clear about the cause of it was not my grand desire. It was another thing
that was in my mind,--my boy. As for the poor soul at the open door, I
had no more doubt, as I have said, of its existence than I had of my own.
It was no ghost to me. I knew the creature, and it was in trouble. That
was my feeling about it, as it was Roland’s. To hear it first was a great
shock to my nerves, but not now; a man will get accustomed to anything.
But to do something for it was the great problem; how was I to be
serviceable to a being that was invisible, that was mortal no longer?
“Maybe at the moment the Lord will put it into our heads.” This is very
old-fashioned phraseology, and a week before, most likely, I should have
smiled (though always with kindness) at Dr. Moncrieff’s credulity; but
there was a great comfort, whether rational or otherwise I cannot say, in
the mere sound of the words.
The road to the station and the village lay through the glen, not by the
ruins; but though the sunshine and the fresh air, and the beauty of the
trees, and the sound of the water were all very soothing to the spirits,
my mind was so full of my own subject that I could not refrain from
turning to the right hand as I got to the top of the glen, and going
straight to the place which I may call the scene of all my thoughts. It
was lying full in the sunshine, like all the rest of the world. The
ruined gable looked due east, and in the present aspect of the sun the
light streamed down through the door-way as our lantern had done,
throwing a flood of light upon the damp grass beyond. There was a strange
suggestion in the open door,--so futile, a kind of emblem of vanity: all
free around, so that you could go where you pleased, and yet that
semblance of an enclosure,--that way of entrance, unnecessary, leading to
nothing. And why any creature should pray and weep to get in--to nothing,
or be kept out--by nothing, you could not dwell upon it, or it made your
brain go round. I remembered, however, what Simson said about the
juniper, with a little smile on my own mind as to the inaccuracy of
recollection which even a scientific man will be guilty of. I could see
now the light of my lantern gleaming upon the wet glistening surface of
the spiky leaves at the right hand,--and he ready to go to the stake for
it that it was the left! I went round to make sure. And then I saw what
he had said. Right or left there was no juniper at all! I was confounded
by this, though it was entirely a matter of detail nothing at all,--a
bush of brambles waving, the grass growing up to the very walls. But
after all, though it gave me a shock for a moment, what did that matter?
There were marks as if a number of footsteps had been up and down in
front of the door, but these might have been our steps; and all was
bright and peaceful and still. I poked about the other ruin--the larger
ruins of the old house--for some time, as I had done before. There were
marks upon the grass here and there--I could not call them
footsteps--all about; but that told for nothing one way or another. I had
examined the ruined rooms closely the first day. They were half filled up
with soil and _debris_, withered brackens and bramble,--no refuge for any
one there. It vexed me that Jarvis should see me coming from that spot
when he came up to me for his orders. I don’t know whether my nocturnal
expeditions had got wind among the servants, but there was a significant
look in his face. Something in it I felt was like my own sensation when
Simson in the midst of his scepticism was struck dumb. Jarvis felt
satisfied that his veracity had been put beyond question. I never spoke
to a servant of mine in such a peremptory tone before. I sent him away
“with a flea in his lug,” as the man described it afterwards.
Interference of any kind was intolerable to me at such a moment.
But what was strangest of all was, that I could not face Roland. I did
not go up to his room, as I would have naturally done, at once. This the
girls could not understand. They saw there was some mystery in it.
“Mother has gone to lie down,” Agatha said; “he has had such a good
night.” “But he wants you so, papa!” cried little Jeanie, always with her
two arms embracing mine in a pretty way she had. I was obliged to go at
last, but what could I say? I could only kiss him, and tell him to keep
still,--that I was doing all I could. There is something mystical about
the patience of a child. “It will come all right, won’t it, father?” he
said. “God grant it may! I hope so, Roland.” “Oh, yes, it will come all
right.” Perhaps he understood that in the midst of my anxiety I could not
stay with him as I should have done otherwise. But the girls were more
surprised than it is possible to describe. They looked at me with
wondering eyes. “If I were ill, papa, and you only stayed with me a
moment, I should break my heart,” said Agatha. But the boy had a
sympathetic feeling. He knew that of my own will I would not have done
it. I shut myself up in the library, where I could not rest, but kept
pacing up and down like a caged beast. What could I do? and if I could do
nothing, what would become of my boy? These were the questions that,
without ceasing, pursued each other through my mind.
Simson came out to dinner, and when the house was all still, and most of
the servants in bed, we went out and met Dr. Moncrieff, as we had
appointed, at the head of the glen. Simson, for his part, was disposed to
scoff at the Doctor. “If there are to be any spells, you know, I’ll cut
the whole concern,” he said. I did not make him any reply. I had not
invited him; he could go or come as he pleased. He was very talkative,
far more so than suited my humor, as we went on. “One thing is certain,
you know; there must be some human agency,” he said. “It is all bosh
about apparitions. I never have investigated the laws of sound to any
great extent, and there’s a great deal in ventriloquism that we don’t
know much about.” “If it’s the same to you,” I said, “I wish you’d keep
all that to yourself, Simson. It doesn’t suit my state of mind.” “Oh, I
hope I know how to respect idiosyncrasy,” he said. The very tone of his
voice irritated me beyond measure. These scientific fellows, I wonder
people put up with them as they do, when you have no mind for their
cold-blooded confidence. Dr. Moncrieff met us about eleven o’clock, the
same time as on the previous night. He was a large man, with a venerable
countenance and white hair,--old, but in full vigor, and thinking less
of a cold night walk than many a younger man. He had his lantern, as I
had. We were fully provided with means of lighting the place, and we were
all of us resolute men. We had a rapid consultation as we went up, and
the result was that we divided to different posts. Dr. Moncrieff remained
inside the wall--if you can call that inside where there was no wall but
one. Simson placed himself on the side next the ruins, so as to intercept
any communication with the old house, which was what his mind was fixed
upon. I was posted on the other side. To say that nothing could come near
without being seen was self-evident. It had been so also on the previous
night. Now, with our three lights in the midst of the darkness, the whole
place seemed illuminated. Dr. Moncrieff’s lantern, which was a large one,
without any means of shutting up,--an old-fashioned lantern with a
pierced and ornamental top,--shone steadily, the rays shooting out of it
upward into the gloom. He placed it on the grass, where the middle of the
room, if this had been a room, would have been. The usual effect of the
light streaming out of the door-way was prevented by the illumination
which Simson and I on either side supplied. With these differences,
everything seemed as on the previous night.
And what occurred was exactly the same, with the same air of repetition,
point for point, as I had formerly remarked. I declare that it seemed to
me as if I were pushed against, put aside, by the owner of the voice as
he paced up and down in his trouble,--though these are perfectly futile
words, seeing that the stream of light from my lantern, and that from
Simson’s taper, lay broad and clear, without a shadow, without the
smallest break, across the entire breadth of the grass. I had ceased even
to be alarmed, for my part. My heart was rent with pity and
trouble,--pity for the poor suffering human creature that moaned and
pleaded so, and trouble for myself and my boy. God! if I could not find
any help,--and what help could I find?--Roland would die.
We were all perfectly still till the first outburst was exhausted, as I
knew, by experience, it would be. Dr. Moncrieff, to whom it was new, was
quite motionless on the other side of the wall, as we were in our places.
My heart had remained almost at its usual beating during the voice. I was
used to it; it did not rouse all my pulses as it did at first. But just
as it threw itself sobbing at the door (I cannot use other words), there
suddenly came something which sent the blood coursing through my veins,
and my heart into my mouth. It was a voice inside the wall,--the
minister’s well-known voice. I would have been prepared for it in any
kind of adjuration, but I was not prepared for what I heard. It came out
with a sort of stammering, as if too much moved for utterance. “Willie,
Willie! Oh, God preserve us! is it you?”
These simple words had an effect upon me that the voice of the
invisible creature had ceased to have. I thought the old man, whom I
had brought into this danger, had gone mad with terror. I made a dash
round to the other side of the wall, half crazed myself with the
thought. He was standing where I had left him, his shadow thrown vague
and large upon the grass by the lantern which stood at his feet. I
lifted my own light to see his face as I rushed forward. He was very
pale, his eyes wet and glistening, his mouth quivering with parted
lips. He neither saw nor heard me. We that had gone through this
experience before, had crouched towards each other to get a little
strength to bear it. But he was not even aware that I was there. His
whole being seemed absorbed in anxiety and tenderness. He held out his
hands, which trembled, but it seemed to me with eagerness, not fear. He
went on speaking all the time. “Willie, if it is you,--and it’s you, if
it is not a delusion of Satan,--Willie, lad! why come ye here frighting
them that know you not? Why came ye not to me?”
He seemed to wait for an answer. When his voice ceased, his countenance,
every line moving, continued to speak. Simson gave me another terrible
shock, stealing into the open door-way with his light, as much
awe-stricken, as wildly curious, as I. But the minister resumed, without
seeing Simson, speaking to some one else. His voice took a tone of
expostulation:--
“Is this right to come here? Your mother’s gone with your name on her
lips. Do you think she would ever close her door on her own lad? Do ye
think the Lord will close the door, ye faint-hearted creature? No!--I
forbid ye! I forbid ye!” cried the old man. The sobbing voice had begun
to resume its cries. He made a step forward, calling out the last words
in a voice of command. “I forbid ye! Cry out no more to man. Go home, ye
wandering spirit! go home! Do you hear me?--me that christened ye, that
have struggled with ye, that have wrestled for ye with the Lord!” Here
the loud tones of his voice sank into tenderness. “And her too, poor
woman! poor woman! her you are calling upon. She’s not here. You’ll find
her with the Lord. Go there and seek her, not here. Do you hear me, lad?
go after her there. He’ll let you in, though it’s late. Man, take heart!
if you will lie and sob and greet, let it be at heaven’s gate, and not
your poor mother’s ruined door.”
He stopped to get his breath; and the voice had stopped, not as it had
done before, when its time was exhausted and all its repetitions said,
but with a sobbing catch in the breath as if overruled. Then the
minister spoke again, “Are you hearing me, Will? Oh, laddie, you’ve liked
the beggarly elements all your days. Be done with them now. Go home to
the Father--the Father! Are you hearing me?” Here the old man sank down
upon his knees, his face raised upwards, his hands held up with a tremble
in them, all white in the light in the midst of the darkness. I resisted
as long as I could, though I cannot tell why; then I, too, dropped upon
my knees. Simson all the time stood in the door-way, with an expression
in his face such as words could not tell, his under lip dropped, his eyes
wild, staring. It seemed to be to him, that image of blank ignorance and
wonder, that we were praying. All the time the voice, with a low arrested
sobbing, lay just where he was standing, as I thought.
“Lord,” the minister said,--“Lord, take him into Thy everlasting
habitations. The mother he cries to is with Thee. Who can open to him but
Thee? Lord, when is it too late for Thee, or what is too hard for Thee?
Lord, let that woman there draw him inower! Let her draw him inower!”
I sprang forward to catch something in my arms that flung itself wildly
within the door. The illusion was so strong, that I never paused till I
felt my forehead graze against the wall and my hands clutch the
ground,--for there was nobody there to save from falling, as in my
foolishness I thought. Simson held out his hand to me to help me up. He
was trembling and cold, his lower lip hanging, his speech almost
inarticulate. “It’s gone,” he said, stammering,--“it’s gone!” We leaned
upon each other for a moment, trembling so much, both of us, that the
whole scene trembled as if it were going to dissolve and disappear; and
yet as long as I live I will never forget it,--the shining of the
strange lights, the blackness all round, the kneeling figure with all
the whiteness of the light concentrated on its white venerable head and
uplifted hands. A strange solemn stillness seemed to close all round us.
By intervals a single syllable, “Lord! Lord!” came from the old
minister’s lips. He saw none of us, nor thought of us. I never knew how
long we stood, like sentinels guarding him at his prayers, holding our
lights in a confused dazed way, not knowing what we did. But at last he
rose from his knees, and standing up at his full height, raised his
arms, as the Scotch manner is at the end of a religious service, and
solemnly gave the apostolical benediction,--to what? to the silent
earth, the dark woods, the wide breathing atmosphere; for we were but
spectators gasping an Amen!
It seemed to me that it must be the middle of the night, as we all walked
back. It was in reality very late. Dr. Moncrieff put his arm into mine.
He walked slowly, with an air of exhaustion. It was as if we were coming
from a death-bed. Something hushed and solemnized the very air. There was
that sense of relief in it which there always is at the end of a
death-struggle. And nature, persistent, never daunted, came back in all
of us, as we returned into the ways of life. We said nothing to each
other, indeed, for a time; but when we got clear of the trees and
reached the opening near the house, where we could see the sky, Dr.
Moncrieff himself was the first to speak. “I must be going,” he said;
“it’s very late, I’m afraid. I will go down the glen, as I came.”
“But not alone. I am going with you, Doctor.”
“Well, I will not oppose it. I am an old man, and agitation wearies more
than work. Yes; I’ll be thankful of your arm. To-night, Colonel, you’ve
done me more good turns than one.”
I pressed his hand on my arm, not feeling able to speak. But Simson,
who turned with us, and who had gone along all this time with his taper
flaring, in entire unconsciousness, came to himself, apparently at the
sound of our voices, and put out that wild little torch with a quick
movement, as if of shame. “Let me carry your lantern,” he said; “it is
heavy.” He recovered with a spring; and in a moment, from the
awe-stricken spectator he had been, became himself, sceptical and
cynical. “I should like to ask you a question,” he said. “Do you
believe in Purgatory, Doctor? It’s not in the tenets of the Church, so
far as I know.”
“Sir,” said Dr. Moncrieff, “an old man like me is sometimes not very
sure what he believes. There is just one thing I am certain of--and that
is the loving-kindness of God.”
“But I thought that was in this life. I am no theologian--”
“Sir,” said the old man again, with a tremor in him which I could feel
going over all his frame, “if I saw a friend of mine within the gates of
hell, I would not despair but his Father would take him by the hand
still, if he cried like _you_.”
“I allow it is very strange, very strange. I cannot see through it. That
there must be human agency, I feel sure. Doctor, what made you decide
upon the person and the name?”
The minister put out his hand with the impatience which a man might show
if he were asked how he recognized his brother. “Tuts!” he said, in
familiar speech; then more solemnly, “How should I not recognize a person
that I know better--far better--than I know you?”
“Then you saw the man?”
Dr. Moncrieff made no reply. He moved his hand again with a little
impatient movement, and walked on, leaning heavily on my arm. And we went
on for a long time without another word, threading the dark paths, which
were steep and slippery with the damp of the winter. The air was very
still,--not more than enough to make a faint sighing in the branches,
which mingled with the sound of the water to which we were descending.
When we spoke again, it was about indifferent matters,--about the height
of the river, and the recent rains. We parted with the minister at his
own door, where his old housekeeper appeared in great perturbation,
waiting for him. “Eh, me, minister! the young gentleman will be worse?”
she cried.
“Far from that--better. God bless him!” Dr. Moncrieff said.
I think if Simson had begun again to me with his questions, I should have
pitched him over the rocks as we returned up the glen; but he was silent,
by a good inspiration. And the sky was clearer than it had been for many
nights, shining high over the trees, with here and there a star faintly
gleaming through the wilderness of dark and bare branches. The air, as I
have said, was very soft in them, with a subdued and peaceful cadence. It
was real, like every natural sound, and came to us like a hush of peace
and relief. I thought there was a sound in it as of the breath of a
sleeper, and it seemed clear to me that Roland must be sleeping,
satisfied and calm. We went up to his room when we went in. There we
found the complete hush of rest. My wife looked up out of a doze, and
gave me a smile: “I think he is a great deal better; but you are very
late,” she said in a whisper, shading the light with her hand that the
Doctor might see his patient. The boy had got back something like his own
color. He woke as we stood all round his bed. His eyes had the happy,
half-awakened look of childhood, glad to shut again, yet pleased with the
interruption and glimmer of the light. I stooped over him and kissed his
forehead, which was moist and cool. “All is well, Roland,” I said. He
looked up at me with a glance of pleasure, and took my hand and laid his
cheek upon it, and so went to sleep.
* * * * *
For some nights after, I watched among the ruins, spending all the dark
hours up to midnight patrolling about the bit of wall which was
associated with so many emotions; but I heard nothing, and saw nothing
beyond the quiet course of nature; nor, so far as I am aware, has
anything been heard again. Dr. Moncrieff gave me the history of the
youth, whom he never hesitated to name. I did not ask, as Simson did, how
he recognized him. He had been a prodigal,--weak, foolish, easily imposed
upon, and “led away,” as people say. All that we had heard had passed
actually in life, the Doctor said. The young man had come home thus a day
or two after his mother died,--who was no more than the housekeeper in
the old house,--and distracted with the news, had thrown himself down at
the door and called upon her to let him in. The old man could scarcely
speak of it for tears. To me it seemed as if--Heaven help us, how little
do we know about anything!--a scene like that might impress itself
somehow upon the hidden heart of nature. I do not pretend to know how,
but the repetition had struck me at the time as, in its terrible
strangeness and incomprehensibility, almost mechanical,--as if the unseen
actor could not exceed or vary, but was bound to re-enact the whole. One
thing that struck me, however, greatly, was the likeness between the old
minister and my boy in the manner of regarding these strange phenomena.
Dr. Moncrieff was not terrified, as I had been myself, and all the rest
of us. It was no “ghost,” as I fear we all vulgarly considered it, to
him,--but a poor creature whom he knew under these conditions, just as
he had known him in the flesh, having no doubt of his identity. And to
Roland it was the same. This spirit in pain,--if it was a spirit,--this
voice out of the unseen,--was a poor fellow-creature in misery, to be
succored and helped out of his trouble, to my boy. He spoke to me quite
frankly about it when he got better. “I knew father would find out some
way,” he said. And this was when he was strong and well, and all idea
that he would turn hysterical or become a seer of visions had happily
passed away.
* * * * *
I must add one curious fact, which does not seem to me to have any
relation to the above, but which Simson made great use of, as the human
agency which he was determined to find somehow. We had examined the ruins
very closely at the time of these occurrences; but afterwards, when all
was over, as we went casually about them one Sunday afternoon in the
idleness of that unemployed day, Simson with his stick penetrated an old
window which had been entirely blocked up with fallen soil. He jumped
down into it in great excitement, and called me to follow. There we found
a little hole,--for it was more a hole than a room,--entirely hidden
under the ivy and ruins, in which there was a quantity of straw laid in a
corner, as if some one had made a bed there, and some remains of crusts
about the floor. Some one had lodged there, and not very long before, he
made out; and that this unknown being was the author of all the
mysterious sounds we heard he is convinced. “I told you it was human
agency,” he said triumphantly. He forgets, I suppose, how he and I stood
with our lights, seeing nothing, while the space between us was audibly
traversed by something that could speak, and sob, and suffer. There is no
argument with men of this kind. He is ready to get up a laugh against me
on this slender ground. “I was puzzled myself,--I could not make it
out,--but I always felt convinced human agency was at the bottom of it.
And here it is,--and a clever fellow he must have been,” the Doctor says.
Bagley left my service as soon as he got well. He assured me it was no
want of respect, but he could not stand “them kind of things;” and the
man was so shaken and ghastly that I was glad to give him a present and
let him go. For my own part, I made a point of staying out the
time--two years--for which I had taken Brentwood; but I did not renew
my tenancy. By that time we had settled, and found for ourselves a
pleasant home of our own.
I must add, that when the Doctor defies me, I can always bring back
gravity to his countenance, and a pause in his railing, when I remind him
of the juniper-bush. To me that was a matter of little importance. I
could believe I was mistaken. I did not care about it one way or other;
but on his mind the effect was different. The miserable voice, the spirit
in pain, he could think of as the result of ventriloquism, or
reverberation, or--anything you please: an elaborate prolonged hoax,
executed somehow by the tramp that had found a lodging in the old tower;
but the juniper-bush staggered him. Things have effects so different on
the minds of different men.
II
THE PORTRAIT