BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.
If Frank Lavender had been told that his love for his wife was in
danger of waning, he would have laughed the suggestion to scorn. He
was as fond of her and as proud of her as ever. Who knew as well as
himself the tenderness of her heart, the delicate sensitiveness of her
conscience, the generosity of self-sacrifice she was always ready to
bestow? and was he likely to become blind, so that he should fail to
see how fair and frank and handsome she was? He had been disappointed,
it is true, in his fancies about the impression she would produce on
his friends; but what a trifle was that! The folly of those fancies
was his own. For the rest, he was glad that Sheila was not so
different from the other women whom he knew. He hit upon the profound
reflection, as he sat alone in his studio, that a man's wife, like
his costume, should not be so remarkable as to attract attention.
The perfection of dress was that you should be unconscious of its
presence: might that not be so with marriage? After all, it was better
that he had not bound himself to lug about a lion whenever he visited
people's houses.
Still, there was something. He found himself a good deal alone. Sheila
did not seem to care much for going into society; and although he did
not much like the notion of going by himself, nevertheless one had
certain duties toward one's friends to perform. She did not even
care to go down to the Park of a forenoon. She always professed her
readiness to go, but he fancied it was a trifle tiresome for her; and
so, when there was nothing particular going on in the studio, he would
walk down through Kensington Gardens himself, and have a chat with
some friends, followed generally by luncheon with this or the other
party of them. Sheila had been taught that she ought not to come so
frequently to that studio. Bras would not lie quiet. Moreover, if
dealers or other strangers should come in, would they not take her
for a model? So Sheila stayed at home; and Mr. Lavender, after having
dressed with care in the morning--with very singular care, indeed,
considering that he was going to his work--used to go down to his
studio to smoke a cigarette. The chances were that he was not in a
humor for working. He would sit down in an easy-chair and kick his
heels on the floor for a time, watching perhaps the sunlight come in
through the upper part of the windows and paint yellow squares on
the opposite wall. Then he would go out and lock the door behind him,
leaving no message whatever for those crowds of importunate dealers
who, as Sheila fancied, were besieging him with offers in one hand and
purses of gold in the other.
One morning, after she had been indoors for two or three days, and had
grown hopelessly tired of the monotony of watching that sunlit square,
she was filled with an unconquerable longing to go away, for however
brief a space, from the sight of houses. The morning was sweet and
clear and bright, white clouds were slowly crossing a fair blue sky,
and a fresh and cool breeze was blowing in at the open French windows.
"Bras," she said, going down stairs and out into the small garden, "we
are going into the country."
The great deer-hound seemed to know, and rose and came to her with
great gravity, while she clasped on the leash. He was no frisky animal
to show his delight by yelping and gamboling, but he laid his long
nose in her hand, and slowly wagged the down-drooping curve of his
shaggy tail; and then he placidly walked by her side up into the hall,
where he stood awaiting her.
She would go along and beg of her husband to leave his work for a day
and go with her for a walk down to Richmond Park. She had often heard
Mr. Ingram speak of walking down, and she remembered that much of the
road was pretty. Why should not her husband have one holiday?
"It is such a shame," she had said to him that morning as he left,
"that you will be going into that gloomy place, with its bare walls
and chairs, and the windows so that you cannot see out of them!"
"I must get some work done somehow, Sheila," he said, although he did
not tell her that he had not finished a picture since his marriage.
"I wish I could do some of it for you," she said.
"You! All the work you're good for is catching fish and feeding ducks
and planting things in gardens. Why don't you come down and feed the
ducks in the Serpentine?"
"I should like to do that," she answered. "I will go any day with
you."
"Well," he said, "you see, I don't know until I get along to the
studio whether I can get away for the fore-noon; and then if I were to
come back here, you would have little or no time to dress. Good-bye,
Sheila."
"Good-bye," she had said to him, giving up the Serpentine without much
regret.
But the forenoon had turned out so delightful that she thought she
would go along to the studio, and hale him out of that gaunt and dingy
apartment. She should take him away from town: therefore she might put
on that rough blue dress in which she used to go boating in Loch Roag.
She had lately smartened it up a bit with some white braid, and she
hoped he would approve.
Did the big hound know the dress? He rubbed his head against her
arm and hand when she came down, and looked up and whined almost
inaudibly.
"You are going out, Bras, and you must be a good dog and not try to
go after the deer. Then I will send a very good story of you to Mairi;
and when she comes to London after the harvest is over, she will bring
you a present from the Lewis, and you will be very proud."
She went out into the square, and was perhaps a little glad to get
away from it, as she was not sure of the blue dress and the small hat
with its sea-gull's feather being precisely the costume she ought to
wear. When she got into the Uxbridge road she breathed more freely,
and in the lightness of her heart she continued her conversation
with Bras, giving that attentive animal a vast amount of information,
partly in English, partly in Gaelic, which he answered only by a low
whine or a shake of his shaggy head.
But these confidences were suddenly interrupted. She had got down to
Addison Terrace, and was contentedly looking at the trees and chatting
to the dog, when by accident her eye happened to light on a brougham
that was driving past. In it--she beheld them both clearly for a brief
second--were her husband and Mrs. Lorraine, so engaged in conversation
that neither of them saw her. Sheila stood on the pavement for a
couple of minutes absolutely bewildered. All sorts of wild fancies and
recollections came crowding in upon her--reasons why her husband was
unwilling that she should visit his studio, why Mrs. Lorraine never
called on her, and so forth and so forth. She did not know what to
think for a time; but presently all this tumult was stilled, and she
had resolved her doubts and made up her mind as to what she should do.
She would not suspect her husband--that was the one sweet security
to which she clung. He had made use of no duplicity: if there were
duplicity in the case at all, he could not be the author of it. The
reasons for his having of late left her so much alone were the true
reasons. And if this Mrs. Lorraine should amuse him and interest him,
who ought to grudge him this break in the monotony of his work? Sheila
knew that she herself disliked going to those fashionable gatherings
to which Mrs. Lorraine went, and to which Lavender had been accustomed
to go before he was married. How could she expect him to give up all
his old habits and pleasures for her sake? She would be more generous.
It was her own fault that she was not a better companion for him; and
was it for her, then, to think hardly of him because he went to the
Park with a friend instead of going alone?
Yet there was a great bitterness and grief in her heart as she turned
and walked on. She spoke no more to the deer-hound by her side. There
seemed to be less sunlight in the air, and the people and carriages
passing were hardly so busy and cheerful and interesting as they had
been. But all the same, she would go to Richmond Park, and by herself;
for what was the use in calling in at the studio? and how could she go
back home and sit in the house, knowing that her husband was away at
some flower-show or morning concert, or some such thing, with that
young American lady?
She knew no other road to Richmond than that by which they had driven
shortly after her arrival in London; and so it was that she went down
and over Hammersmith Bridge, and round by Mortlake, and so on by East
Sheen. The road seemed terribly long. She was an excellent walker,
and in ordinary circumstances would have done the distance without
fatigue; but when at length she saw the gates of the Park before her,
she was at once exceedingly tired and almost faint from hunger. Here
was the hotel in which they had dined: should she enter? The place
seemed very grand and forbidding: she had scarcely even looked at it
as she went up the steps with her husband by her side. However, she
would venture, and accordingly she went up and into the vestibule,
looking rather timidly about. A young gentleman, apparently not a
waiter, approached her and seemed to wait for her to speak. It was a
terrible moment. What was she to ask for? and could she ask it of this
young man? Fortunately, he spoke first, and asked her if she wished to
go into the coffee-room, and if she expected any one.
"No, I do not expect any one," she said; and she knew that he would
perceive the peculiarity of her accent; "but if you will be kind
enough to tell me where I may have a biscuit--"
It occurred to her that to go into the Star and Garter for a biscuit
was absurd; and she added wildly, "--or anything to eat."
The young man obviously regarded her with some surprise; but he was
very courteous, and showed her into the coffee-room and called a
waiter to her. Moreover, he gave permission for Bras to be admitted
into the room, Sheila promising that he would lie under the table
and not budge an inch. Then she looked round. There were only three
persons in the room--one, an old lady seated by herself in a far
corner, the other two being a couple of young folks too much engrossed
with each other to mind any one else. She began to feel more at home.
The waiter suggested various things for lunch, and she made her choice
of something cold. Then she mustered up courage to ask for a glass of
sherry. How she would have enjoyed all this as a story to tell to her
husband but for that incident of the morning! She would have gloried
in her outward bravery, and made him smile with a description of
her inward terror. She would have written about it to the old man in
Borva, and bid him consider how she had been transformed, and what
strange scenes Bras was now witnessing. But all that was over. She
felt as if she could no longer ask her husband to be amused by her
childish experiences; and as for writing to her father, she dared
not write to him in her present mood. Perhaps some happier time would
come. Sheila paid her bill. She had heard her husband and Mr. Ingram
talk about tipping waiters, and knew that she ought to give something
to the man who had attended on her. But how much? He was a very
august-looking person, with formally-cut whiskers and a severe
expression of face. When he had brought back the change to her she
timidly selected a half crown and offered it to him. There was a
little glance of surprise: she feared she had not given him enough.
Then he said "Thank you!" in a vague and distant fashion, and she
knew that she had not given him enough. But it was too late. Bras was
summoned from under the table, and again she went out into the fresh
air.
"Oh, my good dog!" she said to him as they together walked up to the
gates and into the Park, "this is a very extravagant country. You have
to pay half a crown to a servant for bringing you a piece of cold pie,
and then he looks as if he was not paid enough. And Duncan, who will
do everything about the house, and will give us all our dinners, it
is only a pound a week he will get, and Scarlett has to be kept out of
that. And wouldn't you like to see poor old Scarlett again?"
Bras whined as if he understood every word.
"I suppose now she is hanging out the washing on the gooseberry
bushes, and you know the song she always used to sing then? Don't you
know that Scarlett carried me about long before you were born, for you
are a mere infant compared with me? and she used to sing to me--
Ged' bheirte mi' bho'n bhas so,
Mho Sheila bheag òg!
And that is what she is singing just now in the garden; and Mairi
she is bringing the things out of the washing-house. Papa is over in
Stornoway this morning, arranging his accounts with the people there;
and perhaps he is down at the quay, looking at the Clansman, and
wondering when she is to bring me into the harbor. The castle is all
shut up, you know, with cloths over all the wonderful things, and the
curtains all down, and most of the shutters shut. Do you think papa
has got my letter in his pocket, and does he read it over and over
again, as I read all his letters to me over and over again? Ah--h! You
bad dog!"
Bras had forgotten to listen to his mistress in the excitement of
seeing in the distance a large herd of deer under certain trees.
She felt by the leash that he was trembling in every limb with
expectation, and straining hard on the collar. Again and again she
admonished him in vain, until she had at last to drag him away down
the hill, putting a small plantation between him and the herd. Here
she found a large, umbrageous chestnut tree, with a wooden seat round
its trunk, and so she sat down in the green twilight of the leaves,
while Bras came and put his head in her lap. Out beyond the shadow
of the tree all the world lay bathed in sunlight, and a great silence
brooded over the long undulations of the Park, where not a human
being was within sight. How strange it was, she fell to thinking, that
within a short distance there were millions of men and women, while
here she was absolutely alone! Did they not care, then, for the
sunlight and the trees and the sweet air? Were they so wrapped up in
those social observances that seemed to her so barren of interest?
"They have a beautiful country here," she said, talking in a rambling
and wistful way to Bras, and scarcely noticing the eager light in his
eyes, as if he were trying to understand. "They have no rain and no
fog; almost always blue skies, and the clouds high up and far away.
And the beautiful trees they have too! you never saw anything like
that in the Lewis, not even at Stornoway. And the people are so rich
and beautiful in their dress, and all the day they have only to think
how to enjoy themselves and what new amusement is for the morrow. But
I think they are tired of having nothing to do; or perhaps, you know,
they are tired because they have nothing to fight against--no hard
weather and hunger and poverty. They do not care for each other as
they would if they were working on the same farm, and trying to save
up for the winter; or if they were going out to the fishing, and very
glad to come home again from Caithness to find all the old people very
well and the young ones ready for a dance and a dram, and much joy and
laughing and telling of stories. It is a very great difference there
will be in the people--very great."
Bras whined: perhaps he understood her better now that she had
involuntarily fallen into something of her old accent and habit of
speech.
"Wouldn't you like, Bras, to be up in Borva again--only for this
afternoon? All the people would come running out; and it is little
Ailasa, she would put her arms round your neck; and old Peter
McTavish, he would hear who it was, and come out of his house groping
by the wall, and he would say, 'Pless me! iss it you, Miss Sheila,
indeed and mir-over? It iss a long time since you hef left the Lewis.'
Yes, it is a long time--a long time; and I will be almost forgetting
what it is like sometimes when I try to think of it. Here it is always
the same--the same houses, the same soft air, the same still sunlight,
the same things to do and places to see--no storms shaking the windows
or ships running into the harbor, and you cannot go down to the
shore to see what has happened, or up the hill to look how the sea
is raging. But it is one day we will go back to the Lewis--oh yes, we
will go back to the Lewis!"
She rose and looked wistfully around her, and then turned with a sigh
to make her way to the gates. It was with no especial sort of gladness
that she thought of returning home. Here, in the great stillness, she
had been able to dream of the far island which she knew, and to fancy
herself for a few minutes there: now she was going back to the dreary
monotony of her life in that square, and to the doubts and anxieties
which had been suggested to her in the morning. The world she was
about to enter once more seemed so much less homely, so much less full
of interest and purpose, than that other and distant world she had
been wistfully regarding for a time. The people around her had neither
the joys nor the sorrows with which she had been taught to sympathize.
Their cares seemed to her to be exaggerations of trifles--she could
feel no pity for them: their satisfaction was derived from sources
unintelligible to her. And the social atmosphere around her seemed
still and close and suffocating; so that she was like to cry out at
times for one breath of God's clear wind--for a shaft of lightning
even--to cut through the sultry and drowsy sameness of her life.
She had almost forgotten the dog by her side. While sitting under the
chestnut she had carelessly and loosely wound the leash round his neck
in the semblance of a collar, and when she rose and came away she let
the dog walk by her side without undoing the leash and taking proper
charge of him. She was thinking of far other things, indeed, when she
was startled by some one calling to her, "Look out, miss, or you'll
have your dog shot!"
She turned and caught a glimpse of what sent a thrill of terror to her
heart. Bras had sneaked off from her side--had trotted lightly over
the breckans, and was now in full chase of a herd of deer which were
flying down the slope on the other side of the plantation. He rushed
now at one, now at another: the very number of chances presented to
him proving the safety of the whole herd. But as Sheila, with a swift
flight that would have astonished most town-bred girls, followed the
wild chase and came to the crest of the slope, she could see that the
hound had at length singled out a particular deer--a fine buck with
handsome horns that was making straight for the foot of the valley.
The herd, that had been much scattered, were now drawing together
again, though checking nothing of their speed; but this single buck
had been driven from his companions, and was doing his utmost to
escape from the fangs of the powerful animal behind him.
What could she do but run wildly and breathlessly on? The dog was now
far beyond the reach of her voice. She had no whistle. All sorts of
fearful anticipations rushed in on her mind, the most prominent of all
being the anger of her father if Bras were shot. How could she go back
to Borva with such a tale? and how could she live in London without
this companion who had come with her from the far North? Then what
terrible things were connected with the killing of deer in a royal
park! She remembered vaguely what Mr. Ingram and her husband had been
saying; and while these things were crowding in upon her, she felt
her strength beginning to fail, while both the dog and the deer had
disappeared altogether from sight.
Strange, too, that in the midst of her fatigue and fright, while she
still managed to struggle on with a sharp pain at her heart and a
sort of mist before her eyes, she had a vague consciousness that her
husband would be deeply vexed, not by the conduct or the fate of Bras,
but by her being the heroine of so mad an adventure. She knew that he
wished her to be serious and subdued and proper, like the ladies
whom she met, while an evil destiny seemed to dog her footsteps
and precipitate her into all sorts of erratic mishaps and "scenes."
However, this adventure was likely soon to have an end. She could go
no farther. Whatever had become of Bras, it was in vain for her to
think of pursuing him. When she at length reached a broad and smooth
road leading through the pasture, she could only stand still and press
her two hands over her heart, while her head seemed giddy, and she did
not see two men who had been standing on the road close by until they
came up and addressed her.
Then she started and looked round, finding before her two men who were
apparently laborers of some sort, one of them having a shovel over his
shoulder.
"Beg your pardon, miss, but wur that your dawg?"
"Yes," she said eagerly. "Could you get him? Did you see him go by? Do
you know where he is?"
"Me and my mate saw him go by, sure enough; but as for getting
him--why the keepers'll have shot him by this time."
"Oh no!" cried Sheila, almost in tears, "they must not shoot him. It
was my fault. I will pay them for all the harm he has done. Can't you
tell me which way he will go past?"
"I don't think, miss," said the spokesman quite respectfully, "as you
can go much furder. If you would sit down and rest yourself, and keep
an eye on this 'ere shovel, me and my mate will have a hunt arter the
dawg."
Sheila not only accepted the offer gratefully, but promised to give
them all the money she had if only they would bring back the dog
unharmed. She made this offer in consequence of some talk between her
husband and her father which she had overheard. Lavender was speaking
of the civility he had frequently experienced at the hands of Scotch
shepherds, and of the independence with which they refused to accept
any compensation even for services which cost them a good deal of
time and trouble. Perhaps it was to please Sheila's father, but at any
rate, the picture the young man drew of the venality and the cupidity
of folks in the South was a desperately dark one. Ask the name of a
village, have your stick picked up for you from the pavement, get into
a cab or get out of it, and directly there was a touch of the cap and
an unspoken request for coppers. Then, as the services rendered
rose in importance, so did the fees--to waiters, to coachmen, to
game-keepers. These things and many more sank into Sheila's heart. She
heard and believed, and came down to the South with the notion that
every man and woman who did you the least service expected to be paid
handsomely for it. What, therefore, could she give those two men if
they brought back her deer-hound but all the money she had?
It was a hard thing to wait here in the greatest doubt and uncertainty
while the afternoon was visibly waning. She began to grow afraid.
Perhaps the men had stolen the dog, and left her with this shovel as
a blind. Her husband must have come home, and would be astonished and
perplexed by her absence. Surely, he would have the sense to dine
by himself, instead of waiting for her; and she reflected with some
glimpse of satisfaction that she had left everything connected with
dinner properly arranged, so that he should have nothing to grumble
at.
"Surely," she said to herself as she sat there, watching the light
on the grass and the trees getting more and more yellow--"surely I am
very wicked or very wretched to think of his grumbling in any case.
If he grumbles, it is because I will attend too much to the affairs of
the house, and not amuse myself enough. He is very good to me, and I
have no right to think of his grumbling. And I wish I cared to amuse
myself more--to be more of a companion to him; but it is so difficult
among all those people."
The reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the grass
behind, and she turned quickly to find the two men approaching her,
one of them leading the captive Bras by the leash. Sheila sprang to
her feet with a great gladness. She did not care even to accuse the
culprit, whose consciousness of guilt was evident in his look and
in the droop of his tail. Bras did not once turn his eyes to his
mistress. He hung down his head, while he panted rapidly, and she
fancied she saw some smearing of blood on his tongue and on the side
of his jaw. Her fears on this head were speedily confirmed.
"I think, miss, as you'd better take him out o' the Park as soon as
may be, for he's got a deer killed close by the Robin Hood Gate, in
the trees there; and if the keepers happen on it afore you leave the
Park, you'll get into trouble."
"Oh, thank you!" said Sheila, retaining her composure bravely, but
with a terrible sinking of the heart; "and how can I get to the
nearest railway station?"
"You're going to London, miss?"
"Yes."
"Well, I suppose the nearest is Richmond; but it would be quieter for
you--don't you see, miss?--if you was to go along to the Roehampton
Gate and go to Barnes."
"Will you show me the gate?" said Sheila, choosing the quieter route
at once.
But the men themselves did not at all like the look of accompanying
her and this dog through the Park. Had they not already condoned a
felony, or done something equally dreadful, in handing to her a dog
that had been found keeping watch and ward over a slain buck? They
showed her the road to the Roehampton Gate, and then they paused
before continuing on their journey.
The pause meant money. Sheila took out her purse. There were three
sovereigns and some silver in it, and the entire sum, in fulfillment
of her promise, she held out to him who had so far conducted the
negotiations.
Both men looked frightened. It was quite clear that either good
feeling or some indefinite fear of being implicated in the killing of
the deer caused them to regard this big bribe as something they could
not meddle with; and at length, after a pause of a second or two, the
spokesman said with great hesitation, "Well, miss, you've kep' your
word; but me and my mate--well, if so be as it's the same to you--'d
rather have summut to drink your health."
"Do you think it is too much?"
The man looked at his neighbor, who nodded.
"It was only for ketchin' of a dawg, miss, don't you see?" he remarked
slowly, as if to impress upon her that they had had nothing to do with
the deer.
"Will you take this, then?" and she offered them half a crown each.
Their faces lightened considerably: they took the money, and with a
formal expression of thanks moved off, but not before they had taken a
glance round to see that no one had been a witness of this interview.
And so Sheila had to walk away by herself, knowing that she had been
guilty of a dreadful offence, and that at any moment she might be
arrested by the officers of the law. What would the old King of Borva
say if he saw his only daughter in the hands of two policemen? and
would not all Mr. Lavender's fastidious and talkative and wondering
friends pass about the newspaper report of her trial and conviction?
A man was approaching her. As he drew near her heart failed her, for
might not this be the mysterious George Ranger himself, about whom her
husband and Mr. Ingram had been talking? Should she drop on her knees
at once and confess her sins, and beg him to let her off? If Duncan
were with her or Mairi, or even old Scarlett Macdonald, she would not
have cared so much, but it seemed so terrible to meet this man alone.
However, as he drew near he did not seem a fierce person. He was an
old gentleman with voluminous white hair, who was dressed all in black
and carried an umbrella on this warm and bright afternoon. He regarded
her and the dog in a distant and contemplative fashion, as though he
would probably try to remember some time after that he had really
seen them; and then he passed on. Sheila began to breathe more freely.
Moreover, here was the gate, and once she was in the high road, who
could say anything to her? Tired as she was, she still walked rapidly
on; and in due time, having had to ask the way once or twice, she
found herself at Barnes Station.
By and by the train came in: Bras was committed to the care of the
guard, and she found herself alone in a railway-carriage for the first
time in her life. Her husband had told her that whenever she felt
uncertain of her where-abouts, if in the country, she was to ask for
the nearest station and get a train to London; if in town, she was to
get into a cab and give the driver her address. And, indeed, Sheila
had been so much agitated and perplexed during this afternoon that
she acted in a sort of mechanical fashion, and really escaped the
nervousness which otherwise would have attended the novel experience
of purchasing a ticket and of arranging about the carriage of a dog in
the break-van. Even now, when she found herself traveling alone, and
shortly to arrive at a part of London she had never seen, her crowding
thoughts and fancies were not about her own situation, but about the
reception she should receive from her husband. Would he be vexed
with her? Or pity her? Had he called with Mrs. Lorraine to take her
somewhere, and found her gone? Had he brought home some bachelor
friends to dinner, and been chagrined to find her not in the house?
It was getting dusk when the slow four-wheeler approached Sheila's
home. The hour for dinner had long gone by. Perhaps her husband had
gone away somewhere looking for her, and she would find the house
empty.
But Frank Lavender came to meet his wife in the hall, and said, "Where
have you been?"
She could not tell whether there was anger or kindness in his voice,
and she could not well see his face. She took his hand and went into
the dining-room, which was also dusk, and standing there told him all
her story.
"This is too bad, Sheila!" he said in a tone of deep vexation. "By
Jove! I'll go and thrash that dog within an inch of his life."
"No," she said, drawing herself up; and for one brief second--could he
but have seen her face--there was a touch of old Mackenzie's pride and
firmness about the ordinarily gentle lips. It was but for a second.
She cast down her eyes and said meekly, "I hope you won't do that,
Frank. The dog is not to blame. It was my fault."
"Well, really, Sheila," he said, "you are very thoughtless. I wish you
would take some little trouble to act as other women act, instead of
constantly putting yourself and me into the most awkward positions.
Suppose I had brought any one home to dinner, now? And what am I to
say to Ingram? for of course I went direct to his lodgings when I
discovered you were nowhere to be found. I fancied some mad freak had
taken you there; and I should not have been surprised. Indeed, I don't
think I should be surprised at anything you do. Do you know who was in
the hall when I came in this afternoon?"
"No," said Sheila.
"Why that wretched old hag who keeps the fruit-stall. And it seems you
gave her and all her family tea and cake in the kitchen last night."
"She is a poor old woman," said Sheila humbly.
"A poor old woman!" he said impatiently. "I have no doubt she is a
lying old thief, who would take an umbrella or a coat if only she
could get the chance. It is really too bad, Sheila, your having all
those persons about you, and demeaning yourself by amending on them.
What must the servants think of you?"
"I do not heed what any servants think of me," she said.
She was now standing erect, with her face quite calm.
"Apparently not," he said, "or you would not go and make yourself
ridiculous before them."
Sheila hesitated for a moment, as if she did not understand; and then
she said, as calmly as before, but with a touch of indignation about
the proud and beautiful lips, "And if I make myself ridiculous by
attending to poor people, it is not my husband who should tell me so."
She turned and walked out, and he was too surprised to follow her. She
went up stairs to her own room, locked herself in and threw herself on
the bed. And then all the bitterness of her heart rose up as if in a
flood--not against him, but against the country in which he lived, and
the society which had contaminated him, and the ways and habits that
seemed to create a barrier between herself and him, so that she was
a stranger to him, and incapable of becoming anything else. It was a
crime that she should interest herself in the unfortunate creatures
round about her--that she should talk to them as if they were human
beings like herself, and have a great sympathy with their small hopes
and aims; but she would not have been led into such a crime if she
had cultivated from her infancy upward a consistent self-indulgence,
making herself the centre of a world of mean desires and petty
gratifications. And then she thought of the old and beautiful days up
in the Lewis, where the young English stranger seemed to approve of
her simple ways and her charitable work, and where she was taught to
believe that in order to please him she had only to continue to be
what she was then. There was no great gulf of time between that period
and this; but what had not happened in the interval? She had not
changed--at least she hoped she had not changed. She loved her husband
with her whole heart and soul: her devotion was as true and constant
as she herself could have wished it to be when she dreamed of the
duties of a wife in the days of her maidenhood. But all around her was
changed. She had no longer the old freedom--the old delight in living
from day to day--the active work, and the enjoyment of seeing where
she could help and how she could help the people around her. When,
as if by the same sort of instinct that makes a wild animal retain
in captivity the habits which were necessary to its existence when
it lived in freedom, she began to find out the circumstances of such
unfortunate people as were in her neighborhood, some little solace was
given to her; but these people were not friends to her, as the poor
folk of Borvabost had been. She knew, too, that her husband would be
displeased if he found her talking with a washerwoman over her family
matters, or even advising one of her own servants about the disposal
of her wages; so that, while she concealed nothing from him, these
things nevertheless had to be done exclusively in his absence. And was
she in so doing really making herself ridiculous? Did he consider her
ridiculous? Or was it not merely the false and enervating influences
of the indolent society in which he lived that had poisoned his mind,
and drawn him away from her as though into another world?
Alas! if he were in this other world, was not she quite alone? What
companionship was there possible between her and the people in this
new and strange land into which she had ventured? As she lay on the
bed, with her head hidden down in the darkness, the pathetic wail of
the captive Jews seemed to come and go through the bitterness of her
thoughts, like some mournful refrain: "By the rivers of Babylon, there
we sat down; yea we wept when we remembered Zion." She almost heard
the words, and the reply that rose up in her heart was a great
yearning to go back to her own land, so that her eyes were filled with
tears in thinking of it, and she lay and sobbed there in the dusk.
Would not the old man living all by himself in that lonely island be
glad to see his little girl back again in the old house? And she would
sing to him as she used to sing, not as she had been singing to those
people whom her husband knew. "For there they that carried us away
captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us
mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion." And she had sung in
the strange land, among the strange people, with her heart breaking
with thoughts of the sea and the hills and the rude and sweet and
simple ways of the old bygone life she had left behind her.
"Sheila!"
She thought it was her father calling to her, and she rose with a
cry of joy. For one wild moment she fancied that outside were all the
people she knew--Duncan and Scarlett and Mairi--and that she was once
more at home, with the sea all around her, and the salt, cold air.
"Sheila, I want to speak to you."
It was her husband. She went to the door, opened it, and stood there
penitent and with downcast face.
"Come, you must not be silly," he said with some kindness in his
voice. "You have had no dinner. You must be hungry."
"I do not care for any: there is no use troubling the servants when I
would rather lie down," she said.
"The servants! You surely don't take so seriously what I said about
them, Sheila? Of course you don't need to care what the servants
think. And in any case they have to bring up dinner for me, so you may
as well come and try."
"Have you not had dinner?" she said timidly.
"Do you think I could sit down and eat with the notion that you might
have tumbled into the Thames or been kidnapped, or something?"
"I am very sorry," she said in a low voice, and in the gloom he felt
his hand taken and carried to her lips. Then they went down stairs
into the dining-room, which was now lit up by a blaze of gas and
candles.
During dinner of course no very confidential talking was possible,
and indeed Sheila had plenty to tell of her adventures at Richmond.
Lavender was now in a more amiable mood, and was disposed to look
on the killing of the roebuck as rather a good joke. He complimented
Sheila on her good sense in having gone in at the Star and Garter for
lunch; and altogether something like better relations was established
between them.
But when dinner was finally over and the servants dismissed, Lavender
placed Sheila's easy-chair for her as usual, drew his own near hers,
and lit a cigarette.
"Now, tell me, Sheila," he said, "were you really vexed with me when
you went up stairs and locked yourself in your room? Did you think I
meant to displease you or say anything harsh to you?"
"No, not any of those things," she said calmly: "I wished to be
alone--to think over what had happened. And I was grieved by what you
said, for I think you cannot help looking at many things not as I
will look at them. That is all. It is my bringing up in the Highlands,
perhaps."
"Do you know, Sheila, it sometimes occurs to me that you are not quite
comfortable here? And I can't make out what is the matter. I think you
have a perverse fancy that you are different from the people you meet,
and that you cannot be like them, and all that sort of thing. Now,
dear, that is only a fancy. There need be no difference if only you
will take a little trouble."
"Oh, Frank!" she said, going over and putting her hand on his
shoulder, "I cannot take that trouble. I cannot try to be like those
people. And I see a great difference in you since you have come back
to London, and you are getting to be like them and say the things they
say. If I could only see you, my own darling, up in the Lewis again,
with rough clothes on and a gun in your hand, I should be happy. You
were yourself up there, when you were helping us in the boat, or when
you were bringing home the salmon, or when we were all together at
night in the little parlor, you know--"
"My dear, don't get so excited. Now sit down, and I will tell you all
about it. You seem to have the notion that people lose all their finer
sentiments simply because they don't, in society, burst into raptures
over them. You mustn't imagine all those people are selfish and
callous merely because they preserve a decent reticence. To tell you
the truth, that constant profession of noble feelings you would like
to see would have something of ostentation about it."
Sheila only sighed. "I do not wish them to be altered," she said by
and by, with her eyes grown pensive: "all I know is, that I could
not live the same life. And you--you seemed to be happier up in the
Highlands than you have ever been since."
"Well, you see, a man ought to be happy when he is enjoying a holiday
in the country along with the girl he is engaged to. But if I had
lived all my life killing salmon and shooting wild-duck, I should have
grown up an ignorant boor, with no more sense of--"
He stopped, for he saw that the girl was thinking of her father.
"Well, look here, Sheila. You see how you are placed--how we are
placed, rather. Wouldn't it be more sensible to get to understand
those people you look askance at, and establish better relations with
them, since you have got to live among them? I can't help thinking
you are too much alone, and you can't expect me to stay in the house
always with you. A husband and wife cannot be continually in each
other's company, unless they want to grow heartily tired of each
other. Now, if you would only lay aside those suspicions of yours, you
would find the people just as honest and generous and friendly as any
other sort of people you ever met, although they don't happen to be
fond of expressing their goodness in their talk."
"I have tried, dear--I will try again," said Sheila.
She resolved that she would go down and visit Mrs. Lavender next day,
and try to be interested in the talk of such people as might be there.
She would bring away some story about this or the other fashionable
woman or noble lord, just to show her husband that she was doing her
best to learn. She would drive patiently round the Park in that close
little brougham, and listen attentively to the moralities of Marcus
Aurelius. She would make an appointment to go with Mrs. Lavender to
a morning concert; and she would endeavor to muster up courage to ask
any ladies who might be there to lunch with her on that day, and go
afterward to this same entertainment. All these things and many more
Sheila silently vowed to herself she would do, while her husband sat
and expounded to her his theories of the obligations which society
demanded of its members.
But her plans were suddenly broken asunder.
"I met Mrs. Lorraine accidentally to-day," he said.
It was his first mention of the young American lady. Sheila sat in
mute expectation.
"She always asks very kindly after you."
"She is very kind."
He did not say, however, that Mrs. Lorraine had more than once made
distinct propositions, when in his company, that they should call in
for Sheila and take her out for a drive or to a flower-show, or some
such place, while Lavender had always some excuse ready.
"She is going to Brighton to-morrow, and she was wondering whether you
would care to run down for a day or two."
"With her?" said Sheila, recoiling from such a proposal instinctively.
"Of course not. I should go. And then at last, you know, you would see
the sea, about which you have been dreaming for ever so long."
The sea! There was a magic in the very word that could, almost at
any moment, summon tears into her eyes. Of course she accepted
right gladly. If her husband's duties were so pressing that the
long-talked-of journey to Lewis and Borva had to be repeatedly and
indefinitely postponed, here at least would be a chance of looking
again at the sea--of drinking in the freshness and light and color of
it--of renewing her old and intimate friendship with it that had been
broken off for so long by her stay in this city of perpetual houses
and still sunshine.
"You can tell her you will go when you see her to-night at Lady
Mary's. By the way, isn't it time for you to begin to dress?"
"Oh, Lady Mary's!" repeated Sheila mechanically, who had quite
forgotten about her engagement for that evening.
"Perhaps you are too tired to go," said her husband.
She was a little tired, in truth. But surely, just after her promises,
spoken and unspoken, some little effort was demanded of her; so she
bravely went to dress, and in about three-quarters of an hour was
ready to drive down to Curzon street. Her husband had never seen her
look so pleased before in going out to any party. He flattered himself
that his lecture had done her good. There was fair common sense in
what he had said, and although, doubtless, a girl's romanticism was
a pretty thing, it would have to yield to the actual requirements of
society. In time he should educate Sheila.
But he did not know what brightened the girl's face all that night,
and put a new life into the beautiful eyes, so that even those who
knew her best were struck by her singular beauty. It was the sea that
was coloring Sheila's eyes. The people around her, the glare of the
candles, the hum of talking, and the motion of certain groups dancing
over there in the middle of the throng,--all were faint and visionary,
for she was busily wondering what the sea would be like the next
morning, and what strange fancies would strike her when once more
she walked on sand and heard the roar of waves. That, indeed, was
the sound that was present in her ears while the music played and
the people murmured around her. Mrs. Lorraine talked to her, and was
surprised and amused to notice the eager fashion in which the girl
spoke of their journey of the next day. The gentleman who took her in
to supper found himself catechised about Brighton in a manner which
afforded him more occupation than enjoyment. And when Sheila drove
away from the house at two in the morning she declared to her husband
that she had enjoyed herself extremely, and he was glad to hear it;
and she was particularly kind to himself in getting him his slippers,
and fetching him that final cigarette which he always had on reaching
home; and then she went off to bed to dream of ships and flying clouds
and cold winds, and a great and beautiful blue plain of waves.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
GOLD.
A day of bright reflections on the pond,
And wavering shadows over moss and frond:
A wayward breeze, the summer's latest born,
Teased the stiff grain and bent the stately corn,
Or rocked the bird-nests in the prickly thorn.
Above, the lavish sun filled air with gold;
Again, below, on mimic waves it rolled,
And hid in lily cups. Her netted hair
Gleamed in the splendor, bright beyond compare,
Forming about her head a nimbus rare.
The velvet mullen raised its yellow head,
The buttercups like precious ore were spread:
Like golden shuttles flung by spirit hands,
Weaving invisible their magic strands,
Darted quick orioles in joyous bands.
Fond helianthus turned her fervent face,
Meek antirrhinum paled and grew apace;
Late dandelions, robed in cloth of gold,
With golden-rod, upsprung from out the mould,
And pensive, gold-eyed daisies pranked the wold.
As snowy, gold-rimmed cloudlets hide the sky,
So hid her eyelid's golden fringe her eye:
As every growing beauty of the earth
But figures forth great Nature's hidden worth,
So my love's charms from her pure heart had birth.
Pure heart of gold to me that day was given,
And promise true as gold made earth a heaven;
Then far away fled every doubt forlorn;
We felt for us the Golden Age reborn,
And envied none their gold from labor torn.
ITA ANIOL PROKOP.
GLIMPSES OF GHOST-LAND.
It is no longer the fashion to scoff at tales of the supernatural.
On the contrary, there is a growing tendency to investigate subjects
which were formerly pooh-poohed by most persons claiming to be well
informed and capable of reasoning. It is, however, without propounding
any theory or advancing any opinion that I record a few instances of
apparently supernatural, or at least inexplicable, occurrences. I can
vouch for the truth of nearly all the stories I am about to relate,
one of them only not being either my personal experience or narrated
to me by some one of the actors in the scene.
My first story shall be one that was told to me by an aged lady who
was one of the friends of my youth, and who often mentioned this
strange incident of her placid, yet busy life. She was a sensible,
practical woman, the last person in the world likely to be led astray
by an overheated imagination or deceived by hallucinations. Her early
youth had been passed in the country, her father being a wealthy
farmer. She had formed a close intimacy with the daughter of a
gentleman living at some distance from her father's farm, and the two
were seldom apart. An invitation given to my friend (whom I shall call
Mrs. L----) to visit some relatives in a neighboring city caused a
brief separation between the two girls, and they parted with many
protestations of enduring affection. On the day appointed for Mrs.
L----'s return she set out at the prescribed hour. The latter part
of her journey was to be performed on horseback. On a bright sunny
afternoon in June she found herself, about five o'clock, drawing
near her father's house. Suddenly in the broad road before her she
perceived a female form walking rapidly toward her, and, to her
delight, recognized her friend coming, as she thought, to meet her.
"I will make her go back with me and take tea," was Mrs. L----'s
thought as she whipped up her horse in her haste to greet the dear
one, who was all the more beloved on account of their temporary
separation. But as she approached the figure, and before she had had
time to speak, or indeed to do more than notice that her friend looked
very pale and ill, her horse, an unusually quiet, steady animal,
seemed struck with sudden terror, reared, shied, and finally plunged
into a hollow by the roadside, from which she had some difficulty
in extricating him. When she did succeed in bringing him back to the
level road she found, to her astonishment, that the young girl had
disappeared. Around her lay the open fields, before her and behind
her the road--all in the bright lustre of the summer afternoon--but no
trace of the figure could she see. Completely mystified, she hastened
home, there to learn that her friend had died suddenly that very
morning.
The next incident I shall narrate was told me by a German gentleman
whose mother was the heroine of the tale. His father had been
appointed to some public office in a small German town, and among
the emoluments of the place was the privilege of residing in a large,
old-fashioned, but very handsome mansion. The husband and wife set off
in high spirits to inspect their new abode, to which some portion of
their furniture had already been transferred. They went from room
to room, inspecting and planning, till they came to an apartment
the ceiling of which was elaborately decorated with plaster Cupids,
baskets of flowers, etc., modeled in high relief, and with a
centre-piece of unusual size and magnificence. A small table, the only
article of furniture the room contained, was placed directly under
this centre-piece. The young wife, rather weary of her researches, was
standing beside this table, and was leaning on it while she went on
talking with her husband, when suddenly a loud, imploring voice called
from down stairs, "Caroline! Caroline! come down to me--come!"
"Who can that be?" asked the husband in amazement. "I fastened all the
doors and windows before we left the lower rooms."
Again came the loud call, this time with an accent of agonized
entreaty: "Caroline! oh, Caroline! come down--_do_ come!"
The young couple hesitated no longer, but hastened down stairs. There
was no one there. Doors and windows were securely fastened, and the
old house looked as solitary as when they had first entered it.
"Very strange!" said the gentleman. "But now that we _are_ down here,
Caroline, suppose we take a look at the garden?" So they sallied forth
to examine that portion of their new domain, but scarcely had they
entered it when they were startled by a loud crash within the house.
Looking up, they saw volumes of what appeared to be smoke issuing from
the window of the room they had just quitted, and fearing that the
room was on fire, they quickly returned to it. There was no fire: what
had appeared to be smoke was only a cloud of dust, for the massive and
elaborately ornamented ceiling had fallen, and the heavy centre-piece
had crushed to fragments the table against which the young wife had so
lately been leaning. But for the warning voice her destruction would
have been inevitable. My informant went on to state that the pieces
of the shattered table were preserved as sacred relics by his parents,
and that his mother always declared that she had recognized in the
mysterious voice that of a dear relative long before deceased.
It was once my fortune to pass some weeks in a "haunted house." I was
quite young then, a mere school-girl in fact, and the friend whom I
came to visit was also very young; and both of us were too gay and
frolicsome to care much for whatever was strange or startling in our
surroundings. Not that we ever saw anything--my friend herself, the
daughter of the house, had never done so--but the sounds we heard were
sufficiently odd and inexplicable to fill us with astonishment, if not
with terror. Twice during my visit I was roused from a sound slumber
by a loud, heavy crash, resembling that which might be caused by
the overthrow of a marble-topped washstand or bureau, or some other
equally ponderous piece of furniture. The room actually vibrated, and
yet a close scrutiny of that and the adjoining apartments failed to
reveal any cause for the peculiar noise. It was a sound which could
not possibly have been produced by cracking furniture, falling bricks,
scampering rats, or any other of the numerous causes of supposed
ghostly sounds. The room overhead was used as a linen-room, and was
always kept locked; and besides, the noise (which I afterward heard
on another occasion in broad daylight, when I was wide awake) was
unmistakably _in_ the room where we found ourselves. My friend told me
that she had heard it very often--so often, in fact, that she had
got quite used to it, and no longer felt any emotion save that of
curiosity.
There was another room in which (also in broad daylight) I heard a
strange crackling sound like the rustling of a large sheet of stiff
paper or parchment turned slowly in the reader's hands. This noise
also was one of frequent occurrence. Among the things seen by other
members of the family was a light that glided over walls and ceiling
in points inaccessible to outside light or reflection. Then there was
a lady in black silk who had more than once been seen gliding about
the house, but who always disappeared when accosted or followed. Three
slow, solemn raps sometimes sounded at dead of night at the door of
one member of the family, a skeptical and irascible old gentleman.
But, strange to say, all these uncanny sights and sounds portended
nothing, and seemed to be utterly without a purpose or a cause. The
house was a cheerful modern one, and the father of my friend was
its first occupant; so there was nothing in the past to which these
unearthly occurrences could refer. Nor were they warnings of coming
misfortune. Neither death nor disaster ever followed in their train,
and in due course of time the family ceased to trouble their heads
about them--were not at all frightened, and scarcely even annoyed.
There were other sounds which I did not myself hear, but of which I
was told--stealthy footsteps that paced a certain corridor at dead
of night; a sharp, rattling noise like hail dashing against the
window-panes, and one or two other trifling yet equally unaccountable
occurrences. Once, too, a young lady visiting the house heard in the
next room to that in which she was loud and lamentable sounds, as of
a woman weeping bitterly and in sore distress. She listened in
considerable perplexity for some time, fearing to intrude on the
sorrows of some member of the family; but at last she resolved to go
and proffer aid, if not consolation. As he approached the door between
the two rooms the sound suddenly ceased, and, to her amazement, she
found the adjoining apartment not only empty, but with the door locked
and bolted on the inside.
I once knew a young lady who, on going to pay a visit to a friend who
had recently moved into a new house, was asked to walk up stairs,
and on complying saw an old woman preceding her up the staircase.
Supposing her to be one of the servants, she took but little notice
of her, though struck by the peculiarity of her gait, a sort of jerky
limp, as though one leg was shorter than the other. In the course of
conversation with her friend she mentioned the old woman, and asked if
she was the housekeeper. "Housekeeper? no," said the lady: "we have no
such person about our house. You must have been mistaken." The visitor
then described the person she had seen, and when she mentioned the
peculiar limp her hostess seemed startled. After a pause she said:
"No such person lives here _now_, but the woman who took care of this
house before we rented it was exactly such a person as you describe,
and was lame in just such a manner. But she died here about six weeks
ago--I think in this very room--so your eyes must certainly have
deceived you." The lady still persisted that she had seen the old
woman; so the servants were called and the house thoroughly searched,
but no intruder was discovered.
I have known several instances of persons who have seen the "fetch" or
apparition of a living person, called in Germany the "Doppelgänger;"
yet, though such appearances are usually supposed to portend the death
or illness of the person thus strangely "doubled," I have never
yet heard of a case where any unpleasant consequences followed. For
instance, an old friend of mine, a gentleman of undoubted veracity,
once told me that on one occasion he entered his house about
five o'clock in the afternoon, and ran up stairs to his mother's
bed-chamber, where he saw her standing near the centre of the room,
clad in a loose white gown and engaged in combing out her long black
hair. He remained looking at her for some moments, expecting that
she would speak to him, but she did not take notice in any way of his
presence, and neither spoke nor looked at him. He then addressed her,
but, receiving no reply, became indignant and went down stairs, where,
to his amazement, he found his mother seated by the parlor window,
dressed and _coiffée_ as usual. It was some years before he would
trust himself to tell her of what he had seen, fearing that she might
consider it an omen of approaching death, and indeed, though not a
superstitious man, he was inclined so to view it himself; but his
mother lived for many years after the appearance of her wraith. I also
knew a young gentleman to whom the unpleasant experience of beholding
his own double was once vouchsafed. He had been spending a quiet
evening with some young ladies, and returned home about eleven
o'clock, let himself into the house with his latch-key and proceeded
to his own room, where he found the gas already lighted, though turned
down to a mere blue spark. He turned it up, and the full light of the
jet shone on his bed, which stood just beside the burner, and there,
extended at full length, lay--himself. His first idea was of a
burglar or some such intruder. But his second glance dispelled that
impression. He stood for some moments gazing at the prostrate figure
with feelings which must have been anything but agreeable: he noticed
little peculiarities of his own dress and features, and marked the
closed eyelids and easy respiration of slumber. At length, plucking up
courage, he attempted to pass his hand under the pillow to draw out a
small revolver which he usually kept there, and as he did so he felt
the pressure of the pillow as though weighed down by a reclining head.
This completely unnerved him. He went out of the room, locking the
door on the outside, and spent the remainder of the night on a sofa in
the parlor. He did not re-enter his chamber till broad daylight, when,
to his delight, he found that his ghostly visitor had vanished.
The next story on my list was narrated to me by one of the most
sensible and intelligent women I ever met--a lady of great strength
of character, joined to a fine and highly cultivated mind. During
her childhood my friend (whom I shall call Mrs. X----) dwelt with her
parents in a large, roomy house in the vicinity of one of our inland
cities. The house was a double one, a solid, substantial structure
built of stone, and had been purchased by her father a short time
before the occurrences which I am about to relate. A wide lawn at the
back of the mansion sloped down to the bank of a small stream,
along the verge of which, without intervening bank or path, ran the
terminating wall of the grounds. The stables were also situated at the
foot of this lawn, and the back windows of these stables looked out on
the water. Mrs. X---- had several brothers and sisters, all of whom,
as well as herself, were still children at the period of which she
spoke.
One summer evening her parents accepted an invitation to take tea with
a friend, and went out, leaving the children at play in the library, a
room which opened on the main hall on the ground floor. The front
door was open, and as it grew dark a large hanging lamp which fully
illuminated the hall was lighted, so that every part of it, as well as
the staircase, was fully illuminated. Late in the evening the children
were disturbed at their play in the library by the sound of heavy
footsteps ascending the outer steps and then pacing along the hall.
Imagining that it was their parents who had returned earlier than
they expected, they rushed to the door to greet them, but to their
astonishment they could see no one, though the heavy steps were
still heard traversing the hall, ascending the staircase, and finally
resounding on the floor of a room overhead. The children summoned the
servants, who merely laughed at their story, till one of the maids,
who had been busy up stairs, came down and said that her master and
mistress must surely have returned, as she had heard them walking
along the entry and afterward entering one of the rooms. Upon this,
one of the men-servants went up stairs and made a careful search, but
without rinding any one. In the midst of the excitement the lady and
gentleman of the house returned home, and upon hearing the story the
gentleman himself instituted a second and more vigorous search, which,
like the first, was wholly without result.
Some time after this the children were playing under their nurse's
care on the lawn at the back of the house one gray, dismal afternoon
in the early autumn. The attention of the whole party was suddenly
attracted by the figure of a man passing slowly outside of the
stone wall that stretched along the foot of the lawn, and finally
disappearing behind the stable. As he did so a tremendous uproar arose
among the horses in the stable, and on examination one of them, a
remarkably fine and docile animal, whose stall happened to be next the
window that opened on the water, was found to be in a perfect ecstasy
of terror, plunging, rearing and struggling to get loose in a manner
that rendered the task of releasing and removing him anything but an
easy or even a safe one. After the horse was got out of the stable and
led away, the question arose, What had frightened him? Could the man
they had seen passing behind the stable have done anything to terrify
him? Then, for the first time, it dawned on the minds of the whole
party that no human being could have walked where they had seen the
passing figure, as the wall rose straight from the verge of the water,
and there was no pathway between the wall and the stream, which in
that spot was deep, though not very wide. Strange to say, the horse
could never be induced to re-enter that stable, but always manifested
signs of wild alarm and excitement when brought even to the door,
though in all other respects he was perfectly gentle and tractable.
Owing to the size of the family, one of the large garret-rooms
had been fitted up as a bed-room for one of the younger boys, who
preferred having a chamber of his own to sharing the apartment of
one of his brothers. He had not occupied it long before he began to
complain of frightful dreams, and more than once he came trembling
down stairs and took refuge in his mother's room, terrified by
something horrible--_what_, he could not define, but something that
came into his room at night and roused him from his slumbers. Thinking
that the child was merely nervous and excitable, she changed the
arrangements, put him to sleep in the bed-room of one of his brothers,
and gave up the apartment in the garret to one of the servants. But
in a very short time the complaints were renewed: the girl could not
sleep on account of that vague, strange horror, which often drove her
shrieking and half awakened from her bed. So the lady had the room
dismantled, and used it as a lumber-room, and during the remaining
years of her occupancy of the house was troubled no more.
As time passed on, the increasing exigencies of his growing family
induced Mrs. X----'s father to purchase a house in town, and he
accordingly rented his country-mansion to a childless pair, a
clergyman and his wife. The new residents had not been long installed
when a series of ghostly disturbances began in real earnest. I believe
that nothing more was ever _seen_, but the kitchen at night, when all
the family had retired, would at times become the seat of an appalling
uproar of inarticulate voices and clashing dishes and dragging
furniture. If any one was bold enough to venture down stairs, the
noise would suddenly cease, and the kitchen itself never showed any
trace of these unearthly revels, every plate, dish, cup and chair
remaining in its accustomed place. Then, too, the footsteps of the
invisible intruder were heard again, and often while the minister was
writing in his study the steps would be heard coming through the door
and across the room, and the unseen visitor would seat himself in
the chair that usually stood opposite to that of the clergyman at the
writing-table, when a sound as of the pages of a large book with stiff
paper leaves being slowly turned would usually ensue. The minister
often addressed his invisible companion, but never received any reply
to his questions or his appeals.