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Uncanny Tales
BY MRS MOLESWORTH
LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO
Paternoster Row
FRED HYLAND
TO
AN OTHERWISE UNACKNOWLEDGED "COLLABORATEUR"
IN THESE STORIES,
J. C. P.
19 SUMNER PLACE, S.W.,
_October, 1896._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT 1
"THE MAN WITH THE COUGH" 82
"HALF-WAY BETWEEN THE STILES" 112
AT THE DIP OF THE ROAD 141
"---- WILL NOT TAKE PLACE" 153
THE CLOCK THAT STRUCK THIRTEEN 183
UNCANNY TALES.
THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT.
PART I.
We never thought of Finster St. Mabyn's being haunted. We really never
did.
This may seem strange, but it is absolutely true. It was such an
extremely interesting and curious place in many ways that it required
nothing extraneous to add to its attractions. Perhaps this was the
reason.
Now-a-days, immediately that you hear of a house being "very old," the
next remark is sure to be "I hope it is"--or "is not"--that depends on
the taste of the speaker--"haunted".
But Finster was more than very old; it was _ancient_ and, in a modest
way, historical. I will not take up time by relating its history,
however, or by referring my readers to the chronicles in which mention
of it may be found. Nor shall I yield to the temptation of describing
the room in which a certain royalty spent one night, if not two or three
nights, four centuries ago, or the tower, now in ruins, where an even
more renowned personage was imprisoned for several months. All these
facts--or legends--have nothing to do with what I have to tell. Nor,
strictly speaking, has Finster itself, except as a sort of prologue to
my narrative.
We heard of the house through friends living in the same county, though
some distance farther inland. They--Mr. and Miss Miles, it is convenient
to give their name at once--knew that we had been ordered to leave our
own home for some months, to get over the effects of a very trying
visitation of influenza, and that sea-air was specially desirable.
We grumbled at this. Seaside places are often so dull and commonplace.
But when we heard of Finster we grumbled no longer.
"Dull" in a sense it might be, but assuredly not "commonplace". Janet
Miles's description of it, though she was not particularly clever at
description, read like a fairy tale, or one of Longfellow's poems.
"A castle by the sea--how perfect!" we all exclaimed. "Do, oh, do fix
for it, mother!"
The objections were quickly over-ruled. It was rather isolated, said
Miss Miles, standing, as was not difficult to trace in its name, on a
point of land--a corner rather--with sea on two sides. It had not been
lived in, save spasmodically, for some years, for the late owner was one
of those happy, or unhappy people, who have more houses than they can
use, and the present one was a minor. Eventually it was to be overhauled
and some additions and alterations made, but the trustees would be glad
to let it at a moderate rent for some months, and had intended putting
it into some agents' hands when Mr. Miles happened to meet one of them,
who mentioned it to him. There was nothing against it; it was absolutely
healthy. But the furniture was old and shabby, and there was none too
much of it. If we wanted to have visitors we should certainly require to
add to it. This, however, could easily be done, our informant went on to
say. There was a very good upholsterer and furniture dealer at Raxtrew,
the nearest town, who was in the habit of hiring out things to the
officers at the fort. "Indeed," she added, "we often pick up charming
old pieces of furniture from him for next to nothing, so you could both
hire and buy."
Of course, we should have visitors--and our own house would not be the
worse for some additional chairs and tables here and there, in place of
some excellent monstrosities Phil and Nugent and I had persuaded mother
to get rid of.
"If I go down to spy the land with father," I said, "I shall certainly
go to the furniture dealer's and have a good look about me."
I did go with father. I was nineteen--it is four years ago--and a
capable sort of girl. Then I was the only one who had not been ill,
and mother had been the worst of all, mother and Dormy--poor little
chap--for _he_ nearly died.
He is the youngest of us--we are four boys and two girls. Sophy was then
fifteen. My own name is Leila.
If I attempted to give any idea of the impression Finster St. Mabyn's
made upon us, I should go on for hours. It simply took our breath away.
It really felt like going back a few centuries merely to enter within
the walls and gaze round you. And yet we did not see it to any advantage,
so at least said the two Miles's who were our guides. It was a gloomy
day, with the feeling of rain not far off, early in April. It might have
been November, though it was not cold.
"You can scarcely imagine what it is on a bright day," said Janet,
eager, as people always are in such circumstances, to show off her
_trouvaille_. "The lights and shadows are so exquisite."
"I love it as it is," I said. "I don't think I shall ever regret having
seen it first on a grey day. It is just perfect."
She was pleased at my admiration, and did her utmost to facilitate
matters. Father was taken with the place, too, I could see, but he
hummed and hawed a good deal about the bareness of the rooms--the
bedrooms especially. So Janet and I went into it at once in a
business-like way, making lists of the actually necessary additions,
which did not prove very formidable after all.
"Hunter will manage all that _easily_," said Miss Miles, upon which
father gave in--I believe he had meant to do so all the time. The rent
was really so low that a little furniture-hire could be afforded, I
suggested. And father agreed.
"It is extremely low," he said, "for a place possessing so many
advantages."
But even then it did not occur to any of us to suggest "suspiciously
low".
We had the Miles's guarantee for it all, to begin with. Had there been
any objection they must have known it.
We spent the night with them and the next morning at the furniture
dealer's. He was a quick, obliging little man, and took in the situation
at a glance. And _his_ terms were so moderate that father said to me
amiably: "There are some quaint odds and ends here, Leila. You might
choose a few things, to use at Finster in the first place, and then to
take home with us."
I was only too ready to profit by the permission, and with Janet's
help a few charmingly quaint chairs and tables, a three-cornered wall
cabinet, and some other trifles were soon put aside for us. We were just
leaving, when at one end of the shop some tempting-looking draperies
caught my eye.
"What are these?" I asked the upholsterer. "Curtains! Why, this is real
old tapestry!"
The obliging Hunter drew out the material in question.
"They are not exactly curtains, miss," he said. "I thought they would
make nice _portieres_. You see the tapestry is set into cloth. It was so
frail when I got it that it was the only thing to do with it."
He had managed it very ingeniously. Two panels, so to say, of old
tapestry, very charming in tone, had been lined and framed with dull
green cloth, making a very good pair of _portieres_ indeed.
"Oh, papa!" I cried, "do let us have these. There are sure to be
draughty doors at Finster, and afterwards they would make _perfect_
"_portieres_" for the two side doors in the hall at home."
Father eyed the tapestry appreciatively, but first prudently inquired
the price. It seemed higher in proportion than Hunter's other charges.
"You see, sir," he said half apologetically, "the panels are real
antique work, though so much the worse for wear."
"Where did they come from?" asked father.
Hunter hesitated.
"To tell you the truth, sir," he replied, "I was asked not to name the
party that I bought it from. It seems a pity to part with _h_eir-looms,
but--it happens sometimes--I bought several things together of a family
quite lately. The _portieres_ have only come out of the workroom this
morning. We hurried on with them to stop them fraying more--you see
where they were before, they must have been nailed to the wall."
Janet Miles, who was something of a connoisseur, had been examining the
tapestry.
"It is well worth what he asks," she said, in a low voice. "You don't
often come across such tapestry in England."
So the bargain was struck, and Hunter promised to see all that we had
chosen, both purchased and hired, delivered at Finster the week before
we proposed to come.
Nothing interfered with our plans. By the end of the month we found
ourselves at our temporary home--all of us except Nat, our third
brother, who was at school. Dormer, the small boy, still did lessons
with Sophy's governess. The two older "boys," as we called them,
happened to be at home from different reasons--one, Nugent, on leave
from India; Phil, forced to miss a term at college through an attack
of the same illness which had treated mother and Dormy so badly.
But now that everybody was well again, and going to be very much better,
thanks to Finster air, we thought the ill wind had brought us some very
distinct good. It would not have been half such fun had we not been a
large family party to start with, and before we had been a week at the
place we had added to our numbers by the first detachment of the guests
we had invited.
It was not a very large house; besides ourselves we had not room for
more than three or four others. For some of the rooms--those on the top
story--were really too dilapidated to suit any one but rats--"rats or
ghosts," said some one laughingly one day, when we had been exploring
them.
Afterwards the words returned to my memory.
We had made ourselves very comfortable, thanks to the invaluable Hunter.
And every day the weather grew milder and more spring-like. The woods on
the inland side were full of primroses. It promised to be a lovely
season.
There was a gallery along one side of the house, which soon became a
favourite resort; it made a pleasant lounging-place, in the day-time
especially, though less so in the evening, as the fireplace at one end
warmed it but imperfectly, and besides this it was difficult to light
up. It was draughty, too, as there was a superfluity of doors, two of
which, one at each end, we at once condemned. They were not needed, as
the one led by a very long spiral staircase, to the unused attic rooms,
the other to the kitchen and offices. And when we did have afternoon
tea in the gallery, it was easy to bring it through the dining or
drawing-rooms, long rooms, lighted at their extreme ends, which ran
parallel to the gallery lengthways, both of which had a door opening on
to it as well as from the hall on the other side. For all the principal
rooms at Finster were on the first-floor, not on the ground-floor.
The closing of these doors got rid of a great deal of draught, and, as I
have said, the weather was really mild and calm.
One afternoon--I am trying to begin at the beginning of our strange
experiences; even at the risk of long-windedness it seems better to do
so--we were all assembled in the gallery at tea-time. The "children,"
as we called Sophy and Dormer, much to Sophy's disgust, and their
governess, were with us, for rules were relaxed at Finster, and Miss
Larpent was a great favourite with us all.
Suddenly Sophy gave an exclamation of annoyance.
"Mamma," she said, "I wish you would speak to Dormer. He has thrown
over my tea-cup--only look at my frock!" "If you cannot sit still," she
added, turning herself to the boy, "I don't think you should be allowed
to come to tea here."
"What is the matter, Dormy?" said mother.
Dormer was standing beside Sophy, looking very guilty, and rather white.
"Mamma," he said, "I was only drawing a chair out. It got so dreadfully
cold where I was sitting, I really could not stay there," and he
shivered slightly.
He had been sitting with his back to one of the locked-up doors. Phil,
who was nearest, moved his hand slowly across the spot.
"You are fanciful, Dormy," he said, "there is really no draught
whatever."
This did not satisfy mother.
"He must have got a chill, then," she said, and she went on to question
the child as to what he had been doing all day, for, as I have said, he
was still delicate.
But he persisted that he was quite well, and no longer cold.
"It wasn't exactly a draught," he said, "it was--oh! just icy, all of a
sudden. I've felt it before--sitting in that chair."
Mother said no more, and Dormer went on with his tea, and when bed-time
came he seemed just as usual, so that her anxiety faded. But she made
thorough investigation as to the possibility of any draught coming up
from the back stairs, with which this door communicated. None was to be
discovered--the door fitted fairly well, and beside this, Hunter had
tacked felt round the edges--furthermore, one of the thick heavy
_portieres_ had been hung in front.
An evening or two later we were sitting in the drawing room after
dinner, when a cousin who was staying with us suddenly missed her fan.
"Run and fetch Muriel's fan, Dormy," I said, for Muriel felt sure it had
slipped under the dinner table. None of the men had as yet joined us.
"Why, where are you going, child?" as he turned towards the farther
door. "It is much quicker by the gallery."
He said nothing, but went out, walking rather slowly, by the gallery
door. And in a few minutes he returned, fan in hand, but by the _other_
door.
He was a sensitive child, and though I wondered what he had got into his
head against the gallery, I did not say anything before the others. But
when, soon after, Dormy said "Good night," and went off to bed, I
followed him.
"What do you want, Leila?" he said rather crossly.
"Don't be vexed, child," I said. "I can see there is something the
matter. Why do you not like the gallery?"
He hesitated, but I had laid my hand on his shoulder, and he knew I
meant to be kind.
"Leila," he said, with a glance round, to be sure that no one was within
hearing--we were standing, he and I, near the inner dining-room door,
which was open--"you'll laugh at me, but--there's something queer
there--sometimes!"
"What? And how do you mean 'sometimes'?" I asked, with a slight thrill
at his tone.
"I mean not always, I've felt it several times--there was the cold the
day before yesterday, and besides that, I've felt a--a sort of
_breaving_"--Dormy was not perfect in his "th's"--"like somebody very
unhappy."
"Sighing?" I suggested.
"Like sighing in a whisper," he replied, "and that's always near the
door. But last week--no, not so long ago, it was on Monday--I went round
that way when I was going to bed. I didn't want to be silly. But it was
moonlight--and--Leila, a shadow went all along the wall on that side,
and stopped at the door. I saw it waggling about--its _hands_," and here
he shivered--"on that funny curtain that hangs up, as if it were feeling
for a minute or two, and then----"
"Well,--what then?"
"It just went out," he said simply. "But it's moonlight again to-night,
sister, and I daren't see it again. I just _daren't_."
"But you did go to the dining-room that way," I reminded him.
"Yes, but I shut my eyes and ran, and even then I felt as if something
cold was behind me."
"Dormy, dear," I said, a good deal concerned, "I do think it's your
fancy. You are not _quite_ well yet, you know."
"Yes, I am," he replied sturdily. "I'm not a bit frightened anywhere
else. I sleep in a room alone you know. It's not _me_, sister, its
somefing in the gallery."
"Would you be frightened to go there with me now? We can run through the
dining-room; there's no one to see us," and I turned in that direction
as I spoke.
Again my little brother hesitated.
"I'll go with you if you'll hold hands," he said, "but I'll shut my
eyes. And I won't open them till you tell me there's no shadow on the
wall. You must tell me truly."
"But there must be some shadows," I said, "in this bright moonlight,
trees and branches, or even clouds scudding across--something of that
kind is what you must have seen, dear."
He shook his head.
"No, no, of course I wouldn't mind that. I know the difference. No--you
couldn't mistake. It goes along, right along, in a creeping way, and
then at the door its hands come farther out, and it _feels_."
"Is it like a man or a woman?" I said, beginning to feel rather creepy
myself.
"I think it's most like a rather little man," he replied, "but I'm not
sure. Its head has got something fuzzy about it--oh, I know, like a
sticking out wig. But lower down it seems wrapped up, like in a cloak.
Oh, it's _horrid_."
And again he shivered--it was quite time all this nightmare nonsense was
put out of his poor little head.
I took his hand and held it firmly; we went through the dining-room.
Nothing could have looked more comfortable and less ghostly. For the
lights were still burning on the table, and the flowers in their silver
bowls, some wine gleaming in the glasses, the fruit and pretty dishes,
made a pleasant glow of colour. It certainly seemed a curiously sudden
contrast when we found ourselves in the gallery beyond, cold and
unillumined, save by the pale moonlight streaming through the
unshuttered windows. For the door closed with a bang as we passed
through--the gallery _was_ a draughty place.
Dormy's hold tightened.
"Sister," he whispered, "I've shut my eyes now. You must stand with
your back to the windows--between them, or else you'll think it's our
own shadows--and watch."
I did as he said, and I had not long to wait.
It came--from the farther end, the second condemned door, whence the
winding stair mounted to the attics--it seemed to begin or at least
take form there. Creeping along, just as Dormy said--stealthily but
steadily--right down to the other extremity of the long room. And then
it grew blacker--more concentrated--and out from the vague outline came
two bony hands, and, as the child had said, too, you could see that they
were _feeling_--all over the upper part of the door.
I stood and watched. I wondered afterwards at my own courage, if courage
it was. It was the shadow of a small man, I felt sure. The head seemed
large in proportion, and--yes--it--the original of the shadow--was
evidently covered by an antique wig. Half mechanically I glanced
round--as if in search of the material body that _must_ be there. But
no; there was nothing, literally _nothing_, that could throw this
extraordinary shadow.
Of this I was instantly convinced; and here I may as well say once
for all, that never was it maintained by any one, however previously
sceptical, who had fully witnessed the whole, that it could be accounted
for by ordinary, or, as people say, "natural" causes. There was this
peculiarity at least about our ghost.
Though I had fast hold of his hand, I had almost forgotten Dormy--I
seemed in a trance.
Suddenly he spoke, though in a whisper.
"You see it, sister, I know you do," he said.
"Wait, wait a minute, dear," I managed to reply in the same tone, though
I could not have explained why I waited.
Dormer had said that after a time--after the ghastly and apparently
fruitless _feeling_ all over the door--"it"--"went out".
I think it was this that I was waiting for. It was not quite as he had
said. The door was in the extreme corner of the wall, the hinges almost
in the angle, and as the shadow began to move on again, it _looked_ as
if it disappeared; but no, it was only fainter. My eyes, preternaturally
sharpened by my intense gaze, still saw it, working its way round the
corner, as assuredly no _shadow_ in the real sense of the word ever did
nor could do. I realised this, and the sense of horror grew all but
intolerable; yet I stood still, clasping the cold little hand in mine
tighter and tighter. And an instinct of protection of the child gave me
strength. Besides, it was coming on so quickly--we could not have
escaped--it was coming, nay, it _was behind_ us.
"Leila!" gasped Dormy, "the cold--you feel it now?"
Yes, truly--like no icy breath that I had ever felt before was that
momentary but horrible thrill of utter cold. If it had lasted another
second I think it would have killed us both. But, mercifully, it passed,
in far less time than it has taken me to tell it, and then we seemed in
some strange way to be released.
"Open your eyes, Dormy," I said, "you won't see anything, I promise you.
I want to rush across to the dining-room."
He obeyed me. I felt there was time to escape before that awful presence
would again have arrived at the dining-room door, though it was
_coming_--ah, yes, it was coming, steadily pursuing its ghastly round.
And, alas! the dining-room door was closed. But I kept my nerve to some
extent. I turned the handle without over much trembling, and in another
moment, the door shut and locked behind us, we stood in safety, looking
at each other, in the bright cheerful room we had left so short a time
ago.
_Was_ it so short a time? I said to myself. It seemed hours!
And through the door open to the hall came at that moment the sound
of cheerful laughing voices from the drawing-room. Some one was coming
out. It seemed impossible, incredible, that within a few feet of the
matter-of-fact pleasant material life, this horrible inexplicable drama
should be going on, as doubtless it still was.
Of the two I was now more upset than my little brother. I was older and
"took in" more. He, boy-like, was in a sense triumphant at having proved
himself correct and no coward, and though he was still pale, his eyes
shone with excitement and a queer kind of satisfaction.
But before we had done more than look at each other, a figure appeared
at the open doorway. It was Sophy.
"Leila," she said, "mamma wants to know what you are doing with Dormy?
He is to go to bed at once. We saw you go out of the room after him,
and then a door banged. Mamma says if you are playing with him it's very
bad for him so late at night."
Dormy was very quick. He was still holding my hand, and he pinched it to
stop my replying.
"Rubbish!" he said. "I am speaking to Leila quietly, and she is coming
up to my room while I undress. Good night, Sophy."
"Tell mamma Dormy really wants me," I added, and then Sophy departed.
"We musn't tell _her_, Leila," said the boy. "She'd have 'sterics."
"Whom shall we tell?" I said, for I was beginning to feel very helpless
and upset.
"Nobody, to-night," he replied sensibly. "You _mustn't_ go in there,"
and he shivered a little as he moved his head towards the gallery;
"you're not fit for it, and they'd be wanting you to. Wait till the
morning and then I'd--I think I'd tell Philip first. You needn't be
frightened to-night, sister. It won't stop you sleeping. It didn't me
the time I saw it before."
He was right. I slept dreamlessly. It was as if the intense nervous
strain of those few minutes had utterly exhausted me.