Uncanny Tales

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

Why did she say that? It made me shiver, but then, of course, she did not know.

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

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

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

He was very pleased.

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

He shivered as he spoke. He was standing close to one of the "_portières_"--smoothing the tapestry half absently with one hand. I looked at him with concern.

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

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

The next day Nugent went to Oxford. Nat had already returned to school. So our home party was reduced to father and mother, Miss Larpent, Phil and I, and the children.

We were very glad to have Phil settled at home for some time. There was little fear of his being tempted away, now that the shooting had begun. We were expecting some of our usual guests at this season; the weather was perfect autumn weather; we had thrown off all remembrance of influenza and other depressing "influences," and were feeling bright and cheerful, when again--ah, yes, even now it gives me a faint, sick sensation to recall the horror of that _third_ visitation!

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

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

What she was doing alone in the hall late that evening I cannot quite recall--yes, I think I remember her saying she had run downstairs when half-way up to bed, to fetch a book she had left there in the afternoon. She had no light, and the one lamp in the hall--we never sat there after dinner--was burning feebly. _It was bright moonlight._

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

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

For mother was still nervous and delicate.

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

Then she began.

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

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

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

"It does not sound so bad," she said. "But--oh, Leila, what _could_ it be? It was in the hall," and then I think she explained how she had come to be there. "I was standing near the side door into the library that we never use--and--all of a sudden a sort of darkness came along the wall, and seemed to settle on the door--where the old tapestry is, you know. I thought it was the shadow of something outside, for it was bright moonlight, and the windows were not shuttered. But in a moment I saw it could not be that--there is nothing to throw such a shadow. It seemed to wriggle about--like--like a monstrous spider, or--" and there she hesitated--"almost like a deformed sort of human being. And all at once, Leila, my breath went and I fell down. I really did. I was _choked_ with cold. I think my senses went away, but I am not sure. The next thing I remember was rushing across the hall and then down the south corridor to the drawing-room, and then I was so thankful to see you there by the piano."

I drew her down on my knee, poor child.

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

This pleased her, but her terror was still uppermost.

"Leila," she said piteously, "can't you explain it? I did so hope you could."

What _could_ I say?

"I--one would need to go to the hall and look well about to see what could cast such a shadow," I said vaguely, and I suppose I must involuntarily have moved a little, for Sophy started, and clutched me fast.

"Oh, Leila, don't go--you don't mean you are going now?" she entreated.

Nothing truly was farther from my thoughts, but I took care not to say so.

"I won't leave you if you'd rather not," I said, "and I tell you what, Sophy, if you would like very much to sleep here with me to-night, you shall. I will ring and tell Freake to bring your things down and undress you--on one condition."

"What?" she said eagerly. She was much impressed by my amiability.

"That you won't say _one word_ about this, or give the least shadow of a hint to any one that you have had a fright. You don't know the trouble it will cause."

"Of course I will promise to let no one know, if you think it better, for you are so kind to me," said Sophy. But there was a touch of reluctance in her tone. "You--you mean to do something about it though, Leila," she went on. "I shall never be able to forget it if you don't."

"Yes," I said, "I shall speak to father and Phil about it to-morrow. If any one has been trying to frighten us," I added unguardedly, "by playing tricks, they certainly must be exposed."

"Not _us_," she corrected, "it was only me," and I did not reply. Why I spoke of the possibility of a trick I scarcely know. I had no hope of any such explanation.

But another strange, almost incredible idea was beginning to take shape in my mind, and with it came a faint, very faint touch of relief. Could it be not the _houses_, nor the _rooms_, nor, worst of all, we ourselves that were haunted, but something or things among the old furniture we had bought at Raxtrew?

And lying sleepless that night a sudden flash of illumination struck me--could it--whatever the "it" was--could it have something to do with the tapestry hangings?

The more I thought it over the more striking grew the coincidences. At Finster it had been on one of the closed doors that the shadow seemed to settle, as again here in our own hall. But in both cases the "_portières_" had hung in front!

And at the Rectory? The tapestry, as Philip had remarked, had been there rolled up all the time. Was it possible that it had never been taken out to the barn at all? What _more_ probable than that it should have been left, forgotten, under the bench where Miss Larpent and I had felt for the second time that hideous cold? And, stay, something else was returning to my mind in connection with that bench. Yes--I had it--Nat had said "it seemed to stop and fumble away in one corner--at the end where there is a bench, you know."

And then to my unutterable thankfulness at last I fell asleep.

PART IV.

I told Philip the next morning. There was no need to bespeak his attention. I think he felt nearly as horrified as I had done myself at the idea that our own hitherto bright, cheerful home was to be haunted by this awful thing--influence or presence, call it what you will. And the suggestions which I went on to make struck him, too, with a sense of relief.

He sat in silence for some time after making me recapitulate as precisely as possible every detail of Sophy's story.

"You are sure it was the door into the library?" he said at last.

"Quite sure," I replied; "and, oh, Philip," I went on, "it has just occurred to me that _father_ felt a chill there the other evening."

For till that moment the little incident in question had escaped my memory.

"Do you remember which of the "_portières_" hung in front of the door at Finster?" said Philip.

I shook my head.

"Dormy would," I said, "he used to examine the pictures in the tapestry with great interest. I should not know one from the other. There is an old castle in the distance in each, and a lot of trees, and something meant for a lake."

But in his turn Philip shook his head.

"No," he said, "I won't speak to Dormy about it if I can possibly help it. Leave it to me, Leila, and try to put it out of your own mind as much as you possibly can, and don't be surprised at anything you may notice in the next few days. I will tell you, first of any one, whenever I have anything to tell."

That was all I could get out of him. So I took his advice.

Luckily, as it turned out, Mr. Miles, the only outsider, so to say (except the unfortunate keeper), who had witnessed the ghostly drama, was one of the shooting party expected that day. And him Philip at once determined to consult about this new and utterly unexpected manifestation.

He did not tell me this. Indeed, it was not till fully a week later that I heard anything, and then in a letter--a very long letter from my brother, which, I think, will relate the sequel of our strange ghost story better than any narration at second-hand, of my own.

Mr. Miles only stayed two nights with us. The very day after he came he announced that, to his great regret, he was obliged--most unexpectedly--to return to Raxtrew on important business.

"And," he continued, "I am afraid you will all feel much more vexed with me when I tell you I am going to carry off Phil with me."

Father looked very blank indeed.

"Phil!" he exclaimed, "and how about our shooting?"

"You can easily replace us," said my brother, "I have thought of that," and he added something in a lower tone to father. He--Phil--was leaving the room at the time. _I_ thought it had reference to the real reason of his accompanying Mr. Miles, but I was mistaken. Father, however, said nothing more in opposition to the plan, and the next morning the two went off.

We happened to be standing at the hall door--several of us--for we were a large party now--when Phil and his friend drove away. As we turned to re-enter the house, I felt some one touch me. It was Sophy. She was going out for a constitutional with Miss Larpent, but had stopped a moment to speak to me.

"Leila," she said in a whisper, "why have they--did you know that the tapestry had been taken down?"

She glanced at me with a peculiar expression. I had not observed it. Now, looking up, I saw that the two locked doors were visible in the dark polish of their old mahogany as of yore--no longer shrouded by the ancient _portières_. I started in surprise.

"No," I whispered in return, "I did not know. Never mind, Sophy. I suspect there is a reason for it which we shall know in good time."

I felt strongly tempted--the moon being still at the full--to visit the hall that night--in hopes of feeling and seeing--_nothing_. But when the time drew near, my courage failed; besides I had tacitly promised Philip to think as little as I possibly could about the matter, and any vigil of the kind would certainly not have been acting in accordance with the spirit of his advice.

I think I will now copy, as it stands, the letter from Philip which I received a week or so later. It was dated from his club in London.

"MY DEAR LEILA,

"I have a long story to tell you and a very extraordinary one. I think it is well that it should be put into writing, so I will devote this evening to the task--especially as I shall not be home for ten days or so.

"You may have suspected that I took Miles into my confidence as soon as he arrived. If you did you were right. He was the best person to speak to for several reasons. He looked, I must say, rather--well 'blank' scarcely expresses it--when I told him of the ghost's re-appearance, not only at the Rectory, but in our own house, and on both occasions to persons--Nat, and then Sophy--who had not heard a breath of the story. But when I went on to propound your suggestion, Miles cheered up. He had been, I fancy, a trifle touchy about our calling Finster haunted, and it was evidently a satisfaction to him to start another theory. We talked it well over, and we decided to test the thing again--it took some resolution, I own, to do so. We sat up that night--bright moonlight luckily--and--well, I needn't repeat it all. Sophy was quite correct. It came again--the horrid creeping shadow--poor wretch, I'm rather sorry for it now--just in the old way--quite as much at home in ----shire, apparently, as in the Castle. It stopped at the closed library door, and fumbled away, then started off again--ugh! We watched it closely, but kept well in the middle of the room, so that the cold did not strike us so badly. We both noted the special part of the tapestry where its hands seemed to sprawl, and we meant to stay for another round; but--when it came to the point we funked it, and went to bed.

"Next morning, on pretence of examining the date of the tapestry, we had it down--you were all out--and we found--_something_. Just where the hands felt about, there had been a cut--three cuts, three sides of a square, as it were, making a sort of door in the stuff, the fourth side having evidently acted as a hinge, for there was a mark where it had been folded back. And just where--treating the thing as a door--you might expect to find a handle to open it by, we found a distinct dint in the tapestry, as if a button or knob had once been there. We looked at each other. The same idea had struck us. The tapestry had been used to conceal a small door in the wall--the door of a secret cupboard probably. The ghostly fingers had been vainly seeking for the spring which in the days of their flesh and bone they had been accustomed to press.

"'The first thing to do,' said Miles, 'is to look up Hunter and make him tell where he got the tapestry from. Then we shall see.'

"'Shall we take the _portières_ with us?' I said.

"But Miles shuddered, though he half laughed too.

"'No, thank you,' he said. 'I'm not going to travel with the evil thing.'

"'We can't hang it up again, though,' I said, 'after this last experience.'

"In the end we rolled up the two _portières_, not to attract attention by only moving one, and--well, I thought it just possible the ghost might make a mistake, and I did not want any more scares while I was away--we rolled them up together, first carefully measuring the cut, and its position in the curtain, and then we hid them away in one of the lofts that no one ever enters, where they are at this moment, and where the ghost may have been disporting himself, for all I know, though I fancy he has given it up by this time, for reasons you shall hear.

"Then Miles and I, as you know, set off for Raxtrew. I smoothed my father down about it, by reminding him how good-natured they had been to us, and telling him Miles really needed me. We went straight to Hunter. He hummed and hawed a good deal--he had not distinctly promised not to give the name of the place the tapestry had come from, but he knew the gentleman he had bought it from did not want it known.

"'Why?' said Miles. 'Is it some family that has come down in the world, and is forced to part with things to get some ready money?'

"'Oh, dear no!' said Hunter. 'It is not that, at all. It was only that--I suppose I must give you the name--Captain Devereux--did not want any gossip to get about, as to ----'

"'Devereux!' repeated Miles, 'you don't mean the people at Hallinger?'

"'The same,' said Hunter. 'If you know them, sir, you will be careful, I hope, to assure the captain that I did my best to carry out his wishes?'

"'Certainly,' said Miles, 'I'll exonerate you.'

"And then Hunter told us that Devereux, who only came into the Hallinger property a few years ago, had been much annoyed by stories getting about of the place being haunted, and this had led to his dismantling one wing, and--Hunter thought, but was not quite clear as to this--pulling down some rooms altogether. But he, Devereux, was very touchy on the subject--he did not want to be laughed at.

"'And the tapestry came from him--you are certain as to that?' Miles repeated.

"'Positive, sir. I took it down with my own hands. It was fitted on to two panels in what they call the round room at Hallinger--there were, oh, I daresay, a dozen of them, with tapestry nailed on, but I only bought these two pieces--the others were sold to a London dealer.'

"'The round room,' I said. Leila, the expression struck me.

"Miles, it appeared, knew Devereux fairly well. Hallinger is only ten miles off. We drove over there, but found he was in London. So our next move was to follow him there. We called twice at his club, and then Miles made an appointment, saying that he wanted to see him on private business.

"He received us civilly, of course. He is quite a young fellow--in the Guards. But when Miles began to explain to him what we had come about, he stiffened.

"'I suppose you belong to the Psychical Society?' he said. 'I can only repeat that I have nothing to tell, and I detest the whole subject.'

"'Wait a moment,' said Miles, and as he went on I saw that Devereux changed. His face grew intent with interest and a queer sort of eagerness, and at last he started to his feet.

"'Upon my soul,' he said, 'I believe you've run him to earth for me--the ghost, I mean, and if so, you shall have my endless gratitude. I'll go down to Hallinger with you at once--this afternoon, if you like, and see it out.'

"He was so excited that he spoke almost incoherently, but after a bit he calmed down, and told us all he had to tell--and that was a good deal--which would indeed have been nuts for the Psychical Society. What Hunter had said was but a small part of the whole. It appeared that on succeeding to Hallinger, on the death of an uncle, young Devereux had made considerable changes in the house. He had, among others, opened out a small wing--a sort of round tower--which had been completely dismantled and bricked up for, I think he said, over a hundred years. There was some story about it. An ancestor of his--an awful gambler--had used the principal room in this wing for his orgies. Very queer things went on there, the finish up being the finding of old Devereux dead there one night, when his servants were summoned by the man he had been playing with--with whom he had had an awful quarrel. This man, a low fellow, probably a professional cardsharper, vowed that he had been robbed of a jewel which his host had staked, and it was said that a ring of great value had disappeared. But it was all hushed up--Devereux had really died in a fit--though soon after, for reasons only hinted at, the round tower was shut up, till the present man rashly opened it again.