The tenants of Plumpton Hall had retired to rest somewhat earlier than
was their wont, for it was the last night of November.
The old low rooms were in darkness, and all was silent as the grave;
for though the residents, unfortunately for themselves, were not
asleep, they held their breath, and awaited in fear the first stroke
of the hour from the old clock in the kitchen. Suddenly the sound of
hurried footsteps broke the silence; but with sighs of relief the
terrified listeners found that the noise was made by a belated
wayfarer, almost out of his wits with fright, but who was unable to
avoid passing the hall, and who, therefore, ran by the haunted
building as quickly as his legs could carry him. The sensation of
escape, however, was of but short duration, for the hammer commenced
to strike; and no sooner had the last stroke of eleven startled the
echoes than loud thuds, as of a heavy object bumping upon the stairs,
were heard.
The quaking occupants of the chambers hid their heads beneath the
bedclothes, for they knew that an old-fashioned oak chair was on its
way down the noble staircase, and was sliding from step to step as
though dragged along by an invisible being who had only one hand at
liberty.
If any one had dared to follow that chair across the wide passage and
into the wainscoted parlour, he would have been startled by the sight
of a fire blazing in the grate, whence, ere the servants retired, even
the very embers had been removed, and in the chair, the marvellous
movement of which had so frightened all the inmates of the hall, he
would have seen a beautiful woman seated, with an infant at her
breast.
Year after year, on wild nights, when the snow was driven against the
diamond panes, and the cry of the spirit of the storm came up from the
sea, the weird firelight shone from the haunted room, and through the
house sounded a mysterious crooning as the unearthly visitor softly
sang a lullaby to her infant. Lads grew up into grey-headed men in the
old house; and from youth to manhood, on the last night of each
November, they had heard the notes, but none of them ever had caught,
even when custom had somewhat deadened the terror which surrounded the
events of the much-dreaded anniversary, the words of the song the
ghostly woman sang. The maids, too, had always found the grate as it
was left before the visit--not a cinder or speck of dust remaining to
tell of the strange fire, and no one had ever heard the chair ascend
the stairs. Chair and fire and child and mother, however, were seen by
many a weary wayfarer, drawn to the house by the hospitable look of
the window, through which the genial glow of the burning logs shone
forth into the night, but who, by tapping at the pane and crying for
shelter, could not attract the attention of the pale nurse, clad in a
quaint old costume with lace ruff and ruffles, and singing a mournful
and melodious lullaby to the child resting upon her beautiful bosom.
Tradition tells of one of these wanderers, a footsore and miserable
seafaring man on the tramp, who, attracted by the welcome glare, crept
to the panes, and seeing the cosy-looking fire, and the Madonna-faced
mother tenderly nursing her infant, rapped at the glass and begged for
a morsel of food and permission to sleep in the hayloft--and, finding
his pleadings unanswered, loudly cursed the woman who could sit and
enjoy warmth and comfort and turn a deaf ear to the prayers of the
homeless and hungry; upon which the seated figure turned the weird
light of its wild eyes upon him and almost changed him to stone--a
labourer, going to his daily toil in the early morn, finding the poor
wretch gazing fixedly through the window, against which his
terror-stricken face was closely pressed, his hair turned white by
fear, and his fingers convulsively clutching the casement.