Etext of An Anthology of Victorian Ghost Stories
Edited by David Reed

Chapter 1 "The Old Nurse's Story" by Elizabeth Gaskell
Chapter 2 "To Be Taken with a Grain of Salt" by Charles Dickens
Chapter 3 "An Account of Some Disturbances in Aungier Street"
by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
Chapter 4 "Miss Jeromette and the Clergyman" by Wilkie Collins
Chapter 5 "At Chrighton Abbey" by Mary Elizabeth Braddon
Chapter 6 "The Withered Arm" by Thomas Hardy
Chapter 7 "The Judge's House" by Bram Stoker
Chapter 8 "The Body-Snatcher" by Robert Louis Stevenson
Chapter 9 "The Captain of the 'Pole-star'" by Arthur Conan Doyle
Chapter 10 "At the End of the Passage" by Rudyard Kipling

Victorian Ghost Stories

"The Old Nurse's Story" 
by Elizabeth Gaskell,

You know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an only
child; and I dare say you have heard that your grand-father was a
clergyman up in Westmoreland, where I come from. I was just a
girl in the village school, when, one day, your grandmother came
in to ask the mistress if there was any scholar there who would do
for a nurse-maid; and mighty proud I was, I can tell ye, when the
mistress called me up, and spoke to my being a good girl at my
needle, and a steady, honest girl, and one whose parents were very
respectable, though they might be poor I thoughtI should like
nothing better than to serve the pretty, young lady, who was
blushing as deep as I was, as she spoke of the coming baby, and
what I should have to do with it. However, I see you don't care so
much for this part of my story, as for what you think is to come, so
I'll tell you at once. I was engaged and settled at the parsonage
before Miss Rosamond (that was the baby, who is now your
mother) was born. To be sure, I had little enough to do with her
when she carne, for she was never out of her mother's arms, and
slept by her all night long; and proud enough was I sometimes
when missis trusted her to me. There never was such a baby before
or since, though you've all of you been tine enough in your turns;
but for sweet, winning ways, you've none of you come up to your
mother. She took after her mother, who was a teal lady born; a
Miss Furnivall, a granddaughter of Lord Furnivall's, in
Northumberland. I believe she had neither brother nor Sister, and
had been brought up in my lord's family till she had married your
grandfather, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper in Carlisle
- but a clever, fine gentleman as ever was - and one who was a
right-down hard worker in his parish, which was very wide, and
scattered ill abroad over the Westmoreland Fells. When your
mother, little Miss Rosamond, was about four or five years old,
both her parents died in a fortnight - one after the other. Ah! that
was a sad time. My pretty young mistress and me was looking for
another baby, when my master came home from one of his long
rides, wet, and tired, and took the fever he died of; and then she
never held up her head again, but lived just to see her dead baby,
and have it laid on her breast before she sighed away her life. My
mistress had asked me, on her death-bed, never to leave Miss
Rosamond; but if she had never spoken a word, I would have gone
with the little child to the end of the world.

The next thing, and before we had well stilled our sobs, the
executors and guardians came to settle the affairs. They were my
poor young mistress's own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr
Esthwaite, my master's brother, a shopkeeper in Manchester; not
so well to do then, as he was afterwards, and with a large family
rising about him. Well! I don't know if it were their settling, or
because of a letter my mistress wrote on her death-bed to her
cousin, my lord; but somehow it was settled that Miss Rosamond
and me were to go to Furnivall Manor House, in Northumberland,
and my lord spoke as if it had been her mother's wish that she
should live with his family, and as if he had no objectioins, for that
one or two more or less could make no difference in so grand a
household. So, though that was not the way in which I should have
wished the coming of my bright and pretty pet to have been looked
at - who was like a sunbeam in any family, be it never so grand - I
was well pleased that all the folks in the Dale should stare and
admire, when they heard I was going to be young lady's maid at my
Lord Furnivall's at Furnivall Manor.

But I made a mistake in thinking we were to go and live where my
lord did. It turned out that the family had left Furnivall Manor
House fifty years or more. I could not hear that my poor young
mistress had ever been there, though she had been brought up in
the family; and I was sorry for that, for I should have liked Miss
Rosamond's youth to have passed where her mother's had been.

My lord's gentleman, from whom I asked as many questions as I
durst, said that the Manor House was at the foot of the
Cumberland Fells, and a very grand place; that an old Miss
Furnivall, a great-aunt of my lord's, lived there, with only a few
servants; but that it was a very healthy place, and my lord had
thought that it would suit Miss Rosamond very well for a few
years, and that her being there might perhaps amuse his old aunt. 

I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosamond's things ready by
a certain day. He was a stern proud man, as they say all the Lords
Furnivall were; and he never spoke a word mote than was
necessary. Folk did say he had loved my young mistress; but that,
because she knew that his father would object, she would never
listen to him, and married Esthwaite; but I don't know. He never
married at any rate. But he never took much notice of Miss
Rosamond; which I thought he might have done if he had cared for
her dead mother. He sent his gentleman with us to the Manor
House, telling him to join him at Newcastle that same evening; so
there was no great length of time for him to make us known to all
the strangers before he, too, shook us off; and we were left, two
lonely young things (I was not eighteen), in the great old Manor
House. It seems like yesterday that we drove there. We had left our
own dear parsonage very early, and we had both cried as if our
hearts would break, though we were travelling in my lord's
carriage, which I thought so much of once. And now It was long
past noon on a September day, and we stopped to change horses
for the last time at a little, smoky town, all full of colliers and
miners. Miss Rosamond had fallen asleep, but Mr Henry told me
to waken her, that she might see the park and the Manor House as
we drove up. I thought it rather a pity; hut I did what he bade me,
for fear he should complain of me to my lord. We had left all signs
of a town, or even a village, and were then inside the gates of a
large, wild park - not like the parks here in the south, but with
rocks, and the noise of running water, and gnarled thorn-trees, and
old oaks, all white and peeled with age. 

The road went up about two miles, and then we saw a great and
stately house, with many trees close around it, so close that in
some places their branches dragged against the walls when the
wind blew; and some hung broken down; for no one seemed to
take much charge of the place; - to lop the wood, or to keep the
moss-covered carriage-way in order. Only in front of the house all
was clear. The great oval drive was without a weed; and neither
tree nor creeper was allowed to grow over the long,
many-windowed front; at both sides of which a wing projected,
which were each the ends of other side fronts; for the house,
although it was so desolate, was even grander than I expected.
Behind it rose the Fells, which seemed unenclosed and bare
enough; and on the left hand of the house, as you stood facing it,
was a little, oldfashioned flower-garden, as I found out afterwards.
A door opened out upon it from the west front; it had been
scooped out of the thick dark wood for some old Lady Furnivall;
but the branches of the great forest trees had grown and
overshadowed it again, and there were very few flowers that would
live there at that time. 

　When we drove up to the great front entrance, and went into
the hall I thought we should be lost - it was so large, and vast, and
grand. There was a chandelier all of bronze, hung down from the
middle of the ceding; and I had never seen one before, and looked
at it all in amaze. Then, at one end of the hall, was a great
fireplace, as large as the sides of the houses in my country, with
massy andirons and dogs to hold the wood; and by it were heavy,
old-fashioned sofas. At the opposite end of the hall, to the left as
you went in - on the western side - was an organ built into the wall,
and so large that it filled up the best part of that end. Beyond it, on
the same side, was a door; and opposite, on each side of the
fire-place, were also doors leading to the east front; but those I
never went through as long as I stayed in the house, so I can't tell
you what lay beyond. 

The afternoon was dosing in and the hall, which had no fire lighted
in it, looked dark and gloomy, but we did not stay there a moment.
The old servant, who had opened the door for us bowed to Mr
Henry, and took us in through the door at the further side of the
great organ, and led us through several smaller halls and passages
into the west drawing-room, where he said that Miss Furnivall was
sitting. Poor little Miss Rosamond held very tight to me, as if she
were scared and lost in that great place, and as for myself, I was
not much better. The west drawing-room was very
cheerful-looking, with a warm fire in it, and plenty of good,
comfortable furniture about. Miss Furnivall was an old lady not far
from eighty, I should think, but I do not know. She was thin and
tall, and had a face as full of fine wrinkles as if they had been
drawn all over it with a needle's point Her eyes were very watchful
to make up, I suppose, for her being so deaf as to be obliged to use
a trumpet. Sitting with her, working at the same great piece of
tapestry, was Mrs Stark, her maid and companion, and almost as
old as she was. She had lived with Miss Furnivall ever since they
both were young, and now she seemed more like a friend than a
servant; she looked so cold, and grey, and stony, as if she had
never loved or cared for any one; and I don't suppose she did care
for any one, except her mistress; and, owing to the great deafness
of the latter, Mrs Stark treated her very much as if she were a
child. Mr Henry gave some message from my lord, and then he
bowed good-bye to us all, - taking no notice of my sweet little
Miss Rosamond's outstretched hand - and left us standing there,
being looked at by the two old ladles through their spectacles.

I was right glad when they rung for the old footman who had
shown us in at first, and told him to take us to our rooms. So we
went out of that great drawing-room, and into another
sitting-room, and out of that, and then up a great flight of stairs,
and along a broad gallery - which was something like a library,
having books all down one side, and windows and writing-tables
all down the other - till we came to our rooms, which I was not
sorry to hear were just over the kitchens; for I began to think I
should be lost in that wilderness of a house. There was an old
nursery, that had been used for all the little lords and ladies long
ago, with a pleasant fire burning in the grate, and the kettle boiling
on the bob, and tea things spread out on the table; and out of that
room was the night-nursery, with a little crib for Miss Rosamond
close to my bed. And old James called up Dorothy, his wife, to bid
us welcome; and both he and she were so hospitable and kind, that
by and by Miss Rosamond and me felt quite at home; and by the
time tea was over, she was sitting on Dorothy's knee, and
chattering away as fast as her little tongue could go. I soon found
out that Dorothy was from Westmoreland, and that bound her and
me together, as it were; and I would never wish to meet with
kinder people than were old James and his wife. James had lived
pretty nearly all his life in my lord's family, and thought there was
no one so grand as they. He even looked down a little on his wife;
because, till he had married her, she had never lived in any but a
farmer's household. But he was very fond of bet, as well he might
be. They had one servant under them, to do all the rough work.
Agnes they called her; and she and me, and James and Dorothy,
with Miss Furnivall and Mrs Stark, made up the family; always
remembering my sweet little Miss Rosamond! I used to wonder
what they had done before she came, they thought so much of her
now. Kitchen and drawing-room, it was all the same. The hard, sad
Miss Furnivall, and the cold Mrs Stark, looked pleased when she
came fluttering in like a bird, playing and pranking hither and
thither, with a continual murmur, and pretty prattle of gladness. I
am sure, they were sorry many a rime when she flitted away into
the kitchen, though they were too proud to ask her to stay with
them, and were a little surprised at her taste; though to be sure, as
Mrs Stark said, it was not to be wondered at, remembering what
stock her father had come of. The great, old rambling house was a
famous place for little Miss Rosamond. She made expeditions all
over it, with me at her heels; all, except the east wing, which was
never opened, and whither we never thought of going. But in the
western and northern part was many a pleasant room; full of things
that were curiosities to us, though they might not have been to
people who had seen more. The windows were darkened by the
sweeping boughs of the trees, and the ivy which had overgrown
them: but, in the green gloom, we could manage to see old China
jars and carved ivory boxes, and great, heavy books, and, above
all, the old pictures! 

Once, I remember, my darling would have Dorothy go with us to
tell us who they all were; for they were all portraits of some of my
lord's family, though Dorothy could not tell us the names of every
one. We had gone through most of the rooms, when we came to
the old state drawing-room over the hall, and there was a picture of
Miss Furnivall; or, as she was called in those days, Miss Grace, for
she was the younger sister. Such a beauty she must have been! but
with such a set, proud look, and such scorn looking out of her
handsome eyes, with her eyebrows just a little raised, as if she
wondered how any one could have the impertinence to look at her;
and her lip curled at us, as we stood there gazing. She had a dress
on, the like of which I had never seen before, but it was all the
fashion when she was young: a hat of some soft, white stuff like
beaver, pulled a little over her brows, and a beautiful plume of
feathers sweeping round it on one side; and her gown of blue satin
was open in front to a quilted, white stomacher.

'Well, to be sure!' said I, when I had gazed my till. 'Flesh is grass,
they do say; but who would have thought that Miss Furnivall had
been such an out-and-out beauty, to see her now?'

'Yes,' said Dorothy. 'Folks change sadly. But if what my master's
father used to say was true, Miss Furnivall, the elder sister, was
handsomer thin Miss Grace. Her picture is here somewhere; but, if
I show it you, you must never let on, even to James, that you have
seen it. Can the little lady hold her tongue, think you?' asked she.

I was not so sure, for she was such a little, sweet, bold,
open-spoken child, so I set her to hide herself; and then I helped
Dorothy to turn a great picture, that leaned with its face towards
the wall, and was not hung up as the others were. To be sure, it
beat Miss Grace for beauty; and, I think, for scornful pride, too,
though in that matter it might be hard to choose. I could have
looked at it an hour, but Dorothy seemed half frightened at having
shown it to me, and hurried it back again, and bade me run and
find Miss Rosamond, for that there were some ugly places about
the house, where she should like ill for the child to go. I was a
brave, high-spirited girl, and thought little of what the old woman
said, for I liked hide-and-seek as well as any child in the parish; so
off I ran to find my little one.

As winter drew on, and the days grew shorter, I was sometimes
almost certain that I heard a noise as if some one was playing on
the great organ in the hall. I did not hear it every evening; but,
certainly, I did very often; usually when I was sitting with Miss
Rosamond, after I had put her to bed, and keeping quite still and
silent in the bed-room. Then I used to hear it booming and
swelling away in the distance. The first night, when I went down to
my supper, I asked Dorothy who bad been playing music, and
James said very shortly that I was a gowk to take the wind
soughing among the trees for music: but I saw Dorothy look at him
very fearfully, and Agnes, the kitchen-maid, said something
beneath her breath, and went quite white. I saw they did not like
my question, so I held my peace till I was with Dorothy alone,
when I knew I could get a good deal out of her. So, the next day, I
watched my time, and I coaxed and asked her who it was that
played the organ; for I knew that it was the organ and not the wind
well enough, for all I had kept silence before James. But Dorothy
had had her lesson I'll warrant, and never a word could I get from
her. So then I tried Agnes, though I had always held my head
rather above her, as I was evened to James and Dorothy, and she
was little better thin their servant. So she said I must never, never
tell; and if I ever told, I was never to say *she* had told me; but it
was a very strange noise, and she had heard it many a time, but
most of all on winter nights, and before storms; and folks did say,
it was the old lord playing on the great organ in the hall, just as he
used to do when he was alive; but who the old lord was, or why he
played, and why he played on stormy winter evenings in particular,
she either could not or would not tell me. Well! I told you I had a
brave heart; and I thought it was rather pleasant to have that grand
music rolling about the house, let who would be the player; for
now it rose above the great gusts of wind, and wailed and
triumphed just like a living creature, and then it fell to a softness
most complete; only it was always music, and tunes, so it was
nonsense to call it the wind I thought at first, that it might be Miss
Furnivall who played, unknown to Agnes; but, one day when I was
in the hall by myself, I opened the organ and peeped all about it
and around it, as I had done to the organ in Crosthwaite Ghurch
once before, and I saw it was all broken and destroyed inside,
though it looked so brave and fine; and then, though it was
noon-day, my flesh began to creep a little, and I shut it up, and run
away pretty quickly to my own bright nursery; and I did not like
hearing the music for some time after that, any more than James
and Dorothy did. All this time Miss Rosamond was making herself
more and more beloved. The old ladies liked her to dine with them
at their early dinner; James stood behind Miss Furnivall's chair,
and I behind Miss Rosamond's all in state; and, after dinner, she
would play about in a corner of the great drawing-room, as still as
any mouse, while Miss Furnivall slept, and I had my dinner in the
kitchen. But she was glad enough to come to me in the nursery
afterwards; for, as she said, Miss Furnivall was so sad, and Mrs
Stark so dull; but she and I were merry enough; and, by-and-by, I
got not to care for that weird rolling music, which did one no
harm, if we did not know where it came from.

　That winter was very cold. In the middle of October the frosts
began, and lasted many, many weeks. I remember, one day at
dinner, Miss Furnivall lifted up her sad, heavy eyes, and said to
Mrs Stark, 'I am afraid we shall have a terrible winter,' in a strange
kind of meaning way. But Mrs Stark pretended not to hear, and
talked very loud of something else. My little lady and I did not
care for the frost; not we! As long as it was dry we climbed up the
steep brows, behind the house, and went up on the Fells, which
were bleak, and bare enough, and there we ran races in the fresh,
sharp air; and once we came down by a new path that took us past
the two old, gnarled holly-trees, which grew about half-way down
by the east side of the house. But the days grew shorter, and
shorter; and the old lord, if it was he, played away more, and more
stormily and sadly on the great organ. One Sunday afternoon, - it
must have been towards the end of November - I asked Dorothy to
take charge of little Missey when she came out of the
drawing-room, after Miss Furnivall had had her nap; for it was too
cold to take her with me to church, and yet I wanted to go. And
Dorothy was glad enough to promise, and was so fond of the child
that all seemed well; and Agnes and I set off very briskly, though
the sky hung heavy and black over the white earth, as if the night
had never fully gone away; and the air, though still, was very
biting and keen.

'We shall have a fall of snow,' said Agnes to me. And sure enough,
even while we were in church, it carne down thick, in great, large
flakes, so thick it almost darkened the windows. It had stopped
snowing before we came out, but it lay soft, thick and deep
beneath our feet, as we tramped home. Before we got to the hall
the moon rose, and I think it was lighter then, - what with the
moon, and what with the white dazzling snow - than it had been
when we went to church, between two and three o'clock. I have not
told you that Miss Furnivall and Mrs Stark never went to church:
they used to read the prayers together, in their quiet, gloomy way;
they seemed to feel the Sunday very long without their
tapestry-work to be busy at. So when I went to Dorothy in the
kitchen, to fetch Miss Rosamond and take her up-stairs with me, I
did not much wonder when the old woman told me that the ladies
had kept the child with them, and that she had never come to the
kitchen, as I had bidden her, when she was tired of behaving pretty
in the drawing-room. So I took off my things and went to find her,
and bring her. to her supper m the nursery. But when I went into
the best drawing-room, there sate the two old ladies, verystill and
quiet, dropping out a word now and then, but looking as if nothing
so bright and merry as Miss Rosamond had ever been near them.
Still I thought she might be hiding from me; it was one of her
pretty ways; and that she had persuaded them to look as if they
knew nothing about bet; so I went softly peeping under this sofa,
and behind that chair, making believe I was sadly frightened at not
finding her.

'What's the matter, Hester?' said Mrs Stark sharply. I don't know if
Miss Furnivall had seen me, for, as I told you, she was very deaf,
and she sate quite still, idly staring into the fire, with her hopeless
face. 'I'm only looking for my little Rosy-Posy,' replied I, still
thinking that the child was there, and near me, though I could not
see her.

'Miss Rosamond is not here,' said Mrs Stark. 'She went away more
than an hour ago to find Dorothy.' And she too turned and went on
looking into the fire.

My heart sank at this, and I began to wish I had never left my
darling. I went back to Dorothy and told her. James was gone out
for the day, but she and me and Agnes took lights and went up into
the nursery first, and then we roamed over the great large house,
calling and entreating Miss Rosamond to come out of her hiding
place, and not frighten us to death in that way. But there was no
answer; no sound.

'Oh!' said I at last. 'Can she have got into the east wing and hidden
there?'

But Dorothy said it was not possible, for that she herself had never
been in there; that the doors were always locked, and my lord's
steward had the keys, she believed; at any rate, neither she nor
James had ever seen them: so, I said I would go back, and see if,
after all, she was not hidden in the drawing-room, unknown to the
old ladies; and if I found her there, I said, I would whip her well
for the fright she had given me; but I never meant to do it. Well, I
went hack to the west drawing-room, and I told Mrs Stark we
could not find her anywhere, and asked for leave to look all about
the furniture there, for I thought now, that she might have fallen
asleep in some warm, hidden comer; but no! we looked, Miss
Furnivall got up and looked, trembling all over, and she was no
where there; then we set off again, every one in the house, and
looked in all the places we had searched before, but we could not
find her. Miss Furnivall shivered and shook so much, that Mrs
Stark took her back into the warm drawing-room; but not before
they had made me promise to bring her to them when she was
found. Well-a-day! I began to think she never would be found,
when I bethought me to look out into the great front court, all
covered with snow. I was up-stairs when I looked out; but, it was
such dear moonlight, I could see quite plain two little footprints,
which might he traced from the hall door, and round the comer of
the east wing. I don't know how I got down, but I tugged open the
great,stiff hall door; and, throwing the skirt of my gown over head
for a cloak, I ran out I turned the east comer, and there a black
shadow fell on the snow; but when I came again into the
moonlight, there were the little footmarks going up - up to the
Fells. It was bitter cold; so cold that the air almost took the skin off
my face as I ran, but I ran on, crying to think how my poor little
darling must be perished, and frightened. I was within sight of the
holly-trees, when I saw a shepherd coming down the hill, bearing
something in his arms wrapped in his maud. He shouted to me, and
asked me if I had lost a bairn; and, when I could not speak for
crying, he bore towards me, and I saw my wee bairnie lying still,
and white, and stiff, in his arms, as if she had been dead. He told
me he had been up the Fells to gather in his sheep, before the deep
cold of night came on, and that under the holly-trees (black marks
on the hill-side, where no other bush was for miles around) he had
found my little lady - my lamb - my queen - my darling - stiff, and
cold, in the terrible sleep which is frost-begotten. Oh! the joy, and
the tears, of having her in my arms once again! for I would not let
him carry her; but took her, maud and all, into my own arms, and
held her near my own warm neck, and heart, and felt the life
stealing slowly back again into her little, gentle limbs. But she was
still insensible when we reached the hall, and I had no breath for
speech. We went in by the kitchen door.

'Bring the warming-pan,' said I; and I carried her up-stairs and
began undressing her by the nursery fire, which Agnes had kept up.
I called my little lammie all the sweet and playful names I could
think of, - even while my eyes were blinded by my tears; and at
last, oh! at length she opened her large, blue eyes. Then I put her
into her warm bed, and sent Dorothy down to tell Miss Furnivall
that all was well; and I made up my mind to sit by my darling's
bedside the live-long night. She fell away into a soft sleep as soon
as her pretty head had touched the pillow, and I watched by her till
morning light; when she wakened up bright and clear - or so I
thought at first - and, my dears, so I think now.

She said, that she had fancied that she should like to go to
Dorothy, for that both the old ladies were asleep, and it was very
dull in the drawing-room; and that, as she was going through the
west lobby, she saw the snow through the high window failing -
falling - soft and steady; but she wanted to see it lying pretty and
white on the ground; so she made her way into the great hall; and
then, going to the window, she saw it bright and soft upon the
drive; but while she stood there, she saw a little girl, not as old as
she was, 'but so pretty,' said my darling, 'and this little girl
beckoned to me to come out; and oh, she was so pretty and so
sweet, I could not choose but go.' And then this other little girl had
taken her by the hand, and side by side the two had gone round the
east corner.

'Now, you are a naughty little girl, and telling stories,' said I. 'What
would your good mamma, that is in heaven, and never told a story
in her life, say to her little Rosamond, if she heard her - and I dare
say she does - telling stories!'

'Indeed, Hester,' sobbed out my child, 'I'm telling you true. Indeed I
am.'

'Don't tell me!' said I, very stern. 'I tracked you by your foot-marks
through the snow; there were only yours to be seen: and if you had
had a little girl to go hand-in-hand with 1 you up the hill, don't you
think the foot-prints would have gone along with yours?'

'I can't help it, dear, dear Hester,' said she, crying, 'if they did not; I
never looked at her feet, but she held my hand fast and tight in her
little one, and it was very, very cold. She took me up the Fell-path,
up to the holly trees; and there I saw a lady weeping and crying;
but when she saw me, she hushed her weeping, and smiled very
proud and grand, and took me on her knee, and began to lull me to
sleep; and that's all, Hester - but that is true; and my dear mamma
knows it is,' said she, crying. So I thought the child was in a fever,
and pretended to believe her, as she went over her story - over and
over again, and always the same. At last Dorothy knocked at the
door with Miss Rosamond's breakfast; and she told me the old
ladies were down in the eating parlour, and that they wanted to
speak to me. They had both been into the night-nursery the
evening before, but it was after Miss Rosamond was asleep; so
they had only looked at her - not asked me any questions.

'I shall catch it,' thought I to myself, as I went along the north
gallery. 'And yet,' I thought, taking courage, 'it was in their charge I
left her; and it's they that's to blame for letting her steal away
unknown and unwatched.' So I went in boldly, and told my story. I
told it all to Miss Furnivall, shouting it dose to her ear; but when I
came to the mention of the other little girl out in the snow, coaxing
and tempting her out, and her up to the grand and beautiful lady by
the holly-tree, she threw her arms up - her old and withered arms -
and cried aloud, 'Oh! Heaven, forgive! Have mercy!'

Mrs Stark took hold of her; roughly enough, I thought; but she was
past Mrs Stark's management, and spoke to me, in a kind of wild
warning and authority.

'Hester! keep her from that child! It will lure her to her death! That
evil child! Tell her it is a wicked, naughty child' Then, Mrs Stark
hurried me out of the room; where, indeed, I was glad enough to
go; but Miss Furnivall kept shrieking out, 'Oh! have mercy! Wilt
Thou never forgive! It is many a long year ago - '

I was very uneasy in my mind after than I durst never leave Miss
Rosamond, night or day, for fear lest she might slip off again, after
some fancy or other; and all the more, because I thought I could
make out that Miss Furnivall was crazy, from their odd ways about
her; and I was afraid lest something of the same kind (which might
be in the family, you know) hung over my darling. And the great
frost never ceased all this time; and, whenever it was a more
stormy night than usual, between the gusts, and through the wind,
we heard the old lord playing on the great organ. But, old lord, or
not, wherever Miss Rosamond went, there I followed; for my love
for her, pretty, helpless orphan, was stronger than my fear for the
grand and terrible sound. Besides, it rested with me to keep her
cheerful and merry, as beseemed her age. So we played together,
and wandered together, here and there, and every- where; for I
never dared to lose sight of her again in that large and rambling
house. And so it happened, that one afternoon, not long before
Christmas day, we were playing together on the billiard-table in
the great hall (not that we knew the right way of playing, but she
liked to roll the smooth ivory balls with her pretty hands, and I
liked to do whatever she did); and, by-and-by, without our noticing
it, it grew dusk indoors, thought it was still light in the open air,
and I was thinking of taking her back into the nursery, when, all of
sudden, she cried out, - 

'Look, Hester! look! there is my poor little girl out in the snow!'

I turned towards the long, narrow windows, and there, sure Snow!'
enough, I saw a little girl, less than my Miss Rosamond dressed all
unfit to be out-of-doors such a bitter night - crying, and beating
against the window-panes, as if she wanted to be let in. She
seemed to sob and wall, till Miss Rosamond could bear it no
longer, and was flying to the door to open it, when, all of a sudden,
and close upon us, the great organ pealed out so loud and
thundering, it fairly made me tremble; and all the more, when I
remembered me that, even in the stillness of that dead-cold
weather, I had heard no sound of little battering hands upon the
window-glass, although the Phantom Child had seemed to put
forth all its force; and, although I had seen it wail and cry, no
faintest touch of sound had fallen upon my ears. whether I
remembered all this at the very moment, I do not know; the great
organ sound had so stunned me into terror; but this I know, I
caught up Miss Rosamond before she got the hall-door opened,
and clutched her, and carried her away, kicking and screaming,
into the large, bright kitchen, where Dorothy and Agnes were busy
with their mince-pies.

What is the matter with my sweet one?' cried Dorothy, as I bore in
Miss Rosamond, who was sobbing as if her heart would break.

'She won't let me open the door for my little girl to come in; and
she'll die if she is out on the Fells all night. Cruel, naughty Hester,'
she said, slapping me; but she might have struck harder, for I had
seen a look of ghastly terror on Dorothy's face, which made my
very blood run cold.

'Shut the back kitchen door fast, and bolt it well,' said she to
Agnes. She said no more; she gave me raisins and almonds to quiet
Miss Rosamond: but she sobbed about the little girl in the snow,
and would not touch any of the good things. I was thankful when
she cried herself to sleep in bed. Then I stole down to the kitchen,
and told Dorothy I had made up my mind I would carry my darling
back to my father's house in Applethwaite; where, if we lived
humbly, we lived at peace. I said I had been frightened enough
with the old lord's organ-playing; but now that I had seen for
myself this little, moaning child, all decked Out as no child in the
neighbourhood could be, beating and battering to get in, yet always
without any sound or noise - with the dark wound on its right
shoulder; and that Miss Rosamond had known it again for the
phantom that had nearly lured her to her death (which Dorothy
knew was true); I would stand it no longer.

I saw Dorothy change colour once or twice. when I had done, she
told me she did not think I could take Miss Rosamond with me, for
that she was my lord's ward, and I had no right over her; and she
asked me, would I leave the child that I was so fond of, just for
sounds and sights that could do me no harm; and that they had all
had to get used to in their turns? I was all in a hot, trembling
passion; and I said it was very well for her to talk, that knew what
these sights and noises betokened, and that had, perhaps, had
something to do with the Spectre-Child while it was alive. And I
taunted her so, that she told me all she knew, at last; and then
Iwished I had never been told, for it only made me more afraid
than ever.

She said she had heard the tale from old neighbours, thatwere alive
when she was first married; when folks used to come to the hall
sometimes, before it had got such a bad name on the country side:
it might not be true, or it might, what she had been told.

The old lord was Miss Furnivall's father - Miss Grace, as Dorothy
called her, for Miss Maude was the elder, and Miss Furnivall by
rights. The old lord was eaten up with pride. Such a proud man
was never seen or heard of; and his daughters were like him. No
one was good enough to wed them, although they had choice
enough; for they were the great beauties of their day, as I had seen
by their portraits, where they hung inthe state drawing-room. But,
as the old saying is, 'Pride will have a fall'; and these two haughty
beauties fell in love with the same man, and he no better than a
foreign musician, whom their father had down from London to
play music with him at the Manor House. For, above all
things,next to his pride, the old lord loved music. He could play on
nearly every instrument that ever was heard of: and it was a strange
thing it did not soften him; but he was a fierce, dour, old man, and
had broken his poor wife's heart with his cruelty, they said. He was
mad after music, and would pay any money for it. So he got this
foreigner to come; who made such beautiful music, that they said
the very birds on the trees stopped their singing to listen. And, by
degrees, this foreign gentleman got such a hold over the old lord,
that nothing would serve him but that he must come every year;
and it was he that had the great organ brought from Holland, and
built up in the hall, ' where it stood now. He taught the old lord to
play on it; hut many and many a time, when Lord Furnivall was
thinking of nothing but his fine organ, and his finer music, the dark
foreigner was walking abroad in the woods with one of the young
ladies; now Miss Maude, and then Miss Grace.

Miss Maude won the day and carried off the prize, such as it was;
and he and she were married, all unknown to any one; and before
he made his next yearly visit, she had been confined of a little girl
at a farm-house on the Moors, while her father and Miss Grace
thought she was away at Doncaster Races. But though she was a
wife and a mother, she was not a bit softened, hut as haughty and
as passionate as ever; and perhaps more so' for she was jealous of
Miss Grace, to whom her foreign husband paid a deal of court - by
way of blinding her - as be told his wife. But Miss Grace
triumphed over Miss Maude, and Miss Maude grew fiercer and
fiercer, both with her husband and with her sister; and the former
who could easily shake off what was disagreeable, and hide
himself in foreign countries - went away a month before his usual
time that summer, and half-threatened that he would never come
back again. Meanwhile, the little girl was left at the farm-house,
and her mother used to have her horse saddled and gallop wildly
over the hills to see her once every week, at the very least - for
where she loved, she loved; and where she hated, she hated. And
the old lord went on playing - playing on his organ; and the
servants thought the sweet music he made had soothed down his
awfultemper, of which (Dorothy said) some terrible tales could be
told. He grew infirm too, and had to walk with a crutch; and his
son - that was the present Lord Furnivall's father - was with the
army in America, and the other son at sea; so Miss Maude had it
pretty much her own way, and she and Miss Grace grew colder and
bitterer to each other every day; till at last they hardly ever spoke,
except when the old lord was by. The foreign musician came again
the next summer, but it was for the last time; for they led him such
a life with their jealousy and their passions, that he grew weary,
and went away, and never was heard of again. And Miss Maude,
who had always meant to have her marriage acknowledged when
her father should be dead, was left now a deserted wife - whom
nobody knew to have been married - with a child that she dared
not own, although she loved it to distraction; living with a father
whom she feared, and a sister whom she hated. when the next
summer passed over and the dark foreigner never came, both Miss
Maude and Miss Grace grew gloomy and sad; they had a haggard
look about them, though they looked handsome as ever. But
by-and-by Miss Maude brightened; for her father grew more and
more infirm, and more than ever carried away by his music; and
she and Miss Grace lived almost entirely apart, having separate
rooms, the one on the west side, Miss Maude on the east - those
very rooms which were now shut up. So she thought she might
have her little girl with her, and no one need ever know except
those who dared not speak about it, and were bound to believe that
it was, as she said, a cottager's child she had taken a fancy to. All
this Dorothy said, was pretty well known; but what came
afterwards no one knew, except Miss Grace, and Mrs Stark,
whowas even then her maid, and much more of a friend to her than
ever her sister had been. But the servants supposed, from words
that were dropped, that Miss Maude had triumphed over Miss
Grace, and told her that all the rime the dark foreigner had been
mocking her with pretended love - he was her own husband; the
colour left Miss Grace's cheek and lips that very day for ever, and
she was heard to say many a time that sooner or later she would
have her revenge; and Mrs Stark was for ever spying about the east
rooms.

One fearful night, just after the New Year had come in, when the
snow was lying thick and deep, and the flakes were still falling -
fast enough to blind any one who might be out and abroad - there
was a great and violent noise heard, and the old lord's voice above
all, cursing and swearing awfully, - and the cries of a little child, -
and the proud defiance of a fierce woman, - and the sound of a
blow, - and a dead stillness, - and moans and wailing's dying away
on the hill-side! Then the old lord summoned all his servants, and
told them, with terrible oaths, and words more terrible, that his
daughter had disgraced herself, and that he had turned her out of
doors, - her, and her child, - and that if ever they gave her help, - or
food, - or shelter, - he prayed that they might never enter Heaven.
And, all the while, Miss Grace stood by him, white and still as any
stone; and when he had ended she heaved a great sigh, as much as
to say her work was done, and her end was accomplished. But the
old lord never touched his organ again, and died within the year;
and no wonder! for, on the morrow of that wild and fearful night,
the shepherds, coming down the Fell-side, found Miss Made
sitting, all crazy and smiling, under the holly-trees,nursing a dead
child, - with a terrible mark on its right shoulder. 'But that was not
what killed it,' said; 'it was the frost and the cold; - every wild
creature was in its hole, and every beast in its fold, - while the
child and its mother were turned out to wander on the Fells! And
now you know all! and I wonder if you are less frightened now?'

I was more frightened than ever; but I said I was not I wished Miss
Rosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house for ever; but
I would not leave her, and I dared not take her away. But oh! how I
watched her, and guarded her! We bolted the doors, and shut the
window-shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather than
leave them open five minutes too late. But my little lady still heard
the weird child crying and mourning; and not all we could do or
say, could keep her from wanting to go to her, and let her in from
the cruel wind and the snow. All this time, I kept away from Miss
Furnivall and Mrs Stark, as much as ever I could; for I feared them
- I knew no good could be about them, with their grey hard faces,
and their dreamy eyes, looking back into the ghastly years that
were gone. But, even in my fear, I had a kind of pity - for Miss
Furnivall, at least. Those gone down to the pit can hardly have a
more hopeless look than that which was ever on her face. At last I
even got so sorry for her - who never said a word but what was
quite forced from her - that I prayed for her; and I taught Miss
Rosamond to pray for one who had done a deadly sin; but often
when she came to those words, she would listen, and start up from
her knees, and say, 'I hear my little girl plaining and crying very
sad - Oh! let her in, or she will die!'

One night - just after New Year's Day had come at last, and the
long winter had taken a turn, as I hoped - I heard the west
drawing-room bell ring three times, which was the signal for me. I
would not leave MissRosamond alone, for all she was asleep - for
the old lord had beenplaying wilder than ever - and I feared lest my
darling should waken to hear the spectre child; see her I knew she
could not. I had fastened thewindows too well for that. So, I took
her out of her bed and wrapped her up in such Outer clothes as
were most handy, and carried her down to the drawing-room,
where the old ladies sate at their tapestry work asusual. They
looked up when I came in, and Mrs Stark asked, quite astounded,
'Why did I bring Miss Rosamond there, out of her warm bed?' I had
begun to whisper, 'Because I was afraid of her being tempted out
while I was away, by the wild child in the snow,' when she stopped
me short (with a glance at Miss Furnivall), and said Miss Furnivall
wanted me to undo some work she had done wrong, and which
neither of them could see to unpick. So, I laid my pretty dear on
the sofa, and sate down on a stool by them, and hardened my heart
against them, as I heard the wind rising and howling.

Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind blew so; and Miss
Furnivall said never a word, nor looked round when the gusts
shook the windows. All at once she started up to her full height,
and put up one hand, as if to bid us listen.

'I bear voices!' said she. 'I hear terrible screams - I hear my father's
voice!'

Just at that moment, my darling wakened with a sudden start: 'My
little girl is crying, oh, how she is crying!' and she tried to get up
and go to her, but she got her feet entangled in the blanket, and I
caught her up; for my flesh had begun to creep at these noises,
which they heard while we could catch no sound. In a minute or
two the noises came, and gathered fast, and filled our ears; we,
too, heard voices and screams, and no longer heard the winter's
wind that raged abroad. Mrs Stark looked at me, and I at her, but
we dared not speak.Suddenly Miss Furnivall went towards the
door, out into the ante-room, through the west lobby, and opened
the door into the great hall. Mrs Stark followed, and I durst not be
left, though my heart almost stopped beating for fear. I wrapped
my darling tight in my arms, and went out with them. In the hall
the screams were louder thin ever; they sounded to come from the
east wing - nearer and nearer - close on the other side of the
locked-up doors - close behind them. Then I noticed that the great
bronze chandelier seemed all alight, though the hall was dim, and
that a fire was blazing in the vast hearth-place, though it gave no
heat; and I shuddered up with terror, and folded my darling closer
to me. But as I did so, the east door shook, and she, suddenly
struggling to get free from me, cried, 'Hester! I must go! My little
girl is there; I hear her; she is coming! Hester, I must go!'

I held her tight with all my strength; with a set will, I held her. If I
had died, my hands would have grasped her still, I was so resolved
in my mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and paid no regard to
my darling, who had got down to the ground, and whom I, upon
my knees now, was holding with both my arms clasped round her
neck; she still striving and crying to get free.

　 　All at once, the east door gave way with a thundering
crash, as if torn open in a violent passion, and there came into that
broad and mysterious light, the figure of a tall, old man, with grey
hair and gleaming eyes. He drove before hum' with many a
relentless gesture of abhorrence, a stern and beautiful woman, with
a little child clinging to her dress.

'Oh Hester! Hester!' cried Miss Rosamond. 'It's the lady! the lady
below the holly-trees; and my little girl is with her. Hester! Hester!
let me go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel them - I feel
them. I must go!'

Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts to get away; but I
held her tighter and tighter, till I feared I should do her a hurt; but
rather that than let her go towards those terrible phantoms. They
passed along towards the great hall-door, where the winds howled
and ravened for their prey; but before they reached that, the lady
turned; and I could see that she defied the old man with a fierce
and proud defiance; but then she quailed - and then she threw her
arms wildly and piteously to save her child - her little child - from
a blow from his uplifted crutch.

And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power stronger thin mine,
and writhed in my arms, and sobbed (for by this rime the poor
darling was growing faint).

'They want me to go with them on to the Fells - they are drawing
me to them. Oh, my little girl! I would come, but cruel, wicked
Hester holds me very tight.' But when she saw the uplifted crutch
she swooned away, and I thanked God for it. Just at this moment -
when the tall, old man, his hair streaming as in the blast of a
furnace, was going to strike the little, shrinking child - Miss
Furnivall, the old woman by my side, cried out, 'Oh, father! father!
spare the little, innocent child!' But just then I saw - we all saw -
another phantom shape itself, and grow clear out of the blue and
misty light that filled the hall; we had not seen her till now, for it
was another lady who stood by the old man, with a look of
relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That figure was very
beautiful to look upon, with a soft, white hat drawn down over the
proud brows, and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an open
robe of blue satin. I had seen that figure before. It was the likeness
of Miss Furnivall in her youth; and the terrible phantoms moved
on, regardless of old Miss Furnivall's wild entreaty, and the
uplifted crutch fell on the right shoulder of the little child, and the
younger sister looked on, stony and deadly serene. But at that
moment, the dim lights, and the fire that gave no heat, went out of
themselves, and Miss Furnivall lay at our feet stricken down by the
palsy - death-stricken.

Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never to rise again. She
lay with her face to the wall, muttering low, but muttering always:
Alas! alas! what is done in youth can never be undone in age! what
is done in youth can never be undone in age!' 

"To be Taken with a Grain of Salt" 
From All the Year Round (Christmas Number, 1865)
by Charles Dickens,

I have always noticed a prevalent want of courage, even among
persons of superior intelligence and culture, as to imparting their
own psychological experiences when those have been of a strange
sort. Almost all men are afraid that what they could relate in such
wise would find no parallel or response in a listener's internal life,
and might be suspected or laughed at. A truthful traveller who
should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a
sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning it; but the same
traveller having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vagary
of thought, vision (so-called), dream, or other remarkable mental
impression, would hesitate considerably before he would own to it.
To this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity in which such
subjects are involved. We do not habitually communicate our
experiences of these subjective things, as we do our experiences of
objective creation. The consequence is, that the general stock of
experience in this regard appears exceptional, and really is so, in
respect of being miserably imperfect.

In what I am going to relate I have no intention of setting up,
opposing, or supporting, any theory whatever. I know the history of
the Bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case of the wife of a
late Astronomer Royal as related by Sir David Brewster, and I
have followed the minutest details of a much more remarkable
case of Spectral Illusion occurring within my private circle of
friends. It may be necessary to state as to this last that the sufferer
(a lady) was in no degree, however distant, related to me. A
mistaken assumption on that head, might suggest an explanation of
a part of my own case - but only a part - which would be wholly
without foundation. It cannot be referred to my inheritance of any
developed peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all similar
experience, nor have I ever had any at all similar experience since.

It does not signify how many years ago, or how few, a certain
Murder was committed in England, which attracted great attention.
We hear more than enough of Murderers as they rise in succession
to their atrocious eminence, and I would bury the memory of this
particular brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in Newgate Jail.
I purposely abstain from giving any direct clue to the criminal's
individuality.

When the murder was first discovered, no suspicion fell - or I
ought rather to say, for I cannot be too precise in my facts, it was
nowhere publicly hinted that any suspicion fell - on the man who
was afterwards brought to trial. As no reference was at that time
made to him in the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that any
description of him can at that time have been given in the
newspapers. It is essential that this fact be remembered.

Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper, containing the account
of that first discovery, I found it to be deeply interesting, and I read
it with close attention. I read it twice, if not three times. The
discovery had been made in a bedroom, and, when I laid down the
paper, I was aware of a flash - rush - flow - I do not know what to
call it - no word I can find is satisfactorily descriptive - in which I
seemed to see that bedroom passing through my room, like a
picture impossibly painted on a running river. Though almost
instantaneous in its passing, it was perfectly clear; so clear that I
distinctly, and with a sense of relief, observed the absence of the
dead body from the bed.

It was in no romantic place that I had this curious sensation, but in
chambers in Piccadilly, very near to the corner of Saint James's
Street. It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy-chair at the
moment, and the sensation was accompanied with a peculiar
shiver which started the chair from its position. (But it is to be
noted that the chair ran easily on castors.) I went to one of the
windows (there are two in the room, and the room is on the second
floor) to refresh my eyes with the moving objects down in
Piccadilly. It was a bright autumn morning, and the street was
sparkling and cheerful. The wind was high. As I looked out, it
brought down from the Park a quantity of fallen leaves, which a
gust took, and whirled into a spiral pillar. As the pillar fell and the
leaves dispersed, I saw two men on the opposite side of the way,
going from West to East. They were one behind the other. The
foremost man often looked back over his shoulder. The second
man followed him, at a distance of some thirty paces, with his
right hand menacingly raised. First, the singularity and steadiness
of this threatening gesture in so public a thoroughfare, attracted
my attention; and next, the more remarkable circumstance that
nobody heeded it. Both men threaded their way among the other
passengers, with a smoothness hardly consistent even with the
action of walking on a pavement, and no single creature that I
could see, gave them place, touched them, or looked after them. In
passing before my windows, they both stared up at me. I saw their
two faces very distinctly, and I knew that I could recognize them
anywhere. Not that I had consciously noticed anything very
remarkable in either face, except that the man who went first had
an unusually lowering appearance, and that the face of the man
who followed him was of the colour of impure wax.

I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife constitute my whole
establishment. My occupation is in a certain Branch Bank, and I
wish that my duties as head of a Department were as light as they
are popularly supposed to be. They kept me in town that autumn,
when I stood in need of a change. I was not ill, but I was not well.
My reader is to make the most that can be reasonably made of my
feeling jaded, having a depressing sense upon me of a monotonous
life, and being 'slightly dyspeptic'. I am assured by my renowned
doctor that my real state of health at that time justifies no stronger
description, and I quote his own from his written answer to my
request for it.

As the circumstances of the Murder, gradually unravelling, took
stronger and stronger possession of the public mind, I kept them
away from mine, by knowing as little about them as was possible
in the midst of the universal excitement. But I knew that a verdict
of Wilful Murder had been found against the suspected Murderer,
and that he had been committed to Newgate for trial. I also knew
that his trial had been postponed over one Sessions of the Central
Criminal Court, on the ground of general prejudice and want of
time for the preparation of the defence. I may further have known,
but I believe I did not, when, or about when, the Sessions to which
his trial stood postponed would come on.

My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room, are all on one floor.
With the last, there is no communication but through the bedroom.
True, there is a door in it, once communicating with the staircase;
but a part of the fitting of my bath has been - and had then been for
some years - fixed across it. At the same period, and as a part of
the same arrangement, the door had been nailed up and canvassed
over.

I was standing in my bedroom late one night, giving some
directions to my servant before he went to bed. My face was
towards the only available door of communication with the
dressing-room, and it was closed. My servant's back was towards
that door. While I was speaking to him I saw it open, and a man
look in, who very earnestly and mysteriously beckoned to me. That
man was the man who had gone second of the two along
Piccadilly, and whose face was of the colour of impure wax.

The figure, having beckoned, drew back and closed the door. With
no longer pause than was made by my crossing the bedroom, I
opened the dressing-room door, and looked in. I had a lighted
candle already in my hand. I felt no inward expectation of seeing
the figure in the dressing-room, and I did not see it there.

Conscious that my servant stood amazed, I turned round to him,
and said: 'Derrick, could you believe that in my cool senses I
fancied I saw a----' As I there laid my hand upon his breast, with a
sudden start he trembled violently, and said, 'O Lord yes sir! A
dead man beckoning!'

Now, I do not believe that this John Derrick, my trusty and
attached servant for more than twenty years, had any impression
whatever of having seen any such figure, until I touched him. The
change in him was so startling when I touched him, that I fully
believe he derived his impression in some occult manner from me
at that instant.

I bade John Derrick bring some brandy, and I gave him a dram,
and was glad to take one myself. Of what had proceeded that
night's phenomenon, I told him not a single word. Reflecting on it,
I was absolutely certain that I had never seen that face before,
except on the one occasion in Piccadilly. Comparing its expression
when beckoning at the door, with its expression when it had stared
up at me as I stood at my window, I came to the conclusion that on
the first occasion it had sought to fasten itself upon my memory,
and that on the second occasion it had made sure of being
immediately remembered.

I was not very comfortable that night, though I felt a certainty,
difficult to explain, that the figure would not return. At daylight, I
fell into a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened by John
Derrick's coming to my bedside with a paper in his hand.

This paper, it appeared, had been the subject of an altercation at
the door between its bearer and my servant. It was a summons to
me to serve upon a Jury at the forthcoming Sessions of the Central
Criminal Court at the Old Bailey. I had never before been
summoned on such a Jury, as John Derrick well knew. He believed
- I am not certain at this hour whether with reason or otherwise -
that that class of Jurors were customarily chosen on a lower
qualification than mine, and he had at first refused to accept the
summons. The man who served it had taken the matter very coolly.
He had said that my attendance or nonattendance was nothing to
him; there the summons was; and I should deal with it at my own
peril, and not at his.

For a day or two I was undecided whether to respond to this call,
or take no notice of it. I was not conscious of the slightest
mysterious bias, influence, or attraction, one way or other. Of that
I am as strictly sure as of every other statement that I make here.
Ultimately I decided, as a break in the monotony of my life, that I
would go.

The appointed morning was a raw morning in the month of
November. There was a dense brown fog in Piccadilly, and it
became positively black and in the last degree oppressive East of
Temple Bar. I found the passages and staircases of the Court
House flaringly lighted with gas, and the Court itself similarly
illuminated. I think that until I was conducted by officers into the
Old Court and saw its crowded state, I did not know that the
Murderer was to be tried that day. I think that until I was so helped
into the Old Court with considerable difficulty, I did not know into
which of the two Courts sitting, my summons would take me. But
this must not be received as a positive assertion, for I am not
completely satisfied in my mind on either point.

I took my seat in the place appropriated to Jurors in waiting, and I
looked about the Court as well as I could through the cloud of fog
and breath that was heavy in it. I noticed the black vapour hanging
like a murky curtain outside the great windows, and I noticed the
stifled sound of wheels on the straw or tan that was littered in the
street; also, the hum of the people gathered there, which a shrill
whistle, or a louder song or hail than the rest, occasionally pierced.
Soon afterwards the Judges, two in number, entered and took their
seats. The buzz in the Court was awfully hushed. The direction
was given to put the Murderer to the bar. He appeared there. And
in that same instant I recognized in him, the first of the two men
who had gone down Piccadilly.

If my name had been called then, I doubt if I could have answered
to it audibly. But it was called about sixth or eighth in the panel,
and I was by that time able to say 'Here!' Now, observe. As I
stepped into the box, the prisoner, who had been looking on
attentively but with no sign of concern, became violently agitated,
and beckoned to his attorney. The prisoner's wish to challenge me
was so manifest, that it occasioned a pause, during which the
attorney, with his hand upon the dock, whispered with his client,
and shook his head. I afterwards had it from that gentleman, that
the prisoner's first affrighted words to him were, 'At all hazards
challenge that man!' But, that as he would give no reason for it,
and admitted that he had not even known my name until he heard
it called and I appeared, it was not done.

Both on the ground already explained, that I wish to avoid reviving
the unwholesome memory of that Murderer, and also because a
detailed account of his long trial is by no means indispensable to
my narrative, I shall confine myself closely to such incidents in the
ten days and nights during which we, the Jury, were kept together,
as directly bear on my own curious personal experience. It is in
that, and not in the Murderer, that I seek to interest my reader. It is
to that, and not to a page of the Newgate Calendar, that I beg
attention.

I was chosen Foreman of the Jury. On the second morning of the
trial, after evidence had been taken for two hours (I heard the
church clocks strike), happening to cast my eyes over my
brother-jurymen, I found an inexplicable difficulty in counting
them. I counted them several times, yet always with the same
difficulty. In short, I made them one too many.

I touched the brother-juryman whose place was next to me, and I
whispered to him, 'Oblige me by counting us.' He looked surprised
by the request, but turned his head and counted. 'Why,' says he,
suddenly, 'We are Thirt----; but no, it's not possible. No. We are
twelve.'

According to my counting that day, we were always right in detail,
but in the gross we were always one too many. There was no
appearance - no figure - to account for it; but I had now an inward
foreshadowing of the figure that was surely coming.

The Jury were housed at the London Tavern. We all slept in one
large room on separate tables, and we were constantly in the
charge and under the eye of the officer sworn to hold us in
safe-keeping. I see no reason for suppressing the real name of that
officer. He was intelligent, highly polite, and obliging, and (I was
glad to hear) much respected in the City. He had an agreeable
presence, good eyes, enviable black whiskers, and a fine sonorous
voice. His name was Mr Harker.

When we turned into our twelve beds at night, Mr Harker's bed
was drawn across the door. On the night of the second day, not
being disposed to lie down, and seeing Mr Harker sitting on his
bed, I went and sat beside him, and offered him a pinch of snuff.
As Mr Harker's hand touched mine in taking it from my box, a
peculiar shiver crossed him, and he said: 'Who is this!'

Following Mr Harker's eyes and looking along the room, I saw
again the figure I expected - the second of the two men who had
gone down Piccadilly. I rose, and advanced a few steps; then
stopped, and looked round at Mr Harker. He was quite
unconcerned, laughed, and said in a pleasant way, 'I thought for a
moment we had a thirteenth juryman, without a bed. But I see it is
the moonlight.'

Making no revelation to Mr Harker, but inviting him to take a walk
with me to the end of the room, I watched what the figure did. It
stood for a few moments by the bedside of each of my eleven
brother-jurymen, close to the pillow. It always went to the
right-hand side of the bed, and always passed out crossing the foot
of the next bed. It seemed from the action of the head, merely to
look down pensively at each recumbent figure. It took no notice of
me, or of my bed, which was that nearest to Mr Harker's. It seemed
to go out where the moonlight came in, through a high window, as
by an a詠ial flight of stairs.

Next morning at breakfast, it appeared that everybody present had
dreamed of the murdered man last night, except myself and Mr
Harker.

I now felt as convinced that the second man who had gone down
Piccadilly was the murdered man (so to speak), as if it had been
borne into my comprehension by his immediate testimony. But
even this took place, and in a manner for which I was not at all
prepared.

On the fifth day of the trial, when the case for the prosecution was
drawing to a close, a miniature of the murdered man, missing from
his bedroom upon the discovery of the deed, and afterwards found
in a hiding-place where the Murderer had been seen digging, was
put in evidence. Having been identified by the witness under
examination, it was handed up to the Bench, and thence handed
down to be inspected by the Jury. As an officer in a black gown
was making his way with it across to me, the figure of the second
man who had gone down Piccadilly, impetuously started from the
crowd, caught the miniature from the officer, and gave it to me
with its own hands, at the same time saying in a low and hollow
tone - before I saw the miniature, which was in a locket - 'I was
younger then, and my face was not then drained of blood.' It also
came between me and the brother-juryman to whom I would have
given the miniature, and between him and the brother-juryman to
whom he would have given it, and so passed it on through the
whole of our number, and back into my possession. Not one of
them, however, detected this.

At table, and generally when we were shut up together in Mr
Harker's custody, we had from the first naturally discussed the
day's proceedings a good deal. On that fifth day, the case for the
prosecution being closed, and we having that side of the question
in a completed shape before us, our discussion was more animated
and serious. Among our number was a vestryman - the densest
idiot I have ever seen at large - who met the plainest evidence with
the most preposterous objections, and who was sided with by two
flabby parochial parasites; all the three empanelled from a district
so delivered over to Fever that they ought to have been upon their
own trial, for five hundred Murders. When these mischievous
blockheads were at their loudest, which was towards midnight
while some of us were already preparing for bed, I again saw the
murdered man. He stood grimly behind them, beckoning to me. On
my going towards them and striking into the conversation, he
immediately retired. This was the beginning of a separate series of
appearances, confined to that long room in which we were
confined. Whenever a knot of my brother jurymen laid their heads
together, I saw the head of the murdered man among theirs.
Whenever their comparison of notes was going against him, he
would solemnly and irresistibly beckon to me.

It will be borne in mind that down to the production of the
miniature on the fifth day of the trial, I had never seen the
Appearance in Court. Three changes occurred, now that we
entered on the case for the defence. Two of them I will mention
together, first. The figure was now in Court continually, and it
never there addressed itself to me, but always to the person who
was speaking at the time. For instance. The throat of the murdered
man had been cut straight across. In the opening speech for the
defence, it was suggested that the deceased might have cut his own
throat. At that very moment, the figure with its throat in the
dreadful condition referred to (this it had concealed before) stood
at the speaker's elbow, motioning across and across its windpipe,
now with the right hand, now with the left, vigorously suggesting
to the speaker himself, the impossibility of such a wound having
been self-inflicted by either hand. For another instance. A witness
to character, a woman, deposed to the prisoner's being the most
amiable of mankind. The figure at that instant stood on the floor
before her, looking her full in the face, and pointing out the
prisoner's evil countenance with an extended arm and an
outstretched finger.

The third change now to be added, impressed me strongly, as the
most marked and striking of all. I do not theorize upon it; I
accurately state it, and there leave it. Although the Appearance
was not itself perceived by those whom it addressed, its coming
close to such persons was invariably attended by some trepidation
or disturbance on their part. It seemed to me as if it were prevented
by laws to which I was not amenable, from fully revealing itself to
others, and yet as if it could, invisibly, dumbly and darkly,
overshadow their minds. When the leading counsel for the defence
suggested that hypothesis of suicide and the figure stood at the
learned gentleman's elbow, frightfully sawing at its severed throat,
it is undeniable that the counsel faltered in his speech, lost for a
few seconds the thread of his ingenious discourse, wiped his
forehead with his handkerchief, and turned extremely pale. When
the witness to character was confronted by the Appearance, her
eyes most certainly did follow the direction of its pointed finger,
and rest in great hesitation and trouble upon the prisoner's face.
Two additional illustrations will suffice. On the eighth day of the
trial, after the pause which was every day made early in the
afternoon for a few minutes' rest and refreshment, I came back into
Court with the rest of the Jury, some little time before the return of
the Judges. Standing up in the box and looking about me, I thought
the figure was not there, until, chancing to raise my eyes to the
gallery, I saw it bending forward and leaning over a very decent
woman, as if to assure itself whether the Judges had resumed their
seats or not. Immediately afterwards, that woman screamed,
fainted, and was carried out. So with the venerable, sagacious, and
patient Judge who conducted the trial. When the case was over,
and he settled himself and his papers to sum up, the murdered man
entering by the Judges' door, advanced to his Lordship's desk, and
looked eagerly over his shoulder at the pages of his notes which he
was turning. A change came over his Lordship's face; his hand
stopped; the peculiar shiver that I knew so well, passed over him;
he faltered, 'Excuse me gentlemen, for a few moments. I am
somewhat oppressed by the vitiated air;' and did not recover until
he had drunk a glass of water.

Through all the monotony of six of those interminable ten days -
the same Judges and others on the bench, the same Murderer in the
dock, the same lawyers at the table, the same tones of question and
answer rising to the roof of the court, the same scratching of the
Judge's pen, the same ushers going in and out, the same lights
kindled at the same hour when there had been any natural light of
day, the same foggy curtain outside the great windows when it was
foggy, the same rain pattering and dripping when it was rainy, the
same footmarks of turnkeys and prisoner day after day on the same
sawdust, the same keys locking and unlocking the same heavy
doors - through all the wearisome monotony which made me feel
as if I had been Foreman of the Jury for a vast period of time, and
Piccadilly had flourished coevally with Babylon, the murdered
man never lost one trace of his distinctness in my eyes, nor was he
at any moment less distinct than anybody else. I must not omit, as
a matter of fact, that I never once saw the Appearance which I call
by the name of the murdered man, look at the Murderer. Again and
again I wondered, 'Why does he not?' But he never did.

Nor did he look at me, after the production of the miniature, until
the last closing minutes of the trial arrived. We retired to consider,
at seven minutes before ten at night. The idiotic vestry-man and
his two parochial parasites gave us so much trouble, that we twice
returned into Court, to beg to have certain extracts from the
Judge's notes reread. Nine of us had not the smallest doubt about
those passages, neither, I believe, had any one in Court; the
dunder-headed triumvirate however, having no idea but
obstruction, disputed them for that very reason. At length we
prevailed, and finally the Jury returned into Court at ten minutes
past twelve.

The murdered man at that time stood directly opposite the
Jury-box, on the other side of the Court. As I took my place, his
eyes rested on me, with great attention; he seemed satisfied, and
slowly shook a great grey veil, which he carried on his arm for the
first time, over his head and whole form. As I gave in our verdict
'Guilty', the veil collapsed, all was gone, and his place was empty.

The Murderer being asked by the Judge, according to usage,
whether he had anything to say before sentence of Death should be
passed upon him, indistinctly muttered something which was
described in the leading newspapers of the following day as 'a few
rambling, incoherent, and half-audible words, in which he was
understood to complain that he had not had a fair trial because the
Foreman of the Jury was prepossessed against him'. The
remarkable declaration that he really made, was this: 'My Lord, I
knew I was a doomed man when the Foreman of my Jury came
into the box. My Lord, I knew he would never let me off because,
before I was taken, he somehow got to my bedside in the night,
woke me, and put a rope round my neck.'

"An Account of Some Disturbances in Aungier Street"
by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

It is not worth telling, this story of mine - at least, not worth
writing. Told, indeed, as I have sometimes been called upon to tell
it, to a circle of intelligent and eager faces, lighted up by a good
after-dinner fire on a winter's evening, with a cold wind rising and
wailing outside, and all snug and cosy within, it has gone off -
though I say it, who should not - indifferent well. But it is a
venture to do as you would have me. Pen, ink, and paper are cold
vehicles for the marvellous, and a 'reader' decidedly a more critical
animal than a 'listener'. If, however, you can induce your friends to
read it after nightfall, and when the fireside talk has run for a while
on thrilling tales of shapeless terror; in short, if you will secure me
the mollia tempora fandi, I will go to my work, and say my say,
with better heart. Well, then, these conditions presupposed, I shall
waste no more words, but tell you simply how it all happened.

My cousin (Tom Ludlow) and I studied medicine together. I think
he would have succeeded, had he stuck to the profession; but he
preferred the Church, poor fellow, and died early, a sacrifice to
contagion, contracted in the noble discharge of his duties. For my
present purpose, I say enough of his character when I mention that
he was of a sedate but frank and cheerful nature; very exact in his
observance of truth, and not by any means like myself - of an
excitable or nervous temperament.

My Uncle Ludlow - Tom's father - while we were attending
lectures, purchased three or four old houses in Aungier Street, one
of which was unoccupied. He resided in the country, and Tom
proposed that we should take up our abode in the untenanted
house, so long as it should continue unlet; a move which would
accomplish the double end of settling us nearer alike to our
lecture-rooms and to our amusements, and of relieving us from the
weekly charge of rent for our lodgings.

Our furniture was very scant - our whole equipage remarkably
modest and primitive; and, in short, our arrangements pretty nearly
as simple as those of a bivouac. Our new plan was, therefore,
executed almost as soon as conceived. The front drawing-room
was our sitting-room. I had the bedroom over it, and Tom the back
bedroom on the same floor, which nothing could have induced me
to occupy.

The house, to begin with, was a very old one. It had been, I
believe, newly fronted about fifty years before; but this exception,
it had nothing modern about it. The agent who bought it and
looked into the titles for my uncle, told me that it was sold, along
with much other forfeited property, at Chichester House, I think, in
1702; and had belonged to Sir Thomas Hacket, who was Lord
Mayor of Dublin in James II's time. How old it was then, I can't
say; but, at all events, it had seen years and changes enough to
have contracted all that mysterious and saddened air, at once
exciting and depressing, which belongs to most old mansions.

There had been very little done in the way of modernizing details;
and, perhaps, it was better so; for there was something queer and
by-gone in the very walls and ceilings - in the shape of doors and
windows - in the odd diagonal site of the chimney-pieces - in the
beams and ponderous cornices - not to mention the singular
solidity of all the woodwork, from the banisters to the
window-frames, which hopelessly defied disguise, and would have
emphatically proclaimed their antiquity through any conceivable
amount of modern finery and varnish.

An effort had, indeed, been made, to the extent of papering the
drawing-rooms; but somehow, the paper looked raw and out of
keeping; and the old woman, who kept a little dirt-pie of a shop in
the lane, and whose daughter - a girl of two and fifty - was our
solitary handmaid, coming in at sunrise, and chastely receding
again as soon as she had made all ready for tea in our state
apartment; - this woman, I say, remembered it, when old Judge
Horrocks (who, having earned the reputation of a particularly
'hanging judge', ended by hanging himself, as the coroner's jury
found, under an impulse of 'temporary insanity', with a child's
skipping rope, over the massive old banisters) resided there,
entertaining good company, with fine venison and rare old port. In
those halcyon days, the drawing-rooms were hung with gilded
leather, and, I dare say, cut a good figure, for they were really
spacious rooms.

The bedrooms were wainscoted, but the front one was not gloomy;
and in it the cosiness of antiquity quite overcame its sombre
associations. But the back bedroom, with its two queerly-placed
melancholy windows, staring vacantly at the foot of the bed, and
with the shadowy recess to be found in most old houses in Dublin,
like a large ghostly closet, which, from congeniality of
temperament, had amalgamated with the bedchamber, and
dissolved the partition. At night-time, this 'alcove' - as our 'maid'
was wont to call it - had, in my eyes, a specially sinister and
suggestive character. Tom's distant and solitary candle glimmered
vainly into its darkness. There it was always overlooking him -
always itself impenetrable. But this was only part of the effect. The
whole room was, I can't tell how, repulsive to me. There was, I
suppose, in its proportions and features, a latent discord - a certain
mysterious and indescribable relation, which jarred indistinctly
upon some secret sense of the fitting and the safe, and raised
indefinable suspicions and apprehensions of the imagination. On
the whole, as I began by saying, nothing could have induced me to
pass a night alone in it.

I had never pretended to conceal from poor Tom my superstitious
weakness; and he, on the other hand, most unaffectly ridiculed my
tremors. The sceptic was, however, destined to receive a lesson, as
you shall hear.

We had not been very long in occupation of our respective
dormitories, when I began to complain of uneasy nights and
disturbed sleep. I was, I suppose, the more impatient under this
annoyance, as I was usually a sound sleeper, and by no means
prone to nightmares. It was now, however, my destiny, instead of
enjoying my customary repose, every night to 'sup full of horrors'.
After a preliminary course of disagreeable and frightful dreams,
my troubles took a definite form, and the same vision, without an
appreciable variation in a single detail, visited me at least (on an
average) every second night in the week.

Now, this dream, nightmare, or infernal illusion - which you please
- of which I was the miserable sport, was on this wise:

I saw, or thought I saw, with the most abominable distinctness,
although at the time in profound darkness, every article of
furniture and accidental arrangement of the chamber in which I
lay. This, as you know, is incidental to ordinary nightmare. Well,
while in this clairvoyant condition, which seemed but the lighting
up of the theatre in which was to be exhibited the monotonous
tableau of horror, which made my nights insupportable, my
attention invariably became, I know not why, fixed upon the
windows opposite the foot of my bed; and, uniformly with the
same effect, a sense of dreadful anticipation always took slow but
sure possession of me. I became somehow conscious of a sort of
horrid but undefined preparation going forward in some unknown
quarter, and by some unknown agency, for my torment; and, after
an interval, which always seemed to me of the same length, a
picture suddenly flew up to the window, where it remained fixed,
as if by an electrical attraction, and my discipline of horror then
commenced, to last perhaps for hours. The picture thus
mysteriously glued to the window-panes, was the portrait of an old
man, in a crimson flowered silk dressing-gown, the folds of which
I could now describe, with a countenance embodying a strange
mixture of intellect, sensuality, and power, but withal sinister and
full of malignant omen. His nose was hooked, like the beak of a
vulture; his eyes large, grey, and prominent, and lighted up with a
more than mortal cruelty and coldness. These features were
surmounted by a crimson velvet cap, the hair that peeped from
under which was white with age, while the eyebrows retained their
original blackness. Well I remember every line, hue, and shadow
of that stony countenance, and well I may! The gaze of this hellish
visage was fixed upon me, and mine returned it with the
inexplicable fascination of nightmare, for what appeared to me to
be hours of agony. At last - 

The cock he crew, away then flew

the fiend who had enslaved me through the awful watches of the
night; and, harassed and nervous, I rose to the duties of the day.

I had - I can't say exactly why, but it may have been from the
exquisite anguish and profound impressions of unearthly horror,
with which this strange phantasmagoria was associated - an
insurmountable antipathy to describing the exact nature of my
nightly troubles to my friend and comrade. Generally, however, I
told him that I was haunted by abominable dreams; and, true to the
imputed materialism of medicine, we put our heads together to
dispel my horrors, not by exorcism, but by a tonic.

I will do this tonic justice, and frankly admit that the accursed
portrait began to intermit its visits under its influence. What of
that? Was this singular apparition - as full of character as of terror
- therefore the creature of my fancy, or the invention of my poor
stomach? Was it, in short, subjective (to borrow the technical slang
of the day) and not the palpable aggression and intrusion of an
external agent? That, good friend, as we will both admit, by no
means follows. The evil spirit, who enthralled my senses in the
shape of that portrait, may have been just as near me, just as
energetic, just as malignant, though I saw him not. What means the
whole moral code of revealed religion regarding the due keeping
of our own bodies, soberness, temperance, etc.? here is an obvious
connection between the material and the invisible; the healthy tone
of the system, and its unimpaired energy, may, for aught we can
tell, guard us against influences which would otherwise render life
itself terrific. The mesmerist and the electro-biologist will fail
upon an average with nine patients out of ten - so may the evil
spirit. Special conditions of the corporeal system are indispensable
to the production of certain spiritual phenomena. The operation
succeeds sometimes - sometimes fails - that is all.

I found afterwards that my would-be sceptical companion had his
troubles too. But of these I knew nothing yet. One night, for a
wonder, I was sleeping soundly, when I was roused by a step on
the lobby outside my room, followed by the loud clang of what
turned out to be a large brass candlestick, flung with all his force
by poor Tom Ludlow over the banisters, and rattling with a
rebound down the second flight of stairs; and almost concurrently
with this, Tom burst open my door, and bounced into my room
backwards, in a state of extraordinary agitation.

I had jumped out of bed and clutched him by the arm before I had
any distinct idea of my own whereabouts. There we were - in our
shirts - standing before the open door - staring through the great
old banister opposite, at the lobby window, through which the
sickly light of a clouded moon was gleaming.

'What's the matter, Tom? What's the matter with you? What the
devil's the matter with you, Tom?' I demanded shaking him with
nervous impatience.

He took a long breath before he answered me, and then it was not
very coherently.

'It's nothing, nothing at all - did I speak? - what did I say? - Where's
the candle, Richard? It's dark; I - I had a candle!'

'Yes, dark enough,' I said; 'but what's the matter? - what is it? - why
don't you speak, Tom? - have you lost your wits? - what is the
matter?'

'The matter? - oh, it is all over. It must have been a dream -
nothing at all but a dream - don't you think so? It could not be
anything more than a dream.'

'Of course,' said I, feeling uncommonly nervous, 'it was a dream.'

'I thought,' he said, 'there was a man in my room, and - and I
jumped out of bed; and - and - where's the candle - '

'In your room, most likely,' I said, 'shall I go and bring it - '

'No; stay here - don't go; it's no matter - don't, I tell you; it was all a
dream. Bolt the door, Dick; I'll stay here with you - I feel nervous.
So, Dick, like a good fellow, light your candle and open the
window - I am in a shocking state.'

I did as he asked me, and robing himself like Granuaile in one of
my blankets, he seated himself close beside my bed.

Everybody knows how contagious is fear of all sorts, but more
especially that particular kind of fear under which poor Tom was
at that moment labouring. I would not have heard, nor I believe
would he have recapitulated, just at that moment, for half the
world, the details of the hideous vision which had so unmanned
him.

'Don't mind telling me anything about your nonsensical dream,
Tom,' said I, affecting contempt, really in a panic; 'let us talk about
something else; but it is quite plain that this dirty old house
disagrees with us both, and hang me if I stay here longer, to be
pestered with indigestion and - and - bad nights, so we may as well
look out for lodgings - don't you think so? - at once.'

Tom agreed, and, after an interval, said - 

'I have been thinking, Richard, that it is a long time since I saw my
father, and I have made up my mind to go down tomorrow and
return in a day or two, and you can take rooms for us in the
meantime.'

I fancied that this resolution, obviously the result of the vision
which had so profoundly scared him, would probably vanish next
morning with the damps and shadows of night. But I was mistaken.
Off went Tom at peep of day to the country, having agreed that so
soon as I had secured suitable lodgings, I was to recall him by
letter from his visit to my Uncle Ludlow.

Now, anxious as I was to change my quarters, it so happened,
owing to a series of petty procrastinations and accidents, that
nearly a week elapsed before my bargain was made and my letter
of recall on the wing to Tom; and, in the meantime, a trifling
adventure or two had occurred to your humble servant, which,
absurd as they now appear, diminished by distance, did certainly at
the time serve to whet my appetite for change considerably.

A night or two after the departure of my comrade, I was sitting by
my bedroom fire, the door locked, and the ingredients of a tumbler
of hot whisky-punch upon the crazy spider-table; for, as the best
mode of keeping the

Black spirits and white, 

Blue spirits and grey,

with which I was environed, at bay, I had adopted the practice
recommended by the wisdom of my ancestors, and 'kept my spirits
up by pouring spirits down'. I had thrown aside my volume of
Anatomy, and was treating myself by way of a tonic, preparatory
to my punch and bed, to half-a-dozen pages of the Spectator, when
I heard a step on the flight of stairs descending from the attics. It
was two o'clock, and the streets were as silent as a churchyard - the
sounds were, therefore, perfectly distinct. There was a slow, heavy
tread, characterized by the emphasis and deliberation of age,
descending by the narrow staircase from above; and, what made
the sound more singular, it was plain that the feet which produced
it were perfectly bare, measuring the descent with something
between a pound and a flop, very ugly to hear.

I knew quite well that my attendant had gone away many hours
before, and that nobody but myself had any business in the house.
It was quite plain also that the person who was coming down stairs
had no intention whatever of concealing his movements; but, on
the contrary, appeared disposed to make even more noise, and
proceed even more deliberately, than was at all necessary. When
the step reached the foot of the stairs outside my room, it seemed
to stop; and I expected every moment to see my door open
spontaneously, and give admission to the original of my detested
portrait. I was, however, relieved in a few seconds by hearing the
descent renewed, just in the same manner, upon the staircase
leading down to the drawing-rooms, and thence, after another
pause, down the next flight, and so on to the hall, whence I heard
no more.

Now, by the time the sound had ceased, I was wound up, as they
say, to a very unpleasant pitch of excitement. I listened, but there
was not a stir. I screwed up my courage to a decisive experiment -
opened my door, and in a stentorian voice bawled over the
banisters, 'Who's there - ' There was no answer but the ringing of
my own voice through the empty old house - no renewal of the
movement; nothing, in short, to give my unpleasant sensations a
definite direction. There is, I think, something most disagreeably
disenchanting in the sound of one's own voice under such
circumstances, exerted in solitude, and in vain. It redoubled my
sense of isolation, and my misgivings increased on perceiving that
the door, which I certainly thought I had left open, was closed
behind me; in a vague alarm, lest my retreat should be cut off, I
got again into my room as quickly as I could, where I remained in
a state of imaginary blockade, and very uncomfortable indeed, till
morning.

Next night brought no return of my barefooted fellow-lodger; but
the night following, being in my bed, and in the dark - somewhere,
I suppose, about the same hour as before, I distinctly heard the old
fellow again descending from the garrets.

This time I had had my punch, and the morale of the garrison was
consequently excellent. I jumped out of bed, clutched the poker as
I passed the expiring fire, and in a moment was upon the lobby.
The sound had ceased by this time - the dark and chill were
discouraging; and, guess my horror, when I saw, or thought I saw,
a black monster, whether in the shape of a man or a bear I could
not say, standing, with its back to the wall, on the lobby, facing
me, with a pair of great greenish eyes shining dimly out. Now, I
must be frank, and confess that the cupboard which displayed our
plates and cups stood just there, though at the moment I did not
recollect it. At the same time I must honestly say, that making
every allowance for an excited imagination, I never could satisfy
myself that I was made the dupe of my own fancy in this matter;
for this apparition, after one or two shiftings of shape, as if in the
act of incipient transformation, began, as it seemed on second
thoughts, to advance upon me in its original form. From an instinct
of terror rather than of courage, I hurled the poker, with all my
force, at its head; and to the music of a horrid crash made my way
into my room, and double-locked the door. Then, in a minute
more, I heard the horrid bare feet walk down the stairs, till the
sound ceased in the hall, as on the former occasion.

If the apparition of the night before was an ocular delusion of my
fancy sporting with the dark outlines of our cupboard, and if its
horrid eyes were nothing but a pair of inverted teacups, I had, at all
events, the satisfaction of having launched the poker with
admirable effect, and in true 'fancy' phrase, 'knocked its two
daylights into one', as the commingled fragments of my tea-service
testified. I did my best to gather comfort and courage from these
evidences; but it would not do. And then what could I say of those
horrid bare feet, and the regular tramp, tramp, tramp, which
measured the distance of the entire staircase through the solitude
of my haunted dwelling, and at an hour when no good influence
was stirring? Confound it! - the whole affair was abominable. I
was out of spirits, and dreaded the approach of night.

It came, ushered ominously in with a thunderstorm and dull
torrents of depressing rain. Earlier than usual the streets grew
silent; and by twelve o'clock nothing but the comfortless pattering
of the rain was to be heard.

I made myself as snug as I could. I lighted two candles instead of
one. I forswore bed, and held myself in readiness for a sally,
candle in hand; for, coute qui coute, I was resolved to see the
being, if visible at all, who troubled the nightly stillness of my
mansion. I was fidgety and nervous and, tried in vain to interest
myself with my books. I walked up and down my room, whistling
in turn martial and hilarious music, and listening ever and anon for
the dreaded noise. I sate down and stared at the square label on the
solemn and reserved-looking black bottle, until 'FLANAGAN &
CO.'S BEST OLD MALT WHISKY' grew into a sort of subdued
accompaniment to all the fantastic and horrible speculations which
chased one another through my brain.

Silence, meanwhile, grew more silent, and darkness darker. I
listened in vain for the rumble of a vehicle, or the dull clamour of
a distant row. There was nothing but the sound of a rising wind,
which had succeeded the thunderstorm that had travelled over the
Dublin mountains quite out of hearing. In the middle of this great
city I began to feel myself alone with nature, and Heaven knows
what beside. My courage was ebbing. Punch, however, which
makes beasts of so many, made a man of me again - just in time to
hear with tolerable nerve and firmness the lumpy, flabby, naked
feet deliberately descending the stairs again.

I took a candle, not without a tremor. As I crossed the floor I tried
to extemporize a prayer, but stopped short to listen, and never
finished it. The steps continued. I confess I hesitated for some
seconds at the door before I took heart of grace and opened it.
When I peeped out the lobby was perfectly empty - there was no
monster standing on the staircase; and as the detested sound
ceased, I was reassured enough to venture forward nearly to the
banisters. Horror of horrors! Within a stair or two beneath the spot
where I stood the unearthly tread smote the floor. My eye caught
something in motion; it was about the size of Goliath's foot - it was
grey, heavy, and flapped with a dead weight from one step to
another. As I am alive, it was the most monstrous grey rat I ever
beheld or imagined.

Shakespeare says - 'Some men there are cannot abide a gaping pig,
and some that are mad if they behold a cat.' I went well-nigh out of
my wits when I beheld this rat; for, laugh at me as you may, it
fixed upon me, I thought, a perfectly human expression of malice;
and, as it shuffled about and looked up into my face almost from
between my feet, I saw, I could swear it - I felt it then, and know it
now, the infernal gaze and the accursed countenance of my old
friend in the portrait, transfused into the visage of the bloated
vermin before me.

I bounced into my room again with a feeling of loathing and horror
I cannot describe, and locked and bolted my door as if a lion had
been at the other side. D----n him or it; curse the portrait and its
original! I felt in my soul that the rat - yes, the rat, the RAT I had
just seen, was that evil being in masquerade, and rambling through
the house upon some infernal night lark.

Next morning I was early trudging through the miry streets; and,
among other transactions, posted a peremptory note recalling Tom.
On my return, however, I found a note from my absent 'chum',
announcing his intended return next day. I was doubly rejoiced at
this, because I had succeeded in getting rooms; and because the
change of scene and return of my comrade were rendered specially
pleasant by the last night's half ridiculous half horrible adventure.

I slept extemporaneously in my new quarters in Digges' Street that
night, and next morning returned for breakfast to the haunted
mansion, where I was certain Tom would call immediately on his
arrival.

I was quite right - he came; and almost his first question referred
to the primary object of our change of residence.

'Thank God,' he said with genuine fervour, on hearing that all was
arranged. 'On your account I am delighted. As to myself, I assure
you that no earthly consideration could have induced me ever
again to pass a night in this disastrous old house.'

'Confound the house!' I ejaculated, with a genuine mixture of fear
and detestation, 'we have not had a pleasant hour since we came to
live here'; and so I went on, and related incidentally my adventure
with the plethoric old rat.

'Well, if that were all,' said my cousin, affecting to make light of
the matter, 'I don't think I should have minded it very much.'

'Ay, but its eye - its countenance, my dear Tom,' urged I; 'if you
had seen that, you would have felt it might be anything but what it
seemed.'

'I inclined to think the best conjurer in such a case would be an
able-bodied cat,' he said, with a provoking chuckle.

'But let us hear of your own adventure,' I said tartly.

At this challenge he looked uneasily round him. I had poked up a
very unpleasant recollection.

'You shall hear it, Dick; I'll tell it to you,' he said. 'Begad, sir, I
should feel quite queer, though, telling it here, though we are too
strong a body for ghosts to meddle with just now.'

Though he spoke this like a joke, I think it was serious calculation.
Our Hebe was in a corner of the room, packing our cracked delft
tea and dinner-services in a basket. She soon suspended
operations, and with mouth and eyes wide open became an
absorbed listener. Tom's experiences were told nearly in these
words:

'I saw it three times, Dick - three distinct times; and I am perfectly
certain it meant me some infernal harm. I was, I say, in danger - in
extreme danger; for, if nothing else had happened, my reason
would most certainly have failed me, unless I had escaped so soon.
Thank God. I did escape.

'The first night of this hateful disturbance, I was lying in the
attitude of sleep, in that lumbering old bed. I hate to think of it. I
was really wide awake, though I had put out my candle, and was
lying as quietly as I had been asleep; and although accidentally
restless, my thoughts were running in a cheerful and agreeable
channel.

'I think it must have been two o'clock at least when I thought I
heard a sound in that - that odious dark recess at the far end of the
bedroom. It was as if someone was drawing a piece of cord slowly
along the floor, lifting it up, and dropping it softly down again in
coils. I sat up once or twice in my bed, but could see nothing, so I
concluded it must be mice in the wainscot. I felt no emotion graver
than curiosity, and after a few minutes ceased to observe it.

'While lying in this state, strange to say; without at first a suspicion
of anything supernatural, on a sudden I saw an old man, rather
stout and square, in a sort of roan-red dressing-gown, and with a
black cap on his head, moving stiffly and slowly in a diagonal
direction, from the recess, across the floor of the bedroom, passing
my bed at the foot, and entering the lumber-closet at the left. He
had something under his arm; his head hung a little to one side;
and merciful God! when I saw his face.'

Tom stopped for a while, and then said - 

'That awful countenance, which living or dying I never can forget,
disclosed what he was. Without turning to the right or left, he
passed beside me, and entered the closet by the bed's head.

'While this fearful and indescribable type of death and guilt was
passing, I felt that I had no more power to speak or stir than if I
had been myself a corpse. For hours after it had disappeared, I was
too terrified and weak to move. As soon as daylight came, I took
courage, and examined the room, and especially the course which
the frightful intruder had seemed to take, but there was no sign of
any disturbing agency visible among the lumber that strewed the
floor of the closet.

'I now began to recover a little. I was fagged and exhausted, and at
last, overpowered by a feverish sleep. I came down late; and
finding you out of spirits, on account of your dreams about the
portrait, whose original I am now certain disclosed himself to me,
I did not care to talk about the infernal vision. In fact, I was trying
to persuade myself that the whole thing was an illusion, and I did
not like to revive in their intensity the hated impressions of the
past night - or, to risk the constancy of my scepticism, by
recounting the tale of my sufferings.

'It required some nerve, I can tell you, to go to my haunted
chamber next night, and lie down quietly in the same bed,'
continued Tom. 'I did so with a degree of trepidation, which, I am
not ashamed to say, a very little matter would have sufficed to
stimulate to downright panic. This night, however, passed off
quietly enough, as also the next; and so too did two or three more.
I grew more confident, and began to fancy that I believed in the
theories of spectral illusions, with which I had at first vainly tried
to impose upon my convictions.

'The apparition had been, indeed, altogether anomalous. It had
crossed the room without any recognition of my presence: I had
not disturbed it, and it had no mission to me. What, then, was the
imaginable use of its crossing the room in a visible shape at all? Of
course it have been in the closet instead of going there, as easily as
it introduced itself into the recess without entering the chamber in
a shape discernible by the senses. Besides, how the deuce had I
seen it? It was a dark night; I had no candle; there was no fire; and
yet I saw it as distinctly, in colouring and outline, as ever I beheld
a human form! A cataleptic dream would explain it all; and I was
determined that a dream it should be.

'One of the most remarkable phenomena connected with the
practice of mendacity is the vast number of deliberate lies we tell
ourselves, whom, of all persons, we can least expect to deceive. In
all this, I need hardly tell you, Dick, I was simply lying to myself,
and did not believe one word of the wretched humbug. Yet I went
on, as men will do, like persevering charlatans and impostors, who
tire people into credulity by the mere force of reiteration; so I
hoped to win myself over at last to a comfortable scepticism about
the ghost.

'He had not appeared a second time - that certainly was a comfort;
and what, after all, did I care for him, and his queer old toggery
and strange looks? Not a fig! I was nothing the worse for having
seen him, and a good story the better. So I tumbled into bed, put
out my candle, and, cheered by a loud drunken quarrel in the back
lane, went fast asleep. 

'Twas Murphy Delany, so funny and frisky, 

Stept into a shebeen shop to get his skin full; 

He reeled out again pretty well lined with whiskey, 

As fresh as a shamrock, as blind as a bull.

'The singer, whose condition I dare say resembled that of his hero,
was soon too far off to regale my ears any more; and as his music
died away, I myself sank into a doze, neither sound nor refreshing.
Somehow the song had got into my head, and I went meandering
on through the adventures of my respectable fellow-countryman,
who, on emerging from the "shebeen shop", fell into a river, from
which he was fished up to be "sat upon" by a coroner's jury, who
having learned from a "horse-doctor" that he was "dead as a
door-nail, so there was an end", returned their verdict accordingly,
just as he returned to his senses, when an angry altercation and a
pitched battle between the body and the coroner winds up the lay
with due spirit and pleasantry.

'Through this ballad I continued with a weary monotony to plod,
down to the very last line, and then da capo, and so on, in my
uncomfortable half-sleep, for how long, I can't conjecture. I found
myself at last, however, muttering, "dead as a door-nail, so there
was an end"; and something like another voice within me, seemed
to say, very faintly, but sharply, "dead! dead! dead! and may the
Lord have mercy on your soul!" and instantaneously I was wide
awake, and staring right before me from the pillow.

'Now - will you believe it, Dick? - I saw the same accursed figure
standing full front, and gazing at me with its stony and fiendish
countenance, not two yards from the bedside.'

Tom stopped here, and wiped the perspiration from his face. I felt
very queer. The girl was as pale as tom; and, assembled as we
were in the very scene of these adventures, we were all, I dare say,
equally grateful for the clear daylight and the resuming bustle out
of doors.

'For about three seconds only I saw it plainly; then it grew
indistinct; but, for a long time, there was something like a column
of dark vapour where it had been standing, between me and the
wall; and I felt sure that he was still there. After a good while, this
appearance went too. I took my clothes downstairs to the hall, and
dressed there, with the door half open; then went out into the
street, and walked about the town till morning, when I came back
in a miserable state of nervousness and exhaustion. I was such a
fool, Dick, as to be ashamed to tell you how I came to be so upset.
I thought you would laught at me; especially as I had always talked
philosophy, and treated your ghosts with contempt. I concluded
you would give me no quarter; and so kept my tale of horror to
myself.

'Now, Dick, you will hardly believe me, when I assure you, that for
many nights after this last experience, I did not go to my room at
all. I used to sit up for a while in the drawing-room after you had
gone up to your bed; and then steal down softly to the hall-door, let
myself out, and sit in the "Robin Hood" tavern until the last guest
went off; and then I got through the night like a sentry, pacing the
streets till morning.

'For more than a week I never slept in bed. I sometimes had a
snooze on a form in the "Robin Hood", and sometimes a nap in a
chair during the day; but regular sleep I had absolutely none.

'I was quite resolved that we should get into another house; but I
could not bring myself to tell you the reason, and I somehow put it
off from day to day, although my life was, during every hour of
this procrastination, rendered as miserable as that of a felon with
the constables on his track. I was growing absolutely ill from this
wretched mode of life.

'One afternoon I determined to enjoy an hour's sleep upon your
bed. I hated mine; so that I had never, except in a stealthy visit
every day to unmake it, lest Martha should discover the secret of
my nightly absence, entered the ill-omened chamber.

'As ill-luck would have it, you had locked your bedroom, and taken
away the key. I went into my own to unsettle the bedclothes, as
usual, and give the bed the appearance of having been slept in.
Now, a variety of circumstances occurred to bring about the
dreadful scene through which I was that night to pass. In the first
place, I was literally overpowered with fatigue, and longing for
sleep; in the next place, the effect of this extreme exhaustion upon
my nerves resembled that of a narcotic, and rendered me less
susceptible than, perhaps I should in any other condition have
been, of the exciting fears which had become habitual to me. Then
again, a little bit of the window was open, a pleasant freshness
pervaded the room, and, to crown all, the cheerful sun of day was
making the room quite pleasant. What was to prevent my enjoying
an hour's nap here? the whole air was resonant with the cheerful
hum of life, and the broad matter-of-fact light of day filled every
corner of the room.

'I yielded - stifling my qualms - to the almost overpowering
temptation; and merely throwing off my coat, and loosening my
cravat, I lay down, limiting myself to half-an-hour's doze in the
unwonted enjoyment of a feather bed, a coverlet, and a bolster.

'It was horribly insidious; and the demon, no doubt, marked my
infatuated preparations. Dolt that I was, I fancied, with mind and
body worn out for want of sleep, and an arrear of a full week's rest
to my credit, that such measure as half-an-hour's sleep, in such a
situation, was possible. My sleep was death-like, long, and
dreamless.

'Without a start or fearful sensation of any kind, I waked gently,
but completely. It was, as you have good reason to remember, long
past midnight - I believe, about two o'clock. When sleep has been
deep and long enough to satisfy nature thoroughly, one often
wakens in this way, suddenly, tranquilly, and completely.

'There was a figure seated in that lumbering, old sofa-chair, near
the fireplace. Its back was rather towards me, but I could not be
mistaken; it turned slowly round, and, merciful heavens! there was
the stony face, with its infernal lineaments of malignity and
despair, gloating on me. There was now no doubt as to its
consciousness of my presence, and drew close to the bedside.
There was a rope about its neck, and the other end, coiled up, it
held stiffly in its hand.

'My good angel nerved me for this horrible crisis. I remained for
some seconds transfixed by the gaze of this tremendous phantom.
He came close to the bed, and appeared on the point of mounting
upon it. The next instant I was upon the floor at the far side, and in
a moment more was, I don't know how, upon the lobby.

'But the spell was not yet broken; the valley of the shadow of death
was not yet traversed. The abhorred phantom stood before me
there; it was standing near the banisters, stooping a little, and with
one end of the rope round its own neck, was poising a noose at the
other, as if to throw over mine; and while engaged in this baleful
pantomime, it wore a smile so sensual, so unspeakably dreadful,
that my senses were nearly overpowered. I saw and remember
nothing more, until I found myself in your room.

'I had a wonderful escape, Dick - there is no disputing that - an
escape for which, while I live, I shall bless the mercy of heaven.
No one can conceive or imagine what it is for flesh and blood to
stand in the presence of such a thing, but one who has had the
terrific experience. Dick, Dick, a shadow has passed over me - a
chill has crossed my blood and marrow, and I will never be the
same again - never, Dick - never!'

Our handmaid, a mature girl of two-and-fifty, as I have said, stayed
her hand, as Tom's story proceeded, and by little and little drew
near to us, with open mouth, and her brows contracted over her
little, beady black eyes, till stealing a glance over her shoulder now
and then, she established herself close behind us. During the
relation, she had made various earnest comments, in an undertone;
but these and her ejaculations, for the sake of brevity and
simplicity, I have omitted in my narration.

'It's often I heard tell of it,' she now said, 'but I never believed it
rightly till now - though, indeed, why should not I? Does not my
mother, down there in the lane, know quare stories, God bless us,
beyant telling about it? But you ought not to have slept in the back
bedroom. She was loathe to let me be going in and out of that
room even in the day time, let alone for any Christian to spend the
night in it; for sure she says it was his own bedroom.'

'Whose own bedroom - ' we asked, in a breath.

'Why, his - the ould Judge's - Judge Horrocks's, to be sure, God rest
his sowl'; and she looked fearfully round.

'Amen!' I muttered. 'But did he die there - '

'Die there! No, not quite there,' she said. 'Shure, was not it over the
banisters he hung himself, the ould sinner, God be merciful to us
all? and was not it in the alcove they found the handles of the
skipping-rope cut off, and the knife where he was settling the cord,
God bless us, to hang himself with? It was his housekeeper's
daughter owned the rope, my mother often told me, and the child
never throve after, and used to be starting up out of her sleep, and
screeching in the night time, wid dhrames and frights that cum an
her; and they said how it was the speerit of the ould Judge that was
tormentin' her; and she used to be roaring and yelling out to hould
back the big ould fellow with the crooked neck; and then she'd
screech "Oh, the master! the master! he's stampin' at me, and
beckoning to me! Mother, darling, don't let me go!' And so the
poor crathure died at last, and the docthers said it was wather on
the brain, for it was all they could say.'

'How long ago was all this - ' I asked.

'Oh, then, how would I know - ' she answered. 'But it must be a
wondherful long time ago, for the housekeeper was an ould
woman, with a pipe in her mouth, and not a tooth left, and better
nor eighty years ould when my mother was first married; and they
said she was a rale buxom, fine-dressed woman when the ould
Judge come to his end; an', indeed, my mother's not far from eighty
years ould herself this day; and what made it worse for the
unnatural ould villain, God rest his soul, to frighten the little girl
out of the world the way he did, was what was mostly thought and
believed by every one. My mother says how the poor little crathure
was his own child; for he was by all accounts an ould villain every
way, an' the hangin'est judge that ever was known in Ireland's
ground.'

'From what you said about the danger of sleeping in that bedroom,'
said I, 'I suppose there were stories about the ghost having
appeared there to others.'

'Well, there was things said - quare things, surely,' she answered, as
it seemed, with some reluctance. 'And why would not there? Sure
was it not up in that same room he slept for more than twenty
years? And was it not in the alcove he got the rope ready that done
his own business at last, the way he done many a betther man's in
his lifetime? - and was not the body lying in the same bed after
death, and put in the coffin there, too, and carried out to his grave
from it in Pether's churchyard, after the coroner was done? But
there was quare stories - my mother has them all - about how one
Nicholas Spaight got into trouble on the head of it.'

'And what did they say of this Nicholas Spaight - ' I asked.

'Oh, for that matther, it's soon told,' she answered.

And she certainly did relate a very strange story, which so piqued
my curiosity, that I took occasion to visit the ancient lady, her
mother, from whom I learned many very curious particulars.
Indeed, I am tempted to tell the tale, but my fingers are weary, and
I must defer it. But if you wish to hear it another time, I shall do
my best.

When we had the heard the strange tale I have not told you, we put
one or two further questions to her about the alleged spectral
visitations, to which the house had, ever since the death of the
wicked old Judge, been subjected.

'No one ever had luck in it,' she told us. 'There was always cross
accidents, sudden deaths, and short times in it. The first that tuck it
was a family - I forget their name - but at any rate there was two
young ladies and their papa. He was about sixty, and a stout
healthy gentleman as you'd wish to see at that age. Well, he slept
in that unlucky back bedroom; and, God between us an' harm! sure
enough he was found dead one morning, half out of the bed, with
his head as black as a sloe, and swelled like a puddin', hanging
down near the floor. It was a fit, they said. He was as dead as a
mackerel, and so he could not say what it was; but the ould people
was all sure that it was nothing at all but the ould Judge, God bless
us! that frightened him out of his senses and his life together.

'Some time after there was a rich old maiden lady took the house. I
don't know which room she slept in, but she lived alone; and at any
rate, one morning, the servants going down early to their work,
found her sitting on the passage-stairs, shivering and talkin' to
herself, quite mad; and never a word more could any of them of
her friends get from her ever afterwards but, "Don't ask me to go,
for I promised to wait for him.' They never made out from her who
it was she meant by him, but of course those that knew all about
the ould house were at no loss for the meaning of all that happened
to her.

'Then afterwards, when the house was let out in lodgings, there
was Micky Byrne that took the same room, with his wife and three
little children; and sure I heard Mrs Byrne myself telling how the
children used to be lifted up in the bed at night, she could not see
by what mains; and how they were starting and screeching every
hour, just all as one as the housekeeper's little girl that died, till at
last one night poor Micky had a dhrop in him, the way he used
now and again; and what do you think in the middle of the night he
thought he heard a noise on the stairs, and being in liquor, nothing
less id do him but out he must go himself to see what was wrong.
Well, after that, all she ever heard of him was himself sayin', "Oh,
God!" and a tumble that shook the very house; and there, sure
enough, he was lying on the lower stairs, under the lobby, with his
neck smashed double undher him, where he was flung over the
banisters.'

Then the handmaiden added - 

'I'll go down to the lane, and send up Joe Gavvey to pack up the
rest of the taythings, and bring all the things across to your new
lodgings.'

And so we all sallied out together, each of us breathing more
freely, I have no doubt, as we crossed that ill-omened threshold for
the last time.

Now, I may add thus much, in compliance with the immemorial
usage of the realm of fiction, which sees the hero not only through
his adventures, but fairly out of the world. You must have
perceived that what the flesh, blood, and bone hero of romance
proper is to the regular compounder of fiction, this old house of
brick, wood, and mortar is to the humble recorder of this true tale.
I, therefore, relate, as in duty bound, the catastrophe which
ultimately befell it, which was simply this - that about two years
subsequently to my story it was taken by a quack doctor, who
called himself Baron Duhlstoerf, and filled the parlour windows
with bottles of indescribable horrors preserved in brandy, and the
newspapers with the usual grandiloquent and mendacious
advertisements. This gentleman among his virtues did not reckon
sobriety, and one night, being overcome with much wine, he set
fire to his curtains, partially burned himself, and totally consumed
the house. It was afterwards rebuilt, and for a time an undertaker
established himself in the premises.

I have now told you my own and Tom's adventures, together with
some valuable collateral particulars; and having acquitted myself
of my engagement, I wish you a very good night, and pleasant
dreams.

"Miss Jeromette and the Clergyman
by Wilkie Collins,"

I

My brother, the clergyman, looked over my shoulder before I was
aware of him, and discovered that the volume which completely
absorbed my attention was a collection of famous Trials, published
in a new edition and in a popular form.

He laid his finger on the Trial which I happened to be reading at
the moment. I looked up at him; his face startled me. He had
turned pale. His eyes were fixed on the open page of the book with
an expression which puzzled and alarmed me.

"My dear fellow," I said, "what in the world is the matter with
you?"

He answered in an odd absent manner, still keeping his finger on
the open page.

"I had almost forgotten," he said. "And this reminds me."

"Reminds you of what?" I asked. "You don't mean to say you know
anything about the Trial?"

"I know this," he said. "The prisoner was guilty."

"Guilty?" I repeated. "Why, the man was acquitted by the jury,
with the full approval of the judge! What call you possibly mean?"

"There are circumstances connected with that Trial," my brother
answered, "which were never communicated to the judge or the
jury - which were never so much as hinted or whispered in court. I
know them - of my own knowledge, by my own personal
experience. They are very sad, very strange, very terrible. I have
mentioned them to no mortal creature. I have done my best to
forget them. You - quite innocently - have brought them back to
my mind. They oppress, they distress me. I wish I had found you
reading any book in your library, except that book!"

My curiosity was now strongly excited. I spoke out plainly.

"Surely," I suggested, "you might tell your brother what you are
unwilling to mention to persons less nearly related to you. We
have followed different professions, and have lived in different
countries, since we were boys at school. But you know you can
trust me."

He considered a little with himself.

"Yes," he said. "I know I can trust you." He waited a moment, and
then he surprised me by a strange question.

"Do you believe," he asked, "that the spirits of the dead can return
to earth, and show themselves to the living?"

I answered cautiously - adopting as my own the words of a great
English writer, touching the subject of ghosts.

"You ask me a question," I said, "which, after five thousand years,
is yet undecided. On that account alone, it is a question not to be
trifled with."

My reply seemed to satisfy him.

"Promise me," he resumed, "that you will keep what I tell you a
secret as long as I live. After my death I care little what happens.
Let the story of my strange experience be added to the published
experience of those other men who have seen what I have seen,
and who believe what I believe. The world will not be the worse,
and may be the better, for knowing one day what I am now about
to trust to your ear alone."

My brother never again alluded to the narrative which he had
confided to me, until the later time when I was sitting by his
deathbed. He asked if I still remembered the story of JＳomette.
"Tell it to others," he said, "as I have told it to you."

I repeat it after his death - as nearly as I can in his own words.

II

On a fine summer evening, many years since, I left my chambers
in the Temple, to meet a fellow-student, who had proposed to me a
night's amusement in the public gardens at Cremorne.

You were then on your way to India; and I had taken my degree at
Oxford. I had sadly disappointed my father by choosing the Law as
my profession, in preference to the Church. At that time, to own
the truth, I had no serious intention of following any special
vocation. I simply wanted an excuse for enjoying the pleasures of a
London life. The study of the Law supplied me with that excuse.
And I chose the Law as my profession accordingly.

On reaching the place at which we had arranged to meet, I found
that my friend had not kept his appointment. After waiting vainly
for ten minutes, my patience gave way and I went into the Gardens
by myself.

I took two or three turns round the platform devoted to the dancers
without discovering my fellow-student, and without seeing any
other person with whom I happened to be acquainted at that time.

For some reason which I cannot now remember, I was not in my
usual good spirits that evening. The noisy music jarred on my
nerves, the sight of the gaping crowd round the platform irritated
me, the blandishments of the painted ladies of the profession of
pleasure saddened and disgusted me. I opened my cigar-case, and
turned aside into one of the quiet by-walks of the Gardens.

A man who is habitually careful in choosing his cigar has this
advantage over a man who is habitually careless. He can always
count on smoking the best cigar in his case, down to the last. I was
still absorbed in choosing my cigar, when I heard these words
behind me - spoken in a foreign accent and in a woman's voice:

"Leave me directly, sir! I wish to have nothing to say to you."

I turned round and discovered a little lady very simply and
tastefully dressed, who looked both angry and alarmed as she
rapidly passed me on her way to the more frequented part of the
Gardens. A man (evidently the worse for the wine he had drunk in
the course of the evening) was following her, and was pressing his
tipsy attentions on her with the coarsest insolence of speech and
manner. She was young and pretty, and she cast one entreating
look at me as she went by, which it was not in manhood - perhaps I
ought to say, in young-manhood - to resist.

I instantly stepped forward to protect her, careless whether I
involved myself in a discreditable quarrel with a blackguard or
not. As a matter of course, the fellow resented my interference,
and my temper gave way. Fortunately for me, just as I lifted my
hand to knock him down, at policeman appeared who had noticed
that he was drunk, and who settled the dispute officially by turning
him out of the Gardens.

I led her away from the crowd that had collect