“Lie down again, Jane--it is only your imagination. Every one is fast
asleep in bed.”
“I assure you, Arthur, I am not mistaken. Once they came quite near
the door.”
“If so, it can only be one of the servants. You don’t wish me to get
up and encounter Mary or Susan in her night-dress, do you? Consider my
morals!”
“Oh no, of course not,” she replied with a faint smile; yet it was
some time before she fell to sleep again.
It was not many nights before my wife roused me again with the same
complaint.
“Arthur, don’t call me silly, but I am _certain_ I heard something.”
To appease her fears, I shook off my drowsiness, and, with a lighted
candle, made a tour of the house; but all was as I had left it.
Once, indeed, I imagined that I heard at my side the sound of a quick
breathing; but that I knew must be sheer fancy, since I was alone.
The only circumstance that startled me was finding Dawson, the man
servant, who slept on the ground floor, also awake, and listening at
his door.
“What roused you, Dawson?”
“Well, sir, I can hardly say; but I fancied I heard some one going up
the stairs a little while ago.”
“You heard me coming down, you mean.”
“No, sir, begging your pardon, it was footsteps going up--lighter than
yours, sir. More like those of a woman.”
Yet, though I privately interrogated the female servants on the
following day, I could not discover that any of them had been out of
their beds; and I forbore to tell my wife what Dawson had said in
corroboration of her statement.
Only I was as much annoyed as astonished when, as I finished my
catechism of Mary, our head nurse, she informed me that she had made
up her mind to leave our service. Mary--my wife’s right hand--who had
been with us ever since the birth of our first child! The announcement
took me completely aback.
“What on earth is your reason for leaving us?” I demanded angrily; for
I knew what a blow her decision would be to Jane. “What have you to
find fault with?”
“Nothing with you or the mistress, sir; but I can’t remain in this
house. I wouldn’t stay in it a night longer, if it were possible to
get away; and I do hope you and Mrs. Delamere will let me go as soon
as ever you can, sir, as it will be the death of me.”
“What will be the death of you?”
“The footsteps, sir, and the voices,” she answered, crying. “I can
hear them about the nurseries all night long, and it’s more than any
mortal can stand--it is, indeed.”
“Are you infected with the same folly?” I exclaimed. “I see what it
is, Dawson has been talking to you. I didn’t know I had such a couple
of fools in my establishment.”
“Mr. Dawson has said nothing to me about nothing, sir,” she answered.
“I hear what I hear with my own ears; and I wouldn’t stay a week
longer in this ’aunted place, not if you was to strew the floor with
golden guineas for me.”
Not possessing either the capability or the inclination to test Mary’s
fidelity by the means she alluded to, and finding her determination
unalterable, I gave her the desired permission to depart; only making
it a stipulation that she should not tell her mistress the real reason
for her leaving us, but ascribe it to bad news from home, or any other
cause.
But though I could not but believe that the woman’s idiotic terrors
had blinded her judgment, I was extremely surprised to find she should
have been so led astray, as I had always considered Mary to possess a
remarkably clear head and good moral sense. The wailing and
lamentation, from both mother and children, at the announcement of her
departure made me still more angry with her obstinacy and folly. But
she continued resolute; and we were driven to try and secure some one
to fulfil her duties from the neighbouring town. But here a strange
difficulty met us. We saw several fresh, rosy-cheeked maidens, who
appeared quite willing to undertake our service, until they heard
where we resided, when by an extraordinary coincidence, one and all
discovered that some insurmountable obstacle prevented their coming at
all. When the same thing had occurred several times in succession, and
Jane appeared worn out with disappointment and fatigue, the landlord
of the inn where we had put up for the day appeared at the door, and
beckoned me out.
“May I make bold enough to ask if you want a servant to go to
Rushmere?” he inquired of me in a whisper.
“Certainly, we do. Our nurse has been obliged to leave us suddenly,
and we want some one to supply her place.”
“Then you may give it up as a bad job, sir; for you’ll never get one
of the country people here about to set a foot in Rushmere--not if you
were to live there till the day of your death.”
“And why not?” I demanded, with affected ignorance.
“What, haven’t you heard nothing since you’ve been there, sir?”
“Heard? What should I have heard, except the ordinary noises of the
household?”
“Well, you’re lucky if you’ve escaped so far,” returned the landlord,
mysteriously; “but it ain’t for long. No one who lives in Rushmere
lives there _alone_. I can tell you the whole story if you like?”
“I have no desire to listen to any such folly,” I replied, testily. “I
am not superstitious, and do not believe in supernatural sights or
sounds. If the people round about here are foolish enough to do so, I
cannot help it; but I will not have the minds of my wife or family
imbued with their nonsense.”
“Very good, sir; I hope you may be able to say as much two months
hence,” said the man, civilly.
And so we parted.
I returned to Janie, and persuaded her he had told me that all the
girls of that town had a strong objection to leave it, which was the
reason they refused to take service in the country. I reminded her
that Susan was quite competent to take charge of the whole flock until
we returned to London; and it would be better after all to put up with
a little inconvenience than to introduce a stranger to the nursery. So
my wife, who was disappointed with the failure of her enterprise, fell
in with my ideas, and we returned to Rushmere, determined to do as
best we could with Susan only.
But I could not forget the landlord’s earnestness, and,
notwithstanding my incredulity, began to wish we were well out of
Rushmere.
For a few days after Mary’s departure we slept in peace; but then the
question of the mysterious footsteps assumed a graver aspect, for my
wife and I were roused from deep slumber one night by a loud knock
upon the bedroom door, and springing up to answer it, I encountered,
on the threshold, Dawson, pale with fright, and trembling in every
limb.
“What do you mean by alarming your mistress in this way?” I inquired,
angrily.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he replied, with chattering teeth, “but I
thought it my duty to let you know. There’s some one in the house
to-night, sir. I can hear them whispering together at this moment; and
so can you, if you will but listen.”
I advanced at once to the banisters, and certainly heard what seemed
to be the sound of distant voices engaged in altercation; and, light
in hand, followed by Dawson, I dashed down the staircase without
further ceremony, in hopes of trapping the intruders.
But all in vain. Though we entered every room in turn, not a soul was
visible.
I came to the conclusion that the whole alarm was due to Dawson’s
cowardice.
“You contemptible fool, you are as chicken-hearted as a woman!” I
said, contemptuously. “You hear the frogs croaking in the mere, or the
wind blowing through the rushes, and you immediately conclude the
house is full of thieves.”
“I didn’t say it was thieves,” the man interposed, sullenly; but I
took no notice of the muttered remark.
“If you are afraid to sleep downstairs by yourself,” I continued, “say
so; but don’t come alarming your mistress again, in the middle of the
night, for I won’t allow it.”
The man slunk back into his room, with a reiteration that he had not
been mistaken; and I returned to bed, full of complaints at having
been so unnecessarily roused.
“If this kind of thing goes on,” I remarked to my wife,” I shall
regret ever having set eyes on Rushmere. That a pack of silly
maid-servants should see a robber in every bush is only to be
expected; but how a sensible man like Dawson, and a woman of education
like yourself, can permit your imagination to betray you into such
foolish fears, is quite past my comprehension.”
Yet, notwithstanding my dose of philosophy, poor Jane looked so pale
upon the following morning, that I was fain to devise and carry into
execution a little excursion into the neighbouring country before she
regained her usual composure.
Some time passed without any further disturbance, and though upon
several occasions I blamed myself for having brought a family, used to
a populous city like London, to vegetate in so isolated a spot as
Rushmere, I had almost forgotten the circumstances that had so much
annoyed me.
We had now spent a month in our temporary home. The fields and
hedgerows were bright with summer flowers, and the children passed
most of their time tumbling amongst the new-mown hay. Janie had once
more regained courage to sit by herself in the dusk, and to rest with
tolerable security when she went to bed. I was rejoicing in the idea
that all the folly that had marred the pleasure of our arrival at
Rushmere had died a natural death, when it was vividly and painfully
recalled to my mind by its actual recurrence.
Our second girl, a delicate little creature of about six years old,
who, since the departure of her nurse, had slept in a cot in the same
room as ourselves, woke me up in the middle of the night by
exclaiming, in a frightened, plaintive voice, close to my ear,--
“Papa! papa! do you hear the footsteps? Some one is coming up the
stairs!”
The tone was one of terror, and it roused my wife and myself
instantly. The child was cold, and shaking all over with alarm, and I
placed her by her mother’s side before I left the room to ascertain if
there was any truth in her assertion.
“Arthur, Arthur! I hear them as plainly as can be,” exclaimed my wife,
who was as terrified as the child. “They are on the second landing,
There is no mistake about it this time.”
I listened at the half-opened door, and was compelled to agree with
her. From whatever cause they arose, footsteps were to be distinctly
heard upon the staircase--sometimes advancing, and then retreating, as
though afraid to venture farther; but, still, not to be mistaken for
anything but the sound of feet.
With a muttered exclamation, I seized my revolver.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said, hurriedly; “there is not the slightest
occasion for it. And, whatever happens, do not venture on the landing.
I shall be quite safe.”
And without further preamble, only desirous to settle the business
once for all, and give the intruders on my domains a sharp lesson on
the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_, I sprang down the staircase. I had not
stayed to strike a light; but the moon was shining blandly in at the
uncurtained passage window, and the landing was as bright as day. Yet
I saw no one there. The thief (if thief it were) must have already
taken the alarm, and descended to the lowest regions. I fancied I
could detect the same footsteps, but more distinctly marked, walk by
me with a hurried, frightened movement, accompanied by a quick,
sobbing breath; and, as I paused to consider what such a mystery could
indicate, a pair of heavily-shod feet rushed past me, or seemed to
rush, upon the stairs. I heard an angry shout commingle with a faint
cry of terror below the landing whereon I stood; then, the discharge
of a firearm, followed by a low groan of pain--and all was still.
Dark and mysterious though it appeared to be, I did not dream of
ascribing the circumstance to any but a natural cause. But there was
evidently no time for hesitation, and in another moment I had flown
down the stairs, and stood in the moonlighted hall. It was empty!
Chairs, table, hatstand, stood in their accustomed places; the
children’s garden hats and my fishing tackle were strewn about; but of
animated nature there was not a sign, of the recent scuffle not a
trace!
All was quiet, calm, and undisturbed, and, as I gazed around in mute
bewilderment, the perspiration stood in thick drops upon my brow and
chin.
My first collected thought was for my wife and the best means by which
to prevent her sharing the mystification and dread which I have no
hesitation in confessing that I now experienced; but as I turned to
remount the staircase, I caught sight of some dark mass lying at the
further end of the passage, and going up to it, found to my surprise
the body of Dawson, cold and insensible.
The explanation of the mystery was before me--so I immediately
determined. The man, whom I knew to be replete with superstitious
terror, imagining he heard the unaccountable noise of footsteps, had
evidently supplied that which had reached my ear, and in his alarm at
my approach had discharged his firearm at the supposed marauder.
Pleasant for me if he had taken a better aim: So I thought as I
dragged his unconscious body into his bedroom, and busied myself by
restoring it to sensation.
As soon as he opened his eyes, and was sufficiently recovered to
answer me, I asked,--
“What on earth made you discharge your gun, Dawson? I must take it out
of your keeping, if you are so careless about using it.”
“I didn’t fire, sir.”
“Nonsense! you don’t know what you are talking about. I heard the shot
distinctly as I came downstairs.”
“I am only telling you the truth, sir. There is the fowling-piece in
that corner. I have not drawn the trigger since you last loaded it.”
I went up and examined the weapon. What Dawson had said was correct.
It had not been used.
“Then who did fire?” I said, impatiently. “I could swear to having
heard the report.”
“And so could I, sir. It was that that knocked me over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, sir, pray take the mistress and the children away from this place
as soon as possible. It’s no robbers that go up and down these stairs
of nights, sir. It’s something much worse than that.”
“Dawson, if you begin to talk such folly to me, I’ll discharge you on
the spot. I believe the whole lot of you have gone mad.”
“But listen to my story, sir. I had gone to bed last night, as tired
as possible, and thinking of nothing but getting a good long sleep.
The first thing that roused me was some one trying the handle of my
door. I lay and listened to it for some time before I was fully awake,
and then I thought maybe you wanted something out of my room, and was
trying not to wake me; so I got out of bed and opened the door. But
there was nobody there, though I fancied I heard some one breathing
hard a few yards off from me. Well, I thought to myself, sir, this is
all nonsense; so I came back to bed again, and lay down. But I
couldn’t sleep; for directly the door was closed, I heard the
footsteps again, creep, creeping along the passage and the wall, as
though some one was crouching and feeling his way as he went. Then the
handle of the door began to creak and turn again--I see it turn, sir,
with my own eyes, backwards and forwards, a dozen times in the
moonlight; and then I heard a heavier step come stumbling downstairs,
and there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. I couldn’t stand it no
longer, so I opened the door again; and then, as I’m a living
Christian, sir, I heard a woman’s voice say ‘Father!’ with a kind of
sob, and as the sound was uttered there came a report from the first
landing, and the sound of a fall, and a deep groan in the passage
below. And it seemed to go right through me, and curdle my blood, and
I fell all of a heap where you found me. And it’s nothing natural,
sir, you may take my word for it; and harm will come of your stopping
in this house.”
So saying, poor Dawson, who seemed in real earnest, fell back on his
pillow with a heavy sigh.
“Dawson,” I said, critically, “what did you eat for supper last
night?”
“You’re never going to put down what I’ve told you, sir, to supper. I
took nothing but a little cold meat, upon my word. And I was as
sensible, till that shot knocked me over, as you are this moment.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you seriously believe the report of a
firearm could have reached your ears without one having been
discharged?”
“But didn’t you say you heard it yourself, sir?”
This knocked me over, and I did not know what to answer him. In the
attempt to allay what I considered his unreasonable fear, I had
forgotten my own experience in the matter. And I knew that I had
heard, or imagined I heard, a shot fired, and it would be very
difficult for any one to persuade me I was mistaken. Still, though I
held no belief in supernatural agencies, I was an earnest student of
the philosophical and metaphysical school of Germany, and acquainted
with all the revealed wonders of magnetism and animal electricity. It
was impossible to say whether some such effect as I have described
might not have been produced upon my brain by the reflection of the
fear or fancy on that of my servant; and that as he had imagined the
concussion of firearms, so I might have instantaneously received the
impression of his mind. It was a nice question for argument, and not
one to be thought over at that moment. All my present business lay in
the effort to disabuse Dawson’s mind of the reality of the shock it
had received.
“I said I fancied I heard something like the report of a firearm; but
as none had been fired, of course I must have been mistaken. Come,
Dawson, I must go back, or Mrs. Delamere will wonder what has become
of me. I conclude you are not such a coward as to be afraid to be left
by yourself?”
“I never feared a man in my life, sir; but the strongest heart can’t
stand up against spirits.”
“Spirits!” I exclaimed, angrily. “I wonder what on earth you will talk
to me about next? Now, I’ll tell you what it is, Dawson--if I hear
anything more of this, or am disturbed again at night by your folly,
I’ll pack you back to London without a character. Do you understand
me?”
“I understand you, sir,” the man answered, humbly; and thereupon I
left him to himself.
But, as I reascended the staircase, I was not satisfied either with my
own half-formed solution of the mystery, or my servant’s reception of
my rebuke. He evidently would prefer dismissal to passing such another
night. I could read the resolution in his face, although he had not
expressed it in so many words. When I reached my wife’s room, I was
still more surprised. Janie and the child lay in a profound slumber. I
had expected to find both of them in a state of anxious terror to
learn the meaning of the noise that was going on below; but they had
evidently heard nothing. This welcome fact, however, only tended to
confirm me in the belief I had commenced to entertain, of the whole
circumstance being due to some, perhaps yet undiscovered, phase of
brain reading, and I fell to sleep, resolved to make a deeper study of
the marvels propounded by Mesmer and Kant. When I awoke, with the
bright June sun streaming in at the windows, I had naturally parted
with much of the impression of the night before. It is hard to
associate any gloomy or unnatural thoughts with the unlimited glory of
the summer’s sunshine, that streams into every nook and cranny, and
leaves no shadows anywhere. On this particular morning it seemed to
have cleared the cobwebs off all our brains. The child had forgotten
all about the occurrence of the night. I was, as usual, ready to laugh
away all ghostly fears and fancies; and even Janie seemed to regard
the matter as one of little moment.
“What was the matter last night, Arthur, dear?” she asked, when the
subject recurred to her memory. “I was so sleepy I couldn’t keep awake
till you came up again.”
“Didn’t you hear the fearful battle I held with the goblins in the
hall?” I demanded, gaily, though I put the question with a
purpose--“the shots that were exchanged between us, and the groans of
the defeated, as they slunk away into their haunted coal-cellars and
cupboards?”
“Arthur, what nonsense! Was there any noise?”
“Well, I frightened Dawson, and Dawson frightened me; and we squabbled
over it for the best part of an hour. I thought our talking might have
disturbed you.”
“Indeed, it didn’t, then. But don’t mention it before Cissy, Arthur,
even in fun, for she declares she heard some one walking about the
room, and I want her to forget it.”
I dropped the subject; but meeting Dawson as I was smoking my pipe in
the garden that afternoon, I ventured to rally him on his fright of
the night before, and to ask if he hadn’t got over it by that time.
“No, sir; and I never shall,” he replied, with a sort of shiver. “And
I only hope you may come to be convinced of the truth of it before
it’s too late to prevent harm you may never cease to repent of.”
There was so much respectful earnestness in the man’s manner, that I
could not resent his words nor laugh at them, as I had done before;
and I passed by him in thoughtful silence.
What if there were more in all this than I had ever permitted myself
to imagine? What if the assertions of my man-servant, the unaffected
terror of my wife and child, the fears of my nurse, the evident
shrinking of the old woman who had charge of the house, the opposition
from the servants of the neighbouring town, combined with what I had
heard myself, were not simple chimeras of the brain--fancies
engendered by superstition or timidity or ignorance; but indications
of a power beyond our control, the beginning and the end of which may
alike remain unknown until all things are revealed? I had, with the
majority of educated men, manfully resisted all temptation to believe
in the possibility of spirits, of whatever grade, making themselves
either seen or heard by mortal senses. I use the word “manfully,”
although I now believe it to be the height of manliness to refuse to
discredit that which we cannot disprove, and to have sufficient
humility to accept the belief that there are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. But at that juncture I
should have considered such a concession both childish and cowardly.
Yet, there was sufficient doubt in my mind, notwithstanding the
glorious June sun, respecting my adventure of the night before, that I
resolved, whatever happened, that I would satisfy myself as to the
value of the fears of those about me.
I could not keep my wife and children in a house where they might be
liable at any moment to be frightened out of their seven senses, from
whatever cause, without ascertaining the reason of it. Some reason
there must be, either natural or otherwise; and I determined, if
possible, to learn it that very night. I would not tell Dawson or
anyone of my intention; but I would keep watch and ward in the old
parlour on the ground floor, so as to be ready to rush out at a
moment’s notice, and seize any intruder who might attempt to disturb
us. I still believed--I could not but believe--that the footsteps
which so many of us had heard were due to some trickster, who wished
to play upon our nerves in that lonely old house. I had heard of such
things being done, purposely to keep visitors away; and I determined,
whosoever it might be, whether our own servants or strangers, that
they must take their chance of being shot down like any other robber.
According to my resolution, I said nothing to Janie, but tried to
render the evening as cheerful and merry a one as possible.
I ordered strawberries and cream into the hayfield, and played with my
troop of little ones there, until they were so tired they could hardly
walk for the short distance that lay between them and their beds. As
soon as they were dismissed, and we had returned to the house, I laid
aside the newspapers that had arrived by that morning’s post, and
which I usually reserved for the evening’s delectation, and taking my
wife upon my knee, as in the dear old courting days, talked to her
until she had forgotten everything but the topics on which we
conversed, and had no time to brood upon the coming night, and the
fears it usually engendered. Then, as a last duty, I carried to Dawson
with my own hands a strong decoction of brandy and water, with which
I had mixed something that I knew, under ordinary circumstances, must
make him sleep till daylight.
“Drink this,” I said to him. “From whatever cause, our nerves were
both shaken last night, and a little stimulant will do neither of us
harm.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, as he finished the tumbler at a draught;
“I don’t deny I’m glad to have it. I dread the thoughts of the night
before us.”
“Lock your door on the inside,” I added as I left him, “and don’t get
up whether the handle moves or not. Then, at all events, you will feel
secure till the morrow.”
“Keys won’t keep _them_ out,” muttered Dawson, as he entered his
sleeping apartment.
But I would not notice the allusion, though I understood it.
I went up to bed with my wife as usual; and it was not until I saw she
was sound asleep that, habited in my dressing-gown and slippers, I
ventured to creep softly out of the room and take my way downstairs
again.
It was then about twelve o’clock. The moonlight was as bright as it
had been the night before, and made every object distinctly visible.
From the loud snoring which proceeded from Dawson’s room, I concluded
that my opiate had taken due effect, and that I should be permitted to
hold my vigil undisturbed. In one hand I grasped a loaded revolver,
and in the other a huge knotted stick, so determined was I not to be
taken by my tormentors at a disadvantage. I turned into the general
sitting-room, which opened on the hall. All was as we had left it; and
I ensconced myself on one of the large old-fashioned sofas, trusting
to my curiosity to keep me awake.
It was weary waiting. I heard one and then two sound from the big
clock in the hall; still there was no other noise to break the
silence. I began to relapse into my first belief that the whole
business was due to imagination. From this I passed to
self-satisfaction; self-satisfaction induced inertion, and inertion
brought on heavy sleep. How long I slept I do not know, but I had
reason afterwards to think, not more than half-an-hour.
However, that point is immaterial. But what waked me--waked me so
completely that in a moment all my faculties were as clear as
daylight--was the sound of a hoarse breathing. I sat up on the sofa
and rubbed my eyes.
The room was fully lighted by the moon. I could see into each corner.
Nothing was visible. The sound I had heard must then have proceeded
from outside the door, which was open; and I turned towards it, fully
expecting to see Dawson enter in a somnambulistic condition, brought
on by his dreams and my soporific.
But he did not appear. I rose and looked into the hall. It was empty,
as before. Still the breathing continued, and (as I, with now
fully-awakened faculties, discovered) proceeded from a corner of the
parlour where stood an old-fashioned secretary and a chair. Not daring
to believe my senses, I advanced to the spot and listened attentively.
The sound continued, and was unmistakably palpable. The breathing was
hoarse and laboured, like that of an old man who was suffering from
bronchitis or asthma. Every now and then it was interrupted by a
short, roupy cough. What I suffered under this mysterious influence I
can hardly tell. Interest and curiosity got the better of my natural
horror; but even then I could not but feel that there was something
very awful in this strange contact of sound without sight. Presently
my eyes were attracted by the chair, which was pushed, without any
visible agency, towards the wall. Something rose--I could hear the
action of the feet. Something moved--I could hear it approaching the
spot where I stood motionless. Something brushed past me, almost
roughly--I could feel the contact of a cloth garment against my
dressing-gown, and heard the sound of coarsely shod feet leaving the
room. My hair was almost standing on end with terror; but I was
determined to follow the mystery to its utmost limits, whether my
curiosity were satisfied by the attempt or not.
I rushed after the clumping feet into the hall; and I heard them
slowly and painfully, and yet most distinctly, commence to toil up the
staircase. But before they had reached the first landing, and just as
I was about to follow in their wake, my attention was distracted by
another sound, which appeared to be close at my elbow--the sound of
which Dawson had complained the night before--that of a creeping step,
and a stifled sobbing, as though a woman were feeling her way along
the passage in the dark. I could discern the feeble touch as it felt
along the wall, and then placed an uncertain hold upon the
banisters--could hear the catching breath, which dared not rise into a
cry, and detect the fear which caused the feet to advance and retreat,
and advance a little way again, and then stop, as though dread of some
unknown calamity overpowered every other feeling. Meanwhile, the
clumping steps, that had died away in the distance, turned, and
appeared to be coming downstairs again. The moon streamed brightly in
at the landing window. Had a form been visible, it would have been as
distinctly seen as by day. I experienced a sense of coming horror, and
drew back in the shadow of the wall. As the heavy footsteps gained the
lower landing, I heard a start--a scuffle--a faint cry of “Father!”
and then a curse--the flash of a firearm--a groan--and I remember
nothing more.
When I recovered my consciousness, I was lying on the flat of my back
in the passage, as I had found poor Dawson the night before, and the
morning sun was shining full upon my face. I sat up, rubbed my eyes,
and tried to remember how I had come there. Surely the moon had looked
in at that window when I saw it last. Then in a moment came back upon
my mind all that I had heard whilst holding my vigil during the past
night; and I sprang to my feet, to see if I could discover any traces
of the tragedy which seemed to have been enacted in my very presence.
But it was in vain I searched the parlour, the passage, and the
stairs. Everything remained in its usual place. Even the chair, which
I could swear I saw pushed against the wall, was now standing primly
before the secretary, and the door of the room was closed, as it
usually was when we retired for the night. I slunk up to my
dressing-room, anxious that my wife should not discover that I had
never retired to rest; and having plunged my head and face into cold
water, took my way across the sunlighted fields, to see if the fresh
morning air might not be successful in clearing away the confusion
with which my brain was oppressed. But I had made up my mind on one
point, and that was that we would move out of Rushmere as soon as it
was possible to do so. After a stroll of a couple of hours, I
re-approached the house. The first person I encountered was the under
nurse, Susan, who ran to meet me with a perturbed countenance.
“Oh, sir, I’m so thankful you’ve come back! Dawson has been looking
for you for the last hour, for poor missus is so ill, and we don’t
know what on earth to do with her.”
“Ill! In what way?” I demanded quickly.
“That’s what we can’t make out, sir. Miss Cissy came up crying to the
nursery, the first thing this morning, to tell me that her mamma had
tumbled out of bed, and wouldn’t speak to her; and she couldn’t find
her papa. So I ran downstairs directly, sir; and there I found my
mistress on the ground, quite insensible, and she hasn’t moved a limb
since.”
“Good heavens!” I inwardly exclaimed, as I ran towards the house, “is
it possible she can have been affected by the same cause?”
I found Janie, as the nurse had said, unconscious; and it was some
time before my remedies had any effect on her. When she opened her
eyes, and understood the condition she had been in, she was seized
with such a fit of nervous terror that she could do nothing but cling
to me, and entreat me to take her away from Rushmere.
Remembering my own experience, I readily promised her that she should
not sleep another night in the house if she did not desire it. Soothed
by my words, she gradually calmed down, and was at last able to relate
the circumstance which had so terrified her.
“Did you sleep in my room last night, dear Arthur?” she asked,
curiously.
“I did not. But since you awoke, you surely must have been aware of my
absence.”
“I know nothing, and remember nothing, except the awful horror that
overpowered me. I had gone to sleep very happy last night, and none of
my silly fears, as you have called them, ever entered my head. Indeed,
I think I was in the midst of some pleasant dream, when I was awakened
by the sound of a low sobbing by the bedside. Oh, such a strange,
unearthly sobbing” (with a shudder). “I thought at first it must be
poor little Cissy, who had been frightened again, and I put out my
hand to her, saying,--
“‘Don’t be afraid, dear. I am here.’
“Directly, a hand was placed in mine--a cold, damp hand, with a
deathlike, clayey feel about it that made me tremble. I knew at once
it was not the child’s hand, and I started up in bed, exclaiming,--
“‘Who are you?’
“The room was quite dark, for I had pinned my shawl across the blind
to keep the moon out of my eyes before I went to bed, and I could
distinguish nothing. Yet still the cold, damp hand clung to mine, and
seemed to strike the chill of death into my very bones. When I said,
‘Who are you?’ something replied to me. I cannot say it was a voice.
It was more like some one hissing at me through closed teeth, but I
could distinguish the name ‘Emily.’
“I was so frightened, Arthur, I did not know what to do. I wrenched my
hand away from the dead hand. You were not there, and I called out
loudly. I would have leaped out of bed, but that I heard the creeping
footsteps, accompanied by the sobbing breath, go round the room,
crying, ‘Father, father!’
“My blood seemed to curdle in my veins. I could not stir until it was
gone. I heard it leave the room distinctly, although the door was
never opened, and walk upon the landing as though to go downstairs. I
was still sitting up in bed listening--listening--only waiting till
the dreadful thing had quite gone away, to seek your presence, when I
heard a heavy step clumping downstairs, then the report of a gun. I
don’t know _what_ I thought. I remember nothing that followed; but I
suppose I jumped out of bed with the intention of finding you, and
fainted before I could reach the dressing-room. Oh, Arthur! what was
it? What is it that haunts this house, and makes even the sunshine
look as gloomy as night? Oh, take us away from it, or I am sure that
something terrible will happen!”
“I _will_ take you away from it, my dear. We will none of us sleep
another night beneath its roof. What curse hangs over it, I cannot
tell; but whether the strange sounds we have heard proceed from
natural or supernatural causes, they alike render Rushmere no home for
us. We will go to the hotel at ---- this very day, Janie, and deliver
up the keys of Rushmere again to Messrs. Quibble & Lye.”
I then related to her my own experience, and that of Dawson; and
though she trembled a little whilst listening to me, the idea of
leaving the place before nightfall rendered the heavy fear less
alarming than it would otherwise have been.
The servants, upon learning the resolution we had arrived at, were
only too ready to help us to carry it out. Our personal possessions
were packed in an incredibly short time, and we sat down that evening
to a comfortable family dinner in the good old-fashioned inn at ----.
As soon as the meal was concluded, and the children sent to bed, I
said to my wife,--
“Janie, I am going to ring for the landlord, to see if he can throw
any light on the cause of our experiences. I never told you that, when
we came to this inn to try for a nurse to supply Mary’s place, he
informed me that nobody from his country-side would live at Rushmere;
and asked me, in a manner which assured me he could have said more if
he had chosen, if we had not heard anything whilst there. I laughed at
the question then, but I do not feel so disposed to laugh at it now;
and I am going to beg him to tell me all he may know. If nothing more,
his story may form the stratum of a curious psychological study. Would
you like to be present at our interview?”
“Oh yes, Arthur; I have quite recovered my nerves since I’ve lost
sight of Rushmere, and I feel even curious to learn all I can upon the
subject. That poor, sobbing voice that whispered ‘Emily’--I shall not
forget its sound to my dying day.”
“Ring the bell, dear, and let us ask if the landlord is at leisure. To
my mind, your experience of the details of this little tragedy appears
the most interesting of all.”
The landlord, a Mr. Browser, entered at once; and as soon as he heard
my request, made himself completely at home with us.
“After the little rebuff you gave me t’other day, I shouldn’t have
ventured to say nothing, sir; but when I see your family getting out
of the fly this afternoon, I says to Mrs. Browser, ‘If that don’t mean
that they can’t stand Rushmere another night, I’m a pumpkin.’ And I
suppose, now, it did mean it, sir?”
“You are quite right, Mr. Browser. The noises and voices about the
house have become so intolerable, that it is quite impossible I can
keep my family there. Still, I must tell you that, though I have been
unable to account for the disturbances, I do not necessarily believe
they are attributable to spirits. It is because I do not believe so
that I wish to hear all you may be able to tell us, in order, if
possible, to find a reason for what appears at present to be
unreasonable.”
“Well, sir, you shall hear, as you say, all we have to tell you, and
then you can believe what you like. But it ain’t I as can relate the
story, sir. Mrs. Browser knows a deal more than I do; and with your
leave, and that of this good lady here, I’ll call her to give you the
history of Rushmere.”
At this information, we displayed an amount of interest that resulted
in a hasty summons for Mrs. Browser. She was a fat, fair woman, of
middle age, with ruddy cheeks, and a clear blue eye--not at all like a
creature haunted by her own weak imagination, or who would be likely
to mistake a shadow for a substance. Her appearance inspired me with
confidence. I trusted that her relation might furnish me with some
clue to the solution of the occurrences that had so confounded us.
Safe out of the precincts of Rushmere, and with the lapse of twelve
hours since the unaccountable swoon I had been seized with, my
practical virtues were once more in the ascendant, and I was inclined
to attribute our fright to anything but association with the
marvellous.
“Be I to tell the story from the beginning, Browser?” was the first
sentence that dropped from Mrs. Browser’s lips.