Uncanny Tales Part 6

Indeed I did know; it was where our governess and I had been sitting.

"I got so awfully frightened," said Nat honestly, "that I ran off. Then yesterday I was ashamed of myself, and went back there in the evening with a candle. But I saw nothing: the moon did not come out. Only--I felt the cold again. I believe it was there--though I could not see it.

Leila, what _can_ it be? If only I could make you understand! It is so _much_ worse than it sounds to tell."

I said what I could to soothe him. I spoke of odd shadows thrown by the trees outside swaying in the wind, for the weather was still stormy. I repeated the time-worn argument about optical illusions, etc., etc., and in the end he gave in a little. It _might_ have been his fancy.

And he promised me most faithfully to breathe no hint--not the very faintest--of the fright he had had, to Sophy or Dormy, or any one.

Then I had to tell my father. I really shrank from doing so, but there seemed no alternative. At first, of course, he pooh-poohed it at once by saying Dormy must have been talking to Nat about the Finster business, or if not Dormy, _some one_--Miss Larpent even! But when all such explanations were entirely set at nought, I must say poor father looked rather blank. I was sorry for him, and sorry for myself--the idea of being _followed_ by this horrible presence was too sickening.

Father took refuge at last in some brain-wave theory--involuntary impressions had been made on Nat by all of us, whose minds were still full of the strange experience. He said he felt sure, and no doubt he tried to think he did, that this theory explained the whole. I felt glad for him to get any satisfaction out of it, and I did my best to take it up too. But it was no use. I felt that Nat's experience had been an "objective" one, as Miss Larpent expressed it--or, as Dormy had said at the first at Finster: "No, no, sister--it's something _there_--it's nothing to do with _me_."

And earnestly I longed for the time to come for our return to our own familiar home.

"I don't think I shall ever wish to leave it again," I thought.

But after a week or two the feeling began to fade again. And father very sensibly discovered that it would not do to leave our spare furniture and heavy luggage in the barn--it was getting all dusty and cobwebby. So it was all moved back again to the play-room, and stacked as it had been at first, making it impossible for us to skate or amuse ourselves in any way there, at which Sophy grumbled, but Nat did not.

Father was very good to Nat. He took him about with him as much as he could to get the thought of that horrid thing out of his head. But yet it could not have been half as bad for Nat as for the rest of us, for we took the greatest possible precautions against any whisper of the dreadful and mysterious truth reaching him, that the ghost had _followed us_ from Finster.

Father did not tell Mr. Miles or Jenny about it. They had been worried enough, poor things, by the trouble at Finster, and it would be too bad for them to think that the strange influence was affecting us in the _second_ house we had taken at their recommendation.

"In fact," said father with a rather rueful smile, "if we don't take care, we shall begin to be looked upon askance as a haunted family! Our lives would have been in danger in the good old witchcraft days."

"It is really a mercy that none of the servants have got hold of the story," said Miss Larpent, who was one of our council of three. "We must just hope that no further annoyance will befall us till we are safe at home again."

Her hopes were fulfilled. Nothing else happened while we remained at the Rectory--it really seemed as if the unhappy shade was limited locally, in one sense. For at Finster, even, it had never been seen or felt save in the one room.

The vividness of the impression of poor Nat's experience had almost died away when the time came for us to leave. I felt now that I should rather enjoy telling Phil and Nugent about it, and hearing what _they_ could bring forward in the way of explanation.

We left Raxtrew early in October. Our two big brothers were awaiting us at home, having arrived there a few days before us. Nugent was due at Oxford very shortly.

It was very nice to be in our own house again, after several months'

absence, and it was most interesting to see how the alterations, including a good deal of new papering and painting, had been carried out. And as soon as the heavy luggage arrived we had grand consultations as to the disposal about the rooms of the charming pieces of furniture we had picked up at Hunter's. Our rooms are large and nicely shaped, most of them. It was not difficult to make a pretty corner here and there with a quaint old chair or two and a delicate spindle-legged table, and when we had arranged them all--Phil, Nugent, and I, were the movers--we summoned mother and Miss Larpent to give their opinion.

They quite approved, mother even saying that she would be glad of a few more odds and ends.

"We might empower Janet Miles," she said, "to let us know if she sees anything very tempting. Is that really all we have? They looked so much more important in their swathings."

The same idea struck me. I glanced round.

"Yes," I said, "that's all, except--oh, yes, there are the tapestry "_portieres_"--the best of all. We can't have them in the drawing-room, I fear. It is too modern for them. Where shall we hang them?"

"You are forgetting, Leila," said mother. "We spoke of having them in the hall. They will do beautifully to hang before the two side doors, which are seldom opened. And in cold weather the hall is draughty, though nothing like the gallery at Finster."

Why did she say that? It made me s.h.i.+ver, but then, of course, she did not know.

Our hall is a very pleasant one. We sit there a great deal. The side doors mother spoke of are second entrances to the dining-room and library--quite unnecessary, except when we have a large party, a dance or something of that sort. And the "_portieres_" certainly seemed the very thing, the mellow colouring of the tapestry showing to great advantage. The boys--Phil and Nugent, I mean--set to work at once, and in an hour or two the hangings were placed.

"Of course," said Philip, "if ever these doors are to be opened, this precious tapestry must be taken down, or very carefully looped back. It is very worn in some places, and in spite of the thick lining it should be tenderly handled. I am afraid it has suffered a little from being so long rolled up at the Rectory. It should have been hung up!"

Still, it looked very well indeed, and when father, who was away at some magistrates' meeting, came home that afternoon, I showed him our arrangements with pride.

He was very pleased.

"Very nice--very nice indeed," he said, though it was almost too dusk for him to judge quite fully of the effect of the tapestry. "But, dear me, child, this hall is very cold. We must have a larger fire. Only October! What sort of a winter are we going to have?"

He s.h.i.+vered as he spoke. He was standing close to one of the "_portieres_"--smoothing the tapestry half absently with one hand. I looked at him with concern.

"I _hope_ you have not got a chill, papa," I said.

But he seemed all right again when we went into the library, where tea was waiting--an extra late tea for his benefit.

The next day Nugent went to Oxford. Nat had already returned to school.

So our home party was reduced to father and mother, Miss Larpent, Phil and I, and the children.

We were very glad to have Phil settled at home for some time. There was little fear of his being tempted away, now that the shooting had begun.

We were expecting some of our usual guests at this season; the weather was perfect autumn weather; we had thrown off all remembrance of influenza and other depressing "influences," and were feeling bright and cheerful, when again--ah, yes, even now it gives me a faint, sick sensation to recall the horror of that _third_ visitation!

But I must tell it simply, and not give way to painful remembrances.

It was the very day before our first visitors were expected that the blow fell, the awful fear made itself felt. And, as before, the victim was a new one--the one who, for reasons already mentioned, we had specially guarded from any breath of the gruesome terror--poor little Sophy!

What she was doing alone in the hall late that evening I cannot quite recall--yes, I think I remember her saying she had run downstairs when half-way up to bed, to fetch a book she had left there in the afternoon.

She had no light, and the one lamp in the hall--we never sat there after dinner--was burning feebly. _It was bright moonlight._

I was sitting at the piano, where I had been playing in a rather sleepy way--when a sudden touch on my shoulder made me start, and, looking up, I saw my sister standing beside me, white and trembling.

"Leila," she whispered, "come with me quickly. I don't want mamma to notice."

For mother was still nervous and delicate.

The drawing-room is very long, and has two or three doors. No-one else was at our end. It was easy to make our way out unperceived. Sophy caught my hand and hurried me upstairs without speaking till we reached my own room, where a bright fire was burning cheerfully.

Then she began.

"Leila," she said, "I have had such an awful fright. I did not want to speak until we were safe up here."

"What was it?" I exclaimed breathlessly. Did I already suspect the truth? I really do not know, but my nerves were not what they had been.

Sophy gasped and began to tremble. I put my arm round her.

"It does not sound so bad," she said. "But--oh, Leila, what _could_ it be? It was in the hall," and then I think she explained how she had come to be there. "I was standing near the side door into the library that we never use--and--all of a sudden a sort of darkness came along the wall, and seemed to settle on the door--where the old tapestry is, you know.

I thought it was the shadow of something outside, for it was bright moonlight, and the windows were not shuttered. But in a moment I saw it could not be that--there is nothing to throw such a shadow. It seemed to wriggle about--like--like a monstrous spider, or--" and there she hesitated--"almost like a deformed sort of human being. And all at once, Leila, my breath went and I fell down. I really did. I was _choked_ with cold. I think my senses went away, but I am not sure. The next thing I remember was rus.h.i.+ng across the hall and then down the south corridor to the drawing-room, and then I was so thankful to see you there by the piano."

I drew her down on my knee, poor child.

"It was very good of you, dear," I said, "to control yourself, and not startle mamma."

This pleased her, but her terror was still uppermost.