that I myself, though bent on the investigation I have spoken of,
pledged to Roland to carry it out, and feeling that my boy's health,
perhaps his life, depended on the result of my inquiry,--I felt the most
unaccountable reluctance, now that it was dark, to pass the ruins on my
way home. My curiosity was intense; and yet it was all my mind could do
to pull my body along. I dare say the scientific people would describe
it the other way, and attribute my cowardice to the state of my stomach.
I went on; but if I had followed my impulse, I should have turned and
bolted. Everything in me seemed to cry out against it; my heart thumped,
my pulses all began, like sledge-hammers, beating against my ears and
every sensitive part. It was very dark, as I have said; the old house,
with its shapeless tower, loomed a heavy mass through the darkness,
which was only not entirely so solid as itself. On the other hand, the
great dark cedars of which we were so proud seemed to fill up the night.
My foot strayed out of the path in my confusion and the gloom together,
and I brought myself up with a cry as I felt myself knocked against
something solid. What was it? The contact with hard stone and lime and
prickly bramble-bushes restored me a little to myself. "Oh, it's only
the old gable," I said aloud, with a little laugh to reassure myself.
The rough feeling of the stones reconciled me. As I groped about thus, I
shook off my visionary folly. What so easily explained as that I should
have strayed from the path in the darkness? This brought me back to
common existence, as if I had been shaken by a wise hand out of all the
silliness of superstition. How silly it was, after all! What did it
matter which path I took? I laughed again, this time with better heart,
when suddenly, in a moment, the blood was chilled in my veins, a shiver
stole along my spine, my faculties seemed to forsake me. Close by me, at
my side, at my feet, there was a sigh. No, not a groan, not a moaning,
not anything so tangible,--a perfectly soft, faint, inarticulate sigh. I
sprang back, and my heart stopped beating. Mistaken! no, mistake was
impossible. I heard it as clearly as I hear myself speak; a long, soft,
weary sigh, as if drawn to the utmost, and emptying out a load of
sadness that filled the breast. To hear this in the solitude, in the
dark, in the night (though it was still early), had an effect which I
cannot describe. I feel it now,--something cold creeping over me up into
my hair, and down to my feet, which refused to move. I cried out, with a
trembling voice, "Who is there?" as I had done before; but there was no
reply.
I got home I don't quite know how; but in my mind there was no longer
any indifference as to the thing, whatever it was, that haunted these
ruins. My scepticism disappeared like a mist. I was as firmly
determined that there was something as Roland was. I did not for a
moment pretend to myself that it was possible I could be deceived; there
were movements and noises which I understood all about,--cracklings of
small branches in the frost, and little rolls of gravel on the path,
such as have a very eerie sound sometimes, and perplex you with wonder
as to who has done it, _when there is no real mystery_; but I assure you
all these little movements of nature don't affect you one bit _when
there is something_. I understood _them_. I did not understand the sigh.
That was not simple nature; there was meaning in it, feeling, the soul
of a creature invisible. This is the thing that human nature trembles
at,--a creature invisible, yet with sensations, feelings, a power
somehow of expressing itself. Bagley was in the hall as usual when I
went in. He was always there in the afternoon, always with the
appearance of perfect occupation, yet, so far as I know, never doing
anything. The door was open, so that I hurried in without any pause,
breathless; but the sight of his calm regard, as he came to help me off
with my overcoat, subdued me in a moment. Anything out of the way,
anything incomprehensible, faded to nothing in the presence of Bagley.
You saw and wondered how _he_ was made: the parting of his hair, the tie
of his white neckcloth, the fit of his trousers, all perfect as works of
art: but you could see how they were done, which makes all the
difference. I flung myself upon him, so to speak, without waiting to
note the extreme unlikeness of the man to anything of the kind I meant.
"Bagley," I said, "I want you to come out with me tonight to watch
for----"
"Poachers, Colonel?" he said, a gleam of pleasure running all over him.
"No, Bagley; a great deal worse," I cried.
"Yes, Colonel; at what hour, sir?" the man said; but then I had not told
him what it was.
It was ten o'clock when we set out. All was perfectly quiet indoors. My
wife was with Roland, who had been quite calm, she said, and who
(though, no doubt, the fever must run its course) had been better ever
since I came. I told Bagley to put on a thick greatcoat over his evening
coat, and did the same myself, with strong boots; for the soil was like
a sponge, or worse. Talking to him, I almost forgot what we were going
to do. It was darker even than it had been before, and Bagley kept very
close to me as we went along. I had a small lantern in my hand, which
gave us a partial guidance. We had come to the corner where the path
turns. On one side was the bowling-green, which the girls had taken
possession of for their croquet-ground,--a wonderful enclosure
surrounded by high hedges of holly, three hundred years old and more; on
the other, the ruins. Both were black as night; but before we got so
far, there was a little opening in which we could just discern the trees
and the lighter line of the road. I thought it best to pause there and
take breath. "Bagley," I said, "there is something about these ruins I
don't understand. It is there I am going. Keep your eyes open and your
wits about you. Be ready to pounce upon any stranger you see,--anything,
man or woman. Don't hurt, but seize--anything you see." "Colonel," said
Bagley, with a little tremor in his breath, "they do say there's things
there--as is neither man nor woman." There was no time for words. "Are
you game to follow me, my man? that's the question," I said. Bagley fell
in without a word, and saluted. I knew then I had nothing to fear.
We went, so far as I could guess, exactly as I had come, when I heard
that sigh. The darkness, however, was so complete that all marks, as of
trees or paths, disappeared. One moment we felt our feet on the gravel,
another sinking noiselessly into the slippery grass, that was all. I had
shut up my lantern, not wishing to scare any one, whoever it might be.
Bagley followed, it seemed to me, exactly in my footsteps as I made my
way, as I supposed, towards the mass of the ruined house. We seemed to
take a long time groping along seeking this; the squash of the wet soil
under our feet was the only thing that marked our progress. After a
while I stood still to see, or rather feel, where we were. The darkness
was very still, but no stiller than is usual in a winter's night. The
sounds I have mentioned--the crackling of twigs, the roll of a pebble,
the sound of some rustle in the dead leaves, or creeping creature on the
grass--were audible when you listened, all mysterious enough when your
mind is disengaged, but to me cheering now as signs of the livingness of
nature, even in the death of the frost. As we stood still there came up
from the trees in the glen the prolonged hoot of an owl. Bagley started
with alarm, being in a state of general nervousness, and not knowing
what he was afraid of. But to me the sound was encouraging and pleasant,
being so comprehensible. "An owl," I said, under my breath. "Y--es,
Colonel," said Bagley, his teeth chattering. We stood still about five
minutes, while it broke into the still brooding of the air, the sound
widening out in circles, dying upon the darkness. This sound, which is
not a cheerful one, made me almost gay. It was natural, and relieved the
tension of the mind. I moved on with new courage, my nervous excitement
calming down.
When all at once, quite suddenly, close to us, at our feet, there broke
out a cry. I made a spring backwards in the first moment of surprise and
horror, and in doing so came sharply against the same rough masonry and
brambles that had struck me before. This new sound came upwards from the
ground,--a low, moaning, wailing voice, full of suffering and pain. The
contrast between it and the hoot of the owl was indescribable,--the one
with a wholesome wildness and naturalness that hurt nobody; the other, a
sound that made one's blood curdle, full of human misery. With a great
deal of fumbling,--for in spite of everything I could do to keep up my
courage my hands shook,--I managed to remove the slide of my lantern.
The light leaped out like something living, and made the place visible
in a moment. We were what would have been inside the ruined building had
anything remained but the gable-wall which I have described. It was
close to us, the vacant door-way in it going out straight into the
blackness outside. The light showed the bit of wall, the ivy glistening
upon it in clouds of dark green, the bramble-branches waving, and below,
the open door,--a door that led to nothing. It was from this the voice
came which died out just as the light flashed upon this strange scene.
There was a moment's silence, and then it broke forth again. The sound
was so near, so penetrating, so pitiful, that, in the nervous start I
gave, the light fell out of my hand. As I groped for it in the dark my
hand was clutched by Bagley, who, I think, must have dropped upon his
knees; but I was too much perturbed myself to think much of this. He
clutched at me in the confusion of his terror, forgetting all his usual
decorum. "For God's sake, what is it, sir?" he gasped. If I yielded,
there was evidently an end of both of us. "I can't tell," I said, "any
more than you; that's what we've got to find out. Up, man, up!" I pulled
him to his feet. "Will you go round and examine the other side, or will
you stay here with the lantern?" Bagley gasped at me with a face of
horror. "Can't we stay together, Colonel?" he said; his knees were
trembling under him. I pushed him against the corner of the wall, and
put the light into his hands. "Stand fast till I come back; shake
yourself together, man; let nothing pass you," I said. The voice was
within two or three feet of us; of that there could be no doubt.
I went myself to the other side of the wall, keeping close to it. The
light shook in Bagley's hand, but, tremulous though it was, shone out
through the vacant door, one oblong block of light marking all the
crumbling corners and hanging masses of foliage. Was that something dark
huddled in a heap by the side of it? I pushed forward across the light
in the door-way, and fell upon it with my hands; but it was only a
juniper-bush growing close against the wall. Meanwhile, the sight of my
figure crossing the door-way had brought Bagley's nervous excitement to
a height; he flew at me, gripping my shoulder. "I've got him, Colonel!
I've got him!" he cried, with a voice of sudden exultation. He thought
it was a man, and was at once relieved. But at the moment the voice
burst forth again between us, at our feet,--more close to us than any
separate being could be. He dropped off from me, and fell against the
wall, his jaw dropping as if he were dying. I suppose, at the same
moment, he saw that it was me whom he had clutched. I for my part, had
scarcely more command of myself. I snatched the light out of his hand,
and flashed it all about me wildly. Nothing,--the juniper-bush which I
thought I had never seen before, the heavy growth of the glistening ivy,
the brambles waving. It was close to my ears now, crying, crying,
pleading as if for life. Either I heard the same words Roland had heard,
or else, in my excitement, his imagination got possession of mine. The
voice went on, growing into distinct articulation, but wavering about,
now from one point, now from another, as if the owner of it were moving
slowly back and forward. "Mother! mother!" and then an outburst of
wailing. As my mind steadied, getting accustomed (as one's mind gets
accustomed to anything), it seemed to me as if some uneasy, miserable
creature was pacing up and down before a closed door. Sometimes--but
that must have been excitement--I thought I heard a sound like knocking,
and then another burst, "Oh, mother! mother!" All this close, close to
the space where I was standing with my lantern, now before me, now
behind me: a creature restless, unhappy, moaning, crying, before the
vacant door-way, which no one could either shut or open more.
"Do you hear it, Bagley? do you hear what it is saying?" I cried,
stepping in through the door-way. He was lying against the wall, his
eyes glazed, half dead with terror. He made a motion of his lips as if
to answer me, but no sounds came; then lifted his hand with a curious
imperative movement as if ordering me to be silent and listen. And how
long I did so I cannot tell. It began to have an interest, an exciting
hold upon me, which I could not describe. It seemed to call up visibly a
scene any one could understand,--a something shut out, restlessly
wandering to and fro; sometimes the voice dropped, as if throwing itself
down, sometimes wandered off a few paces, growing sharp and clear. "Oh,
mother, let me in! oh, mother, mother, let me in! oh, let me in." Every
word was clear to me. No wonder the boy had gone wild with pity. I tried
to steady my mind upon Roland, upon his conviction that I could do
something, but my head swam with the excitement, even when I partially
overcame the terror. At last the words died away, and there was a sound
of sobs and moaning. I cried out, "In the name of God who are you?" with
a kind of feeling in my mind that to use the name of God was profane,
seeing that I did not believe in ghosts or anything supernatural; but I
did it all the same, and waited, my heart giving a leap of terror lest
there should be a reply. Why this should have been I cannot tell, but I
had a feeling that if there was an answer it would be more than I could
bear. But there was no answer, the moaning went on, and then, as if it
had been real, the voice rose a little higher again, the words
recommenced, "Oh, mother, let me in! oh, mother, let me in!" with an
expression that was heart-breaking to hear.
_As if it had been real!_ What do I mean by that? I suppose I got less
alarmed as the thing went on. I began to recover the use of my
senses,--I seemed to explain it all to myself by saying that this had
once happened, that it was a recollection of a real scene. Why there
should have seemed something quite satisfactory and composing in this
explanation I cannot tell, but so it was. I began to listen almost as if
it had been a play, forgetting Bagley, who, I almost think, had fainted,
leaning against the wall. I was started out of this strange
spectatorship that had fallen upon me by the sudden rush of something
which made my heart jump once more, a large black figure in the door-way
waving its arms. "Come in! come in! come in!" it shouted out hoarsely
at the top of a deep bass voice, and then poor Bagley fell down
senseless across the threshold. He was less sophisticated than I,--he
had not been able to bear it any longer. I took him for something
supernatural, as he took me, and it was some time before I awoke to the
necessities of the moment. I remembered only after, that from the time I
began to give my attention to the man, I heard the other voice no more.
It was some time before I brought him to. It must have been a strange
scene: the lantern making a luminous spot in the darkness, the man's
white face lying on the black earth, I over him, doing what I could for
him. Probably I should have been thought to be murdering him had any one
seen us. When at last I succeeded in pouring a little brandy down his
throat, he sat up and looked about him wildly. "What's up?" he said;
then recognizing me, tried to struggle to his feet with a faint "Beg
your pardon, Colonel." I got him home as best I could, making him lean
upon my arm. The great fellow was as weak as a child. Fortunately he did
not for some time remember what had happened. From the time Bagley fell
the voice had stopped, and all was still.
* * * * *
"You've got an epidemic in your house, Colonel," Simson said to me next
morning. "What's the meaning of it all? Here's your butler raving about
a voice. This will never do, you know; and so far as I can make out, you
are in it too."
"Yes, I am in it, Doctor. I thought I had better speak to you. Of
course you are treating Roland all right, but the boy is not raving, he
is as sane as you or me. It's all true."
"As sane as--I--or you. I never thought the boy insane. He's got
cerebral excitement, fever. I don't know what you've got. There's
something very queer about the look of your eyes."
"Come," said I, "you can't put us all to bed, you know. You had better
listen and hear the symptoms in full."
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, but he listened to me patiently. He
did not believe a word of the story, that was clear; but he heard it all
from beginning to end. "My dear fellow," he said, "the boy told me just
the same. It's an epidemic. When one person falls a victim to this sort
of thing, it's as safe as can be,--there's always two or three."
"Then how do you account for it?" I said.
"Oh, account for it!--that's a different matter; there's no accounting
for the freaks our brains are subject to. If it's delusion, if it's some
trick of the echoes or the winds,--some phonetic disturbance or
other----"
"Come with me tonight and judge for yourself," I said.
Upon this he laughed aloud, then said, "That's not such a bad idea; but
it would ruin me forever if it were known that John Simson was
ghost-hunting."
"There it is," said I; "you dart down on us who are unlearned with your
phonetic disturbances, but you daren't examine what the thing really is
for fear of being laughed at. That's science!"
"It's not science,--it's common-sense," said the Doctor. "The thing has
delusion on the front of it. It is encouraging an unwholesome tendency
even to examine. What good could come of it? Even if I am convinced, I
shouldn't believe."
"I should have said so yesterday; and I don't want you to be convinced
or to believe," said I. "If you prove it to be a delusion, I shall be
very much obliged to you for one. Come; somebody must go with me."
"You are cool," said the Doctor. "You've disabled this poor fellow of
yours, and made him--on that point--a lunatic for life; and now you want
to disable me. But, for once, I'll do it. To save appearance, if you'll
give me a bed, I'll come over after my last rounds."
It was agreed that I should meet him at the gate, and that we should
visit the scene of last night's occurrences before we came to the house,
so that nobody might be the wiser. It was scarcely possible to hope that
the cause of Bagley's sudden illness should not somehow steal into the
knowledge of the servants at least, and it was better that all should be
done as quietly as possible. The day seemed to me a very long one. I had
to spend a certain part of it with Roland, which was a terrible ordeal
for me, for what could I say to the boy? The improvement continued, but
he was still in a very precarious state, and the trembling vehemence
with which he turned to me when his mother left the room filled me with
alarm. "Father?" he said quietly. "Yes, my boy, I am giving my best
attention to it; all is being done that I can do. I have not come to any
conclusion--yet. I am neglecting nothing you said," I cried. What I
could not do was to give his active mind any encouragement to dwell upon
the mystery. It was a hard predicament, for some satisfaction had to be
given him. He looked at me very wistfully, with the great blue eyes
which shone so large and brilliant out of his white and worn face. "You
must trust me," I said. "Yes, father. Father understands," he said to
himself, as if to soothe some inward doubt. I left him as soon as I
could. He was about the most precious thing I had on earth, and his
health my first thought; but yet somehow, in the excitement of this
other subject, I put that aside, and preferred not to dwell upon Roland,
which was the most curious part of it all.
That night at eleven I met Simson at the gate. He had come by train, and
I let him in gently myself. I had been so much absorbed in the coming
experiment that I passed the ruins in going to meet him, almost without
thought, if you can understand that. I had my lantern; and he showed me
a coil of taper which he had ready for use. "There is nothing like
light," he said in his scoffing tone. It was a very still night,
scarcely a sound, but not so dark. We could keep the path without
difficulty as we went along. As we approached the spot we could hear a
low moaning, broken occasionally by a bitter cry. "Perhaps that is your
voice," said the Doctor; "I thought it must be something of the kind.
That's a poor brute caught in some of these infernal traps of yours;
you'll find it among the bushes somewhere." I said nothing. I felt no
particular fear, but a triumphant satisfaction in what was to follow. I
led him to the spot where Bagley and I had stood on the previous night.
All was silent as a winter night could be,--so silent that we heard far
off the sound of the horses in the stables, the shutting of a window at
the house. Simson lighted his taper and went peering about, poking into
all the corners. We looked like two conspirators lying in wait for some
unfortunate traveller; but not a sound broke the quiet. The moaning had
stopped before we came up; a star or two shone over us in the sky,
looking down as if surprised at our strange proceedings. Dr. Simson did
nothing but utter subdued laughs under his breath. "I thought as much,"
he said. "It is just the same with tables and all other kinds of ghostly
apparatus; a sceptic's presence stops everything. When I am present
nothing ever comes off. How long do you think it will be necessary to
stay here? Oh, I don't complain; only when _you_ are satisfied I
am--quite."