I do not know that I ever was in a greater perplexity, in my

THE OPEN DOOR, AND THE PORTRAIT

Stories of the Seen and the Unseen

By Margaret O. Wilson Oliphant

1881

I

THE OPEN DOOR.

I took the house of Brentwood on my return from India in 18--, for the

temporary accommodation of my family, until I could find a permanent

home for them. It had many advantages which made it peculiarly

appropriate. It was within reach of Edinburgh; and my boy Roland, whose

education had been considerably neglected, could go in and out to

school; which was thought to be better for him than either leaving home

altogether or staying there always with a tutor. The first of these

expedients would have seemed preferable to me; the second commended

itself to his mother. The doctor, like a judicious man, took the midway

between. “Put him on his pony, and let him ride into the High School

every morning; it will do him all the good in the world,” Dr. Simson

said; “and when it is bad weather, there is the train.” His mother

accepted this solution of the difficulty more easily than I could have

hoped; and our pale-faced boy, who had never known anything more

invigorating than Simla, began to encounter the brisk breezes of the

North in the subdued severity of the month of May. Before the time of

the vacation in July we had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to

acquire something of the brown and ruddy complexion of his

schoolfellows. The English system did not commend itself to Scotland in

these days. There was no little Eton at Fettes; nor do I think, if there

had been, that a genteel exotic of that class would have tempted either

my wife or me. The lad was doubly precious to us, being the only one

left us of many; and he was fragile in body, we believed, and deeply

sensitive in mind. To keep him at home, and yet to send him to

school,--to combine the advantages of the two systems,--seemed to be

everything that could be desired. The two girls also found at Brentwood

everything they wanted. They were near enough to Edinburgh to have

masters and lessons as many as they required for completing that

never-ending education which the young people seem to require nowadays.

Their mother married me when she was younger than Agatha; and I should

like to see them improve upon their mother! I myself was then no more

than twenty-five,--an age at which I see the young fellows now groping

about them, with no notion what they are going to do with their lives.

However; I suppose every generation has a conceit of itself which

elevates it, in its own opinion, above that which comes after it.

Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy slope of country--one of the

richest in Scotland--which lies between the Pentland Hills and the

Firth. In clear weather you could see the blue gleam--like a bent bow,

embracing the wealthy fields and scattered houses--of the great estuary

on one side of you, and on the other the blue heights, not gigantic like

those we had been used to, but just high enough for all the glories of

the atmosphere, the play of clouds, and sweet reflections, which give to

a hilly country an interest and a charm which nothing else can emulate.

Edinburgh--with its two lesser heights, the Castle and the Calton Hill,

its spires and towers piercing through the smoke, and Arthur’s Seat lying

crouched behind, like a guardian no longer very needful, taking his

repose beside the well-beloved charge, which is now, so to speak, able to

take care of itself without him--lay at our right hand. From the lawn

and drawing-room windows we could see all these varieties of landscape.

The color was sometimes a little chilly, but sometimes, also, as animated

and full of vicissitude as a drama. I was never tired of it. Its color

and freshness revived the eyes which had grown weary of arid plains and

blazing skies. It was always cheery, and fresh, and full of repose.

The village of Brentwood lay almost under the house, on the other side of

the deep little ravine, down which a stream--which ought to have been a

lovely, wild, and frolicsome little river--flowed between its rocks and

trees. The river, like so many in that district, had, however, in its

earlier life been sacrificed to trade, and was grimy with paper-making.

But this did not affect our pleasure in it so much as I have known it to

affect other streams. Perhaps our water was more rapid; perhaps less

clogged with dirt and refuse. Our side of the dell was charmingly

_accidenté_, and clothed with fine trees, through which various paths

wound down to the river-side and to the village bridge which crossed the

stream. The village lay in the hollow, and climbed, with very prosaic

houses, the other side. Village architecture does not flourish in

Scotland. The blue slates and the gray stone are sworn foes to the

picturesque; and though I do not, for my own part, dislike the interior

of an old-fashioned hewed and galleried church, with its little family

settlements on all sides, the square box outside, with its bit of a spire

like a handle to lift it by, is not an improvement to the landscape.

Still a cluster of houses on differing elevations, with scraps of garden

coming in between, a hedgerow with clothes laid out to dry, the opening

of a street with its rural sociability, the women at their doors, the

slow wagon lumbering along, gives a centre to the landscape. It was

cheerful to look at, and convenient in a hundred ways. Within ourselves

we had walks in plenty, the glen being always beautiful in all its

phases, whether the woods were green in the spring or ruddy in the

autumn. In the park which surrounded the house were the ruins of the

former mansion of Brentwood,--a much smaller and less important house

than the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins were

picturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who were

but temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they somehow

reflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had the

remains of a tower,--an indistinguishable mass of mason-work,

over-grown with ivy; and the shells of walls attached to this were half

filled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed to

say. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with the

lower part of the windows still existing, on the principal floor, and

underneath other windows, which were perfect, though half filled up with

fallen soil, and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growths

of all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance were

some very commonplace and disjointed fragments of building, one of them

suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck

which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of gray wall, all

incrusted with lichens, in which was a common door-way. Probably it had

been a servants’ entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called

“the offices” in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered,--pantry and

kitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the door-way

open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wild

creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a

melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to

nothing,--closed once, perhaps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded,

now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first; so

perhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it an

importance which nothing justified.

The summer was a very happy period of repose for us all. The warmth of

Indian suns was still in our veins. It seemed to us that we could never

have enough of the greenness, the dewiness, the freshness of the northern

landscape. Even its mists were pleasant to us, taking all the fever out

of us, and pouring in vigor and refreshment. In autumn we followed the

fashion of the time, and went away for change which we did not in the

least require. It was when the family had settled down for the winter,

when the days were short and dark, and the rigorous reign of frost upon

us, that the incidents occurred which alone could justify me in intruding

upon the world my private affairs. These incidents were, however, of so

curious a character, that I hope my inevitable references to my own

family and pressing personal interests will meet with a general pardon.

I was absent in London when these events began. In London an old Indian

plunges back into the interests with which all his previous life has been

associated, and meets old friends at every step. I had been circulating

among some half-dozen of these,--enjoying the return to my former life in

shadow, though I had been so thankful in substance to throw it

aside,--and had missed some of my home letters, what with going down from

Friday to Monday to old Benbow’s place in the country, and stopping on

the way back to dine and sleep at Sellar’s and to take a look into

Cross’s stables, which occupied another day. It is never safe to miss

one’s letters. In this transitory life, as the Prayer-book says, how can

one ever be certain what is going to happen? All was well at home. I knew

exactly (I thought) what they would have to say to me: “The weather has

been so fine, that Roland has not once gone by train, and he enjoys the

ride beyond anything.” “Dear papa, be sure that you don’t forget

anything, but bring us so-and-so, and so-and-so,”--a list as long as my

arm. Dear girls and dearer mother! I would not for the world have

forgotten their commissions, or lost their little letters, for all the

Benbows and Crosses in the world.

But I was confident in my home-comfort and peacefulness. When I got back

to my club, however, three or four letters were lying for one, upon some

of which I noticed the “immediate,” “urgent,” which old-fashioned people

and anxious people still believe will influence the post-office and

quicken the speed of the mails. I was about to open one of these, when

the club porter brought me two telegrams, one of which, he said, had

arrived the night before. I opened, as was to be expected, the last

first, and this was what I read: “Why don’t you come or answer? For God’s

sake, come. He is much worse.” This was a thunderbolt to fall upon a

man’s head who had one only son, and he the light of his eyes! The other

telegram, which I opened with hands trembling so much that I lost time by

my haste, was to much the same purport: “No better; doctor afraid of

brain-fever. Calls for you day and night. Let nothing detain you.” The

first thing I did was to look up the time-tables to see if there was any

way of getting off sooner than by the night-train, though I knew well

enough there was not; and then I read the letters, which furnished, alas!

too clearly, all the details. They told me that the boy had been pale for

some time, with a scared look. His mother had noticed it before I left

home, but would not say anything to alarm me. This look had increased day

by day: and soon it was observed that Roland came home at a wild gallop

through the park, his pony panting and in foam, himself “as white as a

sheet,” but with the perspiration streaming from his forehead. For a long

time he had resisted all questioning, but at length had developed such

strange changes of mood, showing a reluctance to go to school, a desire

to be fetched in the carriage at night,--which was a ridiculous piece of

luxury,--an unwillingness to go out into the grounds, and nervous start

at every sound, that his mother had insisted upon an explanation. When

the boy--our boy Roland, who had never known what fear was--began to talk

to her of voices he had heard in the park, and shadows that had appeared

to him among the ruins, my wife promptly put him to bed and sent for Dr.

Simson, which, of course, was the only thing to do.

I hurried off that evening, as may be supposed, with an anxious heart.

How I got through the hours before the starting of the train, I cannot

tell. We must all be thankful for the quickness of the railway when in

anxiety; but to have thrown myself into a post-chaise as soon as horses

could be put to, would have been a relief. I got to Edinburgh very early

in the blackness of the winter morning, and scarcely dared look the man

in the face, at whom I gasped, “What news?” My wife had sent the

brougham for me, which I concluded, before the man spoke, was a bad sign.

His answer was that stereotyped answer which leaves the imagination so

wildly free,--“Just the same.” Just the same! What might that mean? The

horses seemed to me to creep along the long dark country road. As we

dashed through the park, I thought I heard some one moaning among the

trees, and clenched my fist at him (whoever he might be) with fury. Why

had the fool of a woman at the gate allowed any one to come in to disturb

the quiet of the place? If I had not been in such hot haste to get home,

I think I should have stopped the carriage and got out to see what tramp

it was that had made an entrance, and chosen my grounds, of all places in

the world,--when my boy was ill!--to grumble and groan in. But I had no

reason to complain of our slow pace here. The horses flew like lightning

along the intervening path, and drew up at the door all panting, as if

they had run a race. My wife stood waiting to receive me, with a pale

face, and a candle in her hand, which made her look paler still as the

wind blew the flame about. “He is sleeping,” she said in a whisper, as if

her voice might wake him. And I replied, when I could find my voice, also

in a whisper, as though the jingling of the horses’ furniture and the

sound of their hoofs must not have been more dangerous. I stood on the

steps with her a moment, almost afraid to go in, now that I was here; and

it seemed to me that I saw without observing, if I may say so, that the

horses were unwilling to turn round, though their stables lay that way,

or that the men were unwilling. These things occurred to me afterwards,

though at the moment I was not capable of anything but to ask questions

and to hear of the condition of the boy.

I looked at him from the door of his room, for we were afraid to go near,

lest we should disturb that blessed sleep. It looked like actual sleep,

not the lethargy into which my wife told me he would sometimes fall. She

told me everything in the next room, which communicated with his, rising

now and then and going to the door of communication; and in this there

was much that was very startling and confusing to the mind. It appeared

that ever since the winter began--since it was early dark, and night had

fallen before his return from school--he had been hearing voices among

the ruins: at first only a groaning, he said, at which his pony was as

much alarmed as he was, but by degrees a voice. The tears ran down my

wife’s cheeks as she described to me how he would start up in the night

and cry out, “Oh, mother, let me in! oh, mother, let me in!” with a

pathos which rent her heart. And she sitting there all the time, only

longing to do everything his heart could desire! But though she would try

to soothe him, crying, “You are at home, my darling. I am here. Don’t you

know me? Your mother is here!” he would only stare at her, and after a

while spring up again with the same cry. At other times he would be quite

reasonable, she said, asking eagerly when I was coming, but declaring

that he must go with me as soon as I did so, “to let them in.” “The

doctor thinks his nervous system must have received a shock,” my wife

said. “Oh, Henry, can it be that we have pushed him on too much with his

work--a delicate boy like Roland? And what is his work in comparison with

his health? Even you would think little of honors or prizes if it hurt

the boy’s health.” Even I!--as if I were an inhuman father sacrificing my

child to my ambition. But I would not increase her trouble by taking any

notice. After awhile they persuaded me to lie down, to rest, and to eat,

none of which things had been possible since I received their letters.

The mere fact of being on the spot, of course, in itself was a great

thing; and when I knew that I could be called in a moment, as soon as he

was awake and wanted me, I felt capable, even in the dark, chill morning

twilight, to snatch an hour or two’s sleep. As it happened, I was so

worn out with the strain of anxiety, and he so quieted and consoled by

knowing I had come, that I was not disturbed till the afternoon, when the

twilight had again settled down. There was just daylight enough to see

his face when I went to him; and what a change in a fortnight! He was

paler and more worn, I thought, than even in those dreadful days in the

plains before we left India. His hair seemed to me to have grown long and

lank; his eyes were like blazing lights projecting out of his white face.

He got hold of my hand in a cold and tremulous clutch, and waved to

everybody to go away. “Go away--even mother,” he said; “go away.” This

went to her heart; for she did not like that even I should have more of

the boy’s confidence than herself; but my wife has never been a woman to

think of herself, and she left us alone. “Are they all gone?” he said

eagerly. “They would not let me speak. The doctor treated me as if I were

a fool. You know I am not a fool, papa.”

“Yes, yes, my boy, I know. But you are ill, and quiet is so necessary.

You are not only not a fool, Roland, but you are reasonable and

understand. When you are ill you must deny yourself; you must not do

everything that you might do being well.”

He waved his thin hand with a sort of indignation. “Then, father, I am

not ill,” he cried. “Oh, I thought when you came you would not stop

me,--you would see the sense of it! What do you think is the matter with

me, all of you? Simson is well enough; but he is only a doctor. What do

you think is the matter with me? I am no more ill than you are. A doctor,

of course, he thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you--that’s what

he’s there for--and claps you into bed.”

“Which is the best place for you at present, my dear boy.”

“I made up my mind,” cried the little fellow, “that I would stand it till

you came home. I said to myself, I won’t frighten mother and the girls.

But now, father,” he cried, half jumping out of bed, “it’s not illness:

it’s a secret.”

His eyes shone so wildly, his face was so swept with strong feeling, that

my heart sank within me. It could be nothing but fever that did it, and

fever had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to put him back into

bed. “Roland,” I said, humoring the poor child, which I knew was the

only way, “if you are going to tell me this secret to do any good, you

know you must be quite quiet, and not excite yourself. If you excite

yourself, I must not let you speak.”

“Yes, father,” said the boy. He was quiet directly, like a man, as if he

quite understood. When I had laid him back on his pillow, he looked up at

me with that grateful, sweet look with which children, when they are ill,

break one’s heart, the water coming into his eyes in his weakness. “I was

sure as soon as you were here you would know what to do,” he said.

“To be sure, my boy. Now keep quiet, and tell it all out like a man.” To

think I was telling lies to my own child! for I did it only to humor him,

thinking, poor little fellow, his brain was wrong.

“Yes, father. Father, there is some one in the park--some one that has

been badly used.”

“Hush, my dear; you remember there is to be no excitement. Well, who

is this somebody, and who has been ill-using him? We will soon put

a stop to that.”

“All,” cried Roland, “but it is not so easy as you think. I don’t know

who it is. It is just a cry. Oh, if you could hear it! It gets into my

head in my sleep. I heard it as clear--as clear; and they think that I

am dreaming, or raving perhaps,” the boy said, with a sort of

disdainful smile.

This look of his perplexed me; it was less like fever than I thought.

“Are you quite sure you have not dreamed it, Roland?” I said.

“Dreamed?--that!” He was springing up again when he suddenly bethought

himself, and lay down flat, with the same sort of smile on his face. “The

pony heard it, too,” he said. “She jumped as if she had been shot. If I

had not grasped at the reins--for I was frightened, father--”

“No shame to you, my boy,” said I, though I scarcely knew why.

“If I hadn’t held to her like a leech, she’d have pitched me over her

head, and never drew breath till we were at the door. Did the pony dream

it?” he said, with a soft disdain, yet indulgence for my foolishness.

Then he added slowly, “It was only a cry the first time, and all the

time before you went away. I wouldn’t tell you, for it was so wretched

to be frightened. I thought it might be a hare or a rabbit snared, and I

went in the morning and looked; but there was nothing. It was after you

went I heard it really first; and this is what he says.” He raised

himself on his elbow close to me, and looked me in the face: “‘Oh,

mother, let me in! oh, mother, let me in!’” As he said the words a mist

came over his face, the mouth quivered, the soft features all melted and

changed, and when he had ended these pitiful words, dissolved in a

shower of heavy tears.

Was it a hallucination? Was it the fever of the brain? Was it the

disordered fancy caused by great bodily weakness? How could I tell? I

thought it wisest to accept it as if it were all true.

“This is very touching, Roland,” I said.

“Oh, if you had just heard it, father! I said to myself, if father heard

it he would do something; but mamma, you know, she’s given over to

Simson, and that fellow’s a doctor, and never thinks of anything but

clapping you into bed.”

“We must not blame Simson for being a doctor, Roland.”

“No, no,” said my boy, with delightful toleration and indulgence; “oh,

no; that’s the good of him; that’s what he’s for; I know that. But

you--you are different; you are just father; and you’ll do

something--directly, papa, directly; this very night.”

“Surely,” I said. “No doubt it is some little lost child.”

He gave me a sudden, swift look, investigating my face as though to see

whether, after all, this was everything my eminence as “father” came

to,--no more than that. Then he got hold of my shoulder, clutching it

with his thin hand. “Look here,” he said, with a quiver in his voice;

“suppose it wasn’t--living at all!”

“My dear boy, how then could you have heard it?” I said.

He turned away from me with a pettish exclamation,--“As if you didn’t

know better than that!”

“Do you want to tell me it is a ghost?” I said.

Roland withdrew his hand; his countenance assumed an aspect of great

dignity and gravity; a slight quiver remained about his lips. “Whatever

it was--you always said we were not to call names. It was something--in

trouble. Oh, father, in terrible trouble!”

“But, my boy,” I said (I was at my wits’ end), “if it was a child

that was lost, or any poor human creature--but, Roland, what do you

want me to do?”

“I should know if I was you,” said the child eagerly. “That is what I

always said to myself,--Father will know. Oh, papa, papa, to have to

face it night after night, in such terrible, terrible trouble, and never

to be able to do it any good! I don’t want to cry; it’s like a baby, I

know; but what can I do else? Out there all by itself in the ruin, and

nobody to help it! I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” cried my generous

boy. And in his weakness he burst out, after many attempts to restrain

it, into a great childish fit of sobbing and tears.

I do not know that I ever was in a greater perplexity, in my life; and

afterwards, when I thought of it, there was something comic in it too. It

is bad enough to find your child’s mind possessed with the conviction

that he has seen, or heard, a ghost; but that he should require you to go

instantly and help that ghost was the most bewildering experience that

had ever come my way. I am a sober man myself, and not superstitious--at

least any more than everybody is superstitious. Of course I do not

believe in ghosts; but I don’t deny, any more than other people, that

there are stories which I cannot pretend to understand. My blood got a

sort of chill in my veins at the idea that Roland should be a ghost-seer;

for that generally means a hysterical temperament and weak health, and

all that men most hate and fear for their children. But that I should

take up his ghost and right its wrongs, and save it from its trouble, was

such a mission as was enough to confuse any man. I did my best to console

my boy without giving any promise of this astonishing kind; but he was

too sharp for me: he would have none of my caresses. With sobs breaking

in at intervals upon his voice, and the rain-drops hanging on his

eyelids, he yet returned to the charge.

“It will be there now!--it will be there all the night! Oh, think,

papa,--think if it was me! I can’t rest for thinking of it. Don’t!” he

cried, putting away my hand,--“don’t! You go and help it, and mother can

take care of me.”

“But, Roland, what can I do?”

My boy opened his eyes, which were large with weakness and fever, and

gave me a smile such, I think, as sick children only know the secret of.

“I was sure you would know as soon as you came. I always said, Father

will know. And mother,” he cried, with a softening of repose upon his

face, his limbs relaxing, his form sinking with a luxurious ease in his

bed,--“mother can come and take care of me.”

I called her, and saw him turn to her with the complete dependence of a

child; and then I went away and left them, as perplexed a man as any in

Scotland. I must say, however, I had this consolation, that my mind was

greatly eased about Roland. He might be under a hallucination; but his

head was clear enough, and I did not think him so ill as everybody else

did. The girls were astonished even at the ease with which I took it.

“How do you think he is?” they said in a breath, coming round me, laying

hold of me. “Not half so ill as I expected,” I said; “not very bad at

all.” “Oh, papa, you are a darling!” cried Agatha, kissing me, and crying

upon my shoulder; while little Jeanie, who was as pale as Roland, clasped

both her arms round mine, and could not speak at all. I knew nothing

about it, not half so much as Simson; but they believed in me: they had a

feeling that all would go right now. God is very good to you when your

children look to you like that. It makes one humble, not proud. I was not

worthy of it; and then I recollected that I had to act the part of a

father to Roland’s ghost,--which made me almost laugh, though I might

just as well have cried. It was the strangest mission that ever was

intrusted to mortal man.

It was then I remembered suddenly the looks of the men when they turned

to take the brougham to the stables in the dark that morning. They had

not liked it, and the horses had not liked it. I remembered that even in

my anxiety about Roland I had heard them tearing along the avenue back to

the stables, and had made a memorandum mentally that I must speak of it.

It seemed to me that the best thing I could do was to go to the stables

now and make a few inquiries. It is impossible to fathom the minds of

rustics; there might be some devilry of practical joking, for anything I

knew; or they might have some interest in getting up a bad reputation for

the Brentwood avenue. It was getting dark by the time I went out, and

nobody who knows the country will need to be told how black is the

darkness of a November night under high laurel-bushes and yew-trees. I

walked into the heart of the shrubberies two or three times, not seeing a

step before me, till I came out upon the broader carriage-road, where the

trees opened a little, and there was a faint gray glimmer of sky visible,

under which the great limes and elms stood darkling like ghosts; but it

grew black again as I approached the corner where the ruins lay. Both

eyes and ears were on the alert, as may be supposed; but I could see

nothing in the absolute gloom, and, so far as I can recollect, I heard

nothing. Nevertheless there came a strong impression upon me that

somebody was there. It is a sensation which most people have felt. I have

seen when it has been strong enough to awake me out of sleep, the sense

of some one looking at me. I suppose my imagination had been affected by

Roland’s story; and the mystery of the darkness is always full of

suggestions. I stamped my feet violently on the gravel to rouse myself,

and called out sharply, “Who’s there?” Nobody answered, nor did I expect

any one to answer, but the impression had been made. I was so foolish

that I did not like to look back, but went sideways, keeping an eye on

the gloom behind. It was with great relief that I spied the light in the

stables, making a sort of oasis in the darkness. I walked very quickly

into the midst of that lighted and cheerful place, and thought the clank

of the groom’s pail one of the pleasantest sounds I had ever heard. The

coachman was the head of this little colony, and it was to his house I

went to pursue my investigations. He was a native of the district, and

had taken care of the place in the absence of the family for years; it

was impossible but that he must know everything that was going on, and

all the traditions of the place. The men, I could see, eyed me anxiously

when I thus appeared at such an hour among them, and followed me with

their eyes to Jarvis’s house, where he lived alone with his old wife,

their children being all married and out in the world. Mrs. Jarvis met me

with anxious questions. How was the poor young gentleman? But the others

knew, I could see by their faces, that not even this was the foremost

thing in my mind.

* * * * *

“Noises?--ou ay, there’ll be noises,--the wind in the trees, and the

water soughing down the glen. As for tramps, Cornel, no, there’s little

o’ that kind o’ cattle about here; and Merran at the gate’s a careful

body.” Jarvis moved about with some embarrassment from one leg to

another as he spoke. He kept in the shade, and did not look at me more

than he could help. Evidently his mind was perturbed, and he had

reasons for keeping his own counsel. His wife sat by, giving him a quick

look now and then, but saying nothing. The kitchen was very snug and

warm and bright,--as different as could be from the chill and mystery of

the night outside.

“I think you are trifling with me, Jarvis,” I said.

“Triflin’, Cornel? No me. What would I trifle for? If the deevil himsel

was in the auld hoose, I have no interest in ’t one way or another--”

“Sandy, hold your peace!” cried his wife imperatively.

“And what am I to hold my peace for, wi’ the Cornel standing there asking

a’ thae questions? I’m saying, if the deevil himsel--”

“And I’m telling ye hold your peace!” cried the woman, in great

excitement. “Dark November weather and lang nichts, and us that ken a’ we

ken. How daur ye name--a name that shouldna be spoken?” She threw down

her stocking and got up, also in great agitation. “I tellt ye you never

could keep it. It’s no a thing that will hide, and the haill toun kens as

weel as you or me. Tell the Cornel straight out--or see, I’ll do it. I

dinna hold wi’ your secrets, and a secret that the haill toun kens!” She

snapped her fingers with an air of large disdain. As for Jarvis, ruddy

and big as he was, he shrank to nothing before this decided woman. He

repeated to her two or three times her own adjuration, “Hold your peace!”

then, suddenly changing his tone, cried out, “Tell him then, confound

ye! I’ll wash my hands o’t. If a’ the ghosts in Scotland were in the auld

hoose, is that ony concern o’ mine?”

After this I elicited without much difficulty the whole story. In the

opinion of the Jarvises, and of everybody about, the certainty that the

place was haunted was beyond all doubt. As Sandy and his wife warmed to

the tale, one tripping up another in their eagerness to tell everything,

it gradually developed as distinct a superstition as I ever heard, and

not without poetry and pathos. How long it was since the voice had been

heard first, nobody could tell with certainty. Jarvis’s opinion was that

his father, who had been coachman at Brentwood before him, had never

heard anything about it, and that the whole thing had arisen within the

last ten years, since the complete dismantling of the old house; which

was a wonderfully modern date for a tale so well authenticated. According

to these witnesses, and to several whom I questioned afterwards, and who

were all in perfect agreement, it was only in the months of November and

December that “the visitation” occurred. During these months, the darkest

of the year, scarcely a night passed without the recurrence of these

inexplicable cries. Nothing, it was said, had ever been seen,--at least,

nothing that could be identified. Some people, bolder or more imaginative

than the others, had seen the darkness moving, Mrs. Jarvis said, with

unconscious poetry. It began when night fell, and continued, at

intervals, till day broke. Very often it was only all inarticulate cry

and moaning, but sometimes the words which had taken possession of my

poor boy’s fancy had been distinctly audible,--“Oh, mother, let me in!”

The Jarvises were not aware that there had ever been any investigation

into it. The estate of Brentwood had lapsed into the hands of a distant

branch of the family, who had lived but little there; and of the many

people who had taken it, as I had done, few had remained through two

Decembers. And nobody had taken the trouble to make a very close

examination into the facts. “No, no,” Jarvis said, shaking his head,

“No, no, Cornel. Wha wad set themsels up for a laughin’-stock to a’ the

country-side, making a wark about a ghost? Naebody believes in ghosts. It

bid to be the wind in the trees, the last gentleman said, or some effec’

o’ the water wrastlin’ among the rocks. He said it was a’ quite easy

explained; but he gave up the hoose. And when you cam, Cornel, we were

awfu’ anxious you should never hear. What for should I have spoiled the

bargain and hairmed the property for no-thing?”

“Do you call my child’s life nothing?” I said in the trouble of the

moment, unable to restrain myself. “And instead of telling this all to

me, you have told it to him,--to a delicate boy, a child unable to sift

evidence or judge for himself, a tender-hearted young creature--”

I was walking about the room with an anger all the hotter that I felt it

to be most likely quite unjust. My heart was full of bitterness against

the stolid retainers of a family who were content to risk other people’s

children and comfort rather than let a house be empty. If I had been

warned I might have taken precautions, or left the place, or sent Roland

away, a hundred things which now I could not do; and here I was with my

boy in a brain-fever, and his life, the most precious life on earth,

hanging in the balance, dependent on whether or not I could get to the

reason of a commonplace ghost-story! I paced about in high wrath, not

seeing what I was to do; for to take Roland away, even if he were able to

travel, would not settle his agitated mind; and I feared even that a

scientific explanation of refracted sound or reverberation, or any other

of the easy certainties with which we elder men are silenced, would have

very little effect upon the boy.

“Cornel,” said Jarvis solemnly, “and _she’ll_ bear me witness,--the young

gentleman never heard a word from me--no, nor from either groom or

gardener; I’ll gie ye my word for that. In the first place, he’s no a lad

that invites ye to talk. There are some that are, and some that arena.

Some will draw ye on, till ye’ve tellt them a’ the clatter of the toun,

and a’ ye ken, and whiles mair. But Maister Roland, his mind’s fu’ of his

books. He’s aye civil and kind, and a fine lad; but no that sort. And ye

see it’s for a’ our interest, Cornel, that you should stay at Brentwood.

I took it upon me mysel to pass the word,--‘No a syllable to Maister

Roland, nor to the young leddies--no a syllable.’ The women-servants,

that have little reason to be out at night, ken little or nothing about

it. And some think it grand to have a ghost so long as they’re no in the

way of coming across it. If you had been tellt the story to begin with,

maybe ye would have thought so yourself.”

This was true enough, though it did not throw any light upon my

perplexity. If we had heard of it to start with, it is possible that all

the family would have considered the possession of a ghost a distinct

advantage. It is the fashion of the times. We never think what a risk it

is to play with young imaginations, but cry out, in the fashionable

jargon, “A ghost!--nothing else was wanted to make it perfect.” I should

not have been above this myself. I should have smiled, of course, at the

idea of the ghost at all, but then to feel that it was mine would have

pleased my vanity. Oh, yes, I claim no exemption. The girls would have

been delighted. I could fancy their eagerness, their interest, and

excitement. No; if we had been told, it would have done no good,--we

should have made the bargain all the more eagerly, the fools that we are.

“And there has been no attempt to investigate it,” I said, “to see what

it really is?”

“Eh, Cornel,” said the coachman’s wife, “wha would investigate, as ye

call it, a thing that nobody believes in? Ye would be the laughin’-stock

of a’ the country-side, as my man says.”

“But you believe in it,” I said, turning upon her hastily. The woman was

taken by surprise. She made a step backward out of my way.

“Lord, Cornel, how ye frichten a body! Me!--there’s awfu’ strange things

in this world. An unlearned person doesna ken what to think. But the

minister and the gentry they just laugh in your face. Inquire into the

thing that is not! Na, na, we just let it be.”

“Come with me, Jarvis,” I said hastily, “and we’ll make an attempt at

least. Say nothing to the men or to anybody. I’ll come back after dinner,

and we’ll make a serious attempt to see what it is, if it is anything. If

I hear it,--which I doubt,--you may be sure I shall never rest till I

make it out. Be ready for me about ten o’clock.”

“Me, Cornel!” Jarvis said, in a faint voice. I had not been looking at

him in my own preoccupation, but when I did so, I found that the greatest

change had come over the fat and ruddy coachman. “Me, Cornel!” he

repeated, wiping the perspiration from his brow. His ruddy face hung in

flabby folds, his knees knocked together, his voice seemed half

extinguished in his throat. Then he began to rub his hands and smile upon

me in a deprecating, imbecile way. “There’s nothing I wouldna do to

pleasure ye, Cornel,” taking a step further back. “I’m sure _she_ kens

I’ve aye said I never had to do with a mair fair, weel-spoken

gentleman--” Here Jarvis came to a pause, again looking at me, rubbing

his hands.

“Well?” I said.

“But eh, sir!” he went on, with the same imbecile yet insinuating smile,

“if ye’ll reflect that I am no used to my feet. With a horse atween my

legs, or the reins in my hand, I’m maybe nae worse than other men; but on

fit, Cornel--It’s no the--bogles--but I’ve been cavalry, ye see,” with a

little hoarse laugh, “a’ my life. To face a thing ye dinna understan’--on

your feet, Cornel.”

“Well, sir, if _I_ do it,” said I tartly, “why shouldn’t you?”

“Eh, Cornel, there’s an awfu’ difference. In the first place, ye tramp

about the haill countryside, and think naething of it; but a walk tires

me mair than a hunard miles’ drive; and then ye’re a gentleman, and do

your ain pleasure; and you’re no so auld as me; and it’s for your ain

bairn, ye see, Cornel; and then--”

“He believes in it, Cornel, and you dinna believe in it,” the woman said.

“Will you come with me?” I said, turning to her.

She jumped back, upsetting her chair in her bewilderment. “Me!” with a

scream, and then fell into a sort of hysterical laugh. “I wouldna say but

what I would go; but what would the folk say to hear of Cornel Mortimer

with an auld silly woman at his heels?”

The suggestion made me laugh too, though I had little inclination for it.

“I’m sorry you have so little spirit, Jarvis,” I said. “I must find some

one else, I suppose.”

Jarvis, touched by this, began to remonstrate, but I cut him short. My

butler was a soldier who had been with me in India, and was not supposed

to fear anything,--man or devil,--certainly not the former; and I felt

that I was losing time. The Jarvises were too thankful to get rid of me.

They attended me to the door with the most anxious courtesies. Outside,

the two grooms stood close by, a little confused by my sudden exit. I

don’t know if perhaps they had been listening,--at least standing as near

as possible, to catch any scrap of the conversation. I waved my hand to

them as I went past, in answer to their salutations, and it was very

apparent to me that they also were glad to see me go.

And it will be thought very strange, but it would be weak not to add,

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 to pass these ruins on my way home. My curiosity

was intense; and yet it was all my mind could do to pull my body along. I

daresay 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 knock 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. I had not the same sense of unwillingness to turn my

back upon the scene of the mystery which I had experienced in going to

the stables; but I almost ran home, impelled by eagerness to get

everything done that had to be done, in order to apply myself to finding

it out. 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 to-night 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.