Uncanny Tales Read online

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  Uncanny Tales

  BY MRS MOLESWORTH

  LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO Paternoster Row

  FRED HYLAND

  TO AN OTHERWISE UNACKNOWLEDGED "COLLABORATEUR" IN THESE STORIES, J. C. P.

  19 SUMNER PLACE, S.W.,

  _October, 1896._

  CONTENTS.

  PAGE

  THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT 1

  "THE MAN WITH THE COUGH" 82

  "HALF-WAY BETWEEN THE STILES" 112

  AT THE DIP OF THE ROAD 141

  "---- WILL NOT TAKE PLACE" 153

  THE CLOCK THAT STRUCK THIRTEEN 183

  UNCANNY TALES.

  THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT.

  PART I.

  We never thought of Finster St. Mabyn's being haunted. We really neverdid.

  This may seem strange, but it is absolutely true. It was such anextremely interesting and curious place in many ways that it requirednothing extraneous to add to its attractions. Perhaps this was thereason.

  Now-a-days, immediately that you hear of a house being "very old," thenext remark is sure to be "I hope it is"--or "is not"--that depends onthe taste of the speaker--"haunted".

  But Finster was more than very old; it was _ancient_ and, in a modestway, historical. I will not take up time by relating its history,however, or by referring my readers to the chronicles in which mentionof it may be found. Nor shall I yield to the temptation of describingthe room in which a certain royalty spent one night, if not two or threenights, four centuries ago, or the tower, now in ruins, where an evenmore renowned personage was imprisoned for several months. All thesefacts--or legends--have nothing to do with what I have to tell. Nor,strictly speaking, has Finster itself, except as a sort of prologue tomy narrative.

  We heard of the house through friends living in the same county, thoughsome distance farther inland. They--Mr. and Miss Miles, it is convenientto give their name at once--knew that we had been ordered to leave ourown home for some months, to get over the effects of a very tryingvisitation of influenza, and that sea-air was specially desirable.

  We grumbled at this. Seaside places are often so dull and commonplace.But when we heard of Finster we grumbled no longer.

  "Dull" in a sense it might be, but assuredly not "commonplace". JanetMiles's description of it, though she was not particularly clever atdescription, read like a fairy tale, or one of Longfellow's poems.

  "A castle by the sea--how perfect!" we all exclaimed. "Do, oh, do fixfor it, mother!"

  The objections were quickly over-ruled. It was rather isolated, saidMiss Miles, standing, as was not difficult to trace in its name, on apoint of land--a corner rather--with sea on two sides. It had not beenlived in, save spasmodically, for some years, for the late owner was oneof those happy, or unhappy people, who have more houses than they canuse, and the present one was a minor. Eventually it was to be overhauledand some additions and alterations made, but the trustees would be gladto let it at a moderate rent for some months, and had intended puttingit into some agents' hands when Mr. Miles happened to meet one of them,who mentioned it to him. There was nothing against it; it was absolutelyhealthy. But the furniture was old and shabby, and there was none toomuch of it. If we wanted to have visitors we should certainly require toadd to it. This, however, could easily be done, our informant went on tosay. There was a very good upholsterer and furniture dealer at Raxtrew,the nearest town, who was in the habit of hiring out things to theofficers at the fort. "Indeed," she added, "we often pick up charmingold pieces of furniture from him for next to nothing, so you could bothhire and buy."

  Of course, we should have visitors--and our own house would not be theworse for some additional chairs and tables here and there, in place ofsome excellent monstrosities Phil and Nugent and I had persuaded motherto get rid of.

  "If I go down to spy the land with father," I said, "I shall certainlygo to the furniture dealer's and have a good look about me."

  I did go with father. I was nineteen--it is four years ago--and acapable sort of girl. Then I was the only one who had not been ill,and mother had been the worst of all, mother and Dormy--poor littlechap--for _he_ nearly died.

  He is the youngest of us--we are four boys and two girls. Sophy was thenfifteen. My own name is Leila.

  If I attempted to give any idea of the impression Finster St. Mabyn'smade upon us, I should go on for hours. It simply took our breath away.It really felt like going back a few centuries merely to enter withinthe walls and gaze round you. And yet we did not see it to any advantage,so at least said the two Miles's who were our guides. It was a gloomyday, with the feeling of rain not far off, early in April. It might havebeen November, though it was not cold.

  "You can scarcely imagine what it is on a bright day," said Janet,eager, as people always are in such circumstances, to show off her_trouvaille_. "The lights and shadows are so exquisite."

  "I love it as it is," I said. "I don't think I shall ever regret havingseen it first on a grey day. It is just perfect."

  She was pleased at my admiration, and did her utmost to facilitatematters. Father was taken with the place, too, I could see, but hehummed and hawed a good deal about the bareness of the rooms--thebedrooms especially. So Janet and I went into it at once in abusiness-like way, making lists of the actually necessary additions,which did not prove very formidable after all.

  "Hunter will manage all that _easily_," said Miss Miles, upon whichfather gave in--I believe he had meant to do so all the time. The rentwas really so low that a little furniture-hire could be afforded, Isuggested. And father agreed.

  "It is extremely low," he said, "for a place possessing so manyadvantages."

  But even then it did not occur to any of us to suggest "suspiciouslylow".

  We had the Miles's guarantee for it all, to begin with. Had there beenany objection they must have known it.

  We spent the night with them and the next morning at the furnituredealer's. He was a quick, obliging little man, and took in the situationat a glance. And _his_ terms were so moderate that father said to meamiably: "There are some quaint odds and ends here, Leila. You mightchoose a few things, to use at Finster in the first place, and then totake home with us."

  I was only too ready to profit by the permission, and with Janet'shelp a few charmingly quaint chairs and tables, a three-cornered wallcabinet, and some other trifles were soon put aside for us. We were justleaving, when at one end of the shop some tempting-looking draperiescaught my eye.

  "What are these?" I asked the upholsterer. "Curtains! Why, this is realold tapestry!"

  The obliging Hunter drew out the material in question.

  "They are not exactly curtains, miss," he said. "I thought they wouldmake nice _portieres_. You see the tapestry is set into cloth. It was sofrail when I got it that it was the only thing to do with it."

  He had managed it very ingeniously. Two panels, so to say, of oldtapestry, very charming in tone, had been lined and framed with dullgreen cloth, making a very good pair of _portieres_ indeed.

  "Oh, papa!" I cried, "do let us have these. There are sure to bedraughty doors at Finster, and afterwards they would make _perfect_"_portieres_" for the two side doors in the hall at home."

  Father eyed the tapestry appreciatively, but first prudently inquiredthe price. It seemed higher in proportion than Hunter's other charges.

  "You see, sir," he said half apologetically, "the panels are realantique work, though so much the worse for wear."

  "Where did they come from?" asked father.

  Hunter hesitated.

&n
bsp; "To tell you the truth, sir," he replied, "I was asked not to name theparty that I bought it from. It seems a pity to part with _h_eir-looms,but--it happens sometimes--I bought several things together of a familyquite lately. The _portieres_ have only come out of the workroom thismorning. We hurried on with them to stop them fraying more--you seewhere they were before, they must have been nailed to the wall."

  Janet Miles, who was something of a connoisseur, had been examining thetapestry.

  "It is well worth what he asks," she said, in a low voice. "You don'toften come across such tapestry in England."

  So the bargain was struck, and Hunter promised to see all that we hadchosen, both purchased and hired, delivered at Finster the week beforewe proposed to come.

  Nothing interfered with our plans. By the end of the month we foundourselves at our temporary home--all of us except Nat, our thirdbrother, who was at school. Dormer, the small boy, still did lessonswith Sophy's governess. The two older "boys," as we called them,happened to be at home from different reasons--one, Nugent, on leavefrom India; Phil, forced to miss a term at college through an attackof the same illness which had treated mother and Dormy so badly.

  But now that everybody was well again, and going to be very much better,thanks to Finster air, we thought the ill wind had brought us some verydistinct good. It would not have been half such fun had we not been alarge family party to start with, and before we had been a week at theplace we had added to our numbers by the first detachment of the guestswe had invited.

  It was not a very large house; besides ourselves we had not room formore than three or four others. For some of the rooms--those on the topstory--were really too dilapidated to suit any one but rats--"rats orghosts," said some one laughingly one day, when we had been exploringthem.

  Afterwards the words returned to my memory.

  We had made ourselves very comfortable, thanks to the invaluable Hunter.And every day the weather grew milder and more spring-like. The woods onthe inland side were full of primroses. It promised to be a lovelyseason.

  There was a gallery along one side of the house, which soon became afavourite resort; it made a pleasant lounging-place, in the day-timeespecially, though less so in the evening, as the fireplace at one endwarmed it but imperfectly, and besides this it was difficult to lightup. It was draughty, too, as there was a superfluity of doors, two ofwhich, one at each end, we at once condemned. They were not needed, asthe one led by a very long spiral staircase, to the unused attic rooms,the other to the kitchen and offices. And when we did have afternoontea in the gallery, it was easy to bring it through the dining ordrawing-rooms, long rooms, lighted at their extreme ends, which ranparallel to the gallery lengthways, both of which had a door opening onto it as well as from the hall on the other side. For all the principalrooms at Finster were on the first-floor, not on the ground-floor.

  The closing of these doors got rid of a great deal of draught, and, as Ihave said, the weather was really mild and calm.

  One afternoon--I am trying to begin at the beginning of our strangeexperiences; even at the risk of long-windedness it seems better to doso--we were all assembled in the gallery at tea-time. The "children,"as we called Sophy and Dormer, much to Sophy's disgust, and theirgoverness, were with us, for rules were relaxed at Finster, and MissLarpent was a great favourite with us all.

  Suddenly Sophy gave an exclamation of annoyance.

  "Mamma," she said, "I wish you would speak to Dormer. He has thrownover my tea-cup--only look at my frock!" "If you cannot sit still," sheadded, turning herself to the boy, "I don't think you should be allowedto come to tea here."

  "What is the matter, Dormy?" said mother.

  Dormer was standing beside Sophy, looking very guilty, and rather white.

  "Mamma," he said, "I was only drawing a chair out. It got so dreadfullycold where I was sitting, I really could not stay there," and heshivered slightly.

  He had been sitting with his back to one of the locked-up doors. Phil,who was nearest, moved his hand slowly across the spot.

  "You are fanciful, Dormy," he said, "there is really no draughtwhatever."

  This did not satisfy mother.

  "He must have got a chill, then," she said, and she went on to questionthe child as to what he had been doing all day, for, as I have said, hewas still delicate.

  But he persisted that he was quite well, and no longer cold.

  "It wasn't exactly a draught," he said, "it was--oh! just icy, all of asudden. I've felt it before--sitting in that chair."

  Mother said no more, and Dormer went on with his tea, and when bed-timecame he seemed just as usual, so that her anxiety faded. But she madethorough investigation as to the possibility of any draught coming upfrom the back stairs, with which this door communicated. None was to bediscovered--the door fitted fairly well, and beside this, Hunter hadtacked felt round the edges--furthermore, one of the thick heavy_portieres_ had been hung in front.

  An evening or two later we were sitting in the drawing room afterdinner, when a cousin who was staying with us suddenly missed her fan.

  "Run and fetch Muriel's fan, Dormy," I said, for Muriel felt sure it hadslipped under the dinner table. None of the men had as yet joined us.

  "Why, where are you going, child?" as he turned towards the fartherdoor. "It is much quicker by the gallery."

  He said nothing, but went out, walking rather slowly, by the gallerydoor. And in a few minutes he returned, fan in hand, but by the _other_door.

  He was a sensitive child, and though I wondered what he had got into hishead against the gallery, I did not say anything before the others. Butwhen, soon after, Dormy said "Good night," and went off to bed, Ifollowed him.

  "What do you want, Leila?" he said rather crossly.

  "Don't be vexed, child," I said. "I can see there is something thematter. Why do you not like the gallery?"

  He hesitated, but I had laid my hand on his shoulder, and he knew Imeant to be kind.

  "Leila," he said, with a glance round, to be sure that no one was withinhearing--we were standing, he and I, near the inner dining-room door,which was open--"you'll laugh at me, but--there's something queerthere--sometimes!"

  "What? And how do you mean 'sometimes'?" I asked, with a slight thrillat his tone.

  "I mean not always, I've felt it several times--there was the cold theday before yesterday, and besides that, I've felt a--a sort of_breaving_"--Dormy was not perfect in his "th's"--"like somebody veryunhappy."

  "Sighing?" I suggested.

  "Like sighing in a whisper," he replied, "and that's always near thedoor. But last week--no, not so long ago, it was on Monday--I went roundthat way when I was going to bed. I didn't want to be silly. But it wasmoonlight--and--Leila, a shadow went all along the wall on that side,and stopped at the door. I saw it waggling about--its _hands_," and herehe shivered--"on that funny curtain that hangs up, as if it were feelingfor a minute or two, and then----"

  "Well,--what then?"

  "It just went out," he said simply. "But it's moonlight again to-night,sister, and I daren't see it again. I just _daren't_."

  "But you did go to the dining-room that way," I reminded him.

  "Yes, but I shut my eyes and ran, and even then I felt as if somethingcold was behind me."

  "Dormy, dear," I said, a good deal concerned, "I do think it's yourfancy. You are not _quite_ well yet, you know."

  "Yes, I am," he replied sturdily. "I'm not a bit frightened anywhereelse. I sleep in a room alone you know. It's not _me_, sister, itssomefing in the gallery."

  "Would you be frightened to go there with me now? We can run through thedining-room; there's no one to see us," and I turned in that directionas I spoke.

  Again my little brother hesitated.

  "I'll go with you if you'll hold hands," he said, "but I'll shut myeyes. And I won't open them till you tell me there's no shadow on thewall. You must tell me truly."

  "But there must be some shadows," I said, "in this bright moonlight,trees
and branches, or even clouds scudding across--something of thatkind is what you must have seen, dear."

  He shook his head.

  "No, no, of course I wouldn't mind that. I know the difference. No--youcouldn't mistake. It goes along, right along, in a creeping way, andthen at the door its hands come farther out, and it _feels_."

  "Is it like a man or a woman?" I said, beginning to feel rather creepymyself.

  "I think it's most like a rather little man," he replied, "but I'm notsure. Its head has got something fuzzy about it--oh, I know, like asticking out wig. But lower down it seems wrapped up, like in a cloak.Oh, it's _horrid_."

  And again he shivered--it was quite time all this nightmare nonsense wasput out of his poor little head.

  I took his hand and held it firmly; we went through the dining-room.Nothing could have looked more comfortable and less ghostly. For thelights were still burning on the table, and the flowers in their silverbowls, some wine gleaming in the glasses, the fruit and pretty dishes,made a pleasant glow of colour. It certainly seemed a curiously suddencontrast when we found ourselves in the gallery beyond, cold andunillumined, save by the pale moonlight streaming through theunshuttered windows. For the door closed with a bang as we passedthrough--the gallery _was_ a draughty place.

  Dormy's hold tightened.

  "Sister," he whispered, "I've shut my eyes now. You must stand withyour back to the windows--between them, or else you'll think it's ourown shadows--and watch."

  I did as he said, and I had not long to wait.

  It came--from the farther end, the second condemned door, whence thewinding stair mounted to the attics--it seemed to begin or at leasttake form there. Creeping along, just as Dormy said--stealthily butsteadily--right down to the other extremity of the long room. And thenit grew blacker--more concentrated--and out from the vague outline cametwo bony hands, and, as the child had said, too, you could see that theywere _feeling_--all over the upper part of the door.

  I stood and watched. I wondered afterwards at my own courage, if courageit was. It was the shadow of a small man, I felt sure. The head seemedlarge in proportion, and--yes--it--the original of the shadow--wasevidently covered by an antique wig. Half mechanically I glancedround--as if in search of the material body that _must_ be there. Butno; there was nothing, literally _nothing_, that could throw thisextraordinary shadow.

  Of this I was instantly convinced; and here I may as well say oncefor all, that never was it maintained by any one, however previouslysceptical, who had fully witnessed the whole, that it could be accountedfor by ordinary, or, as people say, "natural" causes. There was thispeculiarity at least about our ghost.

  Though I had fast hold of his hand, I had almost forgotten Dormy--Iseemed in a trance.

  Suddenly he spoke, though in a whisper.

  "You see it, sister, I know you do," he said.

  "Wait, wait a minute, dear," I managed to reply in the same tone, thoughI could not have explained why I waited.

  Dormer had said that after a time--after the ghastly and apparentlyfruitless _feeling_ all over the door--"it"--"went out".

  I think it was this that I was waiting for. It was not quite as he hadsaid. The door was in the extreme corner of the wall, the hinges almostin the angle, and as the shadow began to move on again, it _looked_ asif it disappeared; but no, it was only fainter. My eyes, preternaturallysharpened by my intense gaze, still saw it, working its way round thecorner, as assuredly no _shadow_ in the real sense of the word ever didnor could do. I realised this, and the sense of horror grew all butintolerable; yet I stood still, clasping the cold little hand in minetighter and tighter. And an instinct of protection of the child gave mestrength. Besides, it was coming on so quickly--we could not haveescaped--it was coming, nay, it _was behind_ us.

  "Leila!" gasped Dormy, "the cold--you feel it now?"

  Yes, truly--like no icy breath that I had ever felt before was thatmomentary but horrible thrill of utter cold. If it had lasted anothersecond I think it would have killed us both. But, mercifully, it passed,in far less time than it has taken me to tell it, and then we seemed insome strange way to be released.

  "Open your eyes, Dormy," I said, "you won't see anything, I promise you.I want to rush across to the dining-room."

  He obeyed me. I felt there was time to escape before that awful presencewould again have arrived at the dining-room door, though it was_coming_--ah, yes, it was coming, steadily pursuing its ghastly round.And, alas! the dining-room door was closed. But I kept my nerve to someextent. I turned the handle without over much trembling, and in anothermoment, the door shut and locked behind us, we stood in safety, lookingat each other, in the bright cheerful room we had left so short a timeago.

  _Was_ it so short a time? I said to myself. It seemed hours!

  And through the door open to the hall came at that moment the soundof cheerful laughing voices from the drawing-room. Some one was comingout. It seemed impossible, incredible, that within a few feet of thematter-of-fact pleasant material life, this horrible inexplicable dramashould be going on, as doubtless it still was.

  Of the two I was now more upset than my little brother. I was older and"took in" more. He, boy-like, was in a sense triumphant at having provedhimself correct and no coward, and though he was still pale, his eyesshone with excitement and a queer kind of satisfaction.

  But before we had done more than look at each other, a figure appearedat the open doorway. It was Sophy.

  "Leila," she said, "mamma wants to know what you are doing with Dormy?He is to go to bed at once. We saw you go out of the room after him,and then a door banged. Mamma says if you are playing with him it's verybad for him so late at night."

  Dormy was very quick. He was still holding my hand, and he pinched it tostop my replying.

  "Rubbish!" he said. "I am speaking to Leila quietly, and she is comingup to my room while I undress. Good night, Sophy."

  "Tell mamma Dormy really wants me," I added, and then Sophy departed.

  "We musn't tell _her_, Leila," said the boy. "She'd have 'sterics."

  "Whom shall we tell?" I said, for I was beginning to feel very helplessand upset.

  "Nobody, to-night," he replied sensibly. "You _mustn't_ go in there,"and he shivered a little as he moved his head towards the gallery;"you're not fit for it, and they'd be wanting you to. Wait till themorning and then I'd--I think I'd tell Philip first. You needn't befrightened to-night, sister. It won't stop you sleeping. It didn't methe time I saw it before."

  He was right. I slept dreamlessly. It was as if the intense nervousstrain of those few minutes had utterly exhausted me.

  PART II.

  Phil is our soldier brother. And there is nothing fanciful about _him_!He is a rock of sturdy common-sense and unfailing good nature. He wasthe very best person to confide our strange secret to, and my respectfor Dormy increased.

  We did tell him--the very next morning. He listened very attentively,only putting in a question here and there, and though, of course, he wasincredulous--had I not been so myself?--he was not mocking.

  "I am glad you have told no one else," he said, when we had related thewhole as circumstantially as possible. "You see mother is not verystrong yet, and it would be a pity to bother father, just when he'staken this place and settled it all. And for goodness' sake, don't let abreath of it get about among the servants; there'd be the--something topay, if you did."

  "I won't tell anybody," said Dormy.

  "Nor shall I," I added. "Sophy is far too excitable, and if she knew,she would certainly tell Nannie." Nannie is our old nurse.

  "If we tell any one," Philip went on, "that means," with a ratherirritating smile of self-confidence, "if by any possibility I do notsucceed in making an end of your ghost and we want another opinion aboutit, the person to tell would be Miss Larpent."

  "Yes," I said, "I think so, too."

  I would not risk irritating him by saying how convinced I was thatconviction awaited _him_ as surely it had come to myself, and I kne
wthat Miss Larpent, though far from credulous, was equally far fromstupid scepticism concerning the mysteries "not dreamt of" in ordinary"philosophy".

  "What do you mean to do?" I went on. "You have a theory, I see. Won'tyou tell me what it is?"

  "I have two," said Phil, rolling up a cigarette as he spoke. "It iseither some queer optical illusion, partly the effect of some oddreflection outside--or it is a clever trick."

  "A trick!" I exclaimed; "what _possible_ motive could there be for atrick?"

  Phil shook his head.

  "Ah," he said, "that I cannot at present say."

  "And what are you going to do?"

  "I shall sit up to-night in the gallery and see for myself."

  "Alone?" I exclaimed, with some misgiving. For big, sturdy fellow as hewas, I scarcely liked to think of him--of _any one_--alone with thatawful thing.

  "I don't suppose you or Dormy would care to keep me company," hereplied, "and on the whole I would rather not have you."

  "I wouldn't do it," said the child honestly, "not for--for nothing."

  "I shall keep Tim with me," said Philip, "I would rather have him thanany one."

  Tim is Phil's bull-dog, and certainly, I agreed, much better thannobody.

  So it was settled.

  Dormy and I went to bed unusually early that night, for as the day woreon we both felt exceedingly tired. I pleaded a headache, which was notaltogether a fiction, though I repented having complained at all when Ifound that poor mamma immediately began worrying herself with fearsthat "after all" I, too, was to fall a victim to the influenza.

  "I shall be all right in the morning," I assured her.

  I knew no further details of Phil's arrangements. I fell asleep almostat once. I usually do. And it seemed to me that I had slept a wholenight when I was awakened by a glimmering light at my door, and heardPhilip's voice speaking softly.

  "Are you awake, Lel?" he said, as people always say when they awake youin any untimely way. Of course, _now_ I was awake, very much awakeindeed.

  "What is it?" I exclaimed eagerly, my heart beginning to beat very fast.

  "Oh, nothing, nothing at all," said my brother, advancing a little intothe room. "I just thought I'd look in on my way to bed to reassure you.I have seen _nothing_, absolutely nothing."

  I do not know if I was relieved or disappointed.

  "Was it moonlight?" I asked abruptly.

  "No," he replied, "unluckily the moon did not come out at all, thoughit is nearly at the full. I carried in a small lamp, which made thingsless eerie. But I should have preferred the moon."

  I glanced up at him. Was it the reflection of the candle he held, or didhe look paler than usual?

  "And," I added suddenly, "did you _feel_ nothing?"

  He hesitated.

  "It--it was chilly, certainly," he said. "I fancy I must have dosed alittle, for I did feel pretty cold once or twice."

  "Ah, indeed!" thought I to myself. "And how about Tim?"

  Phil smiled, but not very successfully.

  "Well," he said, "I must confess Tim did not altogether like it. Hestarted snarling, then he growled, and finished up with whining in adecidedly unhappy way. He's rather upset--poor old chap!"

  And then I saw that the dog was beside him--rubbing up close to Philip'slegs--a very dejected, reproachful Tim--all the starch taken out of him.

  "Good-night, Phil," I said, turning round on my pillow. "I'm gladyou are satisfied. To-morrow morning you must tell me which of yourtheories holds most water. Good-night, and many thanks."

  He was going to say more, but my manner for the moment stopped him, andhe went off.

  Poor old Phil!

  We had it out the next morning. He and I alone. He was _not_ satisfied.Far from it. In the bottom of his heart I believe it was a strangeyearning for a breath of human companionship, for the sound of a humanvoice, that had made him look in on me the night before.

  _For he had felt the cold passing him._

  But he was very plucky.

  "I'll sit up again to-night, Leila," he said.

  "Not to-night," I objected. "This sort of adventure requires one to beat one's best. If you take my advice you will go to bed early and have agood stretch of sleep, so that you will be quite fresh by to-morrow.There will be a moon for some nights still."

  "Why do you keep harping on the moon?" said Phil rather crossly, forhim.

  "Because--I have some idea that it is only in the moonlight that--thatanything is to be _seen_."

  "Bosh!" said my brother politely--he was certainly ratherdiscomposed--"we are talking at cross-purposes. You are satisfied----"

  "Far from satisfied," I interpolated.

  "Well, convinced, whatever you like to call it--that the whole thing issupernatural, whereas I am equally sure it is a trick; a clever trick Iallow, though I haven't yet got at the motive of it."

  "You need your nerves to be at their best to discover a trick of thiskind, if a trick it be," I said quietly.

  Philip had left his seat, and walked up and down the room; his way ofdoing so gave me a feeling that he wanted to walk off some unusualconsciousness of irritability. I felt half provoked and half sorry forhim.

  At that moment--we were alone in the drawing-room--the door opened, andMiss Larpent came in.

  "I cannot find Sophy," she said, peering about through her rathershort-sighted eyes, which, nevertheless, see a great deal sometimes; "doyou know where she is?"

  "I saw her setting off somewhere with Nugent," said Philip, stoppinghis quarter-deck exercise for a moment.

  "Ah, then it is hopeless. I suppose I must resign myself to veryirregular ways for a little longer," Miss Larpent replied with a smile.

  She is not young, and not good looking, but she is gifted with adelightful way of smiling, and she is--well, the dearest and almost thewisest of women.

  She looked at Philip as he spoke. She had known us nearly since ourbabyhood.

  "Is there anything the matter?" she said suddenly. "You look fagged,Leila, and Philip seems worried."

  I glanced at Philip. He understood me.

  "Yes," he replied, "I am irritated, and Leila is----" he hesitated.

  "What?" asked Miss Larpent.

  "Oh, I don't know--obstinate, I suppose. Sit down, Miss Larpent, andhear our story. Leila, you can tell it."

  I did so--first obtaining a promise of secrecy, and making Phil relatehis own experience.

  Our new _confidante_ listened attentively, her face very grave. Whenshe had heard all, she said quietly, after a moment's silence:--

  "It's very strange, very. Philip, if you will wait till to-morrow night,and I quite agree with Leila that you had better do so, I will sit upwith you. I have pretty good nerves, and I have always wanted anexperience of that kind."

  "Then you don't think it is a trick?" I said eagerly. I was like Dormer,divided between my real underlying longing to explain the thing, and getrid of the horror of it, and a half childish wish to prove that I hadnot exaggerated its ghastliness.

  "I will tell you that the day after to-morrow," she said. I could notrepress a little shiver as she spoke.

  She _had_ good nerves, and she was extremely sensible.

  But I almost blamed myself afterwards for having acquiesced in the plan.For the effect on her was very great. They never told me exactly whathappened; "You _know_," said Miss Larpent. I imagine their experiencewas almost precisely similar to Dormy's and mine, intensified, perhaps,by the feeling of loneliness. For it was not till all the rest ofthe family was in bed that this second vigil began. It was a brightmoonlight night--they had the whole thing complete.

  It was impossible to throw off the effect; even in the daytime the fourof us who had seen and heard, shrank from the gallery, and made anyconceivable excuse for avoiding it.

  But Phil, however convinced, behaved consistently. He examined theclosed door thoroughly, to detect any possible trickery. He exploredthe attics, he went up and down the staircase leading to the offices,till the ser
vants must have thought he was going crazy. He found_nothing_--no vaguest hint even as to why the gallery was chosen by theghostly shadow for its nightly round.

  Strange to say, however, as the moon waned, our horror faded, so that wealmost began to hope the thing was at an end, and to trust that in timewe should forget about it. And we congratulated ourselves that we hadkept our own counsel and not disturbed any of the others--even father,who would, no doubt, have hooted at the idea--by the baleful whisperthat our charming castle by the sea was haunted!

  And the days passed by, growing into weeks. The second detachment ofour guests had left, and a third had just arrived, when one morning as Iwas waiting at what we called "the sea-door" for some of the others tojoin me in a walk along the sands, some one touched me on the shoulder.It was Philip.

  "Leila," he said, "I am not happy about Dormer. He is looking ill again,and----"

  "I thought he seemed so much stronger," I said, surprised anddistressed, "quite rosy, and so much merrier."

  "So he was till a few days ago," said Philip. "But if you notice himwell you'll see that he's getting that white look again. And--I've gotit into my head--he is an extraordinarily sensitive child, that it hassomething to do with the moon. It's getting on to the full."

  For the moment I stupidly forgot the association.

  "Really, Phil," I said, "you are too absurd! Do you actually--oh," as hewas beginning to interrupt me, and my face fell, I feel sure--"you don'tmean about the gallery."

  "Yes, I do," he said.

  "How? Has Dormy told you anything?" and a sort of sick feeling cameover me. "I had begun to hope," I went on, "that somehow it had gone;that, perhaps, it only comes once a year at a certain season, orpossibly that newcomers see it at the first and not again. Oh, Phil,we _can't_ stay here, however nice it is, if it is really haunted."

  "Dormy hasn't said much," Philip replied. "He only told me he had _feltthe cold_ once or twice, 'since the moon came again,' he said. But I cansee the fear of more is upon him. And this determined me to speak toyou. I have to go to London for ten days or so, to see the doctors aboutmy leave, and a few other things. I don't like it for you and MissLarpent if--if this thing is to return--with no one else in yourconfidence, especially on Dormy's account. Do you think we must tellfather before I go?"

  I hesitated. For many reasons I was reluctant to do so. Father would beexaggeratedly sceptical at first, and then, if he were convinced, as I_knew_ he would be, he would go to the other extreme and insist uponleaving Finster, and there would be a regular upset, trying for motherand everybody concerned. And mother liked the place, and was looking somuch better!

  "After all," I said, "it has not hurt any of us. Miss Larpent gota shake, so did I. But it wasn't as great a shock to us as to you,Phil, to have to believe in a ghost. And we can avoid the gallerywhile you are away. No, except for Dormy, I would rather keep it toourselves--after all, we are not going to live here always. Yet it is sonice, it seems such a pity."

  It was such an exquisite morning; the air, faintly breathing of the sea,was like elixir; the heights and shadows on the cliffs, thrown out bythe darker woods behind, were indeed, as Janet Miles had said,"wonderful".

  "Yes," Phil agreed, "it is an awful nuisance. But as for Dormy," he wenton, "supposing I get mother to let me take him with me? He'd be as jollyas a sand-boy in London, and my old landlady would look after him likeanything if ever I had to be out late. And I'd let my doctor seehim--quietly, you know--he might give him a tonic or something."

  I heartily approved of the idea. So did mamma when Phil broachedit--she, too, had thought her "baby" looking quite pale lately. A Londondoctor's opinion would be such a satisfaction. So it was settled, andthe very next day the two set off. Dormer, in his "old-fashioned,"reticent way, in the greatest delight, though only by one remark did thebrave little fellow hint at what was, no doubt, the principal cause ofhis satisfaction.

  "The moon will be long past the full when we come back," he said. "Andafter that there'll only be one other time before we go, won't there,Leila? We've only got this house for three months?"

  "Yes," I said, "father only took it for three," though in my heart Iknew it was with the option of three more--six in all.

  And Miss Larpent and I were left alone, not with the ghost, certainly,but with our fateful knowledge of its unwelcome proximity.

  We did not speak of it to each other, but we tacitly avoided thegallery, even, as much as possible, in the daytime. I felt, and so, shehas since confessed, did she, that it would be impossible to endure_that cold_ without betraying ourselves.

  And I began to breathe more freely, trusting that the dread of theshadow's possible return was really only due to the child's overwroughtnerves.

  Till--one morning--my fool's paradise was abruptly destroyed.

  Father came in late to breakfast--he had been for an early walk, hesaid, to get rid of a headache. But he did not look altogether as if hehad succeeded in doing so.

  "Leila," he said, as I was leaving the room after pouring out hiscoffee--mamma was not yet allowed to get up early--"Leila, don't go. Iwant to speak to you."

  I stopped short, and turned towards the table. There was something veryodd about his manner. He is usually hearty and eager, almost impetuousin his way of speaking.

  "Leila," he began again, "you are a sensible girl, and your nerves arestrong, I fancy. Besides, you have not been ill like the others. Don'tspeak of what I am going to tell you."

  I nodded in assent; I could scarcely have spoken. My heart was beginningto thump. Father would not have commended my nerves had he known it.

  "Something odd and inexplicable happened last night," he went on."Nugent and I were sitting in the gallery. It was a mild night, and themoon magnificent. We thought the gallery would be pleasanter than thesmoking-room, now that Phil and his pipes are away. Well--we weresitting quietly. I had lighted my reading-lamp on the little table atone end of the room, and Nugent was half lying in his chair, doingnothing in particular except admiring the night, when all at once hestarted violently with an exclamation, and, jumping up, came towards me.Leila, his teeth were chattering, and he was _blue_ with cold. I wasvery much alarmed--you know how ill he was at college. But in a momentor two he recovered.

  "'What on earth is the matter?' I said to him. He tried to laugh.

  "'I really don't know,' he said; 'I felt as if I had had an electricshock of _cold_--but I'm all right again now.'

  "I went into the dining-room, and made him take a little brandy andwater, and sent him off to bed. Then I came back, still feeling ratheruneasy about him, and sat down with my book, when, Leila--you willscarcely credit it--I myself felt the same shock exactly. A perfectly_hideous_ thrill of cold. That was how it began. I started up, and then,Leila, by degrees, in some instinctive way, I seemed to realise what hadcaused it. My dear child, you will think I have gone crazy when I tellyou that there was a shadow--a shadow in the moonlight--_chasing_ me,so to say, round the room, and once again it caught me up, and againcame that appalling sensation. I would not give in. I dodged it afterthat, and set myself to watch it, and then----"

  I need not quote my father further; suffice to say his experiencematched that of the rest of us entirely--no, I think it surpassed them.It was the worst of all.

  Poor father! I shuddered for him. I think a shock of that kind is harderupon a man than upon a woman. Our sex is less sceptical, less entrenchedin sturdy matters of fact, more imaginative, or whatever you like tocall the readiness to believe what we cannot explain. And it wasastounding to me to see how my father at once capitulated--never even_alluding_ to a possibility of trickery. Astounding, yet at the sametime not without a certain satisfaction in it. It was almost a relief tofind others in the same boat with ourselves.

  I told him at once all _we_ had to tell, and how painfully exercised wehad been as to the advisability of keeping our secret to ourselves. Inever saw father so impressed; he was awfully kind, too, and so sorryfor us. He made me fetch Miss Larpent
, and we held a council of--Idon't know what to call it!--not "war," assuredly, for none of usthought of fighting the ghost. How could one fight a shadow?

  We decided to do nothing beyond endeavouring to keep the affair fromgoing further. During the next few days father arranged to have somework done in the gallery which would prevent our sitting there, withoutraising any suspicions on mamma's or Sophy's part.

  "And then," said father, "we must see. Possibly this extraordinaryinfluence only makes itself felt periodically."

  "I am almost certain it is so," said Miss Larpent.

  "And in this case," he continued, "we may manage to evade it. But I donot feel disposed to continue my tenancy here after three months areover. If once the servants get hold of the story, and they are sure todo so sooner or later, it would be unendurable--the worry and annoyancewould do your mother far more harm than any good effect the air andchange have had upon her."

  I was glad to hear this decision. Honestly, I did not feel as if Icould stand the strain for long, and it might kill poor little Dormy.

  But where should we go? Our own home would be quite uninhabitable tillthe autumn, for extensive alterations and repairs were going on there. Isaid this to father.

  "Yes," he agreed, "it is not convenient,"--and he hesitated. "I cannotmake it out," he went on, "Miles would have been _sure_ to know if thehouse had a bad name in any way. I think I will go over and see himto-day, and tell him all about it--at least I shall inquire about someother house in the neighbourhood--and _perhaps_ I will tell him ourreason for leaving this."

  He did so--he went over to Raxtrew that very afternoon, and, as I quiteanticipated would be the case, he told me on his return that he hadtaken both our friends into his confidence.

  "They are extremely concerned about it," he said, "and verysympathising, though, naturally, inclined to think us a parcel of veryweak-minded folk indeed. But I am glad of one thing--the Rectory there,is to be let from the first of July for three months. Miles took me tosee it. I think it will do very well--it is quite out of the village,for you really can't call it a town--and a nice little place in its way.Quite modern, and as unghost-like as you could wish, bright and cheery."

  "And what will mamma think of our leaving so soon?" I asked.

  But as to this father reassured me. He had already spoken of it to her,and somehow she did not seem disappointed. She had got it into her headthat Finster did not suit Dormy, and was quite disposed to think thatthree months of such strong air were enough at a time.

  "Then have you decided upon Raxtrew Rectory?" I asked.

  "I have the refusal of it," said my father. "But you will be almostamused to hear that Miles begged me not to fix absolutely for a fewdays. He is coming to us to-morrow, to spend the night."

  "You mean to see for himself?"

  Father nodded.

  "Poor Mr. Miles!" I ejaculated. "You won't sit up with him, I hope,father?"

  "I offered to do so, but he won't hear of it," was the reply. "He isbringing one of his keepers with him--a sturdy, trustworthy youngfellow, and they two with their revolvers are going to nab the ghost, sohe says. We shall see. We must manage to prevent our servants suspectinganything."

  This _was_ managed. I need not go into particulars. Suffice to say thatthe sturdy keeper reached his own home before dawn on the night of thevigil, no endeavours of his master having succeeded in persuading him tostay another moment at Finster, and that Mr. Miles himself looked so illthe next morning when he joined us at the breakfast-table that we, theinitiated, could scarcely repress our exclamations, when Sophy, with thecurious instinct of touching a sore place which some people have, toldhim that he looked exactly "as if he had seen a ghost".

  His experience had been precisely similar to ours. After that we heardno more from him--about the pity it was to leave a place that suited usso well, etc., etc. On the contrary, before he left, he told my fatherand myself that he thought us uncommonly plucky for staying out thethree months, though at the same time he confessed to feeling completelynonplussed.

  "I have lived near Finster St. Mabyn's all my life," he said, "andmy people before me, and _never_, do I honestly assure you, haveI heard one breath of the old place being haunted. And in a shut-upneighbourhood like this, such a thing would have leaked out."

  We shook our heads, but what could we say?

  PART III.

  We left Finster St. Mabyn's towards the middle of July.

  Nothing worth recording happened during the last few weeks. Ifthe ghostly drama were still re-enacted night after night, or onlyduring some portion of each month, we took care not to assist at theperformance. I believe Phil and Nugent planned another vigil, but gaveit up by my father's expressed wish, and on one pretext or another hemanaged to keep the gallery locked off without arousing any suspicion inmy mother or Sophy, or any of our visitors.

  It was a cold summer,--those early months of it at least--and that madeit easier to avoid the room.

  Somehow none of us were sorry to go. This was natural, so far asseveral were concerned, but rather curious as regarded those of thefamily who knew no drawback to the charms of the place. I suppose it wasdue to some instinctive consciousness of the influence which so many ofthe party had felt it impossible to resist or explain.

  And the Rectory at Raxtrew was really a dear little place. It was sobright and open and sunny. Dormy's pale face was rosy with pleasure thefirst afternoon when he came rushing in to tell us that there were tamerabbits and a pair of guinea-pigs in an otherwise empty loose box in thestable-yard.

  "Do come and look at them," he begged, and I went with him, pleased tosee him so happy.

  I did not care for the rabbits, but I always think guinea-pigs ratherfascinating, and we stayed playing with them some little time.

  "I'll show you another way back into the house," said Dormy, and he ledme through a conservatory into a large, almost unfurnished room, openingagain into a tiled passage leading to the offices.

  "This is the Warden boys' playroom," he said. "They keep their cricketand football things here, you see, and their tricycle. I wonder if Imight use it?"

  "We must write and ask them," I said. "But what are all these bigpackages?" I went on. "Oh, I see, its our heavy luggage from Finster.There is not room in this house for our odds and ends of furniture, Isuppose. It's rather a pity they have put it in here, for we could havehad some nice games in this big room on a wet day, and see, Dormy, hereare several pairs of roller skates! Oh, we must have this placecleared."

  We spoke to father about it--he came and looked at the room and agreedwith us that it would be a pity not to have the full use of it. Rollerskating would be good exercise for Dormy, he said, and even for Nat, whowould be joining us before long for his holidays.

  So our big cases, and the chairs and tables we had bought from Hunter,in their careful swathings of wisps and matting, were carried out to anempty barn--a perfectly dry and weather-tight barn--for everything atthe Rectory was in excellent repair. In this, as in all other details,our new quarters were a complete contrast to the picturesque abode wehad just quitted.

  The weather was charming for the first two or three weeks--much warmerand sunnier than at Finster. We all enjoyed it, and seemed to breathemore freely. Miss Larpent, who was staying through the holidays thisyear, and I congratulated each other more than once, when sure of notbeing overheard, on the cheerful, wholesome atmosphere in which we foundourselves.

  "I do not think I shall ever wish to live in a very old house again,"she said one day. We were in the play-room, and I had been persuadingher to try her hand--or feet--at roller skating. "Even now," she wenton, "I own to you, Leila, though it may sound very weak-minded, I cannotthink of that horrible night without a shiver. Indeed, I could fancy Ifeel that thrill of indescribable cold at the present moment."

  She _was_ shivering--and, extraordinary to relate, as she spoke, hertremor communicated itself to me. Again, I could swear to it, again Ifelt that blast of unutterable, unearthly cold.<
br />
  I started up. We were seated on a bench against the wall--a benchbelonging to the play-room, and which we had not thought of removing, asa few seats were a convenience.

  Miss Larpent caught sight of my face. Her own, which was very white,grew distressed in expression. She grasped my arm.

  "My dearest child," she exclaimed, "you look blue, and your teeth arechattering! I do wish I had not alluded to that fright we had. I had noidea you were so nervous."

  "I did not know it myself," I replied. "I often think of the Finsterghost quite calmly, even in the middle of the night. But just then, MissLarpent, do you know, I really _felt_ that horrid cold again!"

  "So did I--or rather my imagination did," she replied, trying to talk ina matter-of-fact way. She got up as she spoke, and went to the window."It can't be _all_ imagination," she added. "See, Leila, what a gusty,stormy day it is--not like the beginning of August. It really is cold."

  "And this play-room seems nearly as draughty as the gallery at Finster,"I said. "Don't let us stay here--come into the drawing-room and playsome duets. I wish we could quite forget about Finster."

  "Dormy has done so, I hope," said Miss Larpent.

  That chilly morning was the commencement of the real break-up in theweather. We women would not have minded it so much, as there are alwaysplenty of indoor things we can find to do. And my two grown-up brotherswere away. Raxtrew held no particular attractions for them, and Philwanted to see some of our numerous relations before he returned toIndia. So he and Nugent started on a round of visits. But, unluckily,it was the beginning of the public school holidays, and poor Nat--thefifteen-year-old boy--had just joined us. It was very disappointingfor him in more ways than one. He had set his heart on seeing Finster,impressed by our enthusiastic description of it when we first wentthere, and now his anticipations had to come down to a comparativelytame and uninteresting village, and every probability--so said thewise--of a stretch of rainy, unsummerlike weather.

  Nat is a good-natured, cheery fellow, however--not nearly as clever oras impressionable as Dormy, but with the same common sense. So he wiselydetermined to make the best of things, and as we were really sorry forhim, he did not, after all, come off very badly.

  His principal amusement was roller-skating in the play-room. Dormy hadnot taken to it in the same way--the greater part of _his_ time wasspent with the rabbits and guinea-pigs, where Nat, when he himself hadhad skating enough, was pretty sure to find him.

  I suppose it is with being the eldest sister that it always seems myfate to receive the confidences of the rest of the family, and it wasabout this time, a fortnight or so after his arrival, that it began tostrike me that Nat looked as if he had something on his mind.

  "He is sure to tell me what it is, sooner or later," I said to myself."Probably he has left some small debts behind him at school--only he didnot look worried or anxious when he first came home."

  The confidence was given. One afternoon Nat followed me into thelibrary, where I was going to write some letters, and said he wanted tospeak to me. I put my paper aside and waited.

  "Leila," he began, "you must promise not to laugh at me."

  This was not what I expected.

  "Laugh at you--no, certainly not," I replied, "especially if you are inany trouble. And I have thought you were looking worried, Nat."

  "Well, yes," he said, "I don't know if there is anything coming overme--I feel quite well, but--Leila," he broke off, "do you believe inghosts?"

  I started.

  "Has any one----" I was beginning rashly, but the boy interrupted me.

  "No, no," he said eagerly, "no one has put anything of the kind into myhead--no one. It is my own senses that have seen--felt it--or else, ifit is fancy, I must be going out of my mind, Leila--I do believe thereis a ghost here _in the play-room_."

  I sat silent, an awful dread creeping over me, which, as he went on,grew worse and worse. Had the thing--the Finster shadow--attached itselfto us--I had read of such cases--had it journeyed with us to thispeaceful, healthful house? The remembrance of the cold thrillexperienced by Miss Larpent and myself flashed back upon me. And Natwent on.

  Yes, the cold was the first thing he had been startled by, followed,just as in the gallery of our old castle, by the consciousness of theterrible shadow-like presence, gradually taking form in the moonlight.For there had been moonlight the last night or two, and Nat, in hisskating ardour, had amused himself alone in the play-room after Dormyhad gone to bed.

  "The night before last was the worst," he said. "It stopped raining,you remember, Leila, and the moon was very bright--I noticed how itglistened on the wet leaves outside. It was by the moonlight I sawthe--the shadow. I wouldn't have thought of skating in the evening butfor the light, for we've never had a lamp in there. It came round thewalls, Leila, and then it seemed to stop and fumble away in onecorner--at the end where there is a bench, you know."

  Indeed I did know; it was where our governess and I had been sitting.

  "I got so awfully frightened," said Nat honestly, "that I ran off. Thenyesterday I was ashamed of myself, and went back there in the eveningwith a candle. But I saw nothing: the moon did not come out. Only--Ifelt the cold again. I believe it was there--though I could not see it.Leila, what _can_ it be? If only I could make you understand! It is so_much_ worse than it sounds to tell."

  I said what I could to soothe him. I spoke of odd shadows thrown by thetrees outside swaying in the wind, for the weather was still stormy. Irepeated the time-worn argument about optical illusions, etc., etc.,and in the end he gave in a little. It _might_ have been his fancy.And he promised me most faithfully to breathe no hint--not the veryfaintest--of the fright he had had, to Sophy or Dormy, or any one.

  Then I had to tell my father. I really shrank from doing so, but thereseemed no alternative. At first, of course, he pooh-poohed it at once bysaying Dormy must have been talking to Nat about the Finster business,or if not Dormy, _some one_--Miss Larpent even! But when all suchexplanations were entirely set at nought, I must say poor father lookedrather blank. I was sorry for him, and sorry for myself--the idea ofbeing _followed_ by this horrible presence was too sickening.

  Father took refuge at last in some brain-wave theory--involuntaryimpressions had been made on Nat by all of us, whose minds were stillfull of the strange experience. He said he felt sure, and no doubt hetried to think he did, that this theory explained the whole. I felt gladfor him to get any satisfaction out of it, and I did my best to take itup too. But it was no use. I felt that Nat's experience had been an"objective" one, as Miss Larpent expressed it--or, as Dormy had said atthe first at Finster: "No, no, sister--it's something _there_--it'snothing to do with _me_."

  And earnestly I longed for the time to come for our return to our ownfamiliar home.

  "I don't think I shall ever wish to leave it again," I thought.

  But after a week or two the feeling began to fade again. And father verysensibly discovered that it would not do to leave our spare furnitureand heavy luggage in the barn--it was getting all dusty and cobwebby. Soit was all moved back again to the play-room, and stacked as it had beenat first, making it impossible for us to skate or amuse ourselves in anyway there, at which Sophy grumbled, but Nat did not.

  Father was very good to Nat. He took him about with him as much as hecould to get the thought of that horrid thing out of his head. But yetit could not have been half as bad for Nat as for the rest of us, forwe took the greatest possible precautions against any whisper of thedreadful and mysterious truth reaching him, that the ghost had _followedus_ from Finster.

  Father did not tell Mr. Miles or Jenny about it. They had been worriedenough, poor things, by the trouble at Finster, and it would be too badfor them to think that the strange influence was affecting us in the_second_ house we had taken at their recommendation.

  "In fact," said father with a rather rueful smile, "if we don't takecare, we shall begin to be looked upon askance as a haunted family! Ourlives would have been in dange
r in the good old witchcraft days."

  "It is really a mercy that none of the servants have got hold of thestory," said Miss Larpent, who was one of our council of three. "We mustjust hope that no further annoyance will befall us till we are safe athome again."

  Her hopes were fulfilled. Nothing else happened while we remained at theRectory--it really seemed as if the unhappy shade was limited locally,in one sense. For at Finster, even, it had never been seen or felt savein the one room.

  The vividness of the impression of poor Nat's experience had almost diedaway when the time came for us to leave. I felt now that I should ratherenjoy telling Phil and Nugent about it, and hearing what _they_ couldbring forward in the way of explanation.

  We left Raxtrew early in October. Our two big brothers were awaiting usat home, having arrived there a few days before us. Nugent was due atOxford very shortly.

  It was very nice to be in our own house again, after several months'absence, and it was most interesting to see how the alterations,including a good deal of new papering and painting, had been carriedout. And as soon as the heavy luggage arrived we had grand consultationsas to the disposal about the rooms of the charming pieces of furniturewe had picked up at Hunter's. Our rooms are large and nicely shaped,most of them. It was not difficult to make a pretty corner here andthere with a quaint old chair or two and a delicate spindle-leggedtable, and when we had arranged them all--Phil, Nugent, and I, were themovers--we summoned mother and Miss Larpent to give their opinion.

  They quite approved, mother even saying that she would be glad of a fewmore odds and ends.

  "We might empower Janet Miles," she said, "to let us know if she seesanything very tempting. Is that really all we have? They looked so muchmore important in their swathings."

  The same idea struck me. I glanced round.

  "Yes," I said, "that's all, except--oh, yes, there are the tapestry"_portieres_"--the best of all. We can't have them in the drawing-room,I fear. It is too modern for them. Where shall we hang them?"

  "You are forgetting, Leila," said mother. "We spoke of having them inthe hall. They will do beautifully to hang before the two side doors,which are seldom opened. And in cold weather the hall is draughty,though nothing like the gallery at Finster."

  Why did she say that? It made me shiver, but then, of course, she didnot know.

  Our hall is a very pleasant one. We sit there a great deal. The sidedoors mother spoke of are second entrances to the dining-room andlibrary--quite unnecessary, except when we have a large party, a danceor something of that sort. And the "_portieres_" certainly seemed thevery thing, the mellow colouring of the tapestry showing to greatadvantage. The boys--Phil and Nugent, I mean--set to work at once, andin an hour or two the hangings were placed.

  "Of course," said Philip, "if ever these doors are to be opened, thisprecious tapestry must be taken down, or very carefully looped back. Itis very worn in some places, and in spite of the thick lining it shouldbe tenderly handled. I am afraid it has suffered a little from being solong rolled up at the Rectory. It should have been hung up!"

  Still, it looked very well indeed, and when father, who was away at somemagistrates' meeting, came home that afternoon, I showed him ourarrangements with pride.

  He was very pleased.

  "Very nice--very nice indeed," he said, though it was almost too duskfor him to judge quite fully of the effect of the tapestry. "But, dearme, child, this hall is very cold. We must have a larger fire. OnlyOctober! What sort of a winter are we going to have?"

  He shivered as he spoke. He was standing close to one of the"_portieres_"--smoothing the tapestry half absently with one hand. Ilooked at him with concern.

  "I _hope_ you have not got a chill, papa," I said.

  But he seemed all right again when we went into the library, where teawas waiting--an extra late tea for his benefit.

  The next day Nugent went to Oxford. Nat had already returned to school.So our home party was reduced to father and mother, Miss Larpent, Philand I, and the children.

  We were very glad to have Phil settled at home for some time. There waslittle fear of his being tempted away, now that the shooting had begun.We were expecting some of our usual guests at this season; the weatherwas perfect autumn weather; we had thrown off all remembrance ofinfluenza and other depressing "influences," and were feeling brightand cheerful, when again--ah, yes, even now it gives me a faint, sicksensation to recall the horror of that _third_ visitation!

  But I must tell it simply, and not give way to painful remembrances.

  It was the very day before our first visitors were expected that theblow fell, the awful fear made itself felt. And, as before, the victimwas a new one--the one who, for reasons already mentioned, we hadspecially guarded from any breath of the gruesome terror--poor littleSophy!

  What she was doing alone in the hall late that evening I cannot quiterecall--yes, I think I remember her saying she had run downstairs whenhalf-way up to bed, to fetch a book she had left there in the afternoon.She had no light, and the one lamp in the hall--we never sat there afterdinner--was burning feebly. _It was bright moonlight._

  I was sitting at the piano, where I had been playing in a rather sleepyway--when a sudden touch on my shoulder made me start, and, looking up,I saw my sister standing beside me, white and trembling.

  "Leila," she whispered, "come with me quickly. I don't want mamma tonotice."

  For mother was still nervous and delicate.

  The drawing-room is very long, and has two or three doors. No-one elsewas at our end. It was easy to make our way out unperceived. Sophycaught my hand and hurried me upstairs without speaking till we reachedmy own room, where a bright fire was burning cheerfully.

  Then she began.

  "Leila," she said, "I have had such an awful fright. I did not want tospeak until we were safe up here."

  "What was it?" I exclaimed breathlessly. Did I already suspect thetruth? I really do not know, but my nerves were not what they had been.

  Sophy gasped and began to tremble. I put my arm round her.

  "It does not sound so bad," she said. "But--oh, Leila, what _could_ itbe? It was in the hall," and then I think she explained how she had cometo be there. "I was standing near the side door into the library that wenever use--and--all of a sudden a sort of darkness came along the wall,and seemed to settle on the door--where the old tapestry is, you know.I thought it was the shadow of something outside, for it was brightmoonlight, and the windows were not shuttered. But in a moment I saw itcould not be that--there is nothing to throw such a shadow. It seemedto wriggle about--like--like a monstrous spider, or--" and there shehesitated--"almost like a deformed sort of human being. And all at once,Leila, my breath went and I fell down. I really did. I was _choked_ withcold. I think my senses went away, but I am not sure. The next thing Iremember was rushing across the hall and then down the south corridor tothe drawing-room, and then I was so thankful to see you there by thepiano."

  I drew her down on my knee, poor child.

  "It was very good of you, dear," I said, "to control yourself, and notstartle mamma."

  This pleased her, but her terror was still uppermost.

  "Leila," she said piteously, "can't you explain it? I did so hope youcould."

  What _could_ I say?

  "I--one would need to go to the hall and look well about to see whatcould cast such a shadow," I said vaguely, and I suppose I mustinvoluntarily have moved a little, for Sophy started, and clutched mefast.

  "Oh, Leila, don't go--you don't mean you are going now?" she entreated.

  Nothing truly was farther from my thoughts, but I took care not to sayso.

  "I won't leave you if you'd rather not," I said, "and I tell you what,Sophy, if you would like very much to sleep here with me to-night, youshall. I will ring and tell Freake to bring your things down and undressyou--on one condition."

  "What?" she said eagerly. She was much impressed by my amiability.

  "That you won't say _one word_ a
bout this, or give the least shadow of ahint to any one that you have had a fright. You don't know the troubleit will cause."

  "Of course I will promise to let no one know, if you think it better,for you are so kind to me," said Sophy. But there was a touch ofreluctance in her tone. "You--you mean to do something about it though,Leila," she went on. "I shall never be able to forget it if you don't."

  "Yes," I said, "I shall speak to father and Phil about it to-morrow.If any one has been trying to frighten us," I added unguardedly, "byplaying tricks, they certainly must be exposed."

  "Not _us_," she corrected, "it was only me," and I did not reply. Why Ispoke of the possibility of a trick I scarcely know. I had no hope ofany such explanation.

  But another strange, almost incredible idea was beginning to take shapein my mind, and with it came a faint, very faint touch of relief. Couldit be not the _houses_, nor the _rooms_, nor, worst of all, we ourselvesthat were haunted, but something or things among the old furniture wehad bought at Raxtrew?

  And lying sleepless that night a sudden flash of illumination struckme--could it--whatever the "it" was--could it have something to do withthe tapestry hangings?

  The more I thought it over the more striking grew the coincidences. AtFinster it had been on one of the closed doors that the shadow seemedto settle, as again here in our own hall. But in both cases the"_portieres_" had hung in front!

  And at the Rectory? The tapestry, as Philip had remarked, had been thererolled up all the time. Was it possible that it had never been taken outto the barn at all? What _more_ probable than that it should have beenleft, forgotten, under the bench where Miss Larpent and I had feltfor the second time that hideous cold? And, stay, something else wasreturning to my mind in connection with that bench. Yes--I had it--Nathad said "it seemed to stop and fumble away in one corner--at the endwhere there is a bench, you know."

  And then to my unutterable thankfulness at last I fell asleep.

  PART IV.

  I told Philip the next morning. There was no need to bespeak hisattention. I think he felt nearly as horrified as I had done myself atthe idea that our own hitherto bright, cheerful home was to be hauntedby this awful thing--influence or presence, call it what you will. Andthe suggestions which I went on to make struck him, too, with a sense ofrelief.

  He sat in silence for some time after making me recapitulate asprecisely as possible every detail of Sophy's story.

  "You are sure it was the door into the library?" he said at last.

  "Quite sure," I replied; "and, oh, Philip," I went on, "it has justoccurred to me that _father_ felt a chill there the other evening."

  For till that moment the little incident in question had escaped mymemory.

  "Do you remember which of the "_portieres_" hung in front of the door atFinster?" said Philip.

  I shook my head.

  "Dormy would," I said, "he used to examine the pictures in the tapestrywith great interest. I should not know one from the other. There is anold castle in the distance in each, and a lot of trees, and somethingmeant for a lake."

  But in his turn Philip shook his head.

  "No," he said, "I won't speak to Dormy about it if I can possibly helpit. Leave it to me, Leila, and try to put it out of your own mind asmuch as you possibly can, and don't be surprised at anything you maynotice in the next few days. I will tell you, first of any one, wheneverI have anything to tell."

  That was all I could get out of him. So I took his advice.

  Luckily, as it turned out, Mr. Miles, the only outsider, so to say(except the unfortunate keeper), who had witnessed the ghostly drama,was one of the shooting party expected that day. And him Philip atonce determined to consult about this new and utterly unexpectedmanifestation.

  He did not tell me this. Indeed, it was not till fully a week later thatI heard anything, and then in a letter--a very long letter from mybrother, which, I think, will relate the sequel of our strange ghoststory better than any narration at second-hand, of my own.

  Mr. Miles only stayed two nights with us. The very day after hecame he announced that, to his great regret, he was obliged--mostunexpectedly--to return to Raxtrew on important business.

  "And," he continued, "I am afraid you will all feel much more vexed withme when I tell you I am going to carry off Phil with me."

  Father looked very blank indeed.

  "Phil!" he exclaimed, "and how about our shooting?"

  "You can easily replace us," said my brother, "I have thought of that,"and he added something in a lower tone to father. He--Phil--was leavingthe room at the time. _I_ thought it had reference to the real reason ofhis accompanying Mr. Miles, but I was mistaken. Father, however, saidnothing more in opposition to the plan, and the next morning the twowent off.

  We happened to be standing at the hall door--several of us--for we werea large party now--when Phil and his friend drove away. As we turned tore-enter the house, I felt some one touch me. It was Sophy. She wasgoing out for a constitutional with Miss Larpent, but had stopped amoment to speak to me.

  "Leila," she said in a whisper, "why have they--did you know that thetapestry had been taken down?"

  She glanced at me with a peculiar expression. I had not observed it.Now, looking up, I saw that the two locked doors were visible in thedark polish of their old mahogany as of yore--no longer shrouded by theancient _portieres_. I started in surprise.

  "No," I whispered in return, "I did not know. Never mind, Sophy. Isuspect there is a reason for it which we shall know in good time."

  I felt strongly tempted--the moon being still at the full--to visit thehall that night--in hopes of feeling and seeing--_nothing_. But whenthe time drew near, my courage failed; besides I had tacitly promisedPhilip to think as little as I possibly could about the matter, and anyvigil of the kind would certainly not have been acting in accordancewith the spirit of his advice.

  I think I will now copy, as it stands, the letter from Philip which Ireceived a week or so later. It was dated from his club in London.

  "MY DEAR LEILA,

  "I have a long story to tell you and a very extraordinary one. I think it is well that it should be put into writing, so I will devote this evening to the task--especially as I shall not be home for ten days or so.

  "You may have suspected that I took Miles into my confidence as soon as he arrived. If you did you were right. He was the best person to speak to for several reasons. He looked, I must say, rather--well 'blank' scarcely expresses it--when I told him of the ghost's re-appearance, not only at the Rectory, but in our own house, and on both occasions to persons--Nat, and then Sophy--who had not heard a breath of the story. But when I went on to propound your suggestion, Miles cheered up. He had been, I fancy, a trifle touchy about our calling Finster haunted, and it was evidently a satisfaction to him to start another theory. We talked it well over, and we decided to test the thing again--it took some resolution, I own, to do so. We sat up that night--bright moonlight luckily--and--well, I needn't repeat it all. Sophy was quite correct. It came again--the horrid creeping shadow--poor wretch, I'm rather sorry for it now--just in the old way--quite as much at home in ----shire, apparently, as in the Castle. It stopped at the closed library door, and fumbled away, then started off again--ugh! We watched it closely, but kept well in the middle of the room, so that the cold did not strike us so badly. We both noted the special part of the tapestry where its hands seemed to sprawl, and we meant to stay for another round; but--when it came to the point we funked it, and went to bed.

  "Next morning, on pretence of examining the date of the tapestry, we had it down--you were all out--and we found--_something_. Just where the hands felt about, there had been a cut--three cuts, three sides of a square, as it were, making a sort of door in the stuff, the fourth side having evidently acted as a hinge, for there was a mark where it had been folded back. And just where--trea
ting the thing as a door--you might expect to find a handle to open it by, we found a distinct dint in the tapestry, as if a button or knob had once been there. We looked at each other. The same idea had struck us. The tapestry had been used to conceal a small door in the wall--the door of a secret cupboard probably. The ghostly fingers had been vainly seeking for the spring which in the days of their flesh and bone they had been accustomed to press.

  "'The first thing to do,' said Miles, 'is to look up Hunter and make him tell where he got the tapestry from. Then we shall see.'

  "'Shall we take the _portieres_ with us?' I said.

  "But Miles shuddered, though he half laughed too.

  "'No, thank you,' he said. 'I'm not going to travel with the evil thing.'

  "'We can't hang it up again, though,' I said, 'after this last experience.'

  "In the end we rolled up the two _portieres_, not to attract attention by only moving one, and--well, I thought it just possible the ghost might make a mistake, and I did not want any more scares while I was away--we rolled them up together, first carefully measuring the cut, and its position in the curtain, and then we hid them away in one of the lofts that no one ever enters, where they are at this moment, and where the ghost may have been disporting himself, for all I know, though I fancy he has given it up by this time, for reasons you shall hear.

  "Then Miles and I, as you know, set off for Raxtrew. I smoothed my father down about it, by reminding him how good-natured they had been to us, and telling him Miles really needed me. We went straight to Hunter. He hummed and hawed a good deal--he had not distinctly promised not to give the name of the place the tapestry had come from, but he knew the gentleman he had bought it from did not want it known.

  "'Why?' said Miles. 'Is it some family that has come down in the world, and is forced to part with things to get some ready money?'

  "'Oh, dear no!' said Hunter. 'It is not that, at all. It was only that--I suppose I must give you the name--Captain Devereux--did not want any gossip to get about, as to ----'

  "'Devereux!' repeated Miles, 'you don't mean the people at Hallinger?'

  "'The same,' said Hunter. 'If you know them, sir, you will be careful, I hope, to assure the captain that I did my best to carry out his wishes?'

  "'Certainly,' said Miles, 'I'll exonerate you.'

  "And then Hunter told us that Devereux, who only came into the Hallinger property a few years ago, had been much annoyed by stories getting about of the place being haunted, and this had led to his dismantling one wing, and--Hunter thought, but was not quite clear as to this--pulling down some rooms altogether. But he, Devereux, was very touchy on the subject--he did not want to be laughed at.

  "'And the tapestry came from him--you are certain as to that?' Miles repeated.

  "'Positive, sir. I took it down with my own hands. It was fitted on to two panels in what they call the round room at Hallinger--there were, oh, I daresay, a dozen of them, with tapestry nailed on, but I only bought these two pieces--the others were sold to a London dealer.'

  "'The round room,' I said. Leila, the expression struck me.

  "Miles, it appeared, knew Devereux fairly well. Hallinger is only ten miles off. We drove over there, but found he was in London. So our next move was to follow him there. We called twice at his club, and then Miles made an appointment, saying that he wanted to see him on private business.

  "He received us civilly, of course. He is quite a young fellow--in the Guards. But when Miles began to explain to him what we had come about, he stiffened.

  "'I suppose you belong to the Psychical Society?' he said. 'I can only repeat that I have nothing to tell, and I detest the whole subject.'

  "'Wait a moment,' said Miles, and as he went on I saw that Devereux changed. His face grew intent with interest and a queer sort of eagerness, and at last he started to his feet.

  "'Upon my soul,' he said, 'I believe you've run him to earth for me--the ghost, I mean, and if so, you shall have my endless gratitude. I'll go down to Hallinger with you at once--this afternoon, if you like, and see it out.'

  "He was so excited that he spoke almost incoherently, but after a bit he calmed down, and told us all he had to tell--and that was a good deal--which would indeed have been nuts for the Psychical Society. What Hunter had said was but a small part of the whole. It appeared that on succeeding to Hallinger, on the death of an uncle, young Devereux had made considerable changes in the house. He had, among others, opened out a small wing--a sort of round tower--which had been completely dismantled and bricked up for, I think he said, over a hundred years. There was some story about it. An ancestor of his--an awful gambler--had used the principal room in this wing for his orgies. Very queer things went on there, the finish up being the finding of old Devereux dead there one night, when his servants were summoned by the man he had been playing with--with whom he had had an awful quarrel. This man, a low fellow, probably a professional cardsharper, vowed that he had been robbed of a jewel which his host had staked, and it was said that a ring of great value had disappeared. But it was all hushed up--Devereux had really died in a fit--though soon after, for reasons only hinted at, the round tower was shut up, till the present man rashly opened it again.

  "Almost at once, he said, the annoyances, to use a mild term, began. First one, then another of the household were terrified out of their wits, just as we were, Leila. Devereux himself had seen it two or three times, the 'it,' of course, being his miserable old ancestor. A small man, with a big wig, and long, thin, claw-like fingers. It all corresponded. Mrs. Devereux is young and nervous. She could not stand it. So in the end the round tower was shut up again, all the furniture and hangings sold, and locally speaking, the ghost laid. That was all Devereux knew.

  "We started, the three of us, that very afternoon, as excited as a party of schoolboys. Miles and I kept questioning Devereux, but he had really no more to tell. He had never thought of examining the walls of the haunted room--it was wainscotted, he said--and might be lined all through with secret cupboards, for all he knew. But he could not get over the extraordinariness of the ghost's sticking to the _tapestry_--and indeed it does rather lower one's idea of ghostly intelligence.

  "We went at it at once--the tower was not _bricked_ up again, luckily--we got in without difficulty the next morning--Devereux making some excuse to the servants, a new set who had not heard of the ghost, for our eccentric proceedings. It was a tiresome business. There were so many panels in the room, as Hunter had said, and it was impossible to tell in which _the_ tapestry had been fixed. But we had our measures, and we carefully marked a line as near as we could guess at the height from the floor that the cut in the _portieres_ must have been. Then we tapped and pummelled and pressed imaginary springs till we were nearly sick of it--there was nothing to guide us. The wainscotting was dark and much shrunk and marked with age, and full of joins in the wood any one of which might have meant a door.

  "It was Devereux himself who found it at last. We heard an exclamation from where he was standing by himself at the other side of the room. He was quite white and shaky.

  "'Look here,' he said, and we looked.

  "Yes--there was a small deep recess, or cupboard in the thickness of the wall, excellently contrived. Devereux had touched the spring at last, and the door, just matching the cut in the tapestry, flew open.

  "Inside lay what at first we took for a packet of letters, and I hoped to myself they contained nothing that would bring trouble on poor
Devereux. They were not letters, however, but two or three incomplete packs of cards--grey and dust-thick with age--and as Miles spread them out, certain markings on them told their own tale. Devereux did not like it, naturally--their supposed owner had been a member of his house.

  "'The ghost has kept a conscience,' he said, with an attempt at a laugh. 'Is there nothing more?'

  "Yes--a small leather bag--black and grimy, though originally, I fancy, of chamois skin. It drew with strings. Devereux pulled it open, and felt inside.

  "'By George!' he exclaimed. And he held out the most magnificent diamond ring I have ever seen--sparkling away as if it had only just come from the polisher's. 'This must be _the_ ring,' he said.

  "And we all stared--too astonished to speak.

  "Devereux closed the cupboard again, after carefully examining it to make sure nothing had been left behind. He marked the exact spot where he had pressed the spring so as to find it at any time. Then we all left the round room, locking the door securely after us.

  "Miles and I spent that night at Hallinger. We sat up late talking it all over. There are some queer inconsistencies about the thing which will probably never be explained. First and foremost--why has the ghost stuck to the tapestry instead of to the actual spot he seemed to have wished to reveal? Secondly, what was the connection between his visits and the full moon--or is it that only by the moonlight the shade becomes perceptible to human sense? Who can say?

  "As to the story itself--what was old Devereux's motive in concealing his own ring? Were the marked cards his, or his opponent's, of which he had managed to possess himself, and had secreted as testimony against the other fellow?

  "I incline, and so does Miles, to this last theory, and when we suggested it to Devereux, I could see it was a relief to him. After all, one likes to think one's ancestors were gentlemen!

  "'But what, then, has he been worrying about all this century or more?' he said. 'If it were that he wanted the ring returned to its real owner--supposing the fellow _had_ won it--I could understand it, though such a thing would be impossible. There is no record of the man at all--his name was never mentioned in the story.'

  "'He may want the ring restored to its proper owner all the same,' said Miles. 'You are its owner, as the head of the family, and it has been your ancestor's fault that it has been hidden all these years. Besides, we cannot take upon ourselves to explain motives in such a case. Perhaps--who knows?--the poor shade could not help himself. His peregrinations may have been of the nature of punishment.'

  "'I hope they are over now,' said Devereux, 'for his sake and everybody else's. I should be glad to think he wanted the ring restored to us, but besides that, I should like to do something--something _good_ you know--if it would make him easier, poor old chap. I must consult Lilias.' Lilias is Mrs. Devereux.

  "This is all I have to tell you at present, Leila. When I come home we'll have the _portieres_ up again and see what happens. I want you now to read all this to my father, and if he has no objection--he and my mother, of course--I should like to invite Captain and Mrs. Devereux to stay a few days with us--as well as Miles, as soon as I come back."

  Philip's wish was acceded to. It was with no little anxiety and interestthat we awaited his return.

  The tapestry _portieres_ were restored to their place--and on the firstmoonlight night, my father, Philip, Captain Devereux and Mr. Miles heldtheir vigil.

  What happened?

  _Nothing_--the peaceful rays lighted up the quaint landscape ofthe tapestry, undisturbed by the poor groping fingers--no gruesomeunearthly chill as of worse than death made itself felt to the midnightwatchers--the weary, may we not hope repentant, spirit was at rest atlast!

  And never since has any one been troubled by the shadow in themoonlight.

  "I cannot help hoping," said Mrs. Devereux, when talking it over, "thatwhat Michael has done may have helped to calm the poor ghost."

  And she told us what it was. Captain Devereux is rich, though notimmensely so. He had the ring valued--it represented a very large sum,but Philip says I had better not name the figures--and then he, so tosay, bought it from himself. And with this money he--no, again, Philsays I must not enter into particulars beyond saying that with it he didsomething very good, and very useful, which had long been a pet schemeof his wife's.

  Sophy is grown up now and she knows the whole story. So does our mother.And Dormy too has heard it all. The horror of it has quite gone. We feelrather proud of having been the actual witnesses of a ghostly drama.