"There has been a gentleman to look at the house, sir, this afternoon,"
said Mrs. Stott to me, when, wet and tired, I arrived, a few evenings
after my interview with Miss Elmsdale, at River Hall.
"To look at the house!" I repeated. "Why, it is not to let."
"I know that, sir, but he brought an order from Mr. Craven's office to
allow him to see over the place, and to show him all about. For a widow
lady from the country, he said he wanted it. A very nice gentleman, sir;
only he did ask a lot of questions, surely--"
"What sort of questions?" I inquired.
"Oh! as to why the tenants did not stop here, and if I thought there was
anything queer about the place; and he asked how you liked it, and how
long you were going to stay; and if you had ever seen aught strange in
the house.
"He spoke about you, sir, as if he knew you quite well, and said you
must be stout-hearted to come and fight the ghosts all by yourself. A
mighty civil, talkative gentleman--asked me if I felt afraid of living
here, and whether I had ever met any spirits walking about the stairs
and passages by themselves."
"Did he leave the order you spoke of just now behind him?"
"Yes, sir. He wanted me to give it back to him; but I said I must keep
it for you to see. So then he laughed, and made the remark that he
supposed, if he brought the lady to see the place, I would let him in
again. A pleasant-spoken gentleman, sir--gave me a shilling, though I
told him I did not require it."
Meantime I was reading the order, written by Taylor, and dated two
years back.
"What sort of looking man was he?" I asked.
"Well, sir, there was not anything particular about him in any way.
Not a tall gentleman, not near so tall as you, sir; getting into
years, but still very active and light-footed, though with something
of a halt in his way of walking. I could not rightly make out what it
was; nor what it was that caused him to look a little crooked when you
saw him from behind.
"Very lean, sir; looked as if the dinners he had eaten done him no good.
Seemed as if, for all his pleasant ways, he must have seen trouble, his
face was so worn-like."
"Did he say if he thought the house would suit?" I inquired.
"He said it was a very nice house, sir, and that he imagined anybody not
afraid of ghosts might spend two thousand a year in it very comfortably.
He said he should bring the lady to see the place, and asked me
particularly if I was always at hand, in case he should come tolerably
early in the morning."
"Oh!" was my comment, and I walked into the dining-room, wondering what
the meaning of this new move might be; for Mrs. Stott had described, to
the best of her ability, the man who stood watching our offices in
London; and--good heavens!--yes, the man I had encountered in the lane
leading to River Hall, when I went to the Uninhabited House, after
Colonel Morris' departure.
"That is the man," thought I, "and he has some close, and deep, and
secret interest in the mystery associated with this place, the origin of
which I must discover."
Having arrived at this conclusion, I went to bed, for I had caught a bad
cold, and was aching from head to foot, and had been sleeping ill, and
hoped to secure a good night's rest.
I slept, it is true, but as for rest, I might as well, or better, have
been awake. I fell from one dream into another; found myself wandering
through impossible places; started in an agony of fear, and then dozed
again, only to plunge into some deeper quagmire of trouble; and through
all there was a vague feeling I was pursuing a person who eluded all my
efforts to find him; playing a terrible game of hide-and-seek with a man
who always slipped away from my touch, panting up mountains and running
down declivities after one who had better wind and faster legs than I;
peering out into the darkness, to catch a sight of a vague figure
standing somewhere in the shadow, and looking, with the sun streaming
into my eyes and blinding me, adown long white roads filled with a
multitude of people, straining my sight to catch a sight of the coming
traveller, who yet never came.
When I awoke thoroughly, as I did long and long before daybreak, I knew
I was ill. I had a bad sore throat and an oppression at my chest which
made me feel as if I was breathing through a sponge. My limbs ached more
than had been the case on the previous evening whilst my head felt
heavier than a log of teak.
"What should I do if I were to have a bad illness in that house?" I
wondered to myself, and for a few minutes I pondered over the expediency
of returning home; but this idea was soon set aside.
Where could I go that the Uninhabited House would not be a haunting
presence? I had tried running away from it once before, and found it
more real to me in the King's Road, Brighton, than on the banks of the
Thames. No!--ill or well, I would stay on; the very first night of my
absence might be the night of possible explanation.
Having so decided, I dressed and proceeded to the office, remaining
there, however, only long enough to write a note to Mr. Craven, saying I
had a very bad cold, and begging him to excuse my attendance.
After that I turned my steps to Munro's lodgings. If it were possible
to avert an illness, I had no desire to become invalided in Mr.
Elmsdale's Hall.
Fortunately, Munro was at home and at dinner. "Just come in time, old
fellow," he said, cheerily. "It is not one day in a dozen you would have
found me here at this hour. Sit down, and have some steak. Can't
eat--why, what's the matter, man? You don't mean to say you have got
another nervous attack. If you have, I declare I shall lodge a complaint
against you with Mr. Craven."
"I am not nervous," I answered; "but I have caught cold, and I want you
to put me to rights."
"Wait till I have finished my dinner," he replied; and then he proceeded
to cut himself another piece of steak--having demolished which, and seen
cheese placed on the table, he said:
"Now, Harry, we'll get to business, if you please. Where is this cold
you were talking about?"
I explained as well as I could, and he listened to me without
interruption. When I had quite finished, he said:
"Hal Patterson, you are either becoming a hypochondriac, or you are
treating me to half confidences. Your cold is not worth speaking about.
Go home, and get to bed, and take a basin of gruel, or a glass of
something hot, after you are in bed, and your cold will be well in the
morning. But there is something more than a cold the matter with you.
What has come to you, to make a few rheumatic pains and a slight sore
throat seem of consequence in your eyes?"
"I am afraid of being ill," I answered.
"Why are you afraid of being ill? why do you imagine you are going to be
ill? why should you fall ill any more than anybody else?"
I sat silent for a minute, then I said, "Ned, if I tell you, will you
promise upon your honour not to laugh at me?"
"I won't, if I can help it. I don't fancy I shall feel inclined to
laugh," he replied.
"And unless I give you permission, you will not repeat what I am going
to tell you to anyone?"
"That I can safely promise," he said. "Go on."
And I went on. I began at the beginning and recited all the events
chronicled in the preceding pages; and he listened, asking no questions,
interposing no remark.
When I ceased speaking, he rose and said he must think over the
statements I had made.
"I will come and look you up to-night, Patterson," he observed. "Go home
to River Hall, and keep yourself quiet. Don't mention that you feel ill.
Let matters go on as usual. I will be with you about nine. I have an
appointment now that I must keep."
Before nine Munro appeared, hearty, healthy, vigorous as usual.
"If this place were in Russell Square," he said, after a hasty glance
round the drawing-room, "I should not mind taking a twenty-one years'
lease of it at forty pounds a year, even if ghosts were included in the
fixtures."
"I see you place no credence in my story," I said, a little stiffly.
"I place every credence in your story," was the reply. "I believe you
believe it, and that is saying more than most people could say nowadays
about their friends' stories if they spoke the truth."
It was of no use for me to express any further opinion upon the matter.
I felt if I talked for a thousand years I should still fail to convince
my listener there was anything supernatural in the appearances beheld at
River Hall. It is so easy to pooh-pooh another man's tale; it is
pleasant to explain every phenomenon that the speaker has never
witnessed; it is so hard to credit that anything absolutely
unaccountable on natural grounds has been witnessed by your dearest
friend, that, knowing my only chance of keeping my temper and preventing
Munro gaining a victory over me was to maintain a discreet silence, I
let him talk on and strive to account for the appearances I had
witnessed in his own way.
"Your acquaintance of the halting gait and high shoulder may or might
have some hand in the affair," he finished. "My own opinion is he has
not. The notion that you are being watched, is, if my view of the
matter be correct, only a further development of the nervous excitement
which has played you all sort of fantastic tricks since you came to
this house. If anyone does wander through the gardens, I should set him
down as a monomaniac or an intending burglar, and in any case the very
best thing you can do is to pack up your traps and leave River Hall to
its fate."
I did not answer; indeed, I felt too sick at heart to do so. What he
said was what other people would say. If I could not evolve some clearer
theory than I had yet been able to hit on, I should be compelled to
leave the mystery of River Hall just as I had found it. Miss Blake had,
I knew, written to Mr. Craven that the house had better be let again, as
there "was no use in his keeping a clerk there in free lodgings for
ever": and now came Ned Munro, with his worldly wisdom, to assure me
mine was a wild-goose chase, and that the only sensible course for me to
pursue was to abandon it altogether. For the first time, I felt
disheartened about the business, and I suppose I showed my
disappointment, for Munro, drawing his chair nearer to me, laid a
friendly hand on my shoulder and said:
"Cheer up, Harry! never look so downhearted because your nervous system
has been playing you false. It was a plucky thing to do, and to carry
out; but you have suffered enough for honour, and I should not continue
the experiment of trying how much you can suffer, were I in your shoes."
"You are very kind, Munro," I answered; "but I cannot give up. If I had
all the wish in the world to leave here to-night, a will stronger than
my own would bring me back here to-morrow. The place haunts me. Believe
me, I suffer less from its influence, seated in this room, than when I
am in the office or walking along the Strand."
"Upon the same principle, I suppose, that a murderer always carries the
memory of his victim's face about with him; though he may have felt
callously indifferent whilst the body was an actual presence."
"Precisely," I agreed.
"But then, my dear fellow, you are not a murderer in any sense of the
word. You did not create the ghosts supposed to be resident here."
"No; but I feel bound to find out who did," I answered.
"That is, if you can, I suppose?" he suggested.
"I feel certain I shall," was the answer. "I have an idea in my mind,
but it wants shape. There is a mystery, I am convinced, to solve which,
only the merest hint is needed."
"There are a good many things in this world in the same position, I
should say," answered Munro. "However, Patterson, we won't argue about
the matter; only there is one thing upon which I am determined--after
this evening, I will come and stay here every night. I can say I am
going to sleep out of town. Then, if there are ghosts, we can hunt them
together; if there are none, we shall rest all the better. Do you agree
to that?" and he held out his hand, which I clasped in mine, with a
feeling of gratitude and relief impossible to describe.
As he said, I had done enough for honour; but still I could not give
up, and here was the support and help I required so urgently, ready
for my need.
"I am so much obliged," I said at last.
"Pooh! nonsense!" he answered. "You would do as much or more for me any
day. There, don't let us get sentimental. You must not come out, but,
following the example of your gallant Colonel Morris, I will, if you
please, smoke a cigar in the garden. The moon must be up by this time."
I drew back the curtains and unfastened the shutter, which offered
egress to the grounds, then, having rung for Mrs. Stott to remove the
supper-tray, I sat down by the fire to await Munro's return, and began
musing concerning the hopelessness of my position, the gulf of poverty
and prejudice and struggle that lay between Helena and myself.
I was determined to win her; but the prize seemed unattainable as the
Lord Mayor's robes must have appeared to Whittington, when he stood at
the foot of Highgate Hill; and, prostrated as I was by that subtle
malady to which as yet Munro had given no name, the difficulties grew
into mountains, the chances of success dwarfed themselves into
molehills.
Whilst thus thinking vaguely, purposelessly, but still most miserably, I
was aroused from reverie by the noise of a door being shut cautiously
and carefully--an outer door, and yet one with the sound of which I was
unacquainted.
Hurrying across the hall, I flung the hall-door wide, and looked out
into the night. There was sufficient moonlight to have enabled me to
discern any object moving up or down the lane, but not a creature was in
sight, not a cat or dog even traversed the weird whiteness of that
lonely thoroughfare.
Despite Munro's dictum, I passed out into the night air, and went down
to the very banks of the Thames. There was not a boat within hail. The
nearest barge lay a couple of hundred yards from the shore.
As I retraced my steps, I paused involuntarily beside the door, which
led by a separate entrance to the library.
"That is the door which shut," I said to myself, pressing my hand gently
along the lintel, and sweeping the hitherto unbroken cobwebs away as I
did so. "If my nerves are playing me false this time, the sooner their
tricks are stopped the better, for no human being opened this door, no
living creature has passed through it."
Having made up my mind on which points, I re-entered the house, and
walked into the drawing-room, where Munro, pale as death, stood draining
a glass of neat brandy.
"What is the matter?" I cried, hurriedly. "What have you seen, what--"
"Let me alone for awhile," he interrupted, speaking in a thick, hoarse
whisper; then immediately asked, "Is that the library with the windows
nearest the river?"
"Yes," I answered.
"I want to go into that room," he said, still in the same tone.
"Not now," I entreated. "Sit down and compose yourself; we will go into
it, if you like, before you leave."
"Now, now--this minute," he persisted. "I tell you, Patterson, I must
see what is in it."
Attempting no further opposition, I lit a couple of candles, and giving
one into his hand, led the way to the door of the library, which I
unlocked and flung wide open.
To one particular part Munro directed his steps, casting the light
from his candle on the carpet, peering around in search of something
he hoped, and yet still feared, to see. Then he went to the shutters
and examined the fastenings, and finding all well secured, made a
sign for me to precede him out of the room. At the door he paused,
and took one more look into the darkness of the apartment, after
which he waited while I turned the key in the lock, accompanying me
back across the hall.
When we were once more in the drawing-room, I renewed my inquiry as to
what he had seen; but he bade me let him alone, and sat mopping great
beads of perspiration off his forehead, till, unable to endure the
mystery any longer, I said:
"Munro, whatever it may be that you have seen, tell me all, I entreat.
Any certainty will be better than the possibilities I shall be conjuring
up for myself."
He looked at me wearily, and then drawing his hand across his eyes, as
if trying to clear his vision, he answered, with an uneasy laugh:
"It was nonsense, of course. I did not think I was so imaginative, but I
declare I fancied I saw, looking through the windows of that now utterly
dark room, a man lying dead on the floor."
"Did you hear a door shut?" I inquired.
"Distinctly," he answered; "and what is more, I saw a shadow flitting
through the other door leading out of the library, which we found, if
you remember, bolted on the inside."
"And what inference do you draw from all this?"
"Either that some one is, in a to me unintelligible way, playing a very
clever game at River Hall, or else that I am mad."
"You are no more mad than other people who have lived in this house,"
I answered.
"I don't know how you have done it, Patterson," he went on, unheeding my
remark. "I don't, upon my soul, know how you managed to stay on here. It
would have driven many a fellow out of his mind. I do not like leaving
you. I wish I had told my landlady I should not be back. I will, after
this time; but to-night I am afraid some patient may be wanting me."
"My dear fellow," I answered, "the affair is new to you, but it is not
new to me. I would rather sleep alone in the haunted house, than in a
mansion filled from basement to garret, with the unsolved mystery of
this place haunting me."
"I wish you had never heard of, nor seen, nor come near it," he
exclaimed, bitterly; "but, however, let matters turn out as they will, I
mean to stick to you, Patterson. There's my hand on it."
And he gave me his hand, which was cold as ice--cold as that of one
dead.
"I am going to have some punch, Ned," I remarked. "That is, if you will
stop and have some."
"All right," he answered. "Something 'hot and strong' will hurt neither
of us, but you ought to have yours in bed. May I give it to you there?"
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed, and we drew our chairs close to the fire, and,
under the influence of a decoction which Ned insisted upon making
himself, and at making which, indeed, he was much more of an adept than
I, we talked valiantly about ghosts and their doings, and about how our
credit and happiness were bound up in finding out the reason why the
Uninhabited House was haunted.
"Depend upon it, Hal," said Munro, putting on his coat and hat,
preparatory to taking his departure, "depend upon it that unfortunate
Robert Elmsdale must have been badly cheated by some one, and sorely
exercised in spirit, before he blew out his brains."
To this remark, which, remembering what he had said in the middle of the
day, showed the wonderful difference that exists between theory and
practice, I made no reply.
Unconsciously, almost, a theory had been forming in my own mind, but I
felt much corroboration of its possibility must be obtained before I
dare give it expression.
Nevertheless, it had taken such hold of me that I could not shake off
the impression, which was surely, though slowly, gaining ground, even
against the dictates of my better judgment.
"I will just read over the account of the inquest once again," I
decided, as I bolted and barred the chain after Munro's departure; and
so, by way of ending the night pleasantly, I took out the report, and
studied it till two, chiming from a neighbouring church, reminded me
that the fire was out, that I had a bad cold, and that I ought to have
been between the blankets and asleep hours previously.