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 “Goodnight,” 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 tonight, 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 anyone, 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. Someone 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, tonight,” 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 tonight, 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.
PART 2
Phil is our soldier brother. And there is nothing fanciful about him! He is a rock of sturdy commonsense and unfailing good nature. He was the very best person to confide our strange secret to, and my respect for Dormy increased.
We did tell him—the very next morning. He listened very attentively, only putting in a question here and there, and though, of course, he was incredulous—had I not been so myself?—he was not mocking.
“I am glad you have told no one else,” he said, when we had related the whole as circumstantially as possible. “You see mother is not very strong yet, and it would be a pity to bother father, just when he’s taken this place and settled it all. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let a breath of it get about among the servants; there’d be the—something to pay, if you did.”
“I won’t tell anybody,” said Dormy.
“Nor shall I,” I added. “Sophy is far too excitable, and if she knew, she would certainly tell Nannie.” Nannie is our old nurse.
“If we tell anyone,” Philip went on, “that means,” with a rather irritating smile of self-confidence, “if by any possibility I do not succeed in making an end of your ghost and we want another opinion about it, the person to tell would be Miss Larpent.”
“Yes,” I said, “I think so, too.”
I would not risk irritating him by saying how convinced I was that conviction awaited him as surely it had come to myself, and I knew that Miss Larpent, though far from credulous, was equally far from stupid scepticism concerning the mysteries “not dreamt of” in ordinary “philosophy”.
“What do you mean to do?” I went on. “You have a theory, I see. Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“I have two,” said Phil, rolling up a cigarette as he spoke. “It is either some queer optical illusion, partly the effect of some odd reflection outside—or it is a clever trick.”
“A trick!” I exclaimed; “what possible motive could there be for a trick?”
Phil shook his head.
“Ah,” he said, “that I cannot at present say.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I shall sit up tonight in the gallery and see for myself.”
“Alone?” I exclaimed, with some misgiving. For big, sturdy fellow as he was, I scarcely liked to think of him—of anyone— alone with that awful thing.
“I don’t suppose you or Dormy would care to keep me company,” he replied, “and on the whole I would rather not have you.”
“I wouldn’t do it,” said the child honestly, “not for—for nothing.”
“I shall keep Tim with me,” said Philip, “I would rather have him than anyone.”
Tim is Phil’s bull-dog, and certainly, I agreed, much better than nobody. So it was settled.
Dormy and I went to bed unusually early that night, for as the day wore on we both felt exceedingly tired. I pleaded a headache, which was not altogether a fiction, though I repented having complained at all when I found that poor mamma immediately began worrying herself with fears that “after all” I, too, was to fall a victim to the influenza.
“I shall be all right in the morning,” I assured her.
I knew no further details of Phil’s arrangements. I fell asleep almost at once. I usually do. And it seemed to me that I had slept a whole night when I was awakened by a glimmering light at my door, and heard Philip’s voice speaking softly.
“Are you awake, Lel?” he said, as people always say when they awake you in any untimely way. Of course, now I was awake, very much awake indeed.
“What is it?” I exclaimed eagerly, my heart beginning to beat very fast.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all,” said my brother, advancing a little into the room. “I just thought I’d look in on my way to bed to reassure you. I have seen nothing, absolutely nothing.”
I do not know if I was relieved or disappointed. “Was it moonlight?” I asked abruptly.
“No,” he replied, “unluckily the moon did not come out at all, though it is nearly at the full. I carried in a small lamp, which made things less eerie. But I should have preferred the moon.”
I glanced up at him. Was it the reflection of the candle he held, or did he look paler than usual?
“And,” I added suddenly, “did you feel nothing?”
He hesitated.
“It—it was chilly, certainly,” he said. “I fancy I must have dosed a little, for I did feel pretty cold once or twice.”
“Ah, indeed!” thought I to myself. “And how about Tim?” Phil smiled, but not very successfully.
“Well,” he said, “I must confess Tim did not altogether like it. He started snarling, then he growled, and finished up with whining in a decidedly unhappy way. He’s rather upset—poor old chap!”
And then I saw that the dog was beside him—rubbing up close to Philip’s legs—a very dejected, reproachful Tim—all the starch taken out of him.
“Goodnight, Phil,” I said, turning round on my pillow. “I’m glad you are satisfied. Tomorrow morning you must tell me which of your theories holds most water. Goodnight, and many thanks.”
He was going to say more, but my manner for the moment stopped him, and he went off.
Poor old Phil!
We had it out the next morning. He and I alone. He was not satisfied. Far from it. In the bottom of his heart I believe it was a strange yearning for a breath of human companionship, for the sound of a human voice, that had made him look in on me the night before.
For he had felt the cold passing him.
But he was very plucky.
“I’ll sit up again tonight, Leila,” he said.
“Not tonight,” I objected. “This sort of adventure requires one to be at one’s best. If you take my advice you will go to bed early and have a good stretch of sleep, so that you will be quite fresh by tomorrow. There will be a moon for some nights still.”
“Why do you keep harping on the moon?” said Phil rather crossly, for him.
“Because—I have some idea that it is only in the moonlight that—that anything is to be seen.”
“Bosh!” said my brother politely—he was certainly rather discomposed—“we are talking at cross-purposes. You are satisfied——”
“Far from satisfied,” I interpolated.
“Well, convinced, whatever you like to call it—that the whole thing is supernatural, whereas I am equally sure it i
s a trick; a clever trick I allow, though I haven’t yet got at the motive of it.”
“You need your nerves to be at their best to discover a trick of this kind, if a trick it be,” I said quietly.
Philip had left his seat, and walked up and down the room; his way of doing so gave me a feeling that he wanted to walk off some unusual consciousness of irritability. I felt half provoked and half sorry for him.
At that moment—we were alone in the drawing-room—the door opened, and Miss Larpent came in.
“I cannot find Sophy,” she said, peering about through her rather short-sighted eyes, which, nevertheless, see a great deal sometimes; “do you know where she is?”
“I saw her setting off somewhere with Nugent,” said Philip, stopping his quarter-deck exercise for a moment.
“Ah, then it is hopeless. I suppose I must resign myself to very irregular ways for a little longer,” Miss Larpent replied with a smile.
She is not young, and not good looking, but she is gifted with a delightful way of smiling, and she is—well, the dearest and almost the wisest of women.
She looked at Philip as he spoke. She had known us nearly since our babyhood.
“Is there anything the matter?” she said suddenly. “You look fagged, Leila, and Philip seems worried.”
I glanced at Philip. He understood me.
“Yes,” he replied, “I am irritated, and Leila is——” he hesitated.
“What?” asked Miss Larpent.
“Oh, I don’t know—obstinate, I suppose. Sit down, Miss Larpent, and hear our story. Leila, you can tell it.”
I did so—first obtaining a promise of secrecy, and making Phil relate his own experience.
Our new confidante listened attentively, her face very grave. When she had heard all, she said quietly, after a moment’s silence: —
“It’s very strange, very. Philip, if you will wait till tomorrow night, and I quite agree with Leila that you had better do so, I will sit up with you. I have pretty good nerves, and I have always wanted an experience of that kind.”
“Then you don’t think it is a trick?” I said eagerly. I was like Dormer, divided between my real underlying longing to explain the thing, and get rid of the horror of it, and a half childish wish to prove that I had not exaggerated its ghastliness.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 22