late to make peace for him.”

“But why is he buried in this place?”

“We did not wish to make a stir about it. Nobody know of his death, and we laid him down quietly; one place I thought was as good as another when once the life was out of him. We are poor folk, and could not pay for ceremonies.”

The truth at length came out. Father and son were both members of a band of thieves; under this floor they concealed their plunder, and there too lay more than one mouldering corpse, victims who had occupied the room in which I slept, and had there met their death. The son was indeed buried in that spot; he had been mortally wounded in a skirmish with travellers, and had lived long enough to repent of his deeds and to beg for that priestly absolution which, according to his creed, was necessary to secure his pardon.

In vain he had urged his father to bring the confessor to his bedside; in vain he had entreated him to break off from the murderous band with which he was allied and to live honestly in future; his prayers were disregarded, and his dying admonitions were of no avail. But for the strange mysterious warning which had roused me from my sleep and driven me out of the house that night another crime would have been added to the old man’s tale of guilt. That gasping attempt to speak, and that awful groaning — whence did they proceed? It was no living voice. Beyond that I will express no opinion on the subject. I will only say it was the means of saving my life, and at the same time putting an end to the series of bloody deeds which had been committed in that house.

I received my passport that evening by the diligence from Rome, and started the next morning on my way to Naples. As we were crossing the frontier a tall figure approached, wearing the long rough cappotta of the mendicant friars, with a hood over the face and holes for the eyes to look through. He carried a tin money-box in his hand, which he held out to the passengers, jingling a few coins in it, and crying in a monotonous voice, “Anime in purgatorio! Anime in purga-torio!” I do not believe in purgatory, nor in supplications for the dead; but I dropped a piece of silver into the box nevertheless, as I thought of that unhallowed grave in the forest, and my prayer went up to heaven in all sincerity — “Requiescat in pace!”

THE STORY OF
THE RIPPLING TRAIN

Mary Louisa Molesworth

1887

“Let’s tell ghost stories, then,” said Gladys.

“Aren’t you tired of them? One hears nothing else nowadays. And they’re all ‘authentic,’ really vouched for, only you never see the person who saw or heard or felt the ghost. It is always somebody’s sister or cousin, or friend’s friend,” objected young Mrs. Snowdon, another of the guests at the Quarries.

“I don’t know that that is quite a reasonable ground for discrediting them en masse,” said her husband. “It is natural enough, indeed inevitable, that the principal or principals in such cases should be much more rarely come across than the stories themselves. A hundred people can repeat the story, but the author, or rather hero, of it, can’t be in a hundred places at once. You don’t disbelieve in any other statement or narrative merely because you have never seen the prime mover in it?”

“But I didn’t say I discredited them on that account,” said Mrs. Snowdon. “You take one up so, Archie. I’m not logical and reasonable; I don’t pretend to be. If I meant anything, it was that a ghost story would have a great pull over other ghost stories if one could see the person it happened to. One does get rather provoked at never coming across him or her,” she added a little petulantly.

She was tired; they were all rather tired, for it was the first evening since the party had assembled at the large country house known as “the Quarries” on which there was not to be dancing, with the additional fatigue of “ten miles there and ten back again”; and three or four evenings of such doings without intermission tell even on the young and vigorous.

Tonight various less energetic ways of passing the evening had been proposed, — music, games, reading aloud, recitation, — none had found favour in everybody’s sight, and now Gladys Lloyd’s proposal that they should “tell ghost stories” seemed likely to fall flat also.

For a moment or two no one answered Mrs. Snowdon’s last remarks. Then, somewhat to everybody’s surprise, the young daughter of the house turned to her mother.

“Mamma,” she said, “don’t be vexed with me — I know you warned me once to be careful how I spoke of it; but wouldn’t it be nice if Uncle Paul would tell us his ghost story? And then, Mrs. Snowdon,” she went on, “you could always say you had heard one ghost story at or from — which should I say? — headquarters.”

Lady Denholme glanced round half nervously before she replied.

“Locally speaking, it would not be at headquarters, Nina,” she said. “The Quarries was not the scene of your uncle’s ghost story. But I almost think it is better not to speak about it — I am not sure that he would like it mentioned, and he will be coming in a moment. He had only a note to write.”

“I do wish he would tell it to us,” said Nina regretfully. “Don’t you think, mamma, I might just run to the study and ask him, and if he did not like the idea he might say so to me, and no one would seem to know anything about it? Uncle Paul is so kind — I’m never afraid of asking him any favour.”

“Thank you, Nina, for your good opinion of me; you see there is no rule without exceptions; listeners do sometimes hear pleasant things of themselves,” said Mr. Marischal, as he at that moment came round the screen which half concealed the doorway. “What is the special favour you were thinking of asking me?”

Nina looked rather taken aback.

“How softly you opened the door, Uncle Paul,” she said. “I would not have spoken of you if I had known you were there.”

“But after all you were saying no harm,” observed her brother Michael. “And for my part I don’t believe Uncle Paul would mind our asking him what we were speaking of.”

“What was it?” asked Mr. Marischal. “I think, as I have heard so much, you may as well tell me the whole.”

“It was only—” began Nina, but her mother interrupted her.

“I have told Nina not to speak of it, Paul,” she said anxiously; “but — it was only that all these young people are talking about ghost stories, and they want you to tell them your own strange experience. You must not be vexed with them.”

“Vexed!” said Mr. Marischal, “not in the least.” But for a moment or two he said no more, and even pretty, spoilt Mrs. Snowdon looked a little uneasy.

“You shouldn’t have persisted, Nina,” she whispered.

Mr. Marischal must have had unusually quick ears. He looked up and smiled.

“I really don’t mind telling you all there is to hear,” he said. “At one time I had a sort of dislike to mentioning the story, for the sake of others. The details would have led to its being recognised — and it might have been painful. But there is no one now living to whom it would matter — you know,” he added, turning to his sister; “her husband is dead too.”

Lady Denholme shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I did not hear.”

“Yes,” said her brother, “I saw his death in the papers last year. He had married again, I believe. There is not now, therefore, any reason why I should not tell the story, if it will interest you,” he went on, turning to the others. “And there is not very much to tell. Not worth making such a preamble about. It was — let me see — yes, it must be nearly fifteen years ago.”

“Wait a moment, Uncle Paul,” said Nina. “Yes, that’s all right, Gladys. You and I will hold each other’s hands, and pinch hard if we get very frightened.”

“Thank you,” Miss Lloyd replied. “On the whole I should prefer for you not to hold my hand.”

“But I won’t pinch you so as to hurt,” said Nina reassuringly; “and it isn’t as if we were in the dark.”

“Shall I turn down the lamps?” asked Mr. Snowdon.

“No, no,” exclaimed his wife.

“There really is nothing frightening — scarcely even ‘creepy,’ in my story at all,” said Mr. Marischal, half apologetically. “You make me feel like an impostor.”

“Oh no, Uncle Paul, don’t say that. It is all my fault for interrupting,” said Nina. “Now go on, please. I have Gladys’s hand all the same,” she added sotto voce, “it’s just as well to be prepared.”

“Well, then,” began Mr. Marischal once more, “it must be nearly fifteen years ago; and I had not seen her for fully ten years before that again! I was not thinking of her in the least; in a sense I had really forgotten her: she had quite gone out of my life; that has always struck me as a very curious point in the story,” he added parenthetically.

“Won’t you tell us who ‘she’ was, Uncle Paul?” asked Nina half shyly.

“Oh yes, I was going to do so. I am not skilled in story-telling, you see. She was, at the time I first knew her — at the only time, indeed, that I knew her — a very sweet and attractive girl, named Maud Bertram. She was very pretty — more than pretty, for she had remarkably regular features — her profile was always admired, and a tall and graceful figure. And she was a bright and happy creature too; that, perhaps, was almost her greatest charm. You will wonder — I see the question hovering on your lips, Miss Lloyd, and on yours too, Mrs. Snowdon — why, if I admired her and liked her so much, I did not go further. And I will tell you frankly that I did not because I dared not. I had then no prospect of being able to marry for years to come, and I was not very young. I was already nearly thirty, and Maud was quite ten years younger. I was wise enough and old enough to realise the situation thoroughly, and to be on my guard.”

“And Maud?” asked Mrs. Snowdon.

“She was surrounded by admirers; it seemed to me then that it would have been insufferable conceit to have even asked myself if it could matter to her. It was only in the light of after events that the possibility of my having been mistaken occurred to me. And I don’t even now see that I could have acted otherwise—” Here Uncle Paul sighed a little. “We were the best of friends. She knew that I admired her, and she seemed to take a frank pleasure in its being so. I had always hoped that she really liked and trusted me as a friend, but no more. The last time I saw her was just before I started for Portugal, where I remained three years. When I returned to London Maud had been married for two years, and had gone straight out to India on her marriage, and except by some few friends who had known us both intimately, I seldom heard her mentioned. And time passed. I cannot say I had exactly forgotten her, but she was not much or often in my thoughts. I was a busy and much-absorbed man, and life had proved a serious matter to me. Now and then some passing resemblance would recall her to my mind — once especially when I had been asked to look in to see the young wife of one of my cousins in her court-dress; something in her figure and bearing brought back Maud to my memory, for it was thus, in full dress, that I had last seen her, and thus perhaps, unconsciously, her image had remained photographed on my brain. But as far as I can recollect at the time when the occurrence I am going to relate to you happened, I had not been thinking of Maud Bertram for months. I was in London just then, staying with my brother, my eldest brother, who had been married for several years, and lived in our own old town-house in ——— Square. It was in April, a clear spring day, with no fog or half-lights about, and it was not yet four o’clock in the afternoon — not very ghost-like circumstances, you will admit. I had come home early from my club — it was a sort of holiday-time with me just then for a few weeks — intending to get some letters written which had been on my mind for some days, and I had sauntered into the library, a pleasant, fair-sized room lined with books, on the first-floor. Before setting to work I sat down for a moment or two in an easy-chair by the fire, for it was still cool enough weather to make a fire desirable, and began thinking over my letters. No thought, no shadow of a thought of my old friend Miss Bertram was present with me; of that I am perfectly certain. The door was on the same side of the room as the fireplace; as I sat there, half facing the fire, I also half faced the door. I had not shut it properly on coming in — I had only closed it without turning the handle — and I did not feel surprised when it slowly and noiselessly swung open, till it stood right out into the room, concealing the actual doorway from my view. You will perhaps understand the position better if you think of the door as just then acting like a screen to the doorway. From where I sat I could not have seen anyone entering the room till he or she had got beyond the door itself. I glanced up, half expecting to see someone come in, but there was no one; the door had swung open of itself. For the moment I sat on, with only the vague thought passing through my mind, ‘I must shut it before I begin to write.’

“But suddenly I found my eyes fixing themselves on the carpet; something had come within their range of vision, compelling their attention in a mechanical sort of way. What was it?

“‘Smoke,’ was my first idea. ‘Can there be anything on fire?’ But I dismissed the notion almost as soon as it suggested itself. The something, faint and shadowy, that came slowly rippling itself in as it were beyond the dark wood of the open door, was yet too material for ‘smoke.’ My next idea was a curious one. ‘It looks like soapy water,’ I said to myself; ‘can one of the housemaids have been scrubbing, and upset a pail on the stairs?’ For the stair to the next floor almost faced the library door. But — no; I rubbed my eyes and looked again; the soapy water theory gave way. The wavy something that kept gliding, rippling in, gradually assumed a more substantial appearance. It was — yes, I suddenly became convinced of it — it was ripples of soft silken stuff, creeping in as if in some mysterious way unfolded or unrolled, not jerkily or irregularly, but glidingly and smoothly, like little wavelets on the sea-shore.

“And I sat there and gazed. ‘Why did you not jump up and look behind the door to see what it was?’ you may reasonably ask. That question I cannot answer. Why I sat still, as if bewitched, or under some irresistible influence, I cannot tell, but so it was.

“And it — came always rippling in, till at last it began to rise as it still came on, and I saw that a figure — a tall, graceful woman’s figure — was slowly advancing, backwards of course, into the room, and that the waves of pale silk — a very delicate shade of pearly gray I think it must have been — were in fact the lower portion of a long court-train, the upper part of which hung in deep folds from the lady’s waist. She moved in — I cannot describe the motion, it was not like ordinary walking or stepping backwards — till the whole of her figure and the clear profile of her face and head were distinctly visible, and when at last she stopped and stood there full in my view just, but only just beyond the door, I saw — it came upon me like a flash — that she was no stranger to me, this mysterious visitant! I recognised, unchanged it seemed to me since the day, ten years ago, when I had last seen her, the beautiful features of Maud Bertram.”

Mr. Marischal stopped a moment. Nobody spoke. Then he went on again.

“I should not have said ‘unchanged.’ There was one great change in the sweet face. You remember my telling you that one of my girl-friend’s greatest charms was her bright sunny happiness — she never seemed gloomy or depressed or dissatisfied, seldom even pensive. But in this respect the face I sat there gazing at was utterly unlike Maud Bertram’s. Its expression, as she — or ‘it’ — stood there looking, not towards me, but out beyond, as if at someone or something outside the doorway, was of the profoundest sadness. Anything so sad I had never seen in a human face, and I trust I never may. But I sat on, as motionless almost as she, gazing at her fixedly, with no desire, no power perhaps, to move or approach more nearly to the phantom. I was not in the least frightened. I knew it was a phantom, but I felt paralysed, and as if I myself had somehow got outside of ordinary conditions. And there I sat — staring at Maud, and there she stood, gazing before her with that terrible, unspeakable sadness in her face, which, even though I felt no fear, seemed to freeze me with a kind of unutterable pity.

“I don’t know how long I had sat thus, or how long I might have continued to sit there, almost as if in a trance, when suddenly I heard the front-door bell ring. It seemed to awaken me. I started up and glanced round, half-expecting that I should find the vision dispelled. But no; she was still there, and I sank back into my seat just as I heard my brother coming quickly upstairs. He came towards the library, and seeing the door wide open walked in, and I, still gazing, saw his figure pass through that of the woman in the doorway as you may walk through a wreath of mist or smoke — only, don’t misunderstand me, the figure of Maud till that moment had had nothing unsubstantial about it. She had looked to me, as she stood there, literally and exactly like a living woman — the shade of her dress, the colour of her hair, the few ornaments she wore, all were as defined and clear as yours, Nina, at the present moment, and remained so, or perhaps became so again as soon as my brother was well within the room. He came forward addressing me by name, but I answered him in a whisper, begging him to be silent and to sit down on the seat opposite me for a moment or two. He did so, though he was taken aback by my strange manner, for I still kept my eyes fixed on the door. I had a queer consciousness that if I looked away it would fade, and I wanted to keep cool and see what would happen. I asked Herbert in a low voice if he saw nothing, but though he mechanically followed the direction of my eyes, he shook his head in bewilderment. And for a moment or two he remained thus. Then I began to notice that the figure was growing less clear, as if it were receding, yet without growing smaller to the sight; it grew fainter and vaguer, the colours grew hazy. I rubbed my eyes once or twice with a half idea that my long watching was making them misty, but it was not so. My eyes were not at fault — slowly but surely Maud Bertram, or her ghost, melted away, till all trace of her had gone. I saw again the familiar pattern of the carpet where she had stood and the objects of the room that had been hidden by her draperies — all again in the most commonplace way, but she was gone, quite gone.

“Then Herbert, seeing me relax my intense gaze, began to question me. I told him exactly what I have told you. He answered, as every ‘common-sensible’ person of course would, that it was strange, but that such things did happen sometimes and were classed by the wise under the head of ‘optical delusions.’ I was not well, perhaps, he suggested. Been over-working? Had I not better see a doctor? But I shook my head. I was quite well, and I said so. And perhaps he was right, it might be an optical delusion only. I had never had any experience of such things.

“‘All the same,’ I said, ‘I shall mark down the date.’

“Herbert laughed and said that was what people always did in such cases. If he knew where Mrs. ——— then was he would write to her, just for the fun of the thing, and ask her to be so good as to look up her diary, if she kept one, and let us know what she had been doing on that particular day — ‘the 6th of April, isn’t it?’ he said — when I would have it her wraith had paid me a visit. I let him talk. It seemed to remove the strange painful impression — painful because of that terrible sadness in the sweet face. But we neither of us knew where she was, we scarcely remembered her married name! And so there was nothing to be done — except, what I did at once in spite of Herbert’s rallying, to mark down the day and hour with scrupulous exactness in my diary.

“Time passed. I had not forgotten my strange experience, but of course the impression of it lessened by degrees till it seemed more like a curious dream than anything more real, when one day I did hear of poor Maud again. ‘Poor’ Maud I cannot help calling her. I heard of her indirectly, and probably, but for the sadness of her story, I should never have heard it at all. It was a friend of her husband’s family who had mentioned the circumstances in the hearing of a friend of mine, and one day something brought round the conversation to old times, and he startled me by suddenly inquiring if I remembered Maud Bertram. I said, of course I did. Did he know anything of her? And then he told me.

“She was dead — she had died some months ago after a long and trying illness, the result of a terrible accident. She had caught fire one evening when dressed for some grand entertainment or other, and though her injuries did not seem likely to be fatal at the time, she had never recovered the shock.

“‘She was so pretty,’ my friend said, ‘and one of the saddest parts of it was that I hear she was terrifically disfigured, and she took this most sadly to heart. The right side of her face was utterly ruined, and the sight of the right eye lost, though, strange to say, the left side entirely escaped, and seeing her in profile one would have had no notion of what had happened. Was it not sad? She was such a sweet, bright creature.’

“I did not tell him my story, for I did not want it chattered about, but a strange sort of shiver ran through me at his words. It was the left side of her face only that the wraith of my poor friend had allowed me to see.”

“Oh, Uncle Paul!” exclaimed Nina.

“And — as to the dates?” inquired Mr. Snowdon.

“I never knew the exact date of the accident,” said Mr. Marischal, “but that of her death was fully six months after I had seen her. And in my own mind, I have never made any doubt that it was at or about, probably a short time after, the accident, that she came to me. It seemed a kind of appeal for sympathy — and — a farewell also, poor child.”

They all sat silent for some little time, and then Mr. Marischal got up and went off to his own quarters, saying something vaguely about seeing if his letters had gone.

“What a touching story!” said Gladys Lloyd. “I am afraid, after all, it has been more painful than he realised for Mr. Marischal to tell it. Did you know anything of Maud’s husband, dear Lady Denholme? Was he kind to her? Was she happy?”

“We never heard much about her married life,” her hostess replied. “But I have no reason to think she was unhappy. Her husband married again two or three years after her death, but that says nothing.”

“N — no,” said Nina. “All the same, mamma, I am sure she really did love Uncle Paul very much, — much more than he had any idea of. Poor Maud!”

“And he has never married,” added Gladys.

“No,” said Lady Denholme, “but there have been many practical difficulties in the way of his doing so. He has had a most absorbingly busy life, and now that he is more at leisure he feels himself too old to form new ties.”

“But,” persisted Nina, “if he had had any idea at the time that Maud cared for him so?”

“Ah well,” Lady Denholme allowed, “in that case, in spite of the practical difficulties, things would probably have been different.”

And again Nina repeated softly, “Poor Maud!”

THE NAMELESS VILLAGE

A MYSTERY OF THE MENDIP HILLS

J. E. Thomas

1896

Dead and forsaken, buried ’neath a ban,

Nameless, and lost to memory of man.

I had been walking nearly all day over the Mendip Hills.

Many a village and hamlet had I passed in my wanderings, but none so quaint as the one, half hidden in a rosy haze, which I was approaching.

It was nestled deep down in a hollow, and the setting sun tinged the little thatched roofs of the cottages, and the autumnal tinted foliage with touches of gold and crimson and purple.

A faint scent of sweetbriar seemed to pervade this tiny village. It formed altogether such a pretty old world picture, soft moss grew luxuriantly over the little porches, and the last roses of summer bloomed in their tender beauty from the cottage walls and covered like a fairy curtain the diamond-paned window.

Giant hollyhocks and prickly holly bushes, smothered already in scarlet berries, stood like enchanted sentinels at the rustic wooden gates. What, however, struck me as curious was the deathly silence which reigned over all. Not a soul could I see, not a sound greeted my ears. I felt as if I had walked into some spell-bound haunt, or a village buried in the dusty forgotten past of the middle ages.

Not far from the church stood the old manor house. I walked along the avenue of splendid chestnut trees which led to it, wondering how it was I had come across no mention of this queer out-of-the-way little place in my map. The house, built of grey stone, and mantled in ivy, was evidently of very ancient date. Over the stone portico an inscription was carved, but so discoloured by damp as to be impossible to decipher. The door itself, of massive oak and studded with nails, was black with age. My efforts to open it proving unavailing, I was about to retire, when I saw an old dame hobbling towards me. She was attired in a worn black velvet gown, and a white frilled muslin hood covered her head. I asked permission to look over the house; she was apparently dumb, for she vouchsafed me no answer, but silently produced from the reticule a heavy iron key, with which she began to fumble at the lock; it creaked ominously, opening with a harsh, grating sound to admit me. The old lady did not accompany me but left me to make my investigations alone.

The floors were thick with dust, and the furniture, which mainly consisted of oak, was worm-eaten, whilst some fine specimens of tapestry hanging limply on the walls were fretted by a relentless colony of moths.

In the long oak-panelled dining hall several family portraits were fitted into the wainscotting; one of these struck me forcibly, it was the picture of a thin-faced, dark-eyed man, wearing a ruff; but the expression was so life-like and peculiar that it repelled and fascinated me at the same time. Opposite hung the portrait of a girl, but the gloom surrounding the face was so deep that I could make out very little of the features.

A handsome silver sconce, the candles burnt almost to the sockets, and an iron inkhorn were standing on the table.

I passed through many rooms, but a sense of oppression weighed me down, and an indefinable musty odour clung to everything.

My footsteps resounded mournfully through the deserted corridors, and I glanced back more than once when I fancied I could detect the sound of hushed voices whispering behind me.

At last I entered a queer little chamber, more cheerful than the rest. On the deep window seat lay an old manuscript of music, and a mandolin, the chords of which were broken. I looked out of the lattice and saw what must once have been my lady’s pleasance; now it was over-grown with weeds and brambles. Just in the middle of the lawn stood a curiously-shaped sundial.

The heavy perfume of a magnolia tree in full bloom, which climbed the wall outside, filled the chamber, while a breath of air came sighing in and stirred the tarnished hangings of the four-poster. At that moment I happened to glance once more at the sundial, and caught my breath suddenly. The transparent form of a girl was standing before it, gazing with bent head at the desolation around her. But the vision of illusion quickly faded and I was left contemplating only the dark shadows of the trees cast by the last flickering rays of the sun on the neglected garden.

After some little difficulty I managed to find my way out of the rambling old house, and on looking back I saw the heavy door slowly pushed from inside and close with a clang, while the key grated in the lock and turned with a hollow groan.

All sorts of odd fancies crowded through my brain as I walked in the direction of the Church, which I was determined to see; the lovers, joys, sorrows and tragedies of bygone days arranged themselves in fantastic groups in my imagination as I passed up the weed-grown pathway.

The church door was open, but it was so dark inside that at first I could make nothing out, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I noticed that the air of mystery which enveloped both the mansion and village was not wanting here. The pews, black with age, were all very high and narrow. The large one at the chancel end of the church was even higher than the rest, and square in shape; it also boasted pillars richly carved at each corner, and all round hung velvet curtains spangled with silver cobwebs. Over the altar was a kind of alcove, ornamented with a fresco of cherubim adoring the Holy grail.

Suspended from the groined roof were some tattered flags, whilst long-robed and mail-clad effigies seemed from their shadowed recesses to fix me solemnly with stony, sightless eyes.

Feeling an unaccountable weariness creeping over me, I seated myself in the great square pew, leaving the door open.

Looking up I noticed that the wax tapers on the altar were burning, throwing a dim light over the scene.

Then — my heart stood still, for, gliding slowly up the aisle, came a strange procession.

First, the figure of a girl, covered with a long white veil, and by her side a tall, fair man, then followed a silent, gorgeous crowd. The bride and bridegroom approached the altar rails and knelt there. Three monks stood awaiting them, and one, a man with eyes like fierce gleaming jewels, stretched forth a trembling bony hand above their heads as if in benediction.

Spell-bound I waited — but the vision faded, passing away noiselessly as it had come, into the gathering night.

As I continued to gaze in the direction of the altar my eyes fell upon a coffin: it was draped with a purple pall, while a young, fair-haired man knelt, keeping lonely watch beside it. Then a monk appeared. I saw his face plainly. It was that of the man whose portrait I had seen in the old dining-hall. He stole stealthily up to the kneeling figure. My sight was next dazzled by an upward gleam of steel — something sinking in a dark, huddled heap on the floor — something darker still trickling down the steps — and — nothing more. It must have been a dream conjured up out of the hidden past. That night, when, rather late, I reached the Cheddar, I tried in vain to gain some information regarding the curious little hamlet through which I had passed. Neither my own touring map nor any of those scattered about on the parlour table could afford me the desired information. “Maybe old Sarah can tell you something,” suggested mine host.

So next morning, being directed as to her whereabouts, to old Sarah I accordingly went.

She was sitting at the door of her tiny hut, superintending a buxom young lass in her efforts at gardening. She was chatting volubly, and held a long rake in her horny hand, with which she was apparently in the habit of enforcing her remarks at intervals on the rosy-cheeked maiden, thus obviating the trouble of following her about her small domain.

She was evidently not disposed to be communicative to me, the only answer she vouchsafed to my earnest inquiries was “Sae ye have seen the mist village, have ye? Aye, aye, be thankfu’ ye cam’ oot o’ it sound o’ limb, nae seek tae enter it again: ’tis dead — dead — I tell ye, sure ’twas a gruesome tale — now Nance, shut thy mouth, child, and tend the lavender yonder.” And Nance only managed to elude the pointed exhortation of the rake by a nimble spring over the watering can.

I have often since pondered over my strange experience that day on the Mendip Hills.

Was it but a wraith after all — or “mist village,” as old Sarah had called it?

I cannot tell, but next year I must search again for the village which seemed so suddenly and utterly to have vanished from human ken.

JERRY BUNDLER

W. W. Jacobs

1897

It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market-town of Torchester was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted; the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him after his evening’s exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for the night.

In the comfortable coffee-room of the old “Boar’s Head”, half a dozen guests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light of the fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics to religion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghost stories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too much noise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner and gliding silently from the room.

“That’s what I call a good story,” said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. “Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western with a ghost and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on the floor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faint groan vanished through the ventilator.”

“That’ll do, Hirst,” said another man.

“It’s not a subject for jesting,” said a little old gentleman who had been an attentive listener. “I’ve never seen an apparition myself, but I know people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the after-life. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.”

“Never heard of it,” said another speaker, “and I’ve been here some years now.”

“It dates back a long time now,” said the old gentleman. “You’ve heard about Jerry Bundler, George?”

“Well, I’ve just ’eard odds and ends, sir,” said the old waiter, “but I never put much count to ’em. There was one chap ’ere what said ’e saw it, and the gov’ner sacked ’im prompt”

“My father was a native of this town,” said the old gentleman, “and knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer, but I’ve heard him declare that once in his life he saw the appearance of Jerry Bundler in this house.”

“And who was this Bundler?” enquired a voice.

“A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman — anything he could turn his dishonest hand to,” replied the old gentleman; “and he was run to earth in this house one Christmas week some eighty years ago. He took his last supper in this very room, and after he had gone up to bed a couple of Bow Street runners, who had followed him from London but lost the scent a bit, went upstairs with the landlord and tried the door. It was stout oak, and fast, so one went into the yard, and by means of a short ladder got on to the windowsill, while the other stayed outside the door. Those below in the yard saw the man crouching on the sill, and then there was a sudden smash of glass, and with a cry he fell in a heap on the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight they saw the white face of the pickpocket peeping over the sill, and while some stayed in the yard, others ran into the house and helped the other man to break the door in. It was difficult to obtain an entrance even then, for it was barred with heavy furniture, but they got in at last, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry dangling from the top of the bed by his own handkerchief.”

“Which bedroom was it?” asked two or three voices together.

The narrator shook his head. “That I can’t tell you; but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his bed and tried to strangle him.”

“That’ll do,” said an uneasy voice. “I wish you’d thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.”

“What for?” enquired the old gentleman.

“Well, I should take care not to sleep in it, that’s all,” said the voice shortly.

“There’s nothing to fear,” said the other. “I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really hurt one. In fact my father used to confess that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that for all practical purposes Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cotton-wool for all the harm they could do.”

“That’s all very fine,” said the last speaker again; “a ghost story is a ghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!”

“Pooh! nonsense!” said the old gentleman, rising; “ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part; I should rather like to see one. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night,” said the others. “And I only hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit,” added the nervous man as the door closed.

“Bring some more whisky, George,” said a stout commercial; “I want keeping up when the talk turns this way.”

“Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?” said George.

“No; the fire’s very comfortable,” said the traveller. “Now gentlemen, any of you know any more?”

“I think we’ve had enough,” said another man; “we shall be thinking we see spirits next, and we’re not all like the old gentleman who’s just gone.”

“Old humbug!” said Hirst. “I should like to put him to the test. Suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage?”

“Bravo!” said Malcolm huskily, drowning one or two faint “Noes”. “Just for the joke, gentlemen.”

“No, no! Drop it, Hirst,” said another man.

“Only for the joke,” said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. “I’ve got some things upstairs in which I am going to play in the ‘Rivals’ — knee-breeches, buckles, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you’ll wait a bit I’ll give you a full dress rehearsal, entitled, ‘Jerry Bundler; or, The Nocturnal Strangler’.”

“You won’t frighten us,” said the commercial, with a husky laugh.

“I don’t know that,” said Hirst sharply; “it’s a question of acting, that’s all. I’m pretty good, ain’t I, Somers?”

“Oh, you’re all right — for an amateur,” said his friend, with a laugh.

“I’ll bet you a level sovereign you don’t frighten me,” said the stout traveller.

“Done!” said Hirst. “I’ll take the bet to frighten you first and the old gentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges.”

“You won’t frighten us, sir,” said another man “because we’re prepared for you; but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play.”

“Well, I’ll try you first,” said Hirst, springing up. “No gas, mind.”

He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whom had been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. It ended in two of them going to bed.

“He’s crazy on acting,” said Somers, lighting his pipe. “Thinks he’s the equal of anybody almost. It doesn’t matter with us, but I won’t let him go to the old man. And he won’t mind so long as he gets an opportunity of acting to us.”

“Well, I hope he’ll hurry up,” said Malcolm, yawning; “it’s after twelve now.”

Nearly half an hour passed. Malcolm drew his watch from his pocket and was busy winding it, when George, the waiter, who had been sent on an errand to the bar, burst suddenly into the room and rushed towards them.

“ ’E’s comin’, gentlemen,” he said breathlessly.

“Why, you’re frightened, George,” said the stout commercial, with a chuckle.

“It was the suddenness of it,” said George sheepishly; “and besides, I didn’t look for seein’ ’im in the bar. There’s only a glimmer of light there, and ’e was sitting on the floor behind the bar. I nearly trod on ’im.”

“Oh, you’ll never make a man, George,” said Malcolm.

“Well, it took me unawares,” said the waiter. “Not that I’d have gone to the bar by myself if I’d known ’e was there, and I don’t believe you would either sir.”

“Nonsense!” said Malcolm. “I’ll go and fetch him in.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, sir,” said George, catching him by the sleeve. “It ain’t fit to look at by yourself, it ain’t, indeed. It’s got the-

What’s that?”

They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase and the sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Before anybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into the room flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” demanded Malcolm. “Why, it’s Mr. Hirst.” He shook him roughly and then held some spirit to his lips. Hirst drank it greedily and with a sharp intake of his breath gripped him by the arm.

“Light the gas, George,” said Malcolm.

The waiter obeyed hastily. Hirst, a ludicrous but pitiable figure in knee-breeches and coat, a large wig all awry, and his face a mess of grease paint, clung to him, trembling.

“Now what’s the matter?” asked Malcolm.

“I’ve seen it,” said Hirst, with a hysterical sob. “O Lord, I’ll never play the fool again, never!”

“Seen what?” said the others.

“Him — it — the ghost — anything!” said Hirst wildly.

“Rot!” said Malcolm uneasily.

“I was coming down the stairs,” said Hirst. “Just capering down — as I thought — it ought to do. I felt a tap—”

He broke off suddenly and peered nervously through the open door into the passage.

“I thought I saw it again,” he whispered. “Look — at the foot of the stairs. Can you see anything?”

“No, mere’s nothing there,” said Malcolm, whose own voice shook a little. “Go on. You felt a tap on your shoulder—”

“I turned round and saw it — a little wicked head and a white dead face. Pah!”

“That’s what I saw in the bar,” said George. “ ’Orrid it was — devilish!”

Hirst shuddered, and, still retaining his nervous grip of Malcolm’s sleeve, dropped into a chair.

“Well, it’s a most unaccountable thing,” said the dumbfounded Malcolm, turning round to the others. “It’s the last time I come to this house.”

“I leave tomorrow,” said George. “I wouldn’t go down to that bar again by myself, no, not for fifty pounds!”

“It’s talking about the thing that’s caused it, I expect,” said one of the men; “we’ve all been talking about this and having it in our minds. Practically we’ve been forming a spiritualistic circle without knowing it.”

“Hang the old gentleman!” said Malcolm heartily. “Upon my soul, I’m half afraid to go to bed. It’s odd they should both think they saw something.”

“I saw it as plain as I see you, sir,” said George solemnly. “P’raps if you keep your eyes turned up the passage you’ll see it for yourself.”

They followed the direction of his finger, but saw nothing, although one of them fancied that a head peeped round the corner of the wall.

“Who’ll come down to the bar?” said Malcolm, looking round.

“You can go, if you like,” said one of the others, with a faint laugh; “we’ll wait here for you.”

The stout traveller walked towards the door and took a few steps up the passage. Then he stopped. All was quite silent, and he walked slowly to the end and looked down fearfully towards the glass partition which shut off the bar. Three times he made as though to go to it; then he turned back, and, glancing over his shoulder, came hurriedly back to the room.

“Did you see it, sir?” whispered George.

“Don’t know,” said Malcolm shortly. “I fancied I saw something, but it might have been fancy. I’m in the mood to see anything just now. How are you feeling now, sir?”

“Oh, I feel a bit better now,” said Hirst somewhat brusquely, as all eyes were turned upon him. “I daresay you think I’m easily scared, but you didn’t see it.”

“Not at all,” said Malcolm, smiling faintly despite himself.

“I’m going to bed,” said Hirst, noticing the smile and resenting it. “Will you share my room with me, Somers?”

“I will with pleasure,” said his friend “provided you don’t mind sleeping with the gas on full all night.”

He rose from his seat, and bidding the company a friendly good night, left the room with his crestfallen friend. The others saw them to the foot of the stairs, and having heard their door close, returned to the coffee-room.

“Well, I suppose the bet’s off?” said the stout commercial, poking the fire and then standing with his legs apart on the hearthrug; “though, as far as I can see, I won it. I never saw a man so scared in all my life. Sort of poetic justice about it, isn’t there?”

“Never mind about poetry or justice,” said one of his listeners; “who’s going sleep with me?”

“I will,” said Malcolm affably.

“And I suppose we share a room together, Mr. Leek?” said the third man, turning to the fourth.

“No, thank you,” said the other briskly; “I don’t believe in ghosts. If anything comes into my room I shall shoot it.”

“That won’t hurt a spirit, Leek,” said Malcolm decisively.

“Well the noise’ll be like company to me,” said Leek, “and it’ll wake the house too. But if you’re nervous, sir,” he added with a grin to the man who had suggested sharing his room, “George’ll be only too pleased to sleep on the doormat inside your room, I know.”

“That I will, sir,” said George fervently; “and if you gentlemen would only come down with me to the bar to put the gas out, I could never be sufficiently grateful.”

They went out in a body, with the exception of Leek, peering carefully before them as they went. George turned the light out in the bar and they returned unmolested to the coffee-room, and, avoiding the sardonic smile of Leek, prepared to separate for the night.

“Give me the candle while you put the gas out, George,” said the traveller.

The waiter handed it to him and extinguished the gas, and at the same moment all distinctly heard a step in the passage outside. It stopped at the door, and as they watched with bated breath, the door creaked and slowly opened. Malcolm fell back open-mouthed, as a white, leering face, with sunken eyeballs and close-cropped bullet head, appeared at the opening.

For a few seconds the creature stood regarding them, blinking in a strange fashion at the candle. Then, with a sidling movement, it came a little way into the room and stood there as if bewildered.

Not a man spoke or moved, but all watched with a horrible fascination as the creature removed its dirty neck cloth and its head rolled on its shoulder. For a minute it paused, and then holding the rag before it, moved towards Malcolm.

The candle went out suddenly with a flash and a bang. These was a smell of powder, and something writhing in the darkness on the floor. A faint, choking cough, and then silence. Malcolm was the first to speak. “Matches,” he said in a strange voice. George struck one. Then he leapt at the gas and a burner flamed from the match. Malcolm touched the thing on the floor with his foot and found it soft. He looked at his companions. They mouthed enquiries at him, but he shook his head. He lit the candle, and, kneeling down, examined the silent thing on the floor. Then he rose swiftly, and dipping his handkerchief in the water jug, bent down again and grimly wiped the white face. Then he sprang back with a cry of incredulous horror, pointing at it. Leek’s pistol fell to the floor and he shut out the sight with his hands, but the others, crowding forward, gazed spell-bound at the dead face of Hirst.

Before a word was spoken the door opened and Somers hastily entered the room. His eyes fell on the floor. “Good God!” he cried. “You didn’t—”

Nobody spoke.

“I told him not to,” he said in a suffocating voice. “I told him not to. I told him—”

He leaned against the wall, deathly sick, put his arms out feebly, and fell fainting into the traveller’s arms.

THE CASE
OF VINCENT PYRWHIT

Barry Pain

1901

The death of Vincent Pyrwhit, J. P., of Ellerdon House, Ellerdon, in the county of Buckingham, would in the ordinary way have received no more attention than the death of any other simple country gentleman. The circumstances of his death, however, though now long since forgotten, were sensational, and attracted some notice at the time. It was one of those cases which is easily forgotten within a year, except just in the locality where it occurred. The most sensational circumstances of the case never came before the public at all. I give them here simply and plainly. The psychical people may make what they like of them.

Pyrwhit himself was a very ordinary country gentleman, a good fellow, but in no way brilliant. He was devoted to his wife, who was some fifteen years younger than himself, and remarkably beautiful. She was quite a good woman, but she had her faults. She was fond of admiration, and she was an abominable flirt. She misled men very cleverly, and was then sincerely angry with them for having been misled. Her husband never troubled his head about these flirtations, being assured quite rightly that she was a good woman. He was not jealous; she, on the other hand, was possessed of a jealousy amounting almost to insanity. This might have caused trouble if he had ever provided her with the slightest basis on which her jealousy could work, but he never did. With the exception of his wife, women bored him. I believe she did once or twice try to make a scene for some preposterous reason which was no reason at all; but nothing serious came of it, and there was never a real quarrel between them.

On the death of his wife, after a prolonged illness, Pyrwhit wrote and asked me to come down to Ellerdon for the funeral, and to remain at least a few days with him. He would be quite alone, and I was his oldest friend. I hate attending funerals, but I was his oldest friend, and I was, moreover, a distant relation of his wife. I had no choice and I went down.

There were many visitors in the house for the funeral, which took place in the village churchyard, but they left immediately afterwards. The air of heavy gloom which had hung over the house seemed to lift a little. The servants (servants are always very emotional) continued to break down at intervals, noticeably Pyrwhit’s man, Williams, but Pyrwhit himself was self-possessed. He spoke of his wife with great affection and regret, but still he could speak of her and not unsteadily. At dinner he also spoke of one or two other subjects, of politics and of his duties as a magistrate, and of course he made the requisite fuss about his gratitude to me for coming down to Ellerdon at that time. After dinner we sat in the library, a room well and expensively furnished, but without the least attempt at taste. There were a few oil paintings on the walls, a presentation portrait of himself, and a landscape or two — all more or less bad, as far as I remember. He had eaten next to nothing at dinner, but he had drunk a good deal; the wine, however, did not seem to have the least effect upon him. I had got the conversation definitely off the subject of his wife when I made a blunder. I noticed an Erichsen’s extension standing on his writing-table. I said:

“I didn’t know that telephones had penetrated into the villages yet.”

“Yes,” he said, “I believe they are common enough now. I had that one fitted up during my wife’s illness to communicate with her bedroom on the floor above us on the other side of the house.”

At that moment the bell of the telephone rang sharply.

We both looked at each other. I said with the stupid affectation of calmness one always puts on when one is a little bit frightened:

“Probably a servant in that room wishes to speak to you.”

He got up, walked over to the machine, and swung the green cord towards me. The end of it was loose.

“I had it disconnected this morning,” he said; “also the door of that room is locked, and no one can possibly be in it.”

He had turned the colour of gray blotting-paper; so probably had I. The bell rang again — a prolonged, rattling ring.

“Are you going to answer it?” I said.

“I am not,” he answered firmly.

“Then,” I said, “I shall answer it myself. It is some stupid trick, a joke not in the best of taste, for which you will probably have to sack one or other of your domestics.”

“My servants,” he answered, “would not have done that. Besides, don’t you see it is impossible? The instrument is disconnected.”

“The bell rang all the same. I shall try it.”

I picked up the receiver.

“Are you there?” I called.

The voice which answered me was unmistakably the rather high staccato voice of Mrs. Pyrwhit.

“I want you,” it said, “to tell my husband that he will be with me tomorrow.”

I still listened. Nothing more was said.

I repeated, “Are you there?” and still there was no answer.

I turned to Pyrwhit.

“There is no one there,” I said. “Possibly there is thunder in the air affecting the bell in some mysterious way. There must be some simple explanation, and I’ll find it all out tomorrow.”

•   •   •

He went to bed early that night. All the following day I was with him. We rode together, and I expected an accident every minute, but none happened. All the evening I expected him to turn suddenly faint and ill, but that also did not happen. When at about ten o’clock he excused himself and said good-night I felt distinctly relieved. He went up to his room and rang for Williams.

The rest is, of course, well known. The servant’s reason had broken down, possibly the immediate cause being the death of Mrs. Pyrwhit. On entering his master’s room, without the least hesitation, he raised a loaded revolver which he carried in his hand, and shot Pyrwhit through the heart. I believe the case is mentioned in some of the textbooks on homicidal mania.

A PROFESSOR
OF EGYPTOLOGY

Guy Boothby

1904

From seven o’clock in the evening until half past, that is to say for the half-hour preceding dinner, the Grand Hall of the Hotel Occidental, throughout the season, is practically a lounge, and is crowded with the most fashionable folk wintering in Cairo. The evening I am anxious to describe was certainly no exception to the rule. At the foot of the fine marble staircase — the pride of its owner — a well-known member of the French Ministry was chatting with an English Duchess whose pretty, but somewhat delicate, daughter was flirting mildly with one of the Sirdar’s Bimbashis, on leave from the Soudan. On the right-hand lounge of the Hall an Italian Countess, whose antecedents were as doubtful as her diamonds, was apparently listening to a story a handsome Greek attaché was telling her; in reality, however, she was endeavouring to catch scraps of a conversation being carried on, a few feet away, between a witty Russian and an equally clever daughter of the United States. Almost every nationality was represented there, but unfortunately for our prestige, the majority were English. The scene was a brilliant one, and the sprinkling of military and diplomatic uniforms (there was a Reception at the Khedivial Palace later) lent an additional touch of colour to the picture. Taken altogether, and regarded from a political point of view, the gathering had a significance of its own.

At the end of the Hall, near the large glass doors, a handsome, elderly lady, with grey hair, was conversing with one of the leading English doctors of the place — a grey-haired, clever-looking man, who possessed the happy faculty of being able to impress everyone with whom he talked with the idea that he infinitely preferred his or her society to that of any other member of the world’s population. They were discussing the question of the most suitable clothing for a Nile voyage, and as the lady’s daughter, who was seated next her, had been conversant with her mother’s ideas on the subject ever since their first visit to Egypt (as indeed had been the Doctor), she preferred to lie back on the divan and watch the people about her. She had large, dark, contemplative eyes. Like her mother she took life seriously, but in a somewhat different fashion.

One who has been bracketed third in the Mathematical Tripos can scarcely be expected to bestow very much thought on the comparative merits of Jger, as opposed to dresses of the Common or Garden flannel. From this, however, it must not be inferred that she was in any way a blue stocking, that is, of course, in the vulgar acceptance of the word. She was thorough in all she undertook, and for the reason that mathematics interested her very much the same way that Wagner, chess, and, shall we say, croquet, interest other people, she made it her hobby, and it must be confessed she certainly succeeded in it. At other times she rode, drove, played tennis and hockey, and looked upon her world with calm, observant eyes that were more disposed to find good than evil in it. Contradictions that we are, even to ourselves, it was only those who knew her intimately, and they were few and far between, who realised that, under that apparently sober, matter-of-fact personality, there existed a strong leaning towards the mysterious, or, more properly speaking, the occult. Possibly she herself would have been the first to deny this — but that I am right in my surmise this story will surely be sufficient proof.

Mr. Westmoreland and her daughter had left their comfortable Yorkshire home in September, and, after a little dawdling on the Continent, had reached Cairo in November — the best month to arrive, in my opinion, for then the rush has not set in, the hotel servants have not had sufficient time to become weary of their duties, and what is better still, all the best rooms have not been bespoken. It was now the middle of December, and the fashionable caravanserai, upon which they had for many years bestowed their patronage, was crowded from roof to cellar. Every day people were being turned away, and the manager’s continual lament was that he had not another hundred rooms wherein to place more guests. He was a Swiss, and for that reason regarded hotel-keeping in the light of a profession.

On this particular evening Mr. Westmoreland and her daughter Cecilia had arranged to dine with Dr. Forsyth — that is to say, they were to eat their meal at his table in order that they might meet a man of whom they had heard much, but whose acquaintance they had not as yet made.

The individual in question was a certain Professor Constanides — reputed one of the most advanced Egyptologists, and the author of several well-known works. Mr. Westmoreland was not of an exacting nature, and so long as she dined in agreeable company did not trouble herself very much whether it was with an English earl or a distinguished foreign savant.

“It really does not matter, my dear,” she was wont to observe to her daughter. “So long as the cooking is good and the wine above reproach, there is absolutely nothing to choose between them. A Prime Minister and a country vicar are, after all, only men. Feed them well and they’ll lie down and purr like tame cats. They don’t want conversation.” From this it will be seen that Mr. Westmoreland was well acquainted with her world. Whether Miss Cecilia shared her opinions is another matter. At any rate, she had been looking forward for nearly a fortnight to meeting Constanides, who was popularly supposed to possess an extraordinary intuitive knowledge — instinct, perhaps, it should be called — concerning the localities of tombs of the Pharaohs of the Eleventh, Twelfth and Thirteenth Dynasties.

“I am afraid Constanides is going to be late,” said the Doctor, who had consulted his watch more than once. “I hope, in that case, as his friend and your host, you will permit me to offer you my apologies.”

The Doctor at no time objected to the sound of his own voice, and on this occasion he was even less inclined to do so. Mr. Westmoreland was a widow with an ample income, and Cecilia, he felt sure, would marry ere long.

“He has still three minutes in which to put in an appearance,” observed that young lady, quietly.

And then she added in the same tone, “Perhaps we ought to be thankful if he comes at all.”

Both Mr. Westmoreland and her friend the Doctor regarded her with mildly reproachful eyes.

The former could not understand anyone refusing a dinner such as she felt sure the Doctor had arranged for them; while the latter found it impossible to imagine a man who would dare to disappoint the famous Dr. Forsyth, who, having failed in Harley Street, was nevertheless coining a fortune in the land of the Pharaohs.

“My good friend Constanides will not disappoint us, I feel sure,” he said, consulting his watch for the fourth time. “Possibly I am a little fast, at any rate I have never known him to be unpunctual. A remarkable — a very remarkable man is Constanides. I cannot remember ever to have met another like him. And such a scholar!”

Having thus bestowed his approval upon him the worthy Doctor pulled down his cuffs, straightened his tie, adjusted his pince-nez in his best professional manner, and looked round the hall as if searching for someone bold enough to contradict the assertion he had just made.

“You have, of course, read his Mythological Egypt,” observed Miss Cecilia, demurely, speaking as if the matter were beyond doubt.

The Doctor looked a little confused.

“Ahem! Well, let me see,” he stammered, trying to find a way out of the difficulty. “Well, to tell the truth, my dear young lady, I’m not quite sure that I have studied that particular work. As a matter of fact, you see, I have so little leisure at my disposal for any reading that is not intimately connected with my profession. That, of course, must necessarily come before everything else.”

Miss Cecilia’s mouth twitched as if she were endeavouring to keep back a smile. At the same moment the glass doors of the vestibule opened and a man entered. So remarkable was he that everyone turned to look at him — a fact which did not appear to disconcert him in the least.

He was tall, well shaped, and carried himself with the air of one accustomed to command. His face was oval, his eyes large and set somewhat wide apart. It was only when they were directed fairly at one that one became aware of the power they possessed. The cheek bones were a trifle high, and the forehead possibly retreated towards the jet-black hair more than is customary in Greeks. He wore neither beard nor moustache, thus enabling one to see the wide, firm mouth, the compression of the lips which spoke for the determination of their possessor. Those who had an eye for such things noted the fact that he was faultlessly dressed, while Miss Cecilia, who had the precious gift of observation largely developed, noted that, with the exception of a single ring and a magnificent pearl stud, the latter strangely set, he wore no jewellery of any sort. He looked about him for Dr. Forsyth, and, when he had located him, hastened forward.

“My dear friend,” he said in English, which he spoke with scarcely a trace of foreign accent, “I must crave your pardon a thousand times if I have kept you waiting.”

“On the contrary,” replied the Doctor, effusively, “you are punctuality itself. Permit me to have the pleasure — the very great pleasure — of introducing you to my friends, Mr. Westmoreland and her daughter, Miss Cecilia, of whom you have often heard me speak.” Professor Constanides bowed and expressed the pleasure he experienced in making their acquaintance. Though she could not have told you why, Miss Cecilia found herself undergoing very much the same sensation as she had done when she had passed up the Throne Room at her presentation. A moment later the gong sounded, and, with much rustling of skirts and fluttering of fans, a general movement was made towards the dining-room.

As host, Dr. Forsyth gave his arm to Mr. Westmoreland, Constanides following with Miss Cecilia. The latter was conscious of a vague feeling of irritation; she admired the man and his work, but she wished his name had been anything rather than what it was. (It should be here remarked that the last Constanides she had encountered had swindled her abominably in the matter of a turquoise brooch, and in consequence the name had been an offence to her ever since.) Dr. Forsyth’s table was situated at the further end, in the window, and from it a good view of the room could be obtained. The scene was an animated one, and one of the party, at least, I fancy, will never forget it — try how she may.

During the first two or three courses the conversation was practically limited to Cecilia and Constanides; the Doctor and Mr. Westmoreland being too busy to waste time on idle chatter.

Later, they became more amenable to the discipline of the table — or, in other words, they found time to pay attention to their neighbours.

Since then I have often wondered with what feelings Cecilia looks back upon that evening. In order, perhaps, to punish me for my curiosity, she has admitted to me since that she had never known, up to that time, what it was to converse with a really clever man. I submitted to the humiliation for the reason that we are, if not lovers, at least old friends, and, after all, Mr. Westmoreland’s cook is one in a thousand.

From that evening forward, scarcely a day passed in which Constanides did not enjoy some portion of Miss Westmoreland’s society. They met at the polo ground, drove in the Gezireh, shopped in the Muski, or listened to the band, over afternoon tea, on the balcony of Shepheard’s Hotel. Constanides was always unobtrusive, always picturesque and invariably interesting. What was more to the point, he never failed to command attention whenever or wherever he might appear. In the Native Quarter he was apparently better known than in the European. Cecilia noticed that there he was treated with a deference such as one would only expect to be shown to a king. She marvelled, but said nothing. Personally, I can only wonder that her mother did not caution her before it was too late. Surely she must have seen how dangerous the intimacy was likely to become. It was old Colonel Bettenham who sounded the first note of warning. In some fashion or another he was connected with the Westmorelands, and therefore had more or less right to speak his mind.

“Who the man is, I am not in a position to say,” he remarked to the mother; “but if I were in your place I should be very careful. Cairo at this time of year is full of adventurers.”

“But, my dear Colonel,” answered Mr. Westmoreland, “you surely do not mean to insinuate that the Professor is an adventurer. He was introduced to us by Dr. Forsyth, and he has written so many clever books.”

“Books, my dear madam, are not everything,” the other replied judicially, and with that fine impartiality which marks a man who does not read. “As a matter of fact I am bound to confess that Phipps — one of my captains — wrote a novel some years ago, but only one. The mess pointed out to him that it wasn’t good form, don’t you know, so he never tried the experiment again. But as for this man, Constanides, as they call him, I should certainly be more than careful.” I have been told since that this conversation worried poor Mr. Westmoreland more than she cared to admit, even to herself. To a very large extent she, like her daughter, had fallen under the spell of the Professor’s fascination. Had she been asked, point blank, she would doubtless have declared that she preferred the Greek to the Englishman — though, of course, it would have seemed flat heresy to say so. And yet — well, doubtless you can understand what I mean without my explaining further. I am inclined to believe that I was the first to notice that there was serious trouble brewing. I could see a strained look in the girl’s eyes for which I found it difficult to account. Then the truth dawned upon me, and I am ashamed to say that I began to watch her systematically. We have few secrets from each other now, and she has told me a good deal of what happened during that extraordinary time — for extraordinary it certainly was. Perhaps none of us realised what a unique drama we were watching — one of the strangest, I am tempted to believe, that this world of ours has ever seen. Christmas was just past and the New Year was fairly under way when the beginning of the end came. I think by that time even Mr. Westmoreland had arrived at some sort of knowledge of the case. But it was then too late to interfere. I am as sure that Cecilia was not in love with Constanides as I am of anything. She was merely fascinated by him, and to a degree that, happily for the peace of the world, is as rare as the reason for it is perplexing. To be precise, it was on Tuesday, January the 3rd, that the crisis came. On the evening of that day, accompanied by her daughter and escorted by Dr. Forsyth, Mr. Westmoreland attended a reception at the palace of a certain Pasha, whose name I am obviously compelled to keep to myself. For the purposes of my story it is sufficient, however, that he is a man who prides himself on being up-to-date in most things, and for that and other reasons invitations to his receptions are eagerly sought after. In his drawing-room one may meet some of the most distinguished men in Europe, and on occasion it is even possible to obtain an insight into certain political intrigues that, to put it mildly, afford one an opportunity of reflecting on the instability of mundane affairs and of politics in particular.

The evening was well advanced before Constanides made his appearance. When he did, it was observed that he was more than usually quiet. Later, Cecilia permitted him to conduct her into the balcony, whence, since it was a perfect moonlight night, a fine view of the Nile could be obtained. Exactly what he said to her I have never been able to discover; I have, however, her mother’s assurance that she was visibly agitated when she rejoined her. As a matter of fact, they returned to the hotel almost immediately, when Cecilia, pleading weariness, retired to her room.

And now this is the part of the story you will find as difficult to believe as I did. Yet I have indisputable evidence that it is true. It was nearly midnight and the large hotel was enjoying the only quiet it knows in the twenty-four hours. I have just said that Cecilia had retired, but in making that assertion I am not telling the exact truth, for though she had bade mother “Goodnight” and had gone to her room, it was not to rest. Regardless of the cold night air she had thrown open the window, and was standing looking out into the moonlit street. Of what she was thinking I do not know, nor can she remember. For my own part, however, I incline to the belief that she was in a semi-hypnotic condition and that for the time being her mind was a blank.

From this point I will let Cecilia tell the story herself.

How long I stood at the window I cannot say; it may have been only five minutes, it might have been an hour. Then, suddenly, an extraordinary thing happened. I knew that it was imprudent, I was aware that it was even wrong, but an overwhelming craving to go out seized me. I felt as if the house were stifling me and that if I did not get out into the cool night air, and within a few minutes, I should die. Stranger still, I felt no desire to battle with the temptation. It was as if a will infinitely stronger than my own was dominating me and that I was powerless to resist. Scarcely conscious of what I was doing I changed my dress, and then, throwing on a cloak, switched off the electric light and stepped out into the corridor. The white-robed Arab servants were lying about on the floor as is their custom; they were all asleep. On the thick carpet of the great staircase my steps made no sound. The hall was in semi-darkness and the watchman must have been absent on his rounds, for there was no one there to spy upon me. Passing through the vestibule I turned the key of the front door. Still success attended me, for the lock shot back with scarcely a sound and I found myself in the street. Even then I had no thought of the folly of this escapade. I was merely conscious of the mysterious power that was dragging me on. Without hesitation I turned to the right and hastened along the pavement, faster I think than I had ever walked in my life. Under the trees it was comparatively dark, but out in the roadway it was well-nigh as bright as day. Once a carriage passed me and I could hear its occupants, who were French, conversing merrily — otherwise I seemed to have the city to myself. Later I heard a muezzin chanting his call to prayer from the minaret of some mosque in the neighbourhood, the cry being taken up and repeated from other mosques. Then at the corner of a street I stopped as if in obedience to a command. I can recall the fact that I was trembling, but for what reason I could not tell. I say this to show that while I was incapable of returning to the hotel, or of exercising my normal will power, I still possessed the faculty of observation.

I had scarcely reached the corner referred to, which, as a matter of fact, I believe I should recognise if I saw it again, when the door of a house opened and a man emerged. It was Professor Constanides, but his appearance at such a place and at such an hour, like everything else that happened that night, did not strike me as being in any way extraordinary.

“You have obeyed me,” he said by way of greeting. “That is well. Now let us be going — the hour is late.”

As he said it there came the rattle of wheels and a carriage drove swiftly round the corner and pulled up before us. My companion helped me into it and took his place beside me. Even then, unheard-of as my action was, I had no thought of resisting.

“What does it mean?” I asked. “Oh, tell me what it means? Why am I here?”

“You will soon know,” was his reply, and his voice took a tone I had never noticed in it before. We had driven some considerable distance, in fact, I believe we had crossed the river, before either of us spoke again.

“Think,” said my companion, “and tell me whether you can remember ever having driven with me before?”

“We have driven together many times lately,” I replied. “Yesterday to the polo, and the day before to the Pyramids.”

“Think again,” he said, and as he did so he placed his hand on mine. It was as cold as ice.

However, I only shook my head.

“I cannot remember,” I answered, and yet I seemed to be dimly conscious of something that was too intangible to be a recollection. He uttered a little sigh and once more we were silent. The horses must have been good ones for they whirled us along at a fast pace. I did not take much interest in the route we followed, but at last something attracted my attention and I knew that we were on the road to Gizeh. A few moments later the famous Museum, once the palace of the ex-Khedive Ismail, came into view. Almost immediately the carriage pulled up in the shadow of the Lebbek trees and my companion begged me to alight. I did so, whereupon he said something, in what I can only suppose was Arabic, to his coachman, who whipped up his horses and drove swiftly away.

“Come,” he said, in the same tone of command as before, and then led the way towards the gates of the old palace. Dominated as my will was by his I could still notice how beautiful the building looked in the moonlight. In the daytime it presents a faded and unsubstantial appearance, but now, with its Oriental tracery, it was almost fairylike. The Professor halted at the gates and unlocked them. How he had admitted us, I cannot say. It suffices that, almost before I was aware of it, we had passed through the garden and were ascending the steps to the main entrance. The doors behind us, we entered the first room. It is only another point in this extraordinary adventure when I declare that even now I was not afraid; and yet to find oneself in such a place and at such an hour at any other time would probably have driven me beside myself with terror.

The moonlight streamed in upon us, revealing the ancient monuments and the other indescribable memorials of those long-dead ages. Once more my conductor uttered his command and we went on through the second room, passed the Skekh-El-Beled and the Seated Scribe. Room after room we traversed, and to do so it seemed to me that we ascended stairs innumerable. At last we came to one in which Constanides paused. It contained numerous mummy cases and was lighted by a skylight through which the rays of the moon streamed in. We were standing before one which I remembered to have remarked on the occasion of our last visit. I could distinguish the paintings upon it distinctly. Professor Constanides, with the deftness which showed his familiarity with the work, removed the lid and revealed to me the swathed-up figure within. The face was uncovered and was strangely well-preserved. I gazed down on it, and as I did so a sensation that I had never known before passed over me. My body seemed to be shrinking, my blood to be turning to ice.

For the first time I endeavoured to exert myself, to tear myself from the bonds that were holding me. But it was in vain. I was sinking — sinking — sinking — into I knew not what. Then the voice of the man who had brought me to the place sounded in my ears as if he were speaking from a long way off. After that a great light burst upon me, and it was as if I were walking in a dream; yet I knew it was too real, too true to life to be a mere creation of my fancy.

It was night and the heavens were studded with stars. In the distance a great army was encamped and at intervals the calls of the sentries reached me. Somehow I seemed to feel no wonderment at my position. Even my dress caused me no surprise. To my left, as I looked towards the river, was a large tent, before which armed men paced continually. I looked about me as if I expected to see someone, but there was no one.

“It is for the last time,” I told myself. “Come what may, it shall be the last time!”

Still I waited, and as I did so I could hear the night wind sighing through the rushes on the river’s bank. From the tent near me — for Usirtasen, son of Amenemhait — was then fighting against the Libyans and was commanding his army in person — came the sound of revelry. The air blew cold from the desert and I shivered, for I was but thinly clad. Then I hid myself in the shadow of a great rock that was near at hand. Presently I caught the sound of a footstep, and there came into view a tall man, walking carefully, as though he had no desire that the sentries on guard before the Royal tent should become aware of his presence in the neighbourhood. As I saw him I moved from where I was standing to meet him. He was none other than Sinfihit — younger son of Amenemhait and brother of Usirtasen — who was at that moment conferring with his generals in the tent.

I can see him now as he came towards me, tall, handsome, and defiant in his bearing as a man should be. He walked with the assured step of one who has been a soldier and trained to warlike exercises from his youth up. For a moment I regretted the news I had to tell him — but only for a moment. I could hear the voice of Usirtasen in the tent, and after that I had no thought for anyone else.

“Is it thou, Nofrit?” he asked as soon as he saw me.

“It is I!” I replied. “You are late, Sinfihit. You tarry too long over the wine cups.”

“You wrong me, Nofrit,” he answered, with all the fierceness for which he was celebrated. “I have drunk no wine this night. Had I not been kept by the Captain of the Guard I should have been here sooner. Thou art not angry with me, Nofrit?”

“Nay, that were presumption on my part, my lord,” I answered. “Art thou not the King’s son, Sinfihit?”

“And by the Holy Ones I swear that it were better for me if I were not,” he replied. “Usirtasen, my brother, takes all and I am but the jackal that gathers up the scraps wheresoever he may find them.” He paused for a moment. “However, all goes well with our plot. Let me but have time and I will yet be ruler of this land and of all the Land of Khem beside.” He drew himself up to his full height and looked towards the sleeping camp. It was well known that between the brothers there was but little love, and still less trust.

“Peace, peace,” I whispered, fearing lest his words might be overheard. “You must not talk so, my lord. Should you by chance be heard you know what the punishment would be!”

He laughed a short and bitter laugh. He was well aware that Usirtasen would show him no mercy. It was not the first time he had been suspected, and he was playing a desperate game. He came a step closer to me and took my hand in his. I would have withdrawn it — but he gave me no opportunity. Never was a man more in earnest than he was then.

“Nofrit,” he said, and I could feel his breath upon my cheek, “what is my answer to be? The time for talking is past; now we must act. As thou knowest, I prefer deeds to words, and tomorrow my brother Usirtasen shall learn that I am as powerful as he.”

Knowing what I knew I could have laughed him to scorn for his boastful speech. The time, however, was not yet ripe, so I held my peace. He was plotting against his brother, whom I loved, and it was his desire that I should help him. That, however, I would not do. “Listen,” he said, drawing even closer to me, and speaking in a voice that showed me plainly how much in earnest he was, “thou knowest how much I love thee. Thou knowest that there is nought I would not do for thee or for thy sake. Be but faithful to me now and there is nothing thou shalt ask in vain of me hereafter. All is prepared, and ere the moon is gone I shall be Pharaoh and reign beside Amenemhait, my father.”

“Are you so sure that your plans will not miscarry?” I asked, with what was almost a sneer at his recklessness — for recklessness it surely was to think that he could induce an army that had been admittedly successful to swerve in its allegiance to the general who had won its battles for it, and to desert in the face of the enemy. Moreover, I knew that he was wrong in believing that his father cared more for him than for Usirtasen, who had done so much for the kingdom, and who was beloved by high and low alike. But it was not in Sinfihit’s nature to look upon the dark side of things. He had complete confidence in himself and in his power to bring his conspiracy against his father and brother to a successful issue. He revealed to me his plans, and, bold though they were, I could see that it was impossible that they could succeed. And in the event of his failing, what mercy could he hope to receive? I knew Usirtasen too well to think that he would show any. With all the eloquence I could command I implored him to abandon the attempt, or at least to delay it for a time. He seized my wrist and pulled me to him, peering fiercely into my face.

“Art playing me false?” he asked. “If it is so it were better that you should drown yourself in yonder river. Betray me and nothing shall save you — not even Pharaoh himself.”

That he meant what he said I felt convinced. The man was desperate; he was staking all he had in the world upon the issue of his venture. I can say with truth that it was not my fault that we had been drawn together, and yet on this night of all others it seemed as if there were nothing left for me but to side with him or to bring about his downfall.

“Nofrit,” he said, after a short pause, “is it nothing, thinkest thou, to be the wife of a Pharaoh? Is it not worth striving for, particularly when it can be so easily accomplished?”

I knew, however, that he was deluding himself with false hopes. What he had in his mind could never come to pass. I was like dry grass between two fires. All that was required was one small spark to bring about a conflagration in which I should be consumed.

“Harken to me, Nofrit,” he continued. “You have means of learning Usirtasen’s plans. Send me word tomorrow as to what is in his mind and the rest will be easy. Your reward shall be greater than you dream of.”

Though I had no intention of doing what he asked, I knew that in his present humour it would be little short of madness to thwart him. I therefore temporised with him, and allowed him to suppose that I would do as he wished, and then, bidding him good-night, I sped away towards the hut where I was lodged. I had not been there many minutes when a messenger came to me from Usirtasen, summoning me to his presence. Though I could not understand what it meant I hastened to obey.

On arrival there I found him surrounded by the chief officers of his army. One glance at his face was sufficient to tell me that he was violently angry with someone, and I had the best of reasons for believing that that someone was myself. Alas! it was as I had expected.

Sinfihit’s plot had been discovered; he had been followed and watched, and my meeting with him that evening was known. I protested my innocence in vain. The evidence was too strong against me.

“Speak, girl, and tell what thou knowest,” said Usirtasen, in a voice I had never heard him use before. “It is the only way by which thou canst save thyself. Look to it that thy story tallies with the tales of others!”

I trembled in every limb as I answered the questions he put to me. It was plain that he no longer trusted me, and that the favour I had once found in his eyes was gone, never to return. “It is well,” he said when I had finished my story. “And now we will see thy partner — the man who would have put me — the Pharaoh who is to be — to the sword had I not been warned in time.”

He made a sign to one of the officers who stood by, whereupon the latter left the tent, to return a few moments later with Sinfihit.

“Hail, brother!” said Usirtasen, mockingly, as he leaned back in his chair and looked at him through half-shut eyes. “You tarried but a short time over the wine cup this night. I fear it pleased thee but little. Forgive me; on another occasion better shall be found for thee lest thou shouldst deem us lacking in our hospitality.”

“There were matters that needed my attention and I could not stay,” Sinfihit replied, looking his brother in the face. “Thou wouldst not have me neglect my duties.”

“Nay! nay! Maybe they were matters that concerned our personal safety?” Usirtasen continued, still with the same gentleness. “Maybe you heard that there were those in our army who were not well disposed towards us? Give me their names, my brother, that due punishment may be meted out to them.”

Before Sinfihit could reply, Usirtasen had sprung to his feet.

“Dog!” he cried, “darest thou prate to me of matters of importance when thou knowest thou hast been plotting against me and my father’s throne. I have doubted thee these many months and now all is made clear. By the Gods, the Holy Ones, I swear that thou shalt die for this ere cock-crow.”

It was at this moment that Sinfihit became aware of my presence. A little cry escaped him, and his face told me as plainly as any words could speak that he believed that I had betrayed him. He was about to speak, probably to denounce me, when the sound of voices reached us from outside.

Usirtasen bade the guards to ascertain what it meant, and presently a messenger entered the tent.

He was travel-stained and weary. Advancing towards where Usirtasen was seated, he knelt before him.

“Hail, Pharaoh,” he said. “I come to three from the Palace of Titoui.”

An anxious expression came over Usirtasen’s face as he heard this. I also detected beads of perspiration on the brow of Sinfihit. A moment latter it was known to us that Amenemhait was dead, and, therefore, Usirtasen reigned in his stead. The news was so sudden, and the consequences so vast, that it was impossible to realise quite what it meant. I looked across at Sinfihit and his eyes met mine. He seemed to be making up his mind about something. Then with lightning speed he sprang upon me; a dagger gleamed in the air; I felt as if a hot iron had been thrust into my breast, and after that I remember no more.

As I felt myself falling I seemed to wake from my dream — if dream it were — to find myself standing in the Museum by the mummy case, and with Professor Constanides by my side.

“You have seen,” he said. “You have looked back across the centuries to that day when, as Nofrit, I believed you had betrayed me, and killed you. After that I escaped from the camp and fled into Kaduma. There I died; but it was decreed that my soul should never know peace till we had met again and you had forgiven me. I have waited all these years, and see — we meet at last.”

Strange to say, even then the situation did not strike me as being in any way improbable. Yet now, when I see it set down in black and white, I find myself wondering that I dare to ask anyone in their sober senses to believe it to be true. Was I in truth that same Nofrit who, four thousand years before, had been killed by Sinfihit, son of Amenemhait, because he believed that I had betrayed him? It seemed incredible, and yet, if it were a creation of my imagination, what did the dream mean? I fear it is a riddle of which I shall probably never know the answer. My failure to reply to his question seemed to cause him pain.

“Nofrit,” he said, and his voice shook with emotion, “think what your forgiveness means to me. Without it I am lost both here and hereafter.”

His voice was low and pleading and his face in the moonlight was like that of a man who knew the uttermost depths of despair.

“Forgive — forgive,” he cried again, holding out his hands to me. “If you do not, I must go back to the sufferings which have been my portion since I did the deed which wrought my ruin.”

I felt myself trembling like a leaf.

“If it is as you say, though I cannot believe it, I forgive you freely,” I answered, in a voice that I scarcely recognised as my own.

For some moments he was silent, then he knelt before me and took my hand, which he raised to his lips. After that, rising, he laid his head upon the breast of the mummy before which we were standing. Looking down at it he addressed it thus:

“Rest, Sinfihit, son of Amenemhait — for that which was foretold for thee is now accomplished, and the punishment which was decreed is at an end. Henceforth thou mayest sleep in peace.”

After that he replaced the lid of the coffin, and when this was done he turned to me.

“Let us be going,” he said, and we went together through the rooms by the way we had come.

Together we left the building and passed through the gardens out into the road beyond. There we found the carriage waiting for us, and we took our places in it. Once more the horses sped along the silent road, carrying us swiftly back to Cairo. During the drive not a word was spoken by either of us. The only desire I had left was to get back to the hotel and lay my aching head upon my pillow. We crossed the bridge and entered the city. What the time was I had no idea, but I was conscious that the wind blew chill as if in anticipation of the dawn. At the same corner whence we had started, the coachman stopped his horses and I alighted, after which he drove away as if he had received his orders before-hand.

“Will you permit me to walk with you as far as your hotel?” said Constanides, with his customary politeness.

I tried to say something in reply, but my voice failed me. I would much rather have been alone, but as he would not allow this we set off together. At the corner of the street in which the hotel is situated we stopped.

“Here we must part,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “And forever. From this moment I shall never see your face again.”

“You are leaving Cairo?” was the only thing I could say.

“Yes, I am leaving Cairo,” he replied with peculiar emphasis. “My errand here is accomplished. You need have no fear that I shall ever trouble you again.”

“I have no fear,” I answered, though I am afraid it was only a half truth.

He looked earnestly into my face.

“Nofrit,” he said, “for, say what you will, you are the Nofrit I would have made my Queen and have loved beyond all other women, never again will it be permitted you to look into the past as you did tonight. Had things been ordained otherwise we might have done great things together, but the gods willed that it should not be. Let it rest therefore. And now — farewell! Tonight I go to the rest for which I have so long been seeking.”

Without another word he turned and left me. Then I went on to the hotel. How it came about I cannot say, but the door was open and I passed quickly in. Once more, to my joy, I found the watchman was absent from the hall. Trembling lest anyone might see me, I sped up the stairs and along the corridor, where the servants lay sleeping just as I had left them, and so to my room. Everything was exactly as I had left it, and there was nothing to show that my absence had been suspected. Again I went to the window, and, in a feeling of extraordinary agitation, looked out. Already there were signs of dawn in the sky. I sat down and tried to think over all that had happened to me that evening, endeavouring to convince myself, in the face of indisputable evidence, that it was not real and that I had only dreamt it. Yet it would not do! At last, worn out, I retired to rest. As a rule I sleep soundly; it is scarcely, however, a matter for wonderment that I did not do so on this occasion.

Hour after hour I tumbled and tossed — thinking — thinking — thinking. When I rose and looked into the glass I scarcely recognised myself. Indeed, my mother commented on my fagged appearance when we met at the breakfast table.

“My dear child, you look as if you had been up all night,” she said, and little did she guess, as she nibbled her toast, that there was a considerable amount of truth in her remark.

Later she went shopping with a lady staying in the hotel, while I went to my room to lie down.

When we met again at lunch it was easy to see that she had some news of importance to communicate.

“My dear Cecilia,” she said, “I have just seen Dr. Forsyth, and he has given me a terrible shock. I don’t want to frighten you, my girl, but have you heard that Professor Constanides was found dead in bed this morning? It is a most terrible affair! He must have died during the night!”

I am not going to pretend that I had any reply ready to offer her at that moment.

Jack London

1911

A strange life has come to an end in the death of Mr. Sedley Crayden, of Crayden Hill.

Mild, harmless, he was the victim of a strange delusion that kept him pinned, night and day, in his chair for the last two years of his life. The mysterious death, or, rather, disappearance, of his elder brother, James Crayden, seems to have preyed upon his mind, for it was shortly after that event that his delusion began to manifest itself.

Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any explanation of his strange conduct. There was nothing the matter with him physically; and, mentally, the alienists found him normal in every way save for his one remarkable idiosyncrasy. His remaining in his chair was purely voluntary, an act of his own will. And now he is dead, and the mystery remains unsolved.

Extract from the Newton Courier-Times

•   •   •

Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden’s confidential servant and valet for the last eight months of his life. During that time he wrote a great deal in a manuscript that he kept always beside him, except when he drowsed or slept, at which times he invariably locked it in a desk drawer close to his hand.

I was curious to read what the old gentleman wrote, but he was too cautious and cunning. I never got a peep at the manuscript. If he were engaged upon it when I attended on him, he covered the top sheet with a large blotter. It was I who found him dead in his chair, and it was then that I took the liberty of abstracting the manuscript. I was very curious to read it, and I have no excuses to offer.

After retaining it in my secret possession for several years, and after ascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no surviving relatives, I have decided to make the nature of the manuscript known. It is very long, and I have omitted nearly all of it, giving only the more lucid fragments. It bears all the earmarks of a disordered mind, and various experiences are repeated over and over, while much is so vague and incoherent as to defy comprehension. Nevertheless, from reading it myself, I venture to predict that if an excavation is made in the main basement, somewhere in the vicinity of the foundation of the great chimney, a collection of bones will be found which should very closely resemble those which James Crayden once clothed in mortal flesh.

— Statement of Rudolph Heckler

•   •   •

Here follows the excerpts from the manuscript, made and arranged by Rudolph Heckler:

I never killed my brother. Let this be my first word and my last. Why should I kill him? We lived together in unbroken harmony for twenty years. We were old men, and the fires and tempers of youth had long since burned out. We never disagreed even over the most trivial things. Never was there such amity as ours. We were scholars. We cared nothing for the outside world. Our companionship and our books were all-satisfying. Never were there such talks as we held. Many a night we have sat up till two and three in the morning, conversing, weighing opinions and judgments, referring to authorities — in short, we lived at high and friendly intellectual altitudes.

•

He disappeared. I suffered a great shock. Why should he have disappeared? Where could he have gone? It was very strange. I was stunned. They say I was very sick for weeks. It was brain fever. This was caused by his inexplicable disappearance. It was at the beginning of the experience I hope here to relate, that he disappeared.

How I have endeavoured to find him. I am not an excessively rich man, yet have I offered continually increasing rewards. I have advertised in all the papers, and sought the aid of all the detective bureaus. At the present moment, the rewards I have out aggregate over fifty thousand dollars.

•

They say he was murdered. They also say murder will out. Then I say, why does not his murder come out? Who did it? Where is he? Where is Jim? My Jim?

•

We were so happy together. He had a remarkable mind, a most remarkable mind, so firmly founded, so widely informed, so rigidly logical, that it was not at all strange that we agreed in all things. Dissension was unknown between us. Jim was the most truthful man I have ever met. In this, too, we were similar, as we were similar in our intellectual honesty. We never sacrificed truth to make a point. We had no points to make, we so thoroughly agreed. It is absurd to think that we could disagree on anything under the sun.

•

I wish he would come back. Why did he go? Who can ever explain it? I am lonely now, and depressed with grave forebodings — frightened by terrors that are of the mind and that put at naught all that my mind has ever conceived. Form is mutable. This is the last word of positive science. The dead do not come back. This is incontrovertible. The dead are dead, and that is the end of it, and of them. And yet I have had experiences here — here, in this very room, at this very desk, that — But wait. Let me put it down in black and white, in words simple and unmistakable. Let me ask some questions. Who mislays my pen? That is what I desire to know. Who uses up my ink so rapidly? Not I. And yet the ink goes.

The answer to these questions would settle all the enigmas of the universe. I know the answer. I am not a fool. And someday, if I am plagued too desperately, I shall give the answer myself. I shall give the name of him who mislays my pen and uses up my ink. It is so silly to think that I could use such a quantity of ink. The servant lies. I know.

•

I have got me a fountain pen. I have always disliked the device, but my old stub had to go. I burned it in the fireplace. The ink I keep under lock and key. I shall see if I cannot put a stop to these lies that are being written about me. And I have other plans. It is not true that I have recanted. I still believe that I live in a mechanical universe. It has not been proved otherwise to me, for all that I have peered over his shoulder and read his malicious statement to the contrary. He gives me credit for no less than average stupidity. He thinks I think he is real. How silly. I know he is a brain-figment, nothing more.

There are such things as hallucinations. Even as I looked over his shoulder and read, I knew that this was such a thing. If I were only well it would be interesting. All my life I have wanted to experience such phenomena. And now it has come to me. I shall make the most of it. What is imagination? It can make something where there is nothing. How can anything be something where there is nothing? How can anything be something and nothing at the same time? I leave it for the metaphysicians to ponder. I know better. No scholastics for me. This is a real world, and everything in it is real. What is not real, is not. Therefore he is not. Yet he tries to fool me into believing that he is…when all the time I know he has no existence outside of my own brain cells.

•

I saw him today, seated at the desk, writing. It gave me quite a shock, because I had thought he was quite dispelled. Nevertheless, on looking steadily, I found that he was not there — the old familiar trick of the brain. I have dwelt too long on what has happened. I am becoming morbid, and my old indigestion is hinting and muttering. I shall take exercise. Each day I shall walk for two hours.

•

It is impossible. I cannot exercise. Each time I return from my walk, he is sitting in my chair at the desk. It grows more difficult to drive him away. It is my chair. Upon this I insist. It was his, but he is dead and it is no longer his. How one can be befooled by the phantoms of his own imagining! There is nothing real in this apparition. I know it. I am firmly grounded with my fifty years of study. The dead are dead.

•

And yet, explain one thing. Today, before going for my walk, I carefully put the fountain pen in my pocket before leaving the room. I remember it distinctly. I looked at the clock at the time. It was twenty minutes past ten. Yet on my return there was the pen lying on the desk. Someone had been using it. There was very little ink left. I wish he would not write so much. It is disconcerting.

•

There was one thing upon which Jim and I were not quite agreed. He believed in the eternity of the forms of things. Therefore, entered in immediately the consequent belief in immortality, and all the other notions of the metaphysical philosophers. I had little patience with him in this. Painstakingly I have traced to him the evolution of his belief in the eternity of forms, showing him how it has arisen out of his early infatuation with logic and mathematics. Of course, from that warped, squinting, abstract view-point, it is very easy to believe in the eternity of forms.

I laughed at the unseen world. Only the real was real, I contended, and what one did not perceive, was not, could not be. I believed in a mechanical universe. Chemistry and physics explained everything. “Can no being be?” he demanded in reply. I said that his question was but the major promise of a fallacious Christian Science syllogism. Oh, believe me, I know my logic, too. But he was very stubborn. I never had any patience with philosophic idealists.

•

Once, I made to him my confession of faith. It was simple, brief, unanswerable. Even as I write it now I know that it is unanswerable. Here it is. I told him: “I assert, with Hobbes, that it is impossible to separate thought from matter that thinks. I assert, with Bacon, that all human understanding arises from the world of sensations. I assert, with Locke, that all human ideas are due to the functions of the senses. I assert, with Kant, the mechanical origin of the universe, and that creation is a natural and historical process. I assert, with Laplace, that there is no need of the hypothesis of a creator. And, finally, I assert, because of all the foregoing, that form is ephemeral. Form passes. Therefore we pass.”

I repeat, it was unanswerable. Yet did he answer with Paley’s notorious fallacy of the watch. Also, he talked about radium, and all but asserted that the very existence of matter had been exploded by these later-day laboratory researches. It was childish. I had not dreamed he could be so immature.

How could one argue with such a man? I then asserted the reasonableness of all that is. To this he agreed, reserving, however, one exception. He looked at me, as he said it, in a way I could not mistake. The inference was obvious. That he should be guilty of so cheap a quip in the midst of a serious discussion, astounded me.

•

The eternity of forms. It is ridiculous. Yet is there a strange magic in the words. If it be true, then has he not ceased to exist. Then does he exist. This is impossible.

•

I have ceased exercising. As long as I remain in the room, the hallucination does not bother me. But when I return to the room after an absence, he is always there, sitting at the desk, writing. Yet I dare not confide in a physician. I must fight this out by myself.

•

He grows more importunate. Today, consulting a book on the shelf, I turned and found him again in the chair. This is the first time he has dared do this in my presence. Nevertheless, by looking at him steadily and sternly for several minutes, I compelled him to vanish. This proves my contention. He does not exist. If he were an eternal form I could not make him vanish by a mere effort of my will.

•

This is getting damnable. Today I gazed at him for an entire hour before I could make him leave. Yet it is so simple. What I see is a memory picture. For twenty years I was accustomed to seeing him there at the desk. The present phenomenon is merely a recrudescence of that memory picture — a picture which was impressed countless times on my consciousness.

•

I gave up today. He exhausted me, and still he would not go. I sat and watched him hour after hour. He takes no notice of me, but continually writes. I know what he writes, for I read it over his shoulder. It is not true. He is taking an unfair advantage.

•

Query: He is a product of my consciousness; is it possible, then, that entities may be created by consciousness?

•

We did not quarrel. To this day I do not know how it happened. Let me tell you. Then you will see. We sat up late that never-to-be-forgotten last night of his existence. It was the old, old discussion — the eternity of forms. How many hours and how many nights we had consumed over it!

On this night he had been particularly irritating, and all my nerves were screaming. He had been maintaining that the human soul was itself a form, an eternal form, and that the light within his brain would go on forever and always. I took up the poker.

“Suppose,” I said, “I should strike you dead with this?”

“I would go on,” he answered.

“As a conscious entity?” I demanded.

“Yes, as a conscious entity,” was his reply. “I should go on, from plane to plane of higher existence, remembering my earth-life, you, this very argument — ay, and continuing the argument with you.”

It was only argument. [*] I swear it was only argument. I never lifted a hand. How could I? He was my brother, my elder brother, Jim.

[*]  (Forcible — ha! ha! — comment of Rudolph Heckler on margin.)

I cannot remember. I was very exasperated. He had always been so obstinate in this metaphysical belief of his. The next I knew, he was lying on the hearth. Blood was running. It was terrible. He did not speak. He did not move. He must have fallen in a fit and struck his head. I noticed there was blood on the poker. In falling he must have struck upon it with his head. And yet I fail to see how this can be, for I held it in my hand all the time. I was still holding it in my hand as I looked at it.

•

It is an hallucination. That is a conclusion of common sense. I have watched the growth of it. At first it was only in the dimmest light that I could see him sitting in the chair. But as the time passed, and the hallucination, by repetition, strengthened, he was able to appear in the chair under the strongest lights. That is the explanation. It is quite satisfactory.

•

I shall never forget the first time I saw it. I had dined alone downstairs. I never drink wine, so that what happened was eminently normal. It was in the summer twilight that I returned to the study. I glanced at the desk. There he was, sitting. So natural was it, that before I knew I cried out “Jim!” Then I remembered all that had happened. Of course it was an hallucination. I knew that. I took the poker and went over to it. He did not move nor vanish. The poker cleaved through the non-existent substance of the thing and struck the back of the chair. Fabric of fancy, that is all it was. The mark is there on the chair now where the poker struck. I pause from my writing and turn and look at it — press the tips of my fingers into the indentation.

•

He did continue the argument. I stole up today and looked over his shoulder. He was writing the history of our discussion. It was the same old nonsense about the eternity of forms. But as I continued to read, he wrote down the practical test I had made with the poker. Now this is unfair and untrue. I made no test. In falling he struck his head on the poker.

•

Someday, somebody will find and read what he writes. This will be terrible. I am suspicious of the servant, who is always peeping and peering, trying to see what I write. I must do something. Every servant I have had is curious about what I write.

•

Fabric of fancy. That is all it is. There is no Jim who sits in the chair. I know that. Last night, when the house was asleep, I went down into the cellar and looked carefully at the soil around the chimney. It was untampered with. The dead do not rise up.

•

Yesterday morning, when I entered the study, there he was in the chair. When I had dispelled him, I sat in the chair myself all day. I had my meals brought to me. And thus I escaped the sight of him for many hours, for he appears only in the chair. I was weary, but I sat late, until eleven o’clock. Yet, when I stood up to go to bed, I looked around, and there he was. He had slipped into the chair on the instant. Being only fabric of fancy, all day he had resided in my brain. The moment it was unoccupied, he took up his residence in the chair. Are these his boasted higher planes of existence — his brother’s brain and a chair? After all, was he not right? Has his eternal form become so attenuated as to be an hallucination? Are hallucinations real entities? Why not? There is food for thought here. Someday I shall come to a conclusion upon it.

•

He was very much disturbed today. He could not write, for I had made the servant carry the pen out of the room in his pocket But neither could I write.

•

The servant never sees him. This is strange. Have I developed a keener sight for the unseen? Or rather does it not prove the phantom to be what it is — a product of my own morbid consciousness?

•

He has stolen my pen again. Hallucinations cannot steal pens. This is unanswerable. And yet I cannot keep the pen always out of the room. I want to write myself.

•

I have had three different servants since my trouble came upon me, and not one has seen him. Is the verdict of their senses right? And is that of mine wrong? Nevertheless, the ink goes too rapidly. I fill my pen more often than is necessary. And furthermore, only today I found my pen out of order. I did not break it.

•

I have spoken to him many times, but he never answers. I sat and watched him all morning. Frequently he looked at me, and it was patent that he knew me.

•

By striking the side of my head violently with the heel of my hand, I can shake the vision of him out of my eyes. Then I can get into the chair; but I have learned that I must move very quickly in order to accomplish this. Often he fools me and is back again before I can sit down.

•

It is getting unbearable. He is a jack-in-the-box the way he pops into the chair. He does not assume form slowly. He pops. That is the only way to describe it. I cannot stand looking at him much more. That way lies madness, for it compels me almost to believe in the reality of what I know is not. Besides, hallucinations do not pop.

•

Thank God he only manifests himself in the chair. As long as I occupy the chair I am quit of him.

•

My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, is failing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhaps more than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have so repeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand.

•

My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am I not cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, an idea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughts are entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created this phantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have created him is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is an entity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality.

•

Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, can create an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creator made substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair to assume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It is merely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor a solar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. This being so, may I not someday be able to make a mountain or a solar system?

•

All his days, down to today, man has lived in a maze. He has never seen the light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light — not as my brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberately and rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubt about it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see. The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw what made me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This is not my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as I could fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created.

•

Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is my brother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because of thinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in the morning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has sat there the night long.

•

I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in a physician.

•

Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night I was so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for the servant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was he banished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shall remain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief.

•

It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable to lie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he is sitting there in the cold darkness.

•

It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I have tried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If I could but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, and sits there — I know he does — while I stare and stare up into the blackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there. I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms.

•

The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is why I have never called in a physician.

•

I am resolved. Henceforth this hallucination ceases. From now on I shall remain in the chair. I shall never leave it. I shall remain in it night and day and always.

•

I have succeeded. For two weeks I have not seen him. Nor shall I ever see him again. I have at last attained the equanimity of mind necessary for philosophic thought. I wrote a complete chapter today.

•

It is very wearisome, sitting in a chair. The weeks pass, the months come and go, the seasons change, the servants replace each other, while I remain. I only remain. It is a strange life I lead, but at least I am at peace.

•

He comes no more. There is no eternity of forms. I have proved it. For nearly two years now, I have remained in this chair, and I have not seen him once. True, I was severely tried for a time. But it is clear that what I thought I saw was merely hallucination. He never was. Yet I do not leave the chair. I am afraid to leave the chair.

A SCHOOL STORY

M. R. James

1911

Two men in a smoking-room were talking of their private-school days. “At our school,” said A., “we had a ghost’s footmark on the staircase. What was it like? Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape of a shoe, with a square toe, if I remember right. The staircase was a stone one. I never heard any story about the thing. That seems odd, when you come to think of it. Why didn’t somebody invent one, I wonder?”

“You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own. There’s a subject for you, by the way — ‘The Folklore of Private Schools.’”

“Yes; the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were to investigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at private schools tell each other, they would all turn out to be highly-compressed versions of stories out of books.”

“Nowadays the Strand and Pearson’s, and so on, would be extensively drawn upon.”

“No doubt: they weren’t born or thought of in my time. Let’s see. I wonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there was the house with a room in which a series of people insisted on passing a night; and each of them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner, and had just time to say, ‘I’ve seen it,’ and died.”

“Wasn’t that the house in Berkeley Square?”

“I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the passage at night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towards him on all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides, let me think — Yes! the room where a man was found dead in bed with a horseshoe mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered with marks of horseshoes also; I don’t know why. Also there was the lady who, on locking her bedroom door in a strange house, heard a thin voice among the bed-curtains say, ‘Now we’re shut in for the night.’ None of those had any explanation or sequel. I wonder if they go on still, those stories.”

“Oh, likely enough — with additions from the magazines, as I said. You never heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not; nobody has that ever I came across.”

“From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have.”

“I really don’t know; but this is what was in my mind. It happened at my private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven’t any explanation of it.

“The school I mean was near London. It was established in a large and fairly old house — a great white building with very fine grounds about it; there were large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many of the older gardens in the Thames valley, and ancient elms in the three or four fields which we used for our games. I think probably it was quite an attractive place, but boys seldom allow that their schools possess any tolerable features.

“I came to the school in a September, soon after the year 1870; and among the boys who arrived on the same day was one whom I took to: a Highland boy, whom I will call McLeod. I needn’t spend time in describing him: the main thing is that I got to know him very well. He was not an exceptional boy in any way — not particularly good at books or games — but he suited me.

“The school was a large one: there must have been from 120 to 130 boys there as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required, and there were rather frequent changes among them.

“One term — perhaps it was my third or fourth — a new master made his appearance. His name was Sampson. He was a tallish, stoutish, pale, black-bearded man. I think we liked him: he had travelled a good deal, and had stories which amused us on our school walks, so that there was some competition among us to get within earshot of him. I remember too — dear me, I have hardly thought of it since then! — that he had a charm on his watch-chain that attracted my attention one day, and he let me examine it. It was, I now suppose, a gold Byzantine coin; there was an effigy of some absurd emperor on one side; the other side had been worn practically smooth, and he had had cut on it — rather barbarously — his own initials, G. W. S., and a date, 24 July, 1865. Yes, I can see it now: he told me he had picked it up in Constantinople: it was about the size of a florin, perhaps rather smaller.

“Well, the first odd thing that happened was this. Sampson was doing Latin grammar with us. One of his favourite methods — perhaps it is rather a good one — was to make us construct sentences out of our own heads to illustrate the rules he was trying to make us learn. Of course that is a thing which gives a silly boy a chance of being impertinent: there are lots of school stories in which that happens — or anyhow there might be. But Sampson was too good a disciplinarian for us to think of trying that on with him. Now, on this occasion he was telling us how to express remembering in Latin: and he ordered us each to make a sentence bringing in the verb memini, ‘I remember.’ Well, most of us made up some ordinary sentence such as ‘I remember my father,’ or ‘He remembers his book,’ or something equally uninteresting: and I dare say a good many put down memino librum meum, and so forth: but the boy I mentioned — McLeod — was evidently thinking of something more elaborate than that. The rest of us wanted to have our sentences passed, and get on to something else, so some kicked him under the desk, and I, who was next to him, poked him and whispered to him to look sharp. But he didn’t seem to attend. I looked at his paper and saw he had put down nothing at all. So I jogged him again harder than before and upbraided him sharply for keeping us all waiting. That did have some effect. He started and seemed to wake up, and then very quickly he scribbled about a couple of lines on his paper, and showed it up with the rest. As it was the last, or nearly the last, to come in, and as Sampson had a good deal to say to the boys who had written meminiscimus patri meo and the rest of it, it turned out that the clock struck twelve before he had got to McLeod, and McLeod had to wait afterwards to have his sentence corrected. There was nothing much going on outside when I got out, so I waited for him to come. He came very slowly when he did arrive, and I guessed there had been some sort of trouble. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘what did you get?’  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said McLeod, ‘nothing much: but I think Sampson’s rather sick with me.’  ‘Why, did you show him up some rot?’  ‘No fear,’ he said. ‘It was all right as far as I could see: it was like this: Memento — that’s right enough for remember, and it takes a genitive — memento putei inter quatuor taxos.’  ‘What silly rot!’ I said. ‘What made you shove that down? What does it mean?’  ‘That’s the funny part,’ said McLeod. ‘I’m not quite sure what it does mean. All I know is, it just came into my head and I corked it down. I know what I think it means, because just before I wrote it down I had a sort of picture of it in my head: I believe it means “Remember the well among the four” — what are those dark sort of trees that have red berries on them?’  ‘Mountain ashes, I s’pose you mean.’  ‘I never heard of them,’ said McLeod; ‘no, I’ll tell you — yews.’  ‘Well, and what did Sampson say?’  ‘Why, he was jolly odd about it. When he read it he got up and went to the mantelpiece and stopped quite a long time without saying anything, with his back to me. And then he said, without turning round, and rather quiet, “What do you suppose that means?” I told him what I thought; only I couldn’t remember the name of the silly tree: and then he wanted to know why I put it down, and I had to say something or other. And after that he left off talking about it, and asked me how long I’d been here, and where my people lived, and things like that: and then I came away: but he wasn’t looking a bit well.’

“I don’t remember any more that was said by either of us about this. Next day McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind, and it was a week or more before he was in school again. And as much as a month went by without anything happening that was noticeable. Whether or not Mr. Sampson was really startled, as McLeod had thought, he didn’t show it. I am pretty sure, of course, now, that there was something very curious in his past history, but I’m not going to pretend that we boys were sharp enough to guess any such thing.

“There was one other incident of the same kind as the last which I told you. Several times since that day we had had to make up examples in school to illustrate different rules, but there had never been any row except when we did them wrong. At last there came a day when we were going through those dismal things which people call Conditional Sentences, and we were told to make a conditional sentence, expressing a future consequence. We did it, right or wrong, and showed up our bits of paper, and Sampson began looking through them. All at once he got up, made some odd sort of noise in his throat, and rushed out by a door that was just by his desk. We sat there for a minute or two, and then — I suppose it was incorrect — but we went up, I and one or two others, to look at the papers on his desk. Of course I thought someone must have put down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had gone off to report him. All the same, I noticed that he hadn’t taken any of the papers with him when he ran out. Well, the top paper on the desk was written in red ink — which no one used — and it wasn’t in anyone’s hand who was in the class. They all looked at it — McLeod and all — and took their dying oaths that it wasn’t theirs. Then I thought of counting the bits of paper. And of this I made quite certain: that there were seventeen bits of paper on the desk, and sixteen boys in the form. Well, I bagged the extra paper, and kept it, and I believe I have it now. And now you will want to know what was written on it. It was simple enough, and harmless enough, I should have said.

“‘Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te,’ which means, I suppose, ‘If you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you.’”

“Could you show me the paper?” interrupted the listener.

“Yes, I could: but there’s another odd thing about it. That same afternoon I took it out of my locker — I know for certain it was the same bit, for I made a fingermark on it — and no single trace of writing of any kind was there on it. I kept it, as I said, and since that time I have tried various experiments to see whether sympathetic ink had been used, but absolutely without result.

“So much for that. After about half an hour Sampson looked in again: said he had felt very unwell, and told us we might go. He came rather gingerly to his desk and gave just one look at the uppermost paper: and I suppose he thought he must have been dreaming: anyhow, he asked no questions.

“That day was a half-holiday, and next day Sampson was in school again, much as usual. That night the third and last incident in my story happened.

“We — McLeod and I — slept in a dormitory at right angles to the main building. Sampson slept in the main building on the first floor. There was a very bright full moon. At an hour which I can’t tell exactly, but some time between one and two, I was woken up by somebody shaking me. It was McLeod; and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in. ‘Come,’ he said — ‘come! there’s a burglar getting in through Sampson’s window.’ As soon as I could speak, I said, ‘Well, why not call out and wake everybody up?’  ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure who it is: don’t make a row: come and look.’ Naturally I came and looked, and naturally there was no one there. I was cross enough, and should have called McLeod plenty of names: only — I couldn’t tell why — it seemed to me that there was something wrong — something that made me very glad I wasn’t alone to face it. We were still at the window looking out, and as soon as I could, I asked him what he had heard or seen. ‘I didn’t hear anything at all,’ he said, ‘but about five minutes before I woke you, I found myself looking out of this window here, and there was a man sitting or kneeling on Sampson’s windowsill, and looking in, and I thought he was beckoning.’  ‘What sort of man?’ McLeod wriggled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you one thing — he was beastly thin: and he looked as if he was wet all over: and,’ he said, looking round and whispering as if he hardly liked to hear himself, ‘I’m not at all sure that he was alive.’

“We went on talking in whispers some time longer, and eventually crept back to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. I believe we did sleep a bit afterwards, but we were very cheap next day.

“And next day Mr. Sampson was gone: not to be found: and I believe no trace of him has ever come to light since. In thinking it over, one of the oddest things about it all has seemed to me to be the fact that neither McLeod nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any third person whatever. Of course no questions were asked on the subject, and if they had been, I am inclined to believe that we could not have made any answer: we seemed unable to speak about it.

“That is my story,” said the narrator. “The only approach to a ghost story connected with a school that I know, but still, I think, an approach to such a thing.”

The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional; but a sequel there is, and so it must be produced. There had been more than one listener to the story, and, in the latter part of that same year, or of the next, one such listener was staying at a country house in Ireland.

One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and ends in the smoking-room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box. “Now,” he said, “you know about old things; tell me what that is.” My friend opened the little box, and found in it a thin gold chain with an object attached to it. He glanced at the object and then took off his spectacles to examine it more narrowly. “What’s the history of this?” he asked. “Odd enough,” was the answer. “You know the yew thicket in the shrubbery: well, a year or two back we were cleaning out the old well that used to be in the clearing here, and what do you suppose we found?”

“Is it possible that you found a body?” said the visitor, with an odd feeling of nervousness.

“We did that: but what’s more, in every sense of the word, we found two.”

“Good Heavens! Two? Was there anything to show how they got there? Was this thing found with them?”

“It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of the bodies. A bad business, whatever the story of it may have been. One body had the arms tight round the other. They must have been there thirty years or more — long enough before we came to this place. You may judge we filled the well up fast enough. Do you make anything of what’s cut on that gold coin you have there?”

“I think I can,” said my friend, holding it to the light (but he read it without much difficulty); “it seems to be G. W. S., 24 July, 1865.”

MR. JONES

Edith Wharton

1928

I

Lady Jane Lynke was unlike other people: when she heard that she had inherited Bells, the beautiful old place which had belonged to the Lynkes of Thudeney for something like six hundred years, the fancy took her to go and see it unannounced. She was staying at a friend’s near by, in Kent, and the next morning she borrowed a motor and slipped away alone to Thudeney-Blazes, the adjacent village.

It was a lustrous motionless day. Autumn bloom lay on the Sussex downs, on the heavy trees of the weald, on streams moving indolently, far off across the marshes. Farther still, Dungeness, a fitful streak, floated on an immaterial sea which was perhaps, after all, only sky.

In the softness Thudeney-Blazes slept: a few aged houses bowed about a duckpond, a silvery spire, orchards thick with dew. Did Thudeney-Blazes ever wake?

Lady Jane left the motor to the care of the geese on a miniature common, pushed open a white gate into a field (the griffoned portals being padlocked), and struck across the park toward a group of carved chimney-stacks. No one seemed aware of her.

In a dip of the land, the long low house, its ripe brick masonry overhanging a moat deeply sunk about its roots, resembled an aged cedar spreading immemorial red branches. Lady Jane held her breath and gazed.

A silence distilled from years of solitude lay on lawns and gardens. No one had lived at Bells since the last Lord Thudeney, then a penniless younger son, had forsaken it sixty years before to seek his fortune in Canada. And before that, he and his widowed mother, distant poor relations, were housed in one of the lodges, and the great place, even in their day, had been as mute and solitary as the family vault.

Lady Jane, daughter of another branch, to which an earldom and considerable possessions had accrued, had never seen Bells, hardly heard its name. A succession of deaths, and the whim of an old man she had never known, now made her heir to all this beauty; and as she stood and looked she was glad she had come to it from so far, from impressions so remote and different. “It would be dreadful to be used to it — to be thinking already about the state of the roof, or the cost of a heating system.”

Till this her thirty-fifth year, Lady Jane had led an active, independent and decided life. One of several daughters, moderately but sufficiently provided for, she had gone early from home, lived in London lodgings, travelled in tropic lands, spent studious summers in Spain and Italy, and written two or three brisk businesslike little books about cities usually dealt with sentimentally. And now, just back from a summer in the south of France, she stood ankle-deep in wet bracken, and gazed at Bells lying there under a September sun that looked like moonlight.

“I shall never leave it!” she ejaculated, her heart swelling as if she had taken the vow to a lover.

She ran down the last slope of the park and entered the faded formality of gardens with clipped yews as ornate as architecture, and holly hedges as solid as walls. Adjoining the house rose a low deep-buttressed chapel. Its door was ajar, and she thought this of good augury: her forebears were waiting for her. In the porch she remarked flyblown notices of services, an umbrella stand, a dishevelled doormat: no doubt the chapel served as the village church. The thought gave her a sense of warmth and neighbourliness. Across the damp flags of the chancel, monuments and brasses showed through a traceried screen. She examined them curiously. Some hailed her with vocal memories, others whispered out of the remote and the unknown: it was a shame to know so little about her own family. But neither Crofts nor Lynkes had ever greatly distinguished themselves; they had gathered substance simply by holding on to what they had, and slowly accumulating privileges and acres. “Mostly by clever marriages,” Lady Jane thought with a faint contempt.

At that moment her eyes lit on one of the less ornate monuments: a plain sarcophagus of grey marble niched in the wall and surmounted by the bust of a young man with a fine arrogant head, a Byronic throat and tossed-back curls.

“Peregrine Vincent Theobald Lynke, Baron Clouds, fifteenth Viscount Thudeney of Bells, Lord of the Manors of Thudeney, Thudeney-Blazes, Upper Lynke, Lynke-Linnet—” so it ran, with the usual tedious enumeration of honours, titles, court and county offices, ending with: “Born on May 1st, 1790, perished of the plague at Aleppo in 1828.” And underneath, in small cramped characters, as if crowded as an afterthought into an insufficient space: “Also His Wife.”

That was all. No name, dates, honours, epithets, for the Viscountess Thudeney. Did she too die of the plague at Aleppo? Or did the “also” imply her actual presence in the sarcophagus which her husband’s pride had no doubt prepared for his own last sleep, little guessing that some Syrian drain was to receive him? Lady Jane racked her memory in vain. All she knew was that the death without issue of this Lord Thudeney had caused the property to revert to the Croft-Lynkes, and so, in the end, brought her to the chancel step where, shyly, she knelt a moment, vowing to the dead to carry on their trust.

She passed on to the entrance court, and stood at last at the door of her new home, a blunt tweed figure in heavy mud-stained shoes. She felt as intrusive as a tripper, and her hand hesitated on the doorbell. “I ought to have brought someone with me,” she thought; an odd admission on the part of a young woman who, when she was doing her books of travel, had prided herself on forcing single-handed the most closely guarded doors. But those other places, as she looked back, seemed easy and accessible compared to Bells.

She rang, and a tinkle answered, carried on by a flurried echo which seemed to ask what in the world was happening. Lady Jane, through the nearest window, caught the spectral vista of a long room with shrouded furniture. She could not see its farther end, but she had the feeling that someone stationed there might very well be seeing her.

“Just at first,” she thought, “I shall have to invite people here — to take the chill off.”

She rang again, and the tinkle again prolonged itself; but no one came.

At last she reflected that the caretakers probably lived at the back of the house, and pushing open a door in the courtyard wall she worked her way around to what seemed a stable-yard. Against the purple brick sprawled a neglected magnolia, bearing one late flower as big as a planet. Lady Jane rang at a door marked “Service.” This bell, though also languid, had a wakefuller sound, as if it were more used to being rung, and still knew what was likely to follow; and after a delay during which Lady Jane again had the sense of being peered at — from above, through a lowered blind — a bolt shot, and a woman looked out. She was youngish, unhealthy, respectable and frightened; and she blinked at Lady Jane like someone waking out of sleep.

“Oh,” said Lady Jane — “do you think I might visit the house?”

“The house?”

“I’m staying near here — I’m interested in old houses. Mightn’t I take a look?”

The young woman drew back. “The house isn’t shown.”

“Oh, but not to — not to—” Jane weighed the case. “You see,” she explained, “I know some of the family: the Northumberland branch.”

“You’re related, madam?”

“Well — distantly, yes.” It was exactly what she had not meant to say; but there seemed no other way.

The woman twisted her apron-strings in perplexity. “Come, you know,” Lady Jane urged, producing half-a-crown. The woman turned pale.

“I couldn’t, madam; not without asking.” It was clear that she was sorely tempted.

“Well, ask, won’t you?” Lady Jane pressed the tip into a hesitating hand. The young woman shut the door and vanished. She was away so long that the visitor concluded her half-crown had been pocketed, and there was an end; and she began to be angry with herself, which was more often her habit than to be so with others.

“Well, for a fool, Jane, you’re a complete one,” she grumbled.

A returning footstep, listless, reluctant — the tread of one who was not going to let her in. It began to be rather comic.

The door opened, and the young woman said in her dull sing-song: “Mr. Jones says that no one is allowed to visit the house.”

She and Lady Jane looked at each other for a moment, and Lady Jane read the apprehension in the other’s eyes.

“Mr. Jones? Oh? — Yes; of course, keep it…” She waved away the woman’s hand.

“Thank you, madam.” The door closed again, and Lady Jane stood and gazed up at the inexorable face of her old home.

II

“But you didn’t get in? You actually came back without so much as a peep?”

Her story was received, that evening at dinner, with mingled mirth and incredulity.

“But, my dear! You mean to say you asked to see the house, and they wouldn’t let you? Who wouldn’t?” Lady Jane’s hostess insisted.

“Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones?”

“He said no one was allowed to visit it.”

“Who on earth is Mr. Jones?”

“The caretaker, I suppose. I didn’t see him.”

“Didn’t see him either? But I never heard such nonsense! Why in the world didn’t you insist?”

“Yes; why didn’t you?” they all chorused; and she could only answer, a little lamely: “I think I was afraid.”

“Afraid? You, darling?” There was fresh hilarity. “Of Mr. Jones?”

“I suppose so.” She joined in the laugh, yet she knew it was true: she had been afraid.

Edward Stramer, the novelist, an old friend of her family, had been listening with an air of abstraction, his eyes on his empty coffee-cup. Suddenly, as the mistress of the house pushed back her chair, he looked across the table at Lady Jane. “It’s odd: I’ve just remembered something. Once, when I was a youngster, I tried to see Bells; over thirty years ago it must have been.” He glanced at his host. “Your mother drove me over. And we were not let in.”

There was a certain flatness in this conclusion, and someone remarked that Bells had always been known as harder to get into than any other house thereabouts.

“Yes,” said Stramer; “but the point is that we were refused in exactly the same words. Mr. Jones said no one was allowed to visit the house.”

“Ah — he was in possession already? Thirty years ago? Unsociable fellow, Jones. Well, Jane, you’ve got a good watchdog.”

They moved to the drawing-room, and the talk drifted to other topics. But Stramer came and sat down beside Lady Jane. “It is queer, though, that at such a distance of time we should have been given exactly the same answer.”

She glanced up at him curiously. “Yes; and you didn’t try to force your way in either?”

“Oh, no: it was not possible.”

“So I felt,” she agreed.

“Well, next week, my dear, I hope we shall see it all, in spite of Mr. Jones,” their hostess intervened, catching their last words as she moved toward the piano.

“I wonder if we shall see Mr. Jones,” said Stramer.

III

Bells was not nearly as large as it looked; like many old houses it was very narrow, and but one storey high, with servants’ rooms in the low attics, and much space wasted in crooked passages and superfluous stairs. If she closed the great saloon, Jane thought, she might live there comfortably with the small staff which was the most she could afford. It was a relief to find the place less important than she had feared.

For already, in that first hour of arrival, she had decided to give up everything else for Bells. Her previous plans and ambitions — except such as might fit in with living there — had fallen from her like a discarded garment, and things she had hardly thought about, or had shrugged away with the hasty subversiveness of youth, were already laying quiet hands on her; all the lives from which her life had issued, with what they bore of example or admonishment. The very shabbiness of the house moved her more than splendours, made it, after its long abandonment, seem full of the careless daily coming and going of people long dead, people to whom it had not been a museum, or a page of history, but cradle, nursery, home, and sometimes, no doubt, a prison. If those marble lips in the chapel could speak! If she could hear some of their comments on the old house which had spread its silent shelter over their sins and sorrows, their follies and submissions! A long tale, to which she was about to add another chapter, subdued and humdrum beside some of those earlier annals, yet probably freer and more varied than the unchronicled lives of the great-aunts and great-grandmothers buried there so completely that they must hardly have known when they passed from their beds to their graves. “Piled up like dead leaves,” Jane thought, “layers and layers of them, to preserve something forever budding underneath.”

Well, all these piled-up lives had at least preserved the old house in its integrity; and that was worth while. She was satisfied to carry on such a trust.

She sat in the garden looking up at those rosy walls, iridescent with damp and age. She decided which windows should be hers, which rooms given to the friends from Kent who were motoring over, Stramer among them, for a modest house-warming; then she got up and went in.

The hour had come for domestic questions; for she had arrived alone, unsupported even by the old family housemaid her mother had offered her. She preferred to start afresh, convinced that her small household could be staffed from the neighbourhood. Mrs. Clemm, the rosy-cheeked old person who had curtsied her across the threshold, would doubtless know.

Mrs. Clemm, summoned to the library, curtsied again. She wore black silk, gathered and spreading as to skirt, flat and perpendicular as to bodice. On her glossy false front was a black lace cap with ribbons which had faded from violet to ash-colour, and a heavy watch-chain descended from the lava brooch under her crochet collar. Her small round face rested on the collar like a red apple on a white plate: neat, smooth, circular, with a pursed-up mouth, eyes like black seeds, and round ruddy cheeks with the skin so taut that one had to look close to see that it was as wrinkled as a piece of old crackly.

Mrs. Clemm was sure there would be no trouble about servants. She herself could do a little cooking: though her hand might be a bit out. But there was her niece to help; and she was quite of her ladyship’s opinion, that there was no need to get in strangers. They were mostly a poor lot; and besides, they might not take to Bells. There were persons who didn’t. Mrs. Clemm smiled a sharp little smile, like the scratch of a pin, as she added that she hoped her ladyship wouldn’t be one of them.

As for under-servants … well, a boy, perhaps? She had a great-nephew she might send for. But about women — under-housemaids — if her ladyship thought they couldn’t manage as they were; well, she really didn’t know. Thudeney-Blazes? Oh, she didn’t think so… There was more dead than living at Thudeney-Blazes … everyone was leaving there … or in the church-yard … one house after another being shut … death was everywhere, wasn’t it, my lady? Mrs. Clemm said it with another of her short sharp smiles, which provoked the appearance of a frosty dimple.

“But my niece Georgiana is a hard worker, my lady; her that let you in the other day…”

“That didn’t,” Lady Jane corrected.

“Oh, my lady, it was too unfortunate. If only your ladyship had have said … poor Georgiana had ought to have seen; but she never did have her wits about her, not for answering the door.”

“But she was only obeying orders. She went to ask Mr. Jones.”

Mrs. Clemm was silent. Her small hands, wrinkled and resolute, fumbled with the folds of her apron, and her quick eyes made the circuit of the room and then came back to Lady Jane’s.

“Just so, my lady; but, as I told her, she’d ought to have known—”

“And who is Mr. Jones?”

Mrs. Clemm’s smile snapped out again, deprecating, respectful. “Well, my lady, he’s more dead than living, too … if I may say so,” was her surprising answer.

“Is he? I’m sorry to hear that; but who is he?”

“Well, my lady, he’s … he’s my great-uncle, as it were … my grandmother’s own brother, as you might say.”

“Ah; I see.” Lady Jane considered her with growing curiosity. “He must have reached a great age, then.”

“Yes, my lady; he has that. Though I’m not,” Mrs. Clemm added, the dimple showing, “as old myself as your ladyship might suppose. Living at Bells all these years has been ageing to me; it would be to anybody.”

“I suppose so. And yet,” Lady Jane continued, “Mr. Jones has survived; has stood it well — as you certainly have?”

“Oh, not as well as I have,” Mrs. Clemm interjected, as if resentful of the comparison.

“At any rate, he still mounts guard; mounts it as well as he did thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years ago?” Mrs. Clemm echoed, her hands dropping from her apron to her sides.

“Wasn’t he here thirty years ago?”

“Oh, yes, my lady; certainly; he’s never once been away that I know of.”

“What a wonderful record! And what exactly are his duties?”

Mrs. Clemm paused again, her hands still motionless in the folds of her skirt. Lady Jane noticed that the fingers were tightly clenched, as if to check an involuntary gesture.

“He began as pantry-boy; then footman; then butler, my lady; but it’s hard to say, isn’t it, what an old servant’s duties are, when he’s stayed on in the same house so many years?”

“Yes; and that house always empty.”

“Just so, my lady. Everything came to depend on him; one thing after another. His late lordship thought the world of him.”

“His late lordship? But he was never here! He spent all his life in Canada.”

Mrs. Clemm seemed slightly disconcerted. “Certainly, my lady.” (Her voice said: “Who are you, to set me right as to the chronicles of Bells?”) “But by letter, my lady; I can show you the letters. And there was his lordship before, the sixteenth Viscount. He did come here once.”

“Ah, did he?” Lady Jane was embarrassed to find how little she knew of them all. She rose from her seat. “They were lucky, all these absentees, to have someone to watch over their interests so faithfully. I should like to see Mr. Jones — to thank him. Will you take me to him now?”

“Now?” Mrs. Clemm moved back a step or two; Lady Jane fancied her cheeks paled a little under their ruddy varnish. “Oh, not today, my lady.”

“Why? Isn’t he well enough?”

“Not nearly. He’s between life and death, as it were,” Mrs. Clemm repeated, as if the phrase were the nearest approach she could find to a definition of Mr. Jones’s state.

“He wouldn’t even know who I was?”

Mrs. Clemm considered a moment. “I don’t say that, my lady;” her tone implied that to do so might appear disrespectful. “He’d know you, my lady; but you wouldn’t know him.” She broke off and added hastily: “I mean, for what he is: he’s in no state for you to see him.”

“He’s so very ill? Poor man! And is everything possible being done?”

“Oh, everything; and more too, my lady. But perhaps,” Mrs. Clemm suggested, with a clink of keys, “this would be a good time for your ladyship to take a look about the house. If your ladyship has no objection, I should like to begin with the linen.”

IV

“And Mr. Jones?” Stramer queried, a few days later, as they sat, Lady Jane and the party from Kent, about an improvised tea-table in a recess of one of the great holly-hedges.

The day was as hushed and warm as that on which she had first come to Bells, and Lady Jane looked up with a smile of ownership at the old walls which seemed to smile back, the windows which now looked at her with friendly eyes.

“Mr. Jones? Who’s Mr. Jones?” the others asked; only Stramer recalled their former talk.

Lady Jane hesitated. “Mr. Jones is my invisible guardian; or rather, the guardian of Bells.”

They remembered then. “Invisible? You don’t mean to say you haven’t seen him yet?”

“Not yet; perhaps I never shall. He’s very old — and very ill, I’m afraid.”

“And he still rules here?”

“Oh, absolutely. The fact is,” Lady Jane added, “I believe he’s the only person left who really knows all about Bells.”

“Jane, my dear! That big shrub over there against the wall! I verily believe it’s Templetonia retusa. It is! Did anyone ever hear of its standing an English winter?” Gardeners all, they dashed off towards the shrub in its sheltered angle. “I shall certainly try it on a south wall at Dipway,” cried the hostess from Kent.

Tea over, they moved on to inspect the house. The short autumn day was drawing to a close; but the party had been able to come only for an afternoon, instead of staying over the weekend, and having lingered so long in the gardens they had only time, indoors, to puzzle out what they could through the shadows. Perhaps, Lady Jane thought, it was the best hour to see a house like Bells, so long abandoned, and not yet warmed into new life.

The fire she had had lit in the saloon sent its radiance to meet them, giving the great room an air of expectancy and welcome. The portraits, the Italian cabinets, the shabby armchairs and rugs, all looked as if life had but lately left them; and Lady Jane said to herself: “Perhaps Mrs. Clemm is right in advising me to live here and close the blue parlour.”

“My dear, what a fine room! Pity it faces north. Of course you’ll have to shut it in winter. It would cost a fortune to heat.”

Lady Jane hesitated. “I don’t know: I had meant to. But there seems to be no other…”

“No other? In all this house?” They laughed; and one of the visitors, going ahead and crossing a panelled anteroom, cried out: “But here! A delicious room; windows south — yes, and west. The warmest of the house. This is perfect.”

They followed, and the blue room echoed with exclamations. “Those charming curtains with the parrots … and the blue of that petit-point fire-screen! But, Jane, of course you must live here. Look at this citron-wood desk!”

Lady Jane stood on the threshold. “It seems that the chimney smokes hopelessly.”

“Hopelessly? Nonsense! Have you consulted anybody? I’ll send you a wonderful man…”

“Besides, if you put in one of those one-pipe heaters… At Dipway…”

Stramer was looking over Lady Jane’s shoulder. “What does Mr. Jones say about it?”

“He says no one has ever been able to use this room; not for ages. It was the housekeeper who told me. She’s his great-niece, and seems simply to transmit his oracles.”

Stramer shrugged. “Well, he’s lived at Bells longer than you have. Perhaps he’s right.”

“How absurd!” one of the ladies cried. “The housekeeper and Mr. Jones probably spend their evenings here, and don’t want to be disturbed. Look — ashes on the hearth! What did I tell you?”

Lady Jane echoed the laugh as they turned away. They had still to see the library, damp and dilapidated, the panelled dining-room, the breakfast-parlour, and such bedrooms as had any old furniture left; not many, for the late lords of Bells, at one time or another, had evidently sold most of its removable treasures.

When the visitors came down their motors were waiting. A lamp had been placed in the hall, but the rooms beyond were lit only by the broad clear band of western sky showing through uncurtained casements. On the doorstep one of the ladies exclaimed that she had lost her handbag — no, she remembered; she had laid it on the desk in the blue room. Which way was the blue room?

“I’ll get it,” Jane said, turning back. She heard Stramer following. He asked if he should bring the lamp.

“Oh, no; I can see.”

She crossed the threshold of the blue room, guided by the light from its western window; then she stopped. Someone was in the room already; she felt rather than saw another presence. Stramer, behind her, paused also; he did not speak or move. What she saw, or thought she saw, was simply an old man with bent shoulders turning away from the citron-wood desk. Almost before she had received the impression there was no one there; only the slightest stir of the needlework curtain over the farther door. She heard no step or other sound.

“There’s the bag,” she said, as if the act of speaking, and saying something obvious, were a relief.

In the hall her glance crossed Stramer’s, but failed to find there the reflection of what her own had registered.

He shook hands, smiling. “Well, goodbye. I commit you to Mr. Jones’s care; only don’t let him say that you’re not shown to visitors.”

She smiled: “Come back and try,” and then shivered a little as the lights of the last motor vanished beyond the great black hedges.

V

Lady Jane had exulted in her resolve to keep Bells to herself till she and the old house should have had time to make friends. But after a few days she recalled the uneasy feeling which had come over her as she stood on the threshold after her first tentative ring. Yes; she had been right in thinking she would have to have people about her to take the chill off. The house was too old, too mysterious, too much withdrawn into its own secret past, for her poor little present to fit into it without uneasiness.

But it was not a time of year when, among Lady Jane’s friends, it was easy to find people free. Her own family were all in the north, and impossible to dislodge. One of her sisters, when invited, simply sent her back a list of shooting-dates; and her mother wrote: “Why not come to us? What can you have to do all alone in that empty house at this time of year? Next summer we’re all coming.”

Having tried one or two friends with the same result, Lady Jane bethought her of Stramer. He was finishing a novel, she knew, and at such times he liked to settle down somewhere in the country where he could be sure of not being disturbed. Bells was a perfect asylum, and though it was probable that some other friend had anticipated her, and provided the requisite seclusion, Lady Jane decided to invite him. “Do bring your work and stay till it’s finished — and don’t be in a hurry to finish. I promise that no one shall bother you—” and she added, half-nervously: “Not even Mr. Jones.” As she wrote she felt an absurd impulse to blot the words out. “He might not like it,” she thought; and the “he” did not refer to Stramer.

Was the solitude already making her superstitious? She thrust the letter into an envelope, and carried it herself to the post-office at Thudeney-Blazes. Two days later a wire from Stramer announced his arrival.

•   •   •

He came on a cold stormy afternoon, just before dinner, and as they went up to dress Lady Jane called after him: “We shall sit in the blue parlour this evening.” The housemaid Georgiana was crossing the passage with hot water for the visitor. She stopped and cast a vacant glance at Lady Jane. The latter met it, and said carelessly: “You hear, Georgiana? The fire in the blue parlour.”

While Lady Jane was dressing she heard a knock, and saw Mrs. Clemm’s round face just inside the door, like a red apple on a garden wall.

“Is there anything wrong about the saloon, my lady? Georgiana understood—”

“That I want the fire in the blue parlour. Yes. What’s wrong with the saloon is that one freezes there.”

“But the chimney smokes in the blue parlour.”

“Well, we’ll give it a trial, and if it does I’ll send for someone to arrange it.”

“Nothing can be done, my lady. Everything has been tried, and—”

Lady Jane swung about suddenly. She had heard Stramer singing a cheerful hunting-song in a cracked voice, in his dressing-room at the other end of the corridor.

“That will do, Mrs. Clemm. I want the fire in the blue parlour.”

“Yes, my lady.” The door closed on the housekeeper.

•   •   •

“So you decided on the saloon after all?” Stramer said, as Lady Jane led the way there after their brief repast.

“Yes: I hope you won’t be frozen. Mr. Jones swears that the chimney in the blue parlour isn’t safe; so, until I can fetch the mason over from Strawbridge—”

“Oh, I see.” Stramer drew up to the blaze in the great fireplace. “We’re very well off here; though heating this room is going to be ruinous. Meanwhile, I note that Mr. Jones still rules.”

Lady Jane gave a slight laugh.

“Tell me,” Stramer continued, as she bent over the mixing of the Turkish coffee, “what is there about him? I’m getting curious.”

Lady Jane laughed again, and heard the embarrassment in her laugh. “So am I.”

“Why — you don’t mean to say you haven’t seen him yet?”

“No. He’s still too ill.”

“What’s the matter with him? What does the doctor say?”

“He won’t see the doctor.”

“But look here — if things take a worse turn — I don’t know; but mightn’t you be held to have been negligent?”

“What can I do? Mrs. Clemm says he has a doctor who treats him by correspondence. I don’t see that I can interfere.”

“Isn’t there someone beside Mrs. Clemm whom you can consult?”

She considered: certainly, as yet, she had not made much effort to get into relation with her neighbours. “I expected the vicar to call. But I’ve enquired: there’s no vicar any longer at Thudeney-Blazes. A curate comes from Strawbridge every other Sunday. And the one who comes now is new: nobody about the place seems to know him.”

“But I thought the chapel here was in use? It looked so when you showed it to us the other day.”

“I thought so too. It used to be the parish church of Lynke-Linnet and Lower-Lynke; but it seems that was years ago. The parishioners objected to coming so far; and there weren’t enough of them. Mrs. Clemm says that nearly everybody has died off or left. It’s the same at Thudeney-Blazes.”

Stramer glanced about the great room, with its circle of warmth and light by the hearth, and the sullen shadows huddled at its farther end, as if hungrily listening. “With this emptiness at the centre, life was bound to cease gradually on the outskirts.”

Lady Jane followed his glance. “Yes; it’s all wrong. I must try to wake the place up.”

“Why not open it to the public? Have a visitors’ day?”

She thought a moment. In itself the suggestion was distasteful; she could imagine few things that would bore her more. Yet to do so might be a duty, a first step toward re-establishing relations between the lifeless house and its neighbourhood. Secretly, she felt that even the coming and going of indifferent unknown people would help to take the chill from those rooms, to brush from their walls the dust of too-heavy memories.

“Who’s that?” asked Stramer. Lady Jane started in spite of herself, and glanced over her shoulder; but he was only looking past her at a portrait which a dart of flame from the hearth had momentarily called from its obscurity.

“That’s a Lady Thudeney.” She got up and went toward the picture with a lamp. “Might be an Opie, don’t you think? It’s a strange face, under the smirk of the period.”

Stramer took the lamp and held it up. The portrait was that of a young woman in a short-waisted muslin gown caught beneath the breast by a cameo. Between clusters of beribboned curls a long fair oval looked out dumbly, inexpressively, in a stare of frozen beauty. “It’s as if the house had been too empty even then,” Lady Jane murmured. “I wonder which she was? Oh, I know: it must be ‘Also His Wife’.”

Stramer stared.

“It’s the only name on her monument. The wife of Peregrine Vincent Theobald, who perished of the plague at Aleppo in 1828. Perhaps she was very fond of him, and this was painted when she was an inconsolable widow.”

“They didn’t dress like that as late as 1828.” Stramer holding the lamp closer, deciphered the inscription on the border of the lady’s India scarf; Juliana, Viscountess Thudeney, 1818. “She must have been inconsolable before his death, then.”

Lady Jane smiled. “Let’s hope she grew less so after it.”

Stramer passed the lamp across the canvas. “Do you see where she was painted? In the blue parlour. Look: the old panelling; and she’s leaning on the citron-wood desk. They evidently used the room in winter then.” The lamp paused on the background of the picture: a window framing snow-laden paths and hedges in icy perspective.

“Curious,” Stramer said — “and rather melancholy: to be painted against that wintry desolation. I wish you could find out more about her. Have you dipped into your archives?”

“No. Mr. Jones—”

“He won’t allow that either?”

“Yes; but he’s lost the key of the muniment-room. Mrs. Clemm has been trying to get a locksmith.”

“Surely the neighbourhood can still produce one?”

“There was one at Thudeney-Blazes; but he died the week before I came.”

“Of course!”

“Of course?”

“Well, in Mrs. Clemm’s hands keys get lost, chimneys smoke, locksmiths die…” Stramer stood, light in hand, looking down the shadowy length of the saloon. “I say, let’s go and see what’s happening now in the blue parlour.”

Lady Jane laughed: a laugh seemed easy with another voice near by to echo it. “Let’s—”

She followed him out of the saloon, across the hall in which a single candle burned on a far-off table, and past the stairway yawning like a black funnel above them. In the doorway of the blue parlour Stramer paused. “Now, then, Mr. Jones!”

It was stupid, but Lady Jane’s heart gave a jerk: she hoped the challenge would not evoke the shadowy figure she had half seen that other day.

“Lord, it’s cold!” Stramer stood looking about him. “Those ashes are still on the hearth. Well, it’s all very queer.” He crossed over to the citron-wood desk. “There’s where she sat for her picture — and in this very armchair — look!”

“Oh, don’t!” Lady Jane exclaimed. The words slipped out unawares.

“Don’t — what?”

“Try those drawers—” she wanted to reply; for his hand was stretched toward the desk.

“I’m frozen; I think I’m starting a cold. Do come away,” she grumbled, backing toward the door.

Stramer lighted her out without comment. As the lamplight slid along the walls Lady Jane fancied that the needlework curtain over the farther door stirred as it had that other day. But it may have been the wind rising outside….

The saloon seemed like home when they got back to it.

VI

“There is no Mr. Jones!”

Stramer proclaimed it triumphantly when they met the next morning. Lady Jane had motored off early to Strawbridge in quest of a mason and a locksmith. The quest had taken longer than she had expected, for everybody in Strawbridge was busy on jobs nearer by, and unaccustomed to the idea of going to Bells, with which the town seemed to have had no communication within living memory. The younger workmen did not even know where the place was, and the best Lady Jane could do was to coax a locksmith’s apprentice to come with her, on the understanding that he would be driven back to the nearest station as soon as his job was over. As for the mason, he had merely taken note of her request, and promised half-heartedly to send somebody when he could. “Rather off our beat, though.”

She returned, discouraged and somewhat weary, as Stramer was coming downstairs after his morning’s work.

“No Mr. Jones?” she echoed.

“Not a trace! I’ve been trying the old Glamis experiment — situating his room by its window. Luckily the house is smaller…”

Lady Jane smiled. “Is this what you call locking yourself up with your work?”

“I can’t work: that’s the trouble. Not till this is settled. Bells is a fidgety place.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Well, I wasn’t going to be beaten; so I went to try to find the head-gardener.”

“But there isn’t—”

“No. Mrs. Clemm told me. The head-gardener died last year. That woman positively glows with life whenever she announces a death. Have you noticed?”

Yes: Lady Jane had.

“Well — I said to myself that if there wasn’t a head-gardener there must be an underling; at least one. I’d seen somebody in the distance, raking leaves, and I ran him down. Of course he’d never seen Mr. Jones.”

“You mean that poor old half-blind Jacob? He couldn’t see anybody.”

“Perhaps not. At any rate, he told me that Mr. Jones wouldn’t let the leaves be buried for leaf-mould — I forget why. Mr. Jones’s authority extends even to the gardens.”

“Yet you say he doesn’t exist!”

“Wait. Jacob is half-blind, but he’s been here for years, and knows more about the place than you’d think. I got him talking about the house, and I pointed to one window after another, and he told me each time whose the room was, or had been. But he couldn’t situate Mr. Jones.”

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon—” Mrs. Clemm was on the threshold, cheeks shining, skirt rustling, her eyes like drills. “The locksmith your ladyship brought back; I understand it was for the lock of the muniment-room—”

“Well?”

“He’s lost one of his tools, and can’t do anything without it. So he’s gone. The butcher’s boy gave him a lift back.”

Lady Jane caught Stramer’s faint chuckle. She stood and stared at Mrs. Clemm, and Mrs. Clemm stared back, deferential but unflinching.

“Gone? Very well; I’ll motor after him.”

“Oh, my lady, it’s too late. The butcher’s boy had his motorcycle… Besides, what could he do?”

“Break the lock,” exclaimed Lady Jane, exasperated.

“Oh, my lady—” Mrs. Clemm’s intonation marked the most respectful incredulity. She waited another moment, and then withdrew, while Lady Jane and Stramer considered each other.

“But this is absurd,” Lady Jane declared when they had lunched, waited on, as usual, by the flustered Georgiana. “I’ll break in that door myself, if I have to. — Be careful please, Georgiana,” she added; “I was speaking of doors, not dishes.” For Georgiana had let fall with a crash the dish she was removing from the table. She gathered up the pieces in her tremulous fingers, and vanished. Jane and Stramer returned to the saloon.

“Queer!” the novelist commented.

“Yes.” Lady Jane, facing the door, started slightly. Mrs. Clemm was there again; but this time subdued, unrustling, bathed in that odd pallor which enclosed but seemed unable to penetrate the solid crimson of her cheeks.

“I beg pardon, my lady. The key is found.” Her hand, as she held it out, trembled like Georgiana’s.

VII

“It’s not here,” Stramer announced, a couple of hours later.

“What isn’t?” Lady Jane queried, looking up from a heap of disordered papers. Her eyes blinked at him through the fog of yellow dust raised by her manipulations.

“The clue. — I’ve got all the 1800 to 1840 papers here; and there’s a gap.”

She moved over to the table above which he was bending. “A gap?”

“A big one. Nothing between 1815 and 1835. No mention of Peregrine or of Juliana.”

They looked at each other across the tossed papers, and suddenly Stramer exclaimed: “Someone has been here before us — just lately.”

Lady Jane stared, incredulous, and then followed the direction of his downward pointing hand.

“Do you wear flat heelless shoes?” he questioned. “And of that size? Even my feet are too small to fit into those footprints. Luckily there wasn’t time to sweep the floor!”

Lady Jane felt a slight chill, a chill of a different and more inward quality than the shock of stuffy coldness which had met them as they entered the unaired attic set apart for the storing of the Thudeney archives.

“But how absurd! Of course when Mrs. Clemm found we were coming up she came — or sent someone — to open the shutters.”

“That’s not Mrs. Clemm’s foot, or the other woman’s. She must have sent a man — an old man with a shaky uncertain step. Look how it wanders.”

“Mr. Jones, then!” said Lady Jane, half impatiently.

“Mr. Jones. And he got what he wanted, and put it — where?”

“Ah, that — ! I’m freezing, you know; let’s give this up for the present.” She rose, and Stramer followed her without protest; the muniment-room was really untenable.

“I must catalogue all this stuff someday, I suppose,” Lady Jane continued, as they went down the stairs. “But meanwhile, what do you say to a good tramp, to get the dust out of our lungs?”

He agreed, and turned back to his room to get some letters he wanted to post at Thudeney-Blazes.

Lady Jane went down alone. It was a fine afternoon, and the sun, which had made the dust-clouds of the muniment-room so dazzling, sent a long shaft through the west window of the blue parlour, and across the floor of the hall.

Certainly Georgiana kept the oak floors remarkably well; considering how much else she had to do, it was surp—

Lady Jane stopped as if an unseen hand had jerked her violently back. On the smooth parquet before her she had caught the trace of dusty footprints — the prints of broad-soled heelless shoes — making for the blue parlour and crossing its threshold. She stood still with the same inward shiver that she had felt upstairs; then, avoiding the footprints, she too stole very softly toward the blue parlour, pushed the door wider, and saw, in the long dazzle of autumn light, as if translucid, edged with the glitter, an old man at the desk.

“Mr. Jones!”

A step came up behind her: Mrs. Clemm with the postbag. “You called, my lady?”

“I … yes…”

When she turned back to the desk there was no one there.

She faced about on the housekeeper. “Who was that?”

“Where, my lady?”

Lady Jane, without answering, moved toward the needlework curtain, in which she had detected the same faint tremor as before. “Where does that door go to — behind the curtain?”

“Nowhere, my lady. I mean; there is no door.”

Mrs. Clemm had followed; her step sounded quick and assured. She lifted up the curtain with a firm hand. Behind it was a rectangle of roughly plastered wall, where an opening had visibly been bricked up.

“When was that done?”

“The wall built up? I couldn’t say. I’ve never known it otherwise,” replied the housekeeper.

The two women stood for an instant measuring each other with level eyes; then the housekeeper’s were slowly lowered, and she let the curtain fall from her hand. “There are a great many things in old houses that nobody knows about,” she said.

“There shall be as few as possible in mine,” said Lady Jane.

“My lady!” The housekeeper stepped quickly in front of her. “My lady, what are you doing?” she gasped.

Lady Jane had turned back to the desk at which she had just seen — or fancied she had seen — the bending figure of Mr. Jones.

“I am going to look through these drawers,” she said.

The housekeeper still stood in pale immobility between her and the desk. “No, my lady — no. You won’t do that.”

“Because — ?”

Mrs. Clemm crumpled up her black silk apron with a despairing gesture. “Because — if you will have it — that’s where Mr. Jones keeps his private papers. I know he’d oughtn’t to…”

“Ah — then it was Mr. Jones I saw here?”

The housekeeper’s arms sank to her sides and her mouth hung open on an unspoken word. “You saw him?” The question came out in a confused whisper; and before Lady Jane could answer, Mrs. Clemm’s arms rose again, stretched before her face as if to fend off a blaze of intolerable light, or some forbidden sight she had long since disciplined herself not to see. Thus screening her eyes she hurried across the hall to the door of the servants’ wing.

Lady Jane stood for a moment looking after her; then, with a slightly shaking hand, she opened the desk and hurriedly took out from it all the papers — a small bundle — that it contained. With them she passed back into the saloon.

As she entered it her eye was caught by the portrait of the melancholy lady in the short-waisted gown whom she and Stramer had christened “Also His Wife.” The lady’s eyes, usually so empty of all awareness save of her own frozen beauty, seemed suddenly waking to an anguished participation in the scene.

“Fudge!” muttered Lady Jane, shaking off the spectral suggestion as she turned to meet Stramer on the threshold.

VIII

The missing papers were all there. Stramer and she spread them out hurriedly on a table and at once proceeded to gloat over their find. Not a particularly important one, indeed; in the long history of the Lynkes and Crofts it took up hardly more space than the little handful of documents did, in actual bulk, among the stacks of the muniment-room. But the fact that these papers filled a gap in the chronicles of the house, and situated the sad-faced beauty as veritably the wife of the Peregrine Vincent Theobald Lynke who had “perished of the plague at Aleppo in 1828” — this was a discovery sufficiently exciting to whet amateur appetites, and to put out of Lady Jane’s mind the strange incident which had attended the opening of the cabinet.

For a while she and Stramer sat silently and methodically going through their respective piles of correspondence; but presently Lady Jane, after glancing over one of the yellowing pages, uttered a startled exclamation.

“How strange! Mr. Jones again — always Mr. Jones!”

Stramer looked up from the papers he was sorting. “You too? I’ve got a lot of letters here addressed to a Mr. Jones by Peregrine Vincent, who seems to have been always disporting himself abroad, and chronically in want of money. Gambling debts, apparently … ah and women … a dirty record altogether…”

“Yes? My letter is not written to a Mr. Jones; but it’s about one. Listen.” Lady Jane began to read. “‘Bells, February 20th, 1826…’ (It’s from poor ‘Also His Wife’ to her husband.) ‘My dear Lord, Acknowledging as I ever do the burden of the sad impediment which denies me the happiness of being more frequently in your company, I yet fail to conceive how anything in my state obliges that close seclusion in which Mr. Jones persists — and by your express orders, so he declares — in confining me. Surely, my lord, had you found it possible to spend more time with me since the day of our marriage, you would yourself have seen it to be unnecessary to put this restraint upon me. It is true, alas, that my unhappy infirmity denies me the happiness to speak with you, or to hear the accents of the voice I should love above all others could it but reach me; but, my dear husband, I would have you consider that my mind is in no way affected by this obstacle, but goes out to you, as my heart does, in a perpetual eagerness of attention, and that to sit in this great house alone, day after day, month after month, deprived of your company, and debarred also from any intercourse but that of the servants you have chosen to put about me, is a fate more cruel than I deserve and more painful than I can bear. I have entreated Mr. Jones, since he seems all-powerful with you, to represent this to you, and to transmit this my last request — for should I fail I am resolved to make no other — that you should consent to my making the acquaintance of a few of your friends and neighbours, among whom I cannot but think there must be some kind hearts that would take pity on my unhappy situation, and afford me such companionship as would give me more courage to bear your continual absence…’”

Lady Jane folded up the letter. “Deaf and dumb — ah, poor creature! That explains the look—”

“And this explains the marriage,” Stramer continued, unfolding a stiff parchment document. “Here are the Viscountess Thudeney’s marriage settlements. She appears to have been a Miss Portallo, daughter of Obadiah Portallo Esqre, of Purflew Castle, Caermarthenshire, and Bombay House, Twickenham, East India merchant, senior member of the banking house of Portallo and Prest — and so on and so on. And the figures run up into hundreds of thousands.”

“It’s rather ghastly — putting the two things together. All the millions and — imprisonment in the blue parlour. I suppose her Viscount had to have the money, and was ashamed to have it known how he had got it…” Lady Jane shivered. “Think of it — day after day, winter after winter, year after year … speechless, soundless, alone … under Mr. Jones’s guardianship. Let me see: what year were they married?”

“In 1817.”

“And only a year later that portrait was painted. And she had the frozen look already.”

Stramer mused: “Yes; it’s grim enough. But the strangest figure in the whole case is still — Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones — yes. Her keeper,” Lady Jane mused “I suppose he must have been this one’s ancestor. The office seems to have been hereditary at Bells.”

“Well — I don’t know.”

Stramer’s voice was so odd that Lady Jane looked up at him with a stare of surprise. “What if it were the same one?” suggested Stramer with a queer smile.

“The same?” Lady Jane laughed. “You’re not good at figures are you? If poor Lady Thudeney’s Mr. Jones were alive now he’d be—”

“I didn’t say ours was alive now,” said Stramer.

“Oh — why, what…?” she faltered.

But Stramer did not answer; his eyes had been arrested by the precipitate opening of the door behind his hostess, and the entry of Georgiana, a livid, dishevelled Georgiana, more than usually bereft of her faculties, and gasping out something inarticulate.

“Oh, my lady — it’s my aunt — she won’t answer me,” Georgiana stammered in a voice of terror.

Lady Jane uttered an impatient exclamation. “Answer you? Why — what do you want her to answer?”

“Only whether she’s alive, my lady,” said Georgiana with streaming eyes.

Lady Jane continued to look at her severely. “Alive? Alive? Why on earth shouldn’t she be?”

“She might as well be dead — by the way she just lies there.”

“Your aunt dead? I saw her alive enough in the blue parlour half an hour ago,” Lady Jane returned. She was growing rather blasé with regard to Georgiana’s panics; but suddenly she felt this to be of a different nature from any of the others. “Where is it your aunt’s lying?”

“In her own bedroom, on her bed,” the other wailed, “and won’t say why.”

Lady Jane got to her feet, pushing aside the heaped-up papers, and hastening to the door with Stramer in her wake.

As they went up the stairs she realized that she had seen the housekeeper’s bedroom only once, on the day of her first obligatory round of inspection, when she had taken possession of Bells. She did not even remember very clearly where it was, but followed Georgiana down the passage and through a door which communicated, rather surprisingly, with a narrow walled-in staircase that was unfamiliar to her. At its top she and Stramer found themselves on a small landing upon which two doors opened. Through the confusion of her mind Lady Jane noticed that these rooms, with their special staircase leading down to what had always been called his lordship’s suite, must obviously have been occupied by his lordship’s confidential servants. In one of them, presumably, had been lodged the original Mr. Jones, the Mr. Jones of the yellow letters, the letters purloined by Lady Jane. As she crossed the threshold, Lady Jane remembered the housekeeper’s attempt to prevent her touching the contents of the desk.

Mrs. Clemm’s room, like herself, was neat, glossy and extremely cold. Only Mrs. Clemm herself was no longer like Mrs. Clemm. The red-apple glaze had barely faded from her cheeks, and not a lock was disarranged in the unnatural lustre of her false front; even her cap ribbons hung symmetrically along either cheek. But death had happened to her, and had made her into someone else. At first glance it was impossible to say if the unspeakable horror in her wide-open eyes were only the reflection of that change, or of the agent by whom it had come. Lady Jane, shuddering, paused a moment while Stramer went up to the bed.

“Her hand is warm still — but no pulse.” He glanced about the room. “A glass anywhere?” The cowering Georgiana took a hand-glass from the neat chest of drawers, and Stramer held it over the housekeeper’s drawn-back lip….

“She’s dead,” he pronounced.

“Oh, poor thing! But how — ?” Lady Jane drew near, and was kneeling down, taking the inanimate hand in hers, when Stramer touched her on the arm, and then silently raised a finger of warning. Georgiana was crouching in the farther corner of the room, her face buried in her lifted arms.

“Look here,” Stramer whispered. He pointed to Mrs. Clemm’s throat, and Lady Jane, bending over, distinctly saw a circle of red marks on it — the marks of recent bruises. She looked again into the awful eyes.

“She’s been strangled,” Stramer whispered.

Lady Jane, with a shiver of fear, drew down the housekeeper’s lids. Georgiana, her face hidden, was still sobbing convulsively in the corner. There seemed, in the air of the cold orderly room, something that forbade wonderment and silenced conjecture. Lady Jane and Stramer stood and looked at each other without speaking. At length Stramer crossed over to Georgiana, and touched her on the shoulder. She appeared unaware of the touch, and he grasped her shoulder and shook it. “Where is Mr. Jones?” he asked.

The girl looked up, her face blurred and distorted with weeping, her eyes dilated as if with the vision of some latent terror. “Oh, sir, she’s not really dead, is she?”

Stramer repeated his question in a loud authoritative tone; and slowly she echoed it in a scarce-heard whisper. “Mr. Jones — ?”

“Get up, my girl, and send him here to us at once, or tell us where to find him.”

Georgiana, moved by the old habit of obedience, struggled to her feet and stood unsteadily, her heaving shoulders braced against the wall. Stramer asked her sharply if she had not heard what he had said.

“Oh, poor thing, she’s so upset—” Lady Jane intervened compassionately. “Tell me, Georgiana: where shall we find Mr. Jones?”

The girl turned to her with eyes as fixed as the dead woman’s. “You won’t find him anywhere,” she slowly said.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not here.”

“Not here? Where is he, then?” Stramer broke in.

Georgiana did not seem to notice the interruption. She continued to stare at Lady Jane with Mrs. Clemm’s awful eyes. “He’s in his grave in the church-yard — these years and years he is. Long before ever I was born … my aunt hadn’t ever seen him herself, not since she was a tiny child… That’s the terror of it … that’s why she always had to do what he told her to … because you couldn’t ever answer him back…” Her horrified gaze turned from Lady Jane to the stony face and fast-glazing pupils of the dead woman. “You hadn’t ought to have meddled with his papers, my lady… That’s what he’s punished her for… When it came to those papers he wouldn’t ever listen to human reason … he wouldn’t…” Then, flinging her arms above her head, Georgiana straightened herself to her full height before falling in a swoon at Stramer’s feet.