We left Finster St. Mabyn's towards the middle of July.
Nothing worth recording happened during the last few weeks. If
the ghostly drama were still re-enacted night after night, or only
during some portion of each month, we took care not to assist at the
performance. I believe Phil and Nugent planned another vigil, but gave
it up by my father's expressed wish, and on one pretext or another he
managed to keep the gallery locked off without arousing any suspicion in
my mother or Sophy, or any of our visitors.
It was a cold summer,--those early months of it at least--and that made
it easier to avoid the room.
Somehow none of us were sorry to go. This was natural, so far as
several were concerned, but rather curious as regarded those of the
family who knew no drawback to the charms of the place. I suppose it was
due to some instinctive consciousness of the influence which so many of
the party had felt it impossible to resist or explain.
And the Rectory at Raxtrew was really a dear little place. It was so
bright and open and sunny. Dormy's pale face was rosy with pleasure the
first afternoon when he came rushing in to tell us that there were tame
rabbits and a pair of guinea-pigs in an otherwise empty loose box in the
stable-yard.
"Do come and look at them," he begged, and I went with him, pleased to
see him so happy.
I did not care for the rabbits, but I always think guinea-pigs rather
fascinating, and we stayed playing with them some little time.
"I'll show you another way back into the house," said Dormy, and he led
me through a conservatory into a large, almost unfurnished room, opening
again into a tiled passage leading to the offices.
"This is the Warden boys' playroom," he said. "They keep their cricket
and football things here, you see, and their tricycle. I wonder if I
might use it?"
"We must write and ask them," I said. "But what are all these big
packages?" I went on. "Oh, I see, its our heavy luggage from Finster.
There is not room in this house for our odds and ends of furniture, I
suppose. It's rather a pity they have put it in here, for we could have
had some nice games in this big room on a wet day, and see, Dormy, here
are several pairs of roller skates! Oh, we must have this place
cleared."
We spoke to father about it--he came and looked at the room and agreed
with us that it would be a pity not to have the full use of it. Roller
skating would be good exercise for Dormy, he said, and even for Nat, who
would be joining us before long for his holidays.
So our big cases, and the chairs and tables we had bought from Hunter,
in their careful swathings of wisps and matting, were carried out to an
empty barn--a perfectly dry and weather-tight barn--for everything at
the Rectory was in excellent repair. In this, as in all other details,
our new quarters were a complete contrast to the picturesque abode we
had just quitted.
The weather was charming for the first two or three weeks--much warmer
and sunnier than at Finster. We all enjoyed it, and seemed to breathe
more freely. Miss Larpent, who was staying through the holidays this
year, and I congratulated each other more than once, when sure of not
being overheard, on the cheerful, wholesome atmosphere in which we found
ourselves.
"I do not think I shall ever wish to live in a very old house again,"
she said one day. We were in the play-room, and I had been persuading
her to try her hand--or feet--at roller skating. "Even now," she went
on, "I own to you, Leila, though it may sound very weak-minded, I cannot
think of that horrible night without a shiver. Indeed, I could fancy I
feel that thrill of indescribable cold at the present moment."
She _was_ shivering--and, extraordinary to relate, as she spoke, her
tremor communicated itself to me. Again, I could swear to it, again I
felt that blast of unutterable, unearthly cold.
I started up. We were seated on a bench against the wall--a bench
belonging to the play-room, and which we had not thought of removing, as
a few seats were a convenience.
Miss Larpent caught sight of my face. Her own, which was very white,
grew distressed in expression. She grasped my arm.
"My dearest child," she exclaimed, "you look blue, and your teeth are
chattering! I do wish I had not alluded to that fright we had. I had no
idea you were so nervous."
"I did not know it myself," I replied. "I often think of the Finster
ghost quite calmly, even in the middle of the night. But just then, Miss
Larpent, do you know, I really _felt_ that horrid cold again!"
"So did I--or rather my imagination did," she replied, trying to talk in
a matter-of-fact way. She got up as she spoke, and went to the window.
"It can't be _all_ imagination," she added. "See, Leila, what a gusty,
stormy day it is--not like the beginning of August. It really is cold."
"And this play-room seems nearly as draughty as the gallery at Finster,"
I said. "Don't let us stay here--come into the drawing-room and play
some duets. I wish we could quite forget about Finster."
"Dormy has done so, I hope," said Miss Larpent.
That chilly morning was the commencement of the real break-up in the
weather. We women would not have minded it so much, as there are always
plenty of indoor things we can find to do. And my two grown-up brothers
were away. Raxtrew held no particular attractions for them, and Phil
wanted to see some of our numerous relations before he returned to
India. So he and Nugent started on a round of visits. But, unluckily,
it was the beginning of the public school holidays, and poor Nat--the
fifteen-year-old boy--had just joined us. It was very disappointing
for him in more ways than one. He had set his heart on seeing Finster,
impressed by our enthusiastic description of it when we first went
there, and now his anticipations had to come down to a comparatively
tame and uninteresting village, and every probability--so said the
wise--of a stretch of rainy, unsummerlike weather.
Nat is a good-natured, cheery fellow, however--not nearly as clever or
as impressionable as Dormy, but with the same common sense. So he wisely
determined to make the best of things, and as we were really sorry for
him, he did not, after all, come off very badly.
His principal amusement was roller-skating in the play-room. Dormy had
not taken to it in the same way--the greater part of _his_ time was
spent with the rabbits and guinea-pigs, where Nat, when he himself had
had skating enough, was pretty sure to find him.
I suppose it is with being the eldest sister that it always seems my
fate to receive the confidences of the rest of the family, and it was
about this time, a fortnight or so after his arrival, that it began to
strike me that Nat looked as if he had something on his mind.
"He is sure to tell me what it is, sooner or later," I said to myself.
"Probably he has left some small debts behind him at school--only he did
not look worried or anxious when he first came home."
The confidence was given. One afternoon Nat followed me into the
library, where I was going to write some letters, and said he wanted to
speak to me. I put my paper aside and waited.
"Leila," he began, "you must promise not to laugh at me."
This was not what I expected.
"Laugh at you--no, certainly not," I replied, "especially if you are in
any trouble. And I have thought you were looking worried, Nat."
"Well, yes," he said, "I don't know if there is anything coming over
me--I feel quite well, but--Leila," he broke off, "do you believe in
ghosts?"
I started.
"Has any one----" I was beginning rashly, but the boy interrupted me.
"No, no," he said eagerly, "no one has put anything of the kind into my
head--no one. It is my own senses that have seen--felt it--or else, if
it is fancy, I must be going out of my mind, Leila--I do believe there
is a ghost here _in the play-room_."
I sat silent, an awful dread creeping over me, which, as he went on,
grew worse and worse. Had the thing--the Finster shadow--attached itself
to us--I had read of such cases--had it journeyed with us to this
peaceful, healthful house? The remembrance of the cold thrill
experienced by Miss Larpent and myself flashed back upon me. And Nat
went on.
Yes, the cold was the first thing he had been startled by, followed,
just as in the gallery of our old castle, by the consciousness of the
terrible shadow-like presence, gradually taking form in the moonlight.
For there had been moonlight the last night or two, and Nat, in his
skating ardour, had amused himself alone in the play-room after Dormy
had gone to bed.
"The night before last was the worst," he said. "It stopped raining,
you remember, Leila, and the moon was very bright--I noticed how it
glistened on the wet leaves outside. It was by the moonlight I saw
the--the shadow. I wouldn't have thought of skating in the evening but
for the light, for we've never had a lamp in there. It came round the
walls, Leila, and then it seemed to stop and fumble away in one
corner--at the end where there is a bench, you know."
Indeed I did know; it was where our governess and I had been sitting.
"I got so awfully frightened," said Nat honestly, "that I ran off. Then
yesterday I was ashamed of myself, and went back there in the evening
with a candle. But I saw nothing: the moon did not come out. Only--I
felt the cold again. I believe it was there--though I could not see it.
Leila, what _can_ it be? If only I could make you understand! It is so
_much_ worse than it sounds to tell."
I said what I could to soothe him. I spoke of odd shadows thrown by the
trees outside swaying in the wind, for the weather was still stormy. I
repeated the time-worn argument about optical illusions, etc., etc.,
and in the end he gave in a little. It _might_ have been his fancy.
And he promised me most faithfully to breathe no hint--not the very
faintest--of the fright he had had, to Sophy or Dormy, or any one.
Then I had to tell my father. I really shrank from doing so, but there
seemed no alternative. At first, of course, he pooh-poohed it at once by
saying Dormy must have been talking to Nat about the Finster business,
or if not Dormy, _some one_--Miss Larpent even! But when all such
explanations were entirely set at nought, I must say poor father looked
rather blank. I was sorry for him, and sorry for myself--the idea of
being _followed_ by this horrible presence was too sickening.
Father took refuge at last in some brain-wave theory--involuntary
impressions had been made on Nat by all of us, whose minds were still
full of the strange experience. He said he felt sure, and no doubt he
tried to think he did, that this theory explained the whole. I felt glad
for him to get any satisfaction out of it, and I did my best to take it
up too. But it was no use. I felt that Nat's experience had been an
"objective" one, as Miss Larpent expressed it--or, as Dormy had said at
the first at Finster: "No, no, sister--it's something _there_--it's
nothing to do with _me_."
And earnestly I longed for the time to come for our return to our own
familiar home.
"I don't think I shall ever wish to leave it again," I thought.
But after a week or two the feeling began to fade again. And father very
sensibly discovered that it would not do to leave our spare furniture
and heavy luggage in the barn--it was getting all dusty and cobwebby. So
it was all moved back again to the play-room, and stacked as it had been
at first, making it impossible for us to skate or amuse ourselves in any
way there, at which Sophy grumbled, but Nat did not.
Father was very good to Nat. He took him about with him as much as he
could to get the thought of that horrid thing out of his head. But yet
it could not have been half as bad for Nat as for the rest of us, for
we took the greatest possible precautions against any whisper of the
dreadful and mysterious truth reaching him, that the ghost had _followed
us_ from Finster.
Father did not tell Mr. Miles or Jenny about it. They had been worried
enough, poor things, by the trouble at Finster, and it would be too bad
for them to think that the strange influence was affecting us in the
_second_ house we had taken at their recommendation.
"In fact," said father with a rather rueful smile, "if we don't take
care, we shall begin to be looked upon askance as a haunted family! Our
lives would have been in danger in the good old witchcraft days."
"It is really a mercy that none of the servants have got hold of the
story," said Miss Larpent, who was one of our council of three. "We must
just hope that no further annoyance will befall us till we are safe at
home again."
Her hopes were fulfilled. Nothing else happened while we remained at the
Rectory--it really seemed as if the unhappy shade was limited locally,
in one sense. For at Finster, even, it had never been seen or felt save
in the one room.
The vividness of the impression of poor Nat's experience had almost died
away when the time came for us to leave. I felt now that I should rather
enjoy telling Phil and Nugent about it, and hearing what _they_ could
bring forward in the way of explanation.
We left Raxtrew early in October. Our two big brothers were awaiting us
at home, having arrived there a few days before us. Nugent was due at
Oxford very shortly.
It was very nice to be in our own house again, after several months'
absence, and it was most interesting to see how the alterations,
including a good deal of new papering and painting, had been carried
out. And as soon as the heavy luggage arrived we had grand consultations
as to the disposal about the rooms of the charming pieces of furniture
we had picked up at Hunter's. Our rooms are large and nicely shaped,
most of them. It was not difficult to make a pretty corner here and
there with a quaint old chair or two and a delicate spindle-legged
table, and when we had arranged them all--Phil, Nugent, and I, were the
movers--we summoned mother and Miss Larpent to give their opinion.
They quite approved, mother even saying that she would be glad of a few
more odds and ends.
"We might empower Janet Miles," she said, "to let us know if she sees
anything very tempting. Is that really all we have? They looked so much
more important in their swathings."
The same idea struck me. I glanced round.
"Yes," I said, "that's all, except--oh, yes, there are the tapestry
"_portieres_"--the best of all. We can't have them in the drawing-room,
I fear. It is too modern for them. Where shall we hang them?"
"You are forgetting, Leila," said mother. "We spoke of having them in
the hall. They will do beautifully to hang before the two side doors,
which are seldom opened. And in cold weather the hall is draughty,
though nothing like the gallery at Finster."
Why did she say that? It made me shiver, but then, of course, she did
not know.
Our hall is a very pleasant one. We sit there a great deal. The side
doors mother spoke of are second entrances to the dining-room and
library--quite unnecessary, except when we have a large party, a dance
or something of that sort. And the "_portieres_" certainly seemed the
very thing, the mellow colouring of the tapestry showing to great
advantage. The boys--Phil and Nugent, I mean--set to work at once, and
in an hour or two the hangings were placed.
"Of course," said Philip, "if ever these doors are to be opened, this
precious tapestry must be taken down, or very carefully looped back. It
is very worn in some places, and in spite of the thick lining it should
be tenderly handled. I am afraid it has suffered a little from being so
long rolled up at the Rectory. It should have been hung up!"
Still, it looked very well indeed, and when father, who was away at some
magistrates' meeting, came home that afternoon, I showed him our
arrangements with pride.
He was very pleased.
"Very nice--very nice indeed," he said, though it was almost too dusk
for him to judge quite fully of the effect of the tapestry. "But, dear
me, child, this hall is very cold. We must have a larger fire. Only
October! What sort of a winter are we going to have?"
He shivered as he spoke. He was standing close to one of the
"_portieres_"--smoothing the tapestry half absently with one hand. I
looked at him with concern.
"I _hope_ you have not got a chill, papa," I said.
But he seemed all right again when we went into the library, where tea
was waiting--an extra late tea for his benefit.
The next day Nugent went to Oxford. Nat had already returned to school.
So our home party was reduced to father and mother, Miss Larpent, Phil
and I, and the children.
We were very glad to have Phil settled at home for some time. There was
little fear of his being tempted away, now that the shooting had begun.
We were expecting some of our usual guests at this season; the weather
was perfect autumn weather; we had thrown off all remembrance of
influenza and other depressing "influences," and were feeling bright
and cheerful, when again--ah, yes, even now it gives me a faint, sick
sensation to recall the horror of that _third_ visitation!
But I must tell it simply, and not give way to painful remembrances.
It was the very day before our first visitors were expected that the
blow fell, the awful fear made itself felt. And, as before, the victim
was a new one--the one who, for reasons already mentioned, we had
specially guarded from any breath of the gruesome terror--poor little
Sophy!
What she was doing alone in the hall late that evening I cannot quite
recall--yes, I think I remember her saying she had run downstairs when
half-way up to bed, to fetch a book she had left there in the afternoon.
She had no light, and the one lamp in the hall--we never sat there after
dinner--was burning feebly. _It was bright moonlight._
I was sitting at the piano, where I had been playing in a rather sleepy
way--when a sudden touch on my shoulder made me start, and, looking up,
I saw my sister standing beside me, white and trembling.
"Leila," she whispered, "come with me quickly. I don't want mamma to
notice."
For mother was still nervous and delicate.
The drawing-room is very long, and has two or three doors. No-one else
was at our end. It was easy to make our way out unperceived. Sophy
caught my hand and hurried me upstairs without speaking till we reached
my own room, where a bright fire was burning cheerfully.
Then she began.
"Leila," she said, "I have had such an awful fright. I did not want to
speak until we were safe up here."
"What was it?" I exclaimed breathlessly. Did I already suspect the
truth? I really do not know, but my nerves were not what they had been.
Sophy gasped and began to tremble. I put my arm round her.
"It does not sound so bad," she said. "But--oh, Leila, what _could_ it
be? It was in the hall," and then I think she explained how she had come
to be there. "I was standing near the side door into the library that we
never use--and--all of a sudden a sort of darkness came along the wall,
and seemed to settle on the door--where the old tapestry is, you know.
I thought it was the shadow of something outside, for it was bright
moonlight, and the windows were not shuttered. But in a moment I saw it
could not be that--there is nothing to throw such a shadow. It seemed
to wriggle about--like--like a monstrous spider, or--" and there she
hesitated--"almost like a deformed sort of human being. And all at once,
Leila, my breath went and I fell down. I really did. I was _choked_ with
cold. I think my senses went away, but I am not sure. The next thing I
remember was rushing across the hall and then down the south corridor to
the drawing-room, and then I was so thankful to see you there by the
piano."
I drew her down on my knee, poor child.
"It was very good of you, dear," I said, "to control yourself, and not
startle mamma."
This pleased her, but her terror was still uppermost.
"Leila," she said piteously, "can't you explain it? I did so hope you
could."
What _could_ I say?
"I--one would need to go to the hall and look well about to see what
could cast such a shadow," I said vaguely, and I suppose I must
involuntarily have moved a little, for Sophy started, and clutched me
fast.
"Oh, Leila, don't go--you don't mean you are going now?" she entreated.
Nothing truly was farther from my thoughts, but I took care not to say
so.
"I won't leave you if you'd rather not," I said, "and I tell you what,
Sophy, if you would like very much to sleep here with me to-night, you
shall. I will ring and tell Freake to bring your things down and undress
you--on one condition."
"What?" she said eagerly. She was much impressed by my amiability.
"That you won't say _one word_ about this, or give the least shadow of a
hint to any one that you have had a fright. You don't know the trouble
it will cause."
"Of course I will promise to let no one know, if you think it better,
for you are so kind to me," said Sophy. But there was a touch of
reluctance in her tone. "You--you mean to do something about it though,
Leila," she went on. "I shall never be able to forget it if you don't."
"Yes," I said, "I shall speak to father and Phil about it to-morrow.
If any one has been trying to frighten us," I added unguardedly, "by
playing tricks, they certainly must be exposed."
"Not _us_," she corrected, "it was only me," and I did not reply. Why I
spoke of the possibility of a trick I scarcely know. I had no hope of
any such explanation.
But another strange, almost incredible idea was beginning to take shape
in my mind, and with it came a faint, very faint touch of relief. Could
it be not the _houses_, nor the _rooms_, nor, worst of all, we ourselves
that were haunted, but something or things among the old furniture we
had bought at Raxtrew?
And lying sleepless that night a sudden flash of illumination struck
me--could it--whatever the "it" was--could it have something to do with
the tapestry hangings?
The more I thought it over the more striking grew the coincidences. At
Finster it had been on one of the closed doors that the shadow seemed
to settle, as again here in our own hall. But in both cases the
"_portieres_" had hung in front!
And at the Rectory? The tapestry, as Philip had remarked, had been there
rolled up all the time. Was it possible that it had never been taken out
to the barn at all? What _more_ probable than that it should have been
left, forgotten, under the bench where Miss Larpent and I had felt
for the second time that hideous cold? And, stay, something else was
returning to my mind in connection with that bench. Yes--I had it--Nat
had said "it seemed to stop and fumble away in one corner--at the end
where there is a bench, you know."
And then to my unutterable thankfulness at last I fell asleep.