Chapter III: Part 3

The autumn had passed, and the winter tides had set in. Rosa Murray never rode upon the Corston marshes now—she was more pleasantly engaged traversing the leafless lanes with the young farmer from Wells. Most people would have thought the fireside a better place to mourn one’s dead by than out on the bleak marsh; yet Lizzie Locke, despite her cotton clothing and bare head, still took her way there every morning, her patient, sightless eyes refusing to reveal the depths of sorrow that lay beneath them. One day, however, Mrs Barnes felt disposed to be impatient with the girl. She had left the house at eight o’clock in the morning and had not returned home since, and now it was dark, and the neighbours began to say it was not safe that Lizzie should remain out alone on such a bitter night, and that her aunt should enforce her authority to prevent such lengthy rambles. Two or three of the men went out with lanterns to try and find her, but returned unsuccessful, and they supposed she must have taken shelter at some friend’s house for the night. Lizzie Locke knew the marshes well, they said (no one in Corston better), and would never be so foolish as to tempt Providence by traversing them in the dark, for the currents were at their worst now, and the quicksands were shifting daily. The logs and spars of a ruined wreck of a year before had all come to the surface again within a few days, and with them a keg of pork, preserved by the saline properties of the ground in which it had been treasured, so that its contents were as fresh as though they had been found yesterday. Inquiries were made for the blind girl throughout the village, but no one had seen anything of her, and all that her friends could do was to search for her the first thing in the morning, when a large party set out for Corston Point, Mrs Barnes amongst them. Their faces were sad, for they had little hope that the cruel tide had not crawled over the watching girl before she was aware of it, and carried her out to sea. But as they neared the Point they discovered something still crouched upon the sand.

‘It can’t be Lizzie,’ said the men, drawing closer to each other, though a bright, cold sun was shining over the February morning. ‘It can’t be nothing mortal, sitting there in the frost, with the icy waves lapping over its feet.’

But Mrs Barnes, who had rushed forward, waved her arms wildly, and called to them,—

‘_It’s him!_ It’s my Larry, washed up again by the sands; and poor Lizzie has found him out by the touch of her finger.’

The men ran up to the spot, and looked upon the sight before them. The corpse of Larry Barnes, with not so much as a feature changed by the hand of Time—with all his clothes intact and whole, and a bunch of samphire in his breast—lay out upon the shining sands, stiff as marble, but without any trace of decomposition upon his fresh young features and stalwart limbs.[1] And beside him, with her cheek bowed down upon his own, knelt Lizzie Locke. Lizzie, who had braved the winter’s frost, and withstood the cold of a February night, in order to watch beside the recovered body of her lover.

‘Lizzie!’ exclaimed Mrs Barnes. ‘Look up now; I’ve come to comfort thee! Let us thank Heaven that he’s found again, and the evil words they spoke of him must be took back.’

But the blind girl neither spoke nor stirred.

‘Can’t thee answer, my lass?’ said Isaac the poacher, as he shook her by the arm.

The answer that she made was by falling backwards and disclosing her fair, gentle face—white and rigid as her lover’s.

‘Merciful God! she is dead!’ they cried.

Yes, they were right. She was dead—she was at rest. What she had waited for she had found. What she had striven for she had gained. How many of us can say the same? Larry had been restored to her. The shifting quicksand had thrown him upon earth again, and had she not been there, his body might have been washed out to sea, and no further knowledge gained of his fate. But she had saved his dust for consecrated ground—more, she had saved his character for the healing of his mother’s heart. For in his breast there still reposed the bunch of samphire he had perilled his life to gather for the farmer’s daughter, and, grasped tight in his hand, they found the neckcloth of Lord Worcester’s gamekeeper—a crimson, silk neckcloth, recognised by all three—and which Larry had seized and held in the last deadly struggle. And the men of Corston looked on it and knew the truth—that their comrade was no murderer, but had fallen where he was found in a quarrel (probably pre-arranged) with Frederick Darley; and they cursed the gamekeeper in their hearts.

But Lizzie was at rest—happy Lizzie Locke! sleeping in the quiet churchyard at Corston, with her cheek pillowed on her Larry’s breast.

THE END.

[1] This is a fact, the corpse of a fisherman having been preserved in like manner for some nine months when buried in the salt marshes of Norfolk.

THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE.

‘On the banks of the Wye, Monmouthshire.—To be Let, furnished, a commodious Family Mansion, surrounded with park-like grounds. Stabling and every convenience. Only two and a-half miles from station, church, and post-office. Excellent fishing to be procured in the neighbourhood. Rent nominal to a responsible tenant.’

Such, with a few trifling additions, was the advertisement that caught my eye in the spring of 18—.

‘My dear Jane,’ I said, as I handed the paper over to my wife, ‘this, I think, is the very thing we want.’

I was a London practitioner, with a numerous family and a large circle of patients; but the two facts, though blessings in themselves, were not without their disadvantages.

The hostages which I had given to fortune had made that strenuous action which attention to my numerous patients supplied incumbent on me; but the consequent anxiety and want of rest had drawn so largely on my mental and physical resources, that there was no need for my professional brethren to warn me of the necessity of change and country air. I felt myself that I was breaking down, and had already made arrangements with a friend to take my practice for a few months, and set me at liberty to attend to my own health. And being passionately fond of fishing, and all country pleasures and pursuits, and looking forward with zest to a period of complete quiet, the residence alluded to (if it fulfilled the promise of its advertisement) appeared to be all that I could desire.

‘Park-like grounds!’ exclaimed my wife, with animation. ‘How the dear children will enjoy themselves.’

‘And two and a-half miles from church or station,’ I responded eagerly. ‘No neighbours, excellent fishing, and at a nominal rent. It sounds too good to be true.’

‘Oh, Arthur! you must write, and obtain all the particulars this very day. If you put it off, some one will be sure to take the house before we have time to do so.’

‘I shall go and see the city agents at once,’ I replied, resolutely. ‘It is too rare an opportunity to be lost. Only, don’t raise your hopes too high, my dear. Advertisements are apt to be deceptive.’

But when I had seen Messrs Quibble & Lye on the subject, it really seemed as though for once they had spoken the truth. Rushmere, the house in question, had been built and furnished for his own use by an old gentleman, who died shortly afterwards, and his heirs, not liking the situation, had placed the property in the agents’ hands for letting. The owners were wealthy, cared little for money, and had authorised the agents to let the house on any reasonable terms, and it was really a bargain to anyone that wanted it. They frankly admitted that the loneliness of the position of Rushmere was the reason of its cheapness; but when I heard the rent at which they offered to let me take it, if approved of, for three months, I was quite ready to agree with Messrs Quibble & Lye in their idea of a bargain, and that, for those who liked solitude, Rushmere offered extraordinary advantages.

Armed with the necessary authority, I found my way down into Monmouthshire, to inspect the premises on the following day; and when I saw Rushmere, I felt still more disposed to be surprised at the opportunity afforded me, and to congratulate myself on the promptitude with which I had embraced it. I found it to be a good-sized country house, comfortably furnished, and, to all appearance, well built, standing in enclosed grounds, and on a healthy elevation; but, notwithstanding its isolated situation, I was too much a man of the world to believe, under the circumstances, that its greatest disadvantage lay in that fact. Accordingly, I peered eagerly about for damp walls, covered cesspools, unsteady joists, or tottering foundations, but I could find none.

‘The chimneys smoke, I suppose?’ I remarked, in a would-be careless tone, to the old woman whom I found in charge of the house, and who crept after me where-ever I went.

‘Chimbleys smoke, sir? Not as I knows of.’

‘The roof leaks, perhaps?’

‘Deary me, no. You won’t find a spot of damp, look where you may.’

‘Then there’s been a fever, or some infectious disorder in the house?’

‘A fever, sir? Why, the place has been empty these six months. The last tenants left at Christmas.’

‘Empty for six months!’ I exclaimed. ‘How long is it, then, since the gentleman who built it died?’

‘Old Mr Bennett, sir? He’s been dead a matter of fifteen years or more.’

‘Indeed! Then why don’t the owners of the place sell it, instead of letting it stand vacant?’ thought I to myself.

But I did not say so to the old woman, who was looking up in my face, as though anxious to learn what my decision would be.

‘No vermin, I hope?’ I suggested, as a last resource. ‘You are not troubled with rats or mice at night, are you?’

‘Oh, I don’t sleep here at night, sir, thank heaven!’ she answered in a manner which appeared to me unnecessarily energetic. ‘I am only employed by day to air the house, and show it to strangers. I go home to my own people at night.’

‘And where do your people live?’

‘Better than half a mile from here, sir, and ours is the nearest cottage to Rushmere.’

And then—apprehensive, perhaps, that her information might prove a drawback to the letting of the property—she added, quickly,—

‘Not but what it’s a nice place to live in, is Rushmere, and very convenient, though a bit lonesome.’

I perfectly agreed with her, the ‘lonesomeness’ of the situation proving no detraction in my eyes.

On my return to London I gave my wife so glowing a description of the house and its surroundings, that she urged me to conclude the bargain at once; and, in the course of a few weeks, I and my family were transplanted from the purlieus of Bayswater to the banks of the Wye. It was the middle of May when we took possession, and the country wore its most attractive garb. The children were wild with delight at being let loose in the flower-bespangled fields, and, as I watched the tributaries of the river, and perceived the excellent sport they promised me, I felt scarcely less excited than the children. Only my wife, I thought, became inoculated with some of the absurd fears of the domestics we had brought with us from town, and seemed to consider the locality more lonely and unprotected than she had expected to find it.

‘It’s a charming place, Arthur,’ she acknowledged, ‘and marvellously cheap; but it is certainly a long way from other houses. I find we shall have to send for everything to the town. Not even the country carts, with butter and poultry, seem to call at Rushmere.’

‘My dear Jane, I told you distinctly that it was two and a-half miles from church or station, and you read it for yourself in the paper. But I thought we looked out for a retreat where we should run no risk of being intruded on by strangers.’

‘Oh yes, of course; only there are not even any farmhouses or cottages near Rushmere, you see; and it would be so very easy for anyone to break in at night, and rob us.’

‘Pooh, nonsense! What will you be afraid of next? The locks and bolts are perfectly secure, and both Dawson and I have firearms, and are ready to use them. Your fears are childish, Janie.’

But all my arguments were unavailing, and each day my wife grew more nervous, and less willing to be left alone. So much so, indeed, that I made a practice of seeing that the house fastenings were properly secured each night myself, and of keeping a loaded revolver close to my hand, in case of need. But it damped my pleasure to find that Jane was not enjoying herself; and the country looked less beautiful to me than it had done at first. One night I suddenly awoke, to find that she was sitting up in bed, and in an attitude of expectation.

‘My dear, what is the matter with you?’

‘Oh, hush! I am sure that I hear footsteps on the stairs—footsteps creeping up and down.’

I listened with her, but could detect no sound whatever.

‘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 your 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 saw 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 hay-field, 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 death-like, 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,—