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Title: For the Blood Is the Life and Other Stories
Author: F. Marion Crawford
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0605421.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

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For the Blood Is the Life and Other Stories
F. Marion Crawford

Table of Contents

The Dead Smile
The Screaming Skull
Man Overboard!
For the Blood Is the Life
The Upper Berth
By the Waters of Paradise
The Doll's Ghost
The King's Messenger


Chapter 1

SIR HUGH OCKRAM smiled as he sat by the open window of his study, in
the late August afternoon. A curiously yellow cloud obscured the low
sun, and the clear summer light turned lurid, as if it had been
suddenly poisoned and polluted by the foul vapours of a plague. Sir
Hugh's face seemed, at best, to be made of fine parchment drawn skin-
tight over a wooden mask, in which two sunken eyes peered from far
within. The eyes peered from under wrinkled lids, alive and watchful
like toads in their holes, side by side and exactly alike. But as the
light changed, a little yellow glare flashed in each. He smiled,
stretching pale lips across discoloured teeth in an expression of
profound self-satisfaction, blended with the most unforgiving hatred
and contempt for the human doll.

Nurse Macdonald, who was a hundred years old, said that when Sir Hugh
smiled he saw the faces of two women in hell--two dead women he had
betrayed. The smile widened.

The hideous disease of which Sir Hugh was dying had touched his brain.
His son stood beside him, tall, white and delicate as an angel in a
primitive picture. And though there was deep distress in his violet
eyes as he looked at his father's face, he felt the shadow of that
sickening smile stealing across his own lips, parting and drawing them
against his will. It was like a bad dream, for he tried not to smile
and smiled the more.

Beside him--strangely like him in her wan, angelic beauty, with the
same shadowy golden hair, the same sad violet eyes, the same
luminously pale face--Evelyn Warburton rested one hand upon his arm.
As she looked into her uncle's eyes, she could not turn her own away
and she too knew that the deathly smile was hovering on her own red
lips, drawing them tightly across her little teeth, while two bright
tears ran down her cheeks to her mouth, and dropped from the upper to
the lower lip. The smile was like the shadow of death and the seal of
damnation upon her pure, young face.

"Of course," said Sir Hugh very slowly, still looking out at the
trees, "if you have made your mind up to be married, I cannot hinder
you, and I don't suppose you attach the smallest importance to my

"Father!" exclaimed Gabriel reproachfully.

"No. I do not deceive myself," continued the old man, smiling
terribly. "You will marry when I am dead, though there is a very good
reason why you had better not--why you had better not," he repeated
very emphatically, and he slowly turned his toad eyes upon the lovers.

"What reason?" asked Evelyn in a frightened voice.

"Never mind the reason, my dear. You will marry just as if it did not
exist." There was a long pause. "Two gone," he said, his voice
lowering strangely, "and two more will be four all together forever
and ever, burning, burning, burning bright."

At the last words his head sank slowly back, and the little glare of
his toad eyes disappeared under the swollen lids. Sir Hugh had fallen
asleep, as he often did in his illness, even while speaking.

Gabriel Ockram drew Evelyn away, and from the study they went out into
the dim hall. Softly closing the door behind them, each audibly drew a
breath, as though some sudden danger had been passed. As they laid
their hands each in the other's, their strangely-like eyes met in a
long look in which love and perfect understanding were darkened by the
secret terror of an unknown thing. Their pale faces reflected each
other's fear.

"It is his secret," said Evelyn at last. "He will never tell us what
it is."

"If he dies with it," answered Gabriel, "let it be on his own head!"

"On his head!" echoed the dim hall. It was a strange echo. Some were
frightened by it, for they said that if it were a real echo it should
repeat everything and not give back a phrase here and there--now
speaking, now silent. Nurse Macdonald said that the great hall would
never echo a prayer when an Ockram was to die, though it would give
back curses ten for one.

"On his head!" it repeated quite softly, and Evelyn started and looked

"It is only the echo," said Gabriel, leading her away.

They went out into the late afternoon light, and sat upon a stone seat
behind the chapel, which had been built across the end of the east
wing. It was very still. Not a breath stirred, and there was no sound
near them. Only far off in the park a song-bird was whistling the high
prelude to the evening chorus.

"It is very lonely here," said Evelyn, taking Gabriel's hand nervously
and speaking as if she dreaded to disturb the silence. "If it were
dark, I should be afraid."

"Of what? Of me?" Gabriel's sad eyes turned to her.

"Oh no! Never of you! But of the old Ockrams. They say they are just
under our feet here in the north vault outside the chapel, all in
their shrouds, with no coffins, as they used to bury them."

"As they always will. As they will bury my father, and me. They say an
Ockram will not lie in a coffin."

"But it cannot be true. These are fairy tales, ghost stories!" Evelyn
nestled nearer to her companion, grasping his hand more tightly as the
sun began to go down.

"Of course. But there is the story of old Sir Vernon, who was beheaded
for treason under James II. The family brought his body back from the
scaffold in an iron coffin with heavy locks and put it in the north
vault. But ever afterwards, whenever the vault was opened to bury
another of the family, they found the coffin wide open, the body
standing upright against the wall, and the head rolled away in a
corner smiling at it."

"As Uncle Hugh smiles?" Evelyn shivered.

"Yes, I suppose so," answered Gabriel, thoughtfully. "Of course I
never saw it, and the vault has not been opened for thirty years. None
of us have died since then."

"And if...if Uncle Hugh dies, shall you...?" Evelyn stopped. Her
beautiful thin face was quite white.

"Yes. I shall see him laid there too, with his secret, whatever it
is." Gabriel sighed and pressed the girl's little hand.

"I do not like to think of it," she said unsteadily. "O Gabriel, what
can the secret be? He said we had better not marry. Not that he
forbade it, but he said it so strangely, and he smiled. Ugh!" Her
small white teeth chattered with fear, and she looked over her
shoulder while drawing still closer to Gabriel. "And, somehow, I felt
it in my own face."

"So did I," answered Gabriel in a low, nervous voice. "Nurse
Macdonald..." He stopped abruptly.

"What? What did she

"Oh, nothing. She has told me things.... They would frighten you,
dear. Come, it is growing chilly." He rose, but Evelyn held his hand
in both of hers, still sitting and looking up into his face.

"But we shall be married just the same---Gabriel! Say that we shall!"

"Of course, darling, of course. But while my father is so very ill, it
is impossible--"

"O Gabriel, Gabriel, dear! I wish we were married now!" Evelyn cried
in sudden distress. "I know that something will prevent it and keep us

"Nothing shall!"


"Nothing human," said Gabriel Ockram, as she drew him down to her.

And their faces, that were so strangely alike, met and touched.
Gabriel knew that the kiss had a marvelous savor of evil. Evelyn's
lips were like the cool breath of a sweet and mortal fear that neither
of them understood, for they were innocent and young. Yet she drew him
to her by her lightest touch, as a sensitive plant shivers, waves its
thin leaves, and bends and closes softly upon what it wants. He let
himself be drawn to her willingly--as he would even if her touch had
been deadly and poisonous--for he strangely loved that half voluptuous
breath of fear, and he passionately desired the nameless evil
something that lurked in her maiden lips.

"It is as if we loved in a strange dream," she said.

"I fear the waking," he murmured.

"We shall not wake, dear. When the dream is over it will have already
turned into death, so softly that we shall not know it. But until

She paused, her eyes seeking his, as their faces slowly came nearer.
It was as if each had thoughts in their lips that foresaw and foreknew
the other.

"Until then," she said again, very low, her mouth near to his.

"Dream--till then," he murmured.

Chapter 2

NURSE MACDONALD slept sitting all bent together in a great old leather
arm chair with wings--many warm blankets wrapped about her, even in
summer. She would rest her feet in a bag footstool lined with
sheepskin while beside her, on a wooden table, there was a little lamp
that burned at night, and an old silver cup, in which there was always
something to drink.

Her face was very wrinkled, but the wrinkles were so small and fine
and close together that they made shadows instead of lines. Two thin
locks of hair, that were turning from white to a smoky yellow, fell
over her temples from under her starched white cap. Every now and then
she would wake from her slumber, her eyelids drawn up in tiny folds
like little pink silk curtains, and her queer blue eyes would look
straight ahead through doors and walls and worlds to a far place
beyond. Then she'd sleep again with her hands one upon the other on
the edge of the blanket, her thumbs grown longer than the fingers with

It was nearly one o'clock in the night, and the summer breeze was
blowing the ivy branch against the panes of the window with a hushing
caress. In the small room beyond, with the door ajar, the young maid
who took care of Nurse Macdonald was fast asleep. All was very quiet.
The old woman breathed regularly, and her drawn lips trembled each
time the breath went out.

But outside the closed window there was a face. Violet eyes were
looking steadily at the ancient sleeper. Strange, as there were eighty
feet from the sill of the window to the foot of the tower. It was like
the face of Evelyn Warburton, yet the cheeks were thinner than
Evelyn's and as white as a gleam. The eyes stared and the lips were
red with life. They were dead lips painted with new blood.

Slowly Nurse Macdonald's wrinkled eyelids folded back, and she looked
straight at the face at the window.

"Is it time?" she asked in her little old, faraway voice.

While she looked the face at the window changed, the eyes opened wider
and wider till the white glared all round the bright violet and the
bloody lips opened over gleaming teeth. The shadowy golden hair
surrounding the face rose and streamed against the window in the night
breeze and in answer to Nurse Macdonald's question came a sound that
froze the living flesh.

It was a low-moaning voice, one that rose suddenly, like the scream of
storm. Then it went from a moan to a wail, from a wail to a howl, and
from a howl to the shriek of the tortured dead. He who has heard it
before knows, and he can bear witness that the cry of the banshee is
an evil cry to hear alone in the deep night.

When it was over and the face was gone, Nurse Macdonald shook a little
in her great chair. She looked at the black square of the window, but
there was nothing more there, nothing but the night and the whispering
ivy branch. She turned her head to the door that was ajar, and there
stood the young maid in her white gown, her teeth chattering with

"It is time, child," said Nurse Macdonald. "I must go to him, for it
is the end."

She rose slowly, leaning her withered hands upon the arms of the chair
as the girl brought her a woollen gown, a great mantle and her crutch-
stick. But very often the girl looked at the window and was unjointed
with fear, and often Nurse Macdonald shook her head and said words
which the maid could not understand.

"It was like the face of Miss Evelyn," said the girl, trembling.

But the ancient woman looked up sharply and angrily. Her queer blue
eyes glared. She held herself up by the arm of the great chair with
her left hand, and lifted up her crutch--stick to strike the maid with
all her might. But she did not.

"You are a good girl," she said, "but you are a fool. Pray for wit,
child. Pray for wit--or else find service in a house other than Ockram
Hall. Now bring the lamp and help me up."

Each step Nurse Macdonald took was a labour in itself, and as she
moved, the maid's slippers clappered alongside. By the clacking noise
the other servants knew that she was coming, very long before they saw

No one was sleeping now, and there were lights, and whisperings, and
pale faces in the corridors near Sir Hugh's bedroom. Often someone
would go in, and someone would come out, but every one made way for
Nurse Macdonald, who had nursed Sir Hugh's father more than eighty
years ago.

The light was soft and clear in the room. Gabriel Ockram stood by his
father's bedside, and there knelt Evelyn Warburton--her hair lying
like a golden shadow down her shoulder, and her hands clasped
nervously together. Opposite Gabriel, a nurse was trying to make Sir
Hugh drink, but he would not. His lips parted, but his teeth were set.
He was very, very thin now, and as his eyes caught the light sideways,
they were as yellow coals.

"Do not torment him," said Nurse Macdonald to the woman who held the
cup. "Let me speak to him, for his hour is come."

"Let her speak to him," said Gabriel in a dull voice.

The ancient nurse leaned to the pillow and laid the feather-weight of
her withered hand--that was like a grown moth--upon Sir Hugh's yellow
fingers. Then she spoke to him earnestly, while only Gabriel and
Evelyn were left in the room to hear.

"Hugh Ockram," she said, "this is the end of your life; and as I saw
you born, and saw your father born before you, I come to see you die.
Hugh Ockram, will you tell me the truth?"

The dying man recognized the little faraway voice he had known all his
life and he very slowly turned his yellow face to Nurse Macdonald, but
he said nothing. Then she spoke again.

"Hugh Ockram, you will never see the daylight again. Will you tell the

His toad like eyes were not yet dull. They fastened themselves on her

"What do you want of me?" he asked, each word sounding more hollow
than the last. "I have no secrets. I have lived a good life."

Nurse Macdonald laughed--a tiny, cracked laugh that made her old head
bob and tremble a little, as if her neck were on a steel spring. But
Sir Hugh's eyes grew red, and his pale lips began to twist.

"Let me die in peace," he said slowly.

But Nurse Macdonald shook her head, and her brown, mothlike hand left
his and fluttered to his forehead.

"By the mother that bore you and died of grief for the sins you did,
tell me the truth!"

Sir Hugh's lips tightened on his discoloured teeth.

"Not on earth," he answered slowly.

"By the wife who bore your son and died heartbroken, tell me the

"Neither to you in life, nor to her in eternal death."

His lips writhed, as if the words were coals between them, and a great
drop of sweat rolled across the parchment of his forehead. Gabriel
Ockram bit his hand as he watched his father die. But Nurse Macdonald
spoke a third time.

"By the woman whom you betrayed, and who waits for you this night,
Hugh Ockram, tell me the truth!"

"It is too late. Let me die in peace."

His writhing lips began to smile across his yellow teeth, and his
toadlike eyes glowed like evil jewels in his head.

"There is time," said the ancient woman. "Tell me the name of Evelyn
Warburton's father. Then I will let you die in peace."

Evelyn started. She stared at Nurse Macdonald, and then at her uncle.

"The name of Evelyn's father?" he repeated slowly, while the awful
smile spread upon his dying face.

The light was growing strangely dim in the great room. As Evelyn
looked on, Nurse Macdonald's crooked shadow on the wall grew gigantic.
Sir Hugh's breath was becoming thick, rattling in his throat, as death
crept in like a snake and choked it back. Evelyn prayed aloud, high
and clear.

Then something rapped at the window, and she felt her hair rise upon
her head. She looked around in spite of herself. And when she saw her
own white face looking in at the window, her own eyes staring at her
through the glass--wide and fearful--her own hair streaming against
the pane, and her own lips dashed with blood, she rose slowly from the
floor and stood rigid for one moment before she screamed once and fell
straight back into Gabriel's arms. But the shriek that answered hers
was the fear-shriek of a tormented corpse out of which the soul cannot
pass for shame of deadly sins.

Sir Hugh Ockram sat upright in his deathbed, and saw and cried aloud:

"Evelyn!" His harsh voice broke and rattled in his chest as he sank
down. But still Nurse Macdonald tortured him, for there was a little
life left in him still.

"You have seen the mother as she waits for you, Hugh Ockram. Who was
this girl Evelyn's father? What was his name?"

For the last time the dreadful smile came upon the twisted lips, very
slowly, very surely now. The toad eyes glared red and the parchment
face glowed a little in the flickering light; for the last time words

"They know it in hell."

Then the glowing eyes went out quickly. The yellow face turned waxen
pale, and a great shiver ran through the thin body as Hugh Ockram

But in death he still smiled, for he knew his secret and kept it
still. He would take it with him to the other side, to lie with him
forever in the north vault of the chapel where the Ockrams lie
uncoffined in their shrouds--all but one. Though he was dead, he
smiled, for he had kept his treasure of evil truth to the end. There
was none left to tell the name he had spoken, but there was all the
evil he had not undone left to bear fruit.

As they watched--Nurse Macdonald and Gabriel, who held the still
unconscious Evelyn in his arms while he looked at the father--they
felt the dead smile crawling along their own lips. Then they shivered
a little as they both looked at Evelyn as she lay with her head on
Gabriel's shoulder, for though she was very beautiful, the same
sickening smile was twisting her young mouth too, and it was like the
foreshadowing of a great evil that they could not understand.

By and by they carried Evelyn out, and when she opened her eyes the
smile was gone. From far away in the great house the sound of weeping
and crooning came up the stairs and echoed along the dismal corridors
as the women had begun to mourn the dead master in the Irish fashion.
The hall had echoes of its own all that night, like the far-off wail
of the banshee among forest trees.

When the time was come they took Sir Hugh in his winding-sheet on a
trestle bier and bore him to the chapel, through the iron door and
down the long descent to the north vault lit with tapers, to lay him
by his father. The two men went in first to prepare the place, and
came back staggering like drunken men, their faces white.

But Gabriel Ockram was not afraid, for he knew. When he went in,
alone, he saw the body of Sir Vernon Ockram leaning upright against
the stone wall. Its head lay on the ground nearby with the face turned
up. The dried leather lips smiled horribly at the dried-up corpse,
while the iron coffin, lined with black velvet, stood open on the

Gabriel took the body in his hands--for it was very light, being quite
dried by the air of the vault---and those who peeped in the door saw
him lay it in the coffin again. They heard it rustle a little, as it
touched the sides and the bottom, like a bundle of reeds. He also
placed the head upon the shoulders and shut down the lid, which fell
to with the snap of its rusty spring.

After that they laid Sir Hugh beside his father, on the trestle bier
on which they had brought him, and they went back to the chapel. But
when they looked into one another's faces, master and men, they were
all smiling with the dead smile of the corpse they had left in the
vault. They could not bear to look at one another again until it had
faded away.

Chapter 3

GABRIEL OCKRAM became Sir Gabriel, inheriting the baronetcy with the
half-ruined fortune left by his father, and Evelyn Warburton continued
to lived at Ockram Hall, in the south room that had been hers ever.
since she could remember. She could not go away, for there were no
relatives to whom she could have gone, and besides, there seemed to be
no reason why she should not stay. The world would never trouble
itself to care what the Ockrams did on their Irish estates. It was
long since the Ockrams had asked anything of the world.

So Sir Gabriel took his father's place at the dark old table in the
dining room, and Evelyn sat opposite to him---until such time as their
mourning should be over--and they might be married at last. Meanwhile,
their lives went on as before--since Sir Hugh had been a hopeless
invalid during the last year of his life, and they had seen him but
once a day for a little while--spending most of their time together in
a strangely perfect companionship.

Though the late summer saddened into autumn, and autumn darkened into
winter, and storm followed storm, and rain poured on rain through the
short days and the long nights, Ockram Hall seemed less gloomy since
Sir Hugh had been laid in the north vault beside his father.

At Christmastide Evelyn decked the great hall with holly and green
boughs. Huge fires blazed on every hearth. The tenants were all bid to
come to a New Year's dinner at which they ate and drank well, while
Sir Gabriel sat at the head of the table. Evelyn came in when the port
wine was brought and the most respected of the tenants made a speech
to her health.

When the speechmaker said it had been a long time since there had been
a Lady Ockram, Sir Gabriel shaded his eyes with his hand and looked
down at the table; a faint color came into Evelyn's transparent
cheeks. And, said the gray-haired farmer, it was longer still since
there had been a Lady Ockram so fair as the next was to be, and he
drank to the health of Evelyn Warburton.

Then the tenants all stood up and shouted for her. Sir Gabriel stood
up likewise, beside Evelyn. But when the men gave the last and loudest
cheer of all, there was a voice not theirs, above them all, higher,
fiercer, louder---an unearthly scream-shrieking for the bride of
Ockram Hall. It was so loud that the holly and the green boughs over
the great chimney shook and waved as if a cool breeze were blowing
over them.

The men turned very pale. Many of them set down their glasses, but
others let them fall upon the floor. Looking into one another's faces,
they saw that they were all smiling strangely--a dead smile--like dead
Sir Hugh's.

The fear of death was suddenly upon them all, so that they fled in a
panic, falling over one another like wild beasts in the burning forest
when the thick smoke runs along before the flame. Tables were
overturned, drinking glasses and bottles were broken in heaps, and
dark red wine crawled like blood upon the polished floor.

Sir Gabriel and Evelyn were left standing alone at the head of the
table before the wreck of their feast, not daring to turn to look at
one another, for each knew that the other smiled. But Gabriel's right
arm held her and his left hand clasped her tight as they stared before
them. But for the shadows of her hair, one might not have told their
two faces apart.

They listened long, but the cry came not again, and eventually the
dead smile faded from their lips as each remembered that Sir Hugh
Ockram lay in the north vault smiling in his winding sheet, in the
dark, because he had died with his secret.

So ended the tenants' New Year's dinner. But from that time on, Sir
Gabriel grew more and more silent and his face grew even paler and
thinner than before. Often, without warning and without words, he
would rise from his seat as if something moved him against his will.
He would go out into the rain or the sunshine to the north side of the
chapel, sit on the stone bench and stare at the ground as if he could
see through it, through the vault below, and through the white winding
sheet in the dark, to the dead smile that would not die.

Always when he went out in that way Evelyn would come out presently
and sit beside him. Once, as in the past, their beautiful faces came
suddenly near; their lids drooped, and their red lips were almost
joined together. But as their eyes met, they grew wide and wild, so
that the white showed in a ring all round the deep violet. Their teeth
chattered and their hands were like the hands of corpses, for fear of
what was under their feet, and of what they knew but could not see.

Once, Evelyn found Sir Gabriel in the chapel alone, standing before
the iron door that led down to the place of death with the key to the
door in his hand, but he had not put it into the lock. Evelyn drew him
away, shivering, for she had also been driven--in waking dreams--to
see that terrible thing again, and to find out whether it had changed
since it had been laid there.

"I'm going mad," said Sir Gabriel, covering his eyes with his hand as
he went with her. "I see it in my sleep. I see it when I am awake. It
draws me to it, day and night and unless I see it I shall die!"

"I know," answered Evelyn, "I know. It is as if threads were spun from
it like a spider's, drawing us down to it." She was silent for a
moment and then she started violently and grasped his arm with a man's
strength, and almost screamed the words she spoke. "But we must not go
there!" she cried. "We must not go!"

Sir Gabriel's eyes were half shut, and he was not moved by the agony
of her face.

"I shall die, unless I see it again," he said, in a quiet voice not
like his own. And all that day and that evening he scarcely spoke,
thinking of it, always thinking, while Evelyn Warburton quivered from
head to foot with a terror she had never known.

One grey winter morning, she went alone to Nurse Macdonald's room in
the tower, and sat down beside the great leather easy chair, laying
her thin white hand upon the withered fingers.

"Nurse," she said, "what was it that Uncle Hugh should have told you,
that night before he died? It must have been an awful secret--and yet,
though you asked him, I feel somehow that you know it, and that you
know why he used to smile so dreadfully."

The old woman's head moved slowly from side to side.

"I only guess.... I shall never know," she answered slowly in her
cracked little voice.

"But what do you guess? Who am I? Why did you ask who my father was?
You know I am Colonel Warburton's daughter, and my mother was Lady
Ockram's sister, so that Gabriel and I are cousins. My father was
killed in Afghanistan. What secret can there be?"

"I do not know. I can only guess."

"Guess what?" asked Evelyn imploringly, pressing the soft withered
hands, as she leaned forward. But Nurse Macdonald's wrinkled lids
dropped suddenly over her queer blue eyes, and her lips shook a little
with her breath, as if she were asleep.

Evelyn waited. By the fire the Irish maid was knitting fast. Her
needles clicked like three or four clocks ticking against each other.
But the real clock on the wall solemnly ticked alone, checking off the
seconds of the woman who was a hundred years old, and had not many
days left. Outside the ivy branch beat the window in the wintry blast,
as it had beaten against the glass a hundred years ago.

Then as Evelyn sat there she felt again the waking of a horrible
desire--the sickening wish to go down, down to the thing in the north
vault, and to open the winding-sheet, and see whether it had changed;
and she held Nurse Macdonald's hands as if to keep herself in her
place and fight against the appalling attraction of the evil dead.

But the old cat that kept Nurse Macdonald's feet warm, lying always on
the footstool, got up and stretched itself, and looked up into
Evelyn's eyes, while its back arched, and its tail thickened and
bristled, and its ugly pink lips drew back in a devilish grin, showing
its sharp teeth. Evelyn stared at it, half fascinated by its ugliness.
Then the creature suddenly put out one paw with all its claws spread,
and spat at the girl. All at once the grinning cat was like the
smiling corpse far down below. Evelyn shivered down to her small feet,
and covered her face with her free hand, lest Nurse Macdonald should
wake and see the dead smile there, for she could feel it.

The old woman had already opened her eyes again, and she touched her
cat with the end of her crutch-stick, whereupon its back went down and
its tail shrunk, and it sidled back to its place on the footstool. But
its yellow eyes looked up sideways at Evelyn, between the slits of its

"What is it that you guess, nurse?" asked the young girl again.

"A bad thing, a wicked thing. But I dare not tell you, lest it might
not be true, and the very thought should blast your life. For if I
guess right, he meant that you should not know, and that you two
should marry and pay for his old sin with your souls."

"He used to tell us that we ought not to marry."

"Yes--he told you that, perhaps. But it was as if a man put poisoned
meat before a starving beast, and said 'do not eat,' but never raised
his hand to take the meat away. And if he told you that you should not
marry, it was because he hoped you would; for of all men living or
dead, Hugh Ockram was the falsest man that ever told a cowardly lie,
and the crudest that ever hurt a weak woman, and the worst that ever
loved a sin."

"But Gabriel and I love each other," said Evelyn very sadly.

Nurse Macdonald's old eyes looked far away, at sights seen long ago,
and that rose in the grey winter air amid the mists of an ancient

"If you love, you can die together," she said, very slowly. "Why
should you live, if it is true? I am a hundred years old. What has
life given me? The beginning is fire; the end is a heap of ashes; and
between the end and the beginning lies all the pain of the world. Let
me sleep, since I cannot die."

Then the old woman's eyes closed again, and her head sank a little
lower upon her breast.

So Evelyn went away and left her asleep, with the cat asleep on the
footstool. The young girl tried to forget Nurse Macdonald's words, but
she could not, for she heard them over and over again in the wind, and
behind her on the stairs. And as she grew sick with fear of the
frightful unknown evil to which her soul was bound, she felt a bodily
something pressing her, pushing her, forcing her on from the other
side. She felt threads that drew her mysteriously, and when she shut
her eyes, she saw in the chapel behind the altar, the low iron door
through which she must pass to go to the thing.

As she lay awake at night, she drew the sheet over her face, lest she
should see shadows on the wall beckoning to her. The sound of her own
warm breath made whisperings in her ears, while she held the mattress
with her hands, to keep from getting up and going to the chapel. It
would have been easier if there had not been a way thither through the
library, by a door which was never locked. It would be fearfully easy
to take her candle and go softly through the sleeping house. The key
of the vault lay under the altar behind a stone that turned. She knew
that little secret. She could go alone and see.

But when she thought of it, she felt her hair rise on her head. She
shivered so that the bed shook, then the horror went through her in a
cold thrill that was agony again, like a myriad of icy needles boring
into her nerves.

Chapter 4

THE OLD CLOCK in Nurse Macdonald's tower struck midnight. From her
room she could hear the creaking chains, and weights in their box in
the corner of the staircase, and the jarring of the rusty lever that
lifted the hammer. She had heard it all her life. It struck eleven
strokes clearly, and then came the twelfth with a dull half stroke, as
though the hammer were too weary to go on and had fallen asleep
against the bell.

The old cat got up from the footstool and stretched itself. Nurse
Macdonald opened her ancient eyes and looked slowly round the room by
the dim light of the night lamp. She touched the cat with her crutch-
stick, and it lay down upon her feet. She drank a few drops from her
cup and went to sleep again.

But downstairs Sir Gabriel sat straight up as the clock struck, for he
had dreamed a fearful dream of horror, and his heart stood still. He
awoke at its stopping and it beat again furiously with his breath,
like a wild thing set free. No Ockram had ever known fear waking, but
sometimes it came to Sir Gabriel in his sleep.

He pressed his hands to his temples as he sat up in bed. His hands
were icy cold, but his head was hot. The dream faded far and in its
place there came the master thought that racked his life. With the
thought also came the sick twisting of his lips in the dark that would
have been a smile. Far off, Evelyn Warburton dreamed that the dead
smile was on her mouth, and awoke--starting with a little moan--her
face in her hands, shivering.

But Sir Gabriel struck a light and got up and began to walk up and
down his great room. It was midnight and he had barely slept an hour,
and in the north of Ireland the winter nights are long.

"I shall go mad," he said to himself, holding his forehead. He knew
that it was true. For weeks and months the possession of the thing had
grown upon him like a disease, till he could think of nothing without
thinking first of that. And now all at once it outgrew his strength,
and he knew that he must be its instrument or lose his mind. He knew
that he must do the deed he hated and feared, if he could fear
anything, or that something would snap in his brain and divide him
from life while he was yet alive. He took the candlestick in his hand,
the old-fashioned heavy candlestick that had always been used by the
head of the house. He did not think of dressing, but went as he was---
in his silk night clothes and his slippers--and opened the door.

Everything was very still in the great old house. He shut the door
behind him and walked noiselessly on the carpet through the long
corridor. A cool breeze blew over his shoulder and blew the flame of
his candle straight out. Instinctively he stopped and looked round,
but all was still, and the upright flame burned steadily. He walked
on, and instantly a strong draught was behind him, almost
extinguishing the light. It seemed to blow him on his way, ceasing
whenever he turned, coming again when he went on--invisible, icy.

Down the great staircase to the echoing hall he went, seeing nothing
but the flaring flame of the candle standing away from him over the
guttering wax. The cold wind blew over his shoulder and through his
hair. On he passed through the open door into the library dark with
old books and carved bookcases. On he went through the door with
shelves and the imitated backs of books painted on it, which shut
itself after him with a soft click.

He entered the low-arched passage, and though the door was shut behind
him and fitted tightly in its frame, still the cold breeze blew the
flame forward as he walked. He was not afraid; but his face was very
pale and his eyes were wide and bright, seeing already in the dark air
the picture of the thing beyond. But in the chapel he stood still, his
hand on the little turning stone tablet in the back of the stone
altar. On the tablet were engraved the words:

XxxPRE Clavis sepulchri Clarissimorum Dominorum De Ockram

("the key to the vault of the most illustrious lords of Ockram").

Sir Gabriel paused and listened. He fancied that he heard a sound far
off in the great house where all had been so still, but it did not
come again. Yet he waited at the last, and looked at the low iron
door. Beyond it, down the long descent, lay his father uncoffined, six
months dead, corrupt, terrible in his clinging shroud. The strangely
preserving air of the vault could not yet have done its work
completely. But on the thing's ghastly features, with their half-
dried, open eyes, there would still be the frightful smile with which
the man had died--the smile that haunted.

As the thought crossed Sir Gabriel's mind, he felt his lips writhing,
and he struck his own mouth in wrath with the back of his hand so
fiercely that a drop of blood ran down his chin, and another, and
more, falling back in the gloom upon the chapel pavement. But still
his bruised lips twisted themselves. He turned the tablet by the
simple secret. It needed no safer fastening, for had each Ockram been
coffined in pure gold, and had the door been open wide, there was not
a man in Tyrone brave enough to go down to that place, save Gabriel
Ockram himself, with his angel's face, his thin, white hands, and his
sad unflinching eyes. He took the great old key and set it into the
lock of the iron door. The heavy, rattling noise echoed down the
descent beyond like footsteps, as if a watcher had stood behind the
iron and were running away within, with heavy dead feet. And though he
was standing still, the cool wind was from behind him, and blew the
flame of the candle against the iron panel. He turned the key.

Sir Gabriel saw that his candle was short. There were new ones on the
altar, with long candlesticks, so he lit one and left his own burning
on the floor. As he set it down on the pavement his lip began to bleed
again, and another drop fell upon the stones.

He drew the iron door open and pushed it back against the chapel wall,
so that it should not shut of itself, while he was within; and the
horrible draught of the sepulchre came up out of the depths in his
face, foul and dark. He went in, but though the fetid air met him, yet
the flame of the tall candle was blown straight from him against the
wind while he walked down the easy incline with steady steps, his
loose slippers slapping the pavement as he trod.

He shaded the candle with his hand, and his fingers seemed to be made
of wax and blood as the light shone through them. And in spite of him
the unearthly draught forced the flame forward, till it was blue over
the black wick, and it seemed as if it must go out. But he went
straight on, with shining eyes.

The downward passage was wide, and he could not always see the walls
by the struggling light, but he knew when he was in the place of death
by the larger, drearier echo of his steps in the greater space, and by
the sensation of a distant blank wall. He stood still, almost
enclosing the flame of the candle in the hollow of his hand. He could
see a little, for his eyes were growing used to the gloom. Shadowy
forms were outlined in the dimness, where the biers of the Ockrams
stood crowded together, side by side, each with its straight, shrouded
corpse, strangely preserved by the dry air, like the empty shell that
the locust sheds in summer. And a few steps before him he saw clearly
the dark shape of headless Sir Vernon's iron coffin, and he knew that
nearest to it lay the thing he sought.

He was as brave as any of those dead men had been. They were his
fathers, and he knew that sooner or later he should lie there himself,
beside Sir Hugh, slowly drying to a parchment shell. But as yet, he
was still alive. He closed his eyes a moment as three great drops
stood on his forehead.

Then he looked again, and by the whiteness of the winding sheet he
knew his father's corpse, for all the others were brown with age; and,
moreover, the flame of the candle was blown toward it. He made four
steps till he reached it, and suddenly the light burned straight and
high, shedding a dazzling yellow glare upon the fine linen that was
all white, save over the face, and where the joined hands were laid on
the breast. And at those places ugly stains had spread, darkened with
outlines of the features and of the tight clasped fingers. There was a
frightful stench of drying death.

As Sir Gabriel looked down, something stirred behind him, softly at
first, then more noisily, and something fell to the stone floor with a
dull thud and rolled up to his feet. He started back and saw a
withered head lying almost face upward on the pavement, grinning at
him. He felt the cold sweat standing on his face, and his heart beat

For the first time in all his life that evil thing which men call fear
was getting hold of him, checking his heart-strings as a cruel driver
checks a quivering horse, clawing at his backbone with icy hands,
lifting his hair with freezing breath, climbing up and gathering in
his midriff with leaden weight.

Yet he bit his lip and bent down, holding the candle in one hand, to
lift the shroud back from the head of the corpse with the other.
Slowly he lifted it. It clove to the half-dried skin of the face, and
his hand shook as if someone had struck him on the elbow, but half in
fear and half in anger at himself, he pulled it, so that it came away
with a little ripping sound. He caught his breath as he held it, not
yet throwing it back, and not yet looking. The horror was working in
him and he felt that old Vernon Ockram was standing up in his iron
coffin, headless, yet watching him with the stump of his severed neck.

While he held his breath he felt the dead smile twisting his lips. In
sudden wrath at his own misery, he tossed the death-stained linen
backward, and looked at last. He ground his teeth lest he should
shriek aloud. There it was, the thing that haunted him, that haunted
Evelyn Warburton, that was like a blight on all that came near him.

The dead face was blotched with dark stains, and the thin, grey hair
was matted about the discoloured forehead. The sunken lids were half
open, and the candlelight gleamed on something foul where the toad
eyes had lived.

But yet the dead thing smiled, as it had smiled in life. The ghastly
lips were parted and drawn wide and tight upon the wolfish teeth,
cursing still, and still defying hell to do its worst--defying,
cursing, and always and forever smiling alone in the dark.

Sir Gabriel opened the sheet where the hands were. The blackened,
withered fingers were closed upon something stained and mottled.
Shivering from head to foot, but fighting like a man in agony for his
life, he tried to take the package from the dead man's hold. But as he
pulled at it the clawlike fingers seemed to close more tightly. When
he pulled harder the shrunken hands and arms rose from the corpse with
a horrible look of life following his motion--then as he wrenched the
sealed packet loose at last, the hands fell back into their place
still folded.

He set down the candle on the edge of the bier to break the seals from
the stout paper. Kneeling on one knee, to get a better light, he read
what was within, written long ago in Sir Hugh's queer hand. He was no
longer afraid.

He read how Sir Hugh had written it all down that it might perchance
be a witness of evil and of his hatred. He had written how he had
loved Evelyn Warburton, his wife's sister; and how his wife had died
of a broken heart with his curse upon her. He wrote how Warburton and
he had fought side by side in Afghanistan, and Warburton had fallen;
but Ockram had brought his comrade's wife back a full year later, and
little Evelyn, her child, had been born in Ockram Hall. And he wrote
how he had wearied of the mother, and she had died like her sister
with his curse on her; and how Evelyn had been brought up as his
niece, and how he had trusted that his son Gabriel and his daughter,
innocent and unknowing, might love and marry, and the souls of the
women he had betrayed might suffer yet another anguish before eternity
was out. And, last of all, he hoped that some day, when nothing could
be undone, the two might find his writing and live on, as man and
wife, not daring to tell the truth for their children's sake and the
world's word.

This he read, kneeling beside the corpse in the north vault, by the
light of the altar candle. He had read it all and then he thanked God
aloud that he had found the secret in time. When he finally rose to
his feet and looked down at the dead face it had changed. The smile
was gone from it. The jaw had fallen a little and the tired, dead lips
were relaxed. And then there was a breath behind him and close to him,
not cold like that which had blown the flame of the candle as he came,
but warm and human. He turned suddenly.

There she stood, all in white, with her shadowy golden hair. She had
risen from her bed and had followed him noiselessly. When she found
him reading, she read over his shoulder.

He started violently when he saw her, for his nerves were unstrung.
Then he cried out her name in that still place of death:


"My brother!" she answered softly and tenderly, putting out both hands
to meet his.


I have often heard it scream. No, I am not nervous, I am not
imaginative, and I never believed in ghosts, unless that thing is one.
Whatever it is, it hates me almost as much as it hated Luke Pratt, and
it screams at me.

If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of
killing people, for you never can tell but that some one at the table
may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest. I have always blamed
myself for Mrs. Pratt's death, and I suppose I was responsible for it
in a way, though heaven knows I never wished her anything but long
life and happiness. If I had not told that story she might be alive
yet. That is why the thing screams at me, I fancy.

She was a good little woman, with a sweet temper, all things
considered, and a nice gentle voice; but I remember hearing her shriek
once when she thought her little boy was killed by a pistol that went
off though everyone was sure that it was not loaded. It was the same
scream; exactly the same, with a sort of rising quaver at the end; do
you know what I mean? Unmistakable.

The truth is, I had not realized that the doctor and his wife were not
on good terms. They used to bicker a bit now and then when I was here,
and I often noticed that little Mrs. Pratt got very red and bit her
lip hard to keep her temper, while Luke grew pale and said the most
offensive things. He was that sort when he was in the nursery, I
remember, and afterwards at school. He was my cousin, you know; that
is how I came by this house; after he died, and his boy Charley was
killed in South Africa, there were no relations left. Yes, it's a
pretty little property, just the sort of thing for an old sailor like
me who has taken to gardening.

One always remembers one's mistakes much more vividly than one's
cleverest things, doesn't one? I've often noticed it. I was dining
with the Pratts one night, when I told them the story that afterwards
made so much difference. It was a wet night in November, and the sea
was moaning. Hush!--if you don't speak you will hear it now. . .

Do you hear the tide? Gloomy sound, isn't it? Sometimes, about this
time of year--hallo!--there it is! Don't be frightened, man--it won't
eat you--it's only a noise, after all! But I'm glad you've heard it,
because there are always people who think it's the wind, or my
imagination, or something. You won't hear it again tonight, I fancy,
for it doesn't often come more than once. Yes--that's right. Put
another stick on the fire, and a little more stuff into that weak
mixture you're so fond of. Do you remember old Blauklot the carpenter,
on that German ship that picked us up when the Clontarf went to the
bottom? We were hove to in a howling gale one night, as snug as you
please, with no land within five hundred miles, and the ship coming up
and falling off as regularly as clockwork--"Biddy te boor beebles
ashore tis night, poys!" old Blauklot sang out, as he went off to his
quarters with the sail-maker. I often think of that, now that I'm
ashore for good and all.

Yes, it was on a night like this, when I was at home for a spell,
waiting to take the Olympia out on her first trip--it was on the next
voyage that she broke the record, you remember--but that dates it.
Ninety-two was the year, early in November.

The weather was dirty, Pratt was out of temper, and the dinner was
bad, very bad indeed, which didn't improve matters, and cold, which
made it worse. The poor little lady was very unhappy about it, and
insisted on making a Welsh rarebit on the table to counteract the raw
turnips and the half-boiled mutton. Pratt must have had a hard day.
Perhaps he had lost a patient. At all events, he was in a nasty

"My wife is trying to poison me, you see!" he said. "She'll succeed
some day." I saw that she was hurt, and I made believe to laugh, and
said that Mrs. Pratt was much too clever to get rid of her husband in
such a simple way; and then I began to tell them about Japanese tricks
with spun glass and chopped horsehair and the like.

Pratt was a doctor, and knew a lot more than I did about such things,
but that only put me on my mettle, and I told a story about a woman in
Ireland who did for three husbands before anyone suspected foul play.

Did you never hear that tale? The fourth husband managed to keep awake
and caught her, and she was hanged. How did she do it? She drugged
them, and poured melted lead into their ears through a little horn
funnel when they were asleep... No--that's the wind whistling. It's
backing up to the southward again. I can tell by the sound. Besides,
the other thing doesn't often come more than once in an evening even
at this time of year--when it happened. Yes, it was in November. Poor
Mrs. Pratt died suddenly in her bed not long after I dined here. I can
fix the date, because I got the news in New York by the steamer that
followed the Olympia when I took her out on her first trip. You had
the Leofric the same year? Yes, I remember. What a pair of old buffers
we are coming to be, you and I. Nearly fifty years since we were
apprentices together on the Clontarf. Shall you ever forget old
Blauklot? "Biddy te boor beebles ashore, poys!" Ha, ha! Take a little
more, with all that water. It's the old Hulstkamp I found in the
cellar when this house came to me, the same I brought Luke from
Amsterdam five-and-twenty years ago. He had never touched a drop of
it. Perhaps he's sorry now, poor fellow.

Where did I leave off? I told you that Mrs. Pratt died suddenly--yes.
Luke must have been lonely here after she was dead, I should think; I
came to see him now and then, and he looked worn and nervous, and told
me that his practice was growing too heavy for him, though he wouldn't
take an assistant on any account. Years went on, and his son was
killed in South Africa, and after that he began to be queer. There was
something about him not like other people. I believe he kept his
senses in his profession to the end; there was no complaint of his
having made mad mistakes in cases, or anything of that sort, but he
had a look about him--

Luke was a red-headed man with a pale face when he was young, and he
was never stout; in middle age he turned a sandy grey, and after his
son died he grew thinner and thinner, till his head looked like a
skull with parchment stretched over it very tight, and his eyes had a
sort of glare in them that was very disagreeable to look at.

He had an old dog that poor Mrs. Pratt had been fond of, and that used
to follow her everywhere. He was a bulldog, and the sweetest tempered
beast you ever saw, though he had a way of hitching his upper lip
behind one of his fangs that frightened strangers a good deal.
Sometimes, of an evening, Pratt and Bumble--that was the dog's name--
used to sit and look at each other a long time, thinking about old
times, I suppose, when Luke's wife used to sit in that chair you've
got. That was always her place, and this was the doctor's, where I'm
sitting. Bumble used to climb up by the footstool--he was old and fat
by that time, and could not jump much, and his teeth were getting
shaky. He would look steadily at Luke, and Luke looked steadily at the
dog, his face growing more and more like a skull with two little coals
for eyes; and after about five minutes or so, though it may have been
less, old Bumble would suddenly begin to shake all over, and all on a
sudden he would set up an awful howl, as if he had been shot, and
tumble out of the easy-chair and trot away, and hide himself under the
sideboard, and lie there making odd noises.

Considering Pratt's looks in those last months, the thing is not
surprising, you know. I'm not nervous or imaginative, but I can quite
believe he might have sent a sensitive woman into hysterics--his head
looked so much like a skull in parchment.

At last I came down one day before Christmas, when my ship was in dock
and I had three weeks off. Bumble was not about, and I said casually
that I supposed the old dog was dead.

"Yes," Pratt answered, and I thought there was something odd in his
tone even before he went on after a little pause. "I killed him," he
said presently. "I could stand it no longer."

I asked what it was that Luke could not stand, though I guessed well

"He had a way of sitting in her chair and glaring at me, and then
howling," Luke shivered a little. "He didn't suffer at all, poor old
Bumble," he went on in a hurry, as if he thought I might imagine he
had been cruel. "I put dionine into his drink to make him sleep
soundly, and then I chloroformed him gradually, so that he could not
have felt suffocated even if he was dreaming. It's been quieter since

I wondered what he meant, for the words slipped out as if he could not
help saying them. I've understood since. He meant that he did not hear
that noise so often after the dog was out of the way. Perhaps he
thought at first that it was old Bumble in the yard howling at the
moon, though it's not that kind of noise, is it? Besides, I know what
it is, if Luke didn't. It's only a noise after all, and a noise never
hurt anybody yet. But he was much more imaginative than I am. No doubt
there really is something about this place that I don't understand;
but when I don't understand a thing, I call it a phenomenon, and I
don't take it for granted that it's going to kill me, as he did. I
don't understand everything, by long odds, nor do you, nor does any
man who has been to sea. We used to talk of tidal waves, for instance,
and we could not account for them; now we account for them by calling
them submarine earthquakes, and we branch off into fifty theories, any
one of which might make earthquakes quite comprehensible if we only
knew what they were. I fell in with one of them once, and the inkstand
flew straight up from the table against the ceiling of my cabin. The
same thing happened to Captain Lecky--I dare say you've read about it
in his "Wrinkles". Very good. If that sort of thing took place ashore,
in this room for instance, a nervous person would talk about spirits
and levitation and fifty things that mean nothing, instead of just
quietly setting it down as a "phenomenon" that has not been explained
yet. My view of that voice, you see.

Besides, what is there to prove that Luke killed his wife? I would not
even suggest such a thing to anyone but you. After all, there was
nothing but the coincidence that poor little Mrs. Pratt died suddenly
in her bed a few days after I told that story at dinner. She was not
the only woman who ever died like that. Luke got the doctor over from
the next parish, and they agreed that she had died of something the
matter with her heart Why not? It's common enough.

Of course, there was the ladle. I never told anybody about that, and,
it made me start when I found it in the cupboard in the bedroom. It
was new, too--a little tinned iron ladle that had not been in the fire
more than once or twice, and there was some lead in it that had been
melted, and stuck to the bottom of the bowl, all grey, with hardened
dross on it. But that proves nothing. A country doctor is generally a
handy man, who does everything for himself, and Luke may have had a
dozen reasons for melting a little lead in a ladle. He was fond of
sea-fishing, for instance, and he may have cast a sinker for a night-
line; perhaps it was a weight for the hall clock, or something like
that. All the same, when I found it I had a rather queer sensation,
because it looked so much like the thing I had described when I told
them the story. Do you understand? It affected me unpleasantly, and I
threw it away; it's at the bottom of the sea a mile from the Spit, and
it will be jolly well rusted beyond recognizing if it's ever washed up
by the tide.

You see, Luke must have bought it in the village, years ago, for the
man sells just such ladles still. I suppose they are used in cooking.
In any case, there was no reason why an inquisitive housemaid should
find such a thing lying about, with lead in it, and wonder what it
was, and perhaps talk to the maid who heard me tell the story at
dinner--for that girl married the plumber's son in the village, and
may remember the whole thing.

You understand me, don't you? Now that Luke Pratt is dead and gone,
and lies buried beside his wife, with an honest man's tombstone at his
head, I should not care to stir up anything that could hurt his
memory. They are both dead, and their son, too. There was trouble
enough about Luke's death, as it was.

How? He was found dead on the beach one morning, and there was a
coroner's inquest. There were marks on his throat, but he had not been
robbed. The verdict was that he had come to his end "By the hands or
teeth of some person or animal unknown," for half the jury thought it
might have been a big dog that had thrown him down and gripped his
windpipe, though the skin of his throat was not broken. No one knew at
what time he had gone out, nor where he had been. He was found lying
on his back above high-water mark, and an old cardboard bandbox that
had belonged to his wife lay under his hand, open. The lid had fallen
off. He seemed to have been carrying home a skull in the box--doctors
are fond of collecting such things. It had rolled out and lay near his
head, and it was a remarkably fine skull, rather small, beautifully
shaped and very white, with perfect teeth. That is to say, the upper
jaw was perfect, but there was no lower one at all, when I first saw

Yes, I found it here when I came. You see, it was very white and
polished, like a thing meant to be kept under a glass case, and the
people did not know where it came from, nor what to do with it; so
they put it back into the bandbox and set it on the shelf of the
cupboard in the best bedroom, and of course they showed it to me when
I took possession. I was taken down to the beach, too, to be shown the
place where Luke was found, and the old fisherman explained just how
he was lying, and the skull beside him. The only point he could not
explain was why the skull had rolled up the sloping sand towards
Luke's head instead of rolling downhill to his feet. It did not seem
odd to me at the time, but I have often thought of it since, for the
place is rather steep. I'll take you there tomorrow if you like--I
made a sort of cairn of stones there afterwards.

When he fell down, or was thrown down--whichever happened--the bandbox
struck the sand, and the lid came off, and the thing came out and
ought to have rolled down. But it didn't. It was close to his head
almost touching it, and turned with the face towards it. I say it
didn't strike me as odd when the man told me; but I could not help
thinking about It afterwards, again and again, till I saw a picture of
it all when I closed my eyes; and then I began to ask myself why the
plaguey thing had rolled up instead of down, and why it had stopped
near Luke's head instead of anywhere else, a yard away, for instance.

You naturally want to know what conclusion I reached, don't you? None
that at all explained the rolling, at all events. But I got something
else into my head, after a time, that made me feel downright

Oh, I don't mean as to anything supernatural! There may be ghosts, or
there may not be. If there are, I'm not inclined to believe that they
can hurt living people except by frightening them, and, for my part, I
would rather face any shape of ghost than a fog in the Channel when
it's crowded. No. What bothered me was just a foolish idea, that's
all, and I cannot tell how it began, nor what made it grow till it
turned into a certainty.

I was thinking about Luke and his poor wife one evening over my pipe
and a dull book, when it occurred to me that the skull might possibly
be hers, and I have never got rid of the thought since. You'll tell me
there's no sense in it, no doubt, that Mrs. Pratt was buried like a
Christian and is lying in the churchyard where they put her, and that
it's perfectly monstrous to suppose her husband kept her skull in her
old bandbox in his bedroom. All the same, in the face of reason, and
common sense, and probability, I'm convinced that he did. Doctors do
all sorts of queer things that would make men like you and me feel
creepy, and those are Just the things that don't seem probable, nor
logical, nor sensible to us.

Then, don't you see?--if it really was her skull, poor woman, the only
way of accounting for his having it is that he really killed her, and
did it in that way, as the woman killed her husbands in the story, and
that he was afraid there might be an examination some day which would
betray him. You see, I told that too, and I believe it had really
happened some fifty or sixty years ago. They dug up the three skulls,
you know, and there was a small lump of lead rattling about in each
one. That was what hanged the woman. Luke remembered that, I'm sure. I
don't want to know what he did when he thought of it; my taste never
ran in the direction of horrors, and I don't fancy you care for them
either, do you? No. If you did, you might supply what is wanting to
the story.

It must have been rather grim, eh? I wish I did not see the whole
thing so distinctly, just as everything must have happened. He took it
the night before she was buried, I'm sure, after the coffin had been
shut, and when the servant girl was asleep. I would bet anything, that
when he'd got it, he put something under the sheet in its place, to
fill up and look like it. What do you suppose he put there, under the

I don't wonder you take me up on what I'm saying! First I tell you
that I don't want to know what happened, and that I hate to think
about horrors, and then I describe the whole thing to you as if I had
seen it. I'm quite sure that it was her work-bag that he put there. I
remember the bag very well, for she always used it of an evening; it
was made of brown plush, and when it was stuffed full it was about the
size of--you understand. Yes, there I am, at it again! You may laugh
at me, but you don't live here alone, where it was done, and you
didn't tell Luke the story about the melted lead. I'm not nervous, I
tell you, but sometimes I begin to feel that I understand why some
people are. I dwell on all this when I'm alone, and I dream of it, and
when that thing screams--well, frankly, I don't like the noise any
more than you do, though I should be used to it by this time.

I ought not to be nervous. I've sailed in a haunted ship. There was a
Man in the Top, and two-thirds of the crew died of the West Coast
fever inside of ten days after we anchored; but I was all right, then
and afterwards. I have seen some ugly sights, too, just as you have,
and all the rest of us. But nothing ever stuck in my head in the way
this does.

You see, I've tried to get rid of the thing, but it doesn't like that.
It wants to be there in its place, in Mrs. Pratt's bandbox in the
cupboard in the best bedroom. It's not happy anywhere else. How do I
know that? Because I've tried it. You don't suppose that I've not
tried, do you? As long as it's there it only screams now and then,
generally at this time of year, but if I put it out of the house it
goes on all night, and no servant will stay here twenty-four hours. As
it is, I've often been left alone and have been obliged to shift for
myself for a fortnight at a time. No one from the village would ever
pass a night under the roof now, and as for selling the place, or even
letting it, that's out of the question. The old women say that if I
stay here I shall come to a bad end myself before long.

I'm not afraid of that. You smile at the mere idea that anyone could
take such nonsense seriously. Quite right. It's utterly blatant
nonsense, I agree with you. Didn't I tell you that it's only a noise
after all when you started and looked round as if you expected to see
a ghost standing behind your chair?

I may be all wrong about the skull, and I like to think that I am when
I can. It may be just a fine specimen which Luke got somewhere long
ago, and what rattles about inside when you shake it may be nothing
but a pebble, or a bit of hard clay, or anything. Skulls that have
lain long in the ground generally have something inside them that
rattles don't they? No, I've never tried to get it out, whatever it
is; I'm afraid it might be lead, don't you see? And if it is, I don't
want to know the fact, for I'd much rather not be sure. If it really
is lead, I killed her quite as much as if I had done the deed myself.
Anybody must see that, I should think. As long as I don't know for
certain, I have the consolation of saying that it's all utterly
ridiculous nonsense, that Mrs. Pratt died a natural death and that the
beautiful skull belonged to Luke when he was a student in London. But
if I were quite sure, I believe I should have to leave the house;
indeed I do, most certainly. As it is, I had to give up trying to
sleep in the best bedroom where the cupboard is.

You ask me why I don't throw it into the pond--yes, but please don't
call it a "confounded bugbear"--it doesn't like being called names.

There! Lord, what a shriek! I told you so! You're quite pale, man.
Fill up your pipe and draw your chair nearer to the fire, and take
some more drink. Old Hollands never hurt anybody yet. I've seen a
Dutchman in Java drink half a jug of Hulstkamp in a morning without
turning a hair. I don't take much rum myself, because it doesn't agree
with my rheumatism, but you are not rheumatic and it won't damage you
Besides, it's a very damp night outside. The wind is howling again,
and it will soon be in the south-west; do you hear how the windows
rattle? The tide must have turned too, by the moaning.

We should not have heard the thing again if you had not said that. I'm
pretty sure we should not. Oh yes, if you choose to describe it as a
coincidence, you are quite welcome, but I would rather that you should
not call the thing names again, if you don't mind. It may be that the
poor little woman hears, and perhaps it hurts her, don't you know?
Ghosts? No! You don't call anything a ghost that you can take in your
hands and look at in broad daylight, and that rattles when you shake
it Do you, now? But it's something that hears and understands; there's
no doubt about that.

I tried sleeping in the best bedroom when I first came to the house
just because it was the best and most comfortable, but I had to give
it up It was their room, and there's the big bed she died in, and the
cupboard is in the thickness of the wall, near the head, on the left.
That's where it likes to be kept, in its bandbox. I only used the room
for a fortnight after I came, and then I turned out and took the
little room downstairs, next to the surgery, where Luke used to sleep
when he expected to be called to a patient during the night.

I was always a good sleeper ashore; eight hours is my dose, eleven to
seven when I'm alone, twelve to eight when I have a friend with me.
But I could not sleep after three o'clock in the morning in that
room--a quarter past, to be accurate--as a matter of fact, I timed it
with my old pocket chronometer, which still keeps good time, and it
was always at exactly seventeen minutes past three. I wonder whether
that was the hour when she died?

It was not what you have heard. If it had been that, I could not have
stood it two nights. It was just a start and a moan and hard breathing
for a few seconds in the cupboard, and it could never have waked me
under ordinary circumstances, I'm sure. I suppose you are like me in
that, and we are just like other people who have been to sea. No
natural sounds disturb us at all, not all the racket of a square-
rigger hove to in a heavy gale, or rolling on her beam ends before the
wind. But if a lead pencil gets adrift and rattles in the drawer of
your cabin table you are awake in a moment. Just so--you always
understand. Very well, the noise in the cupboard was no louder than
that, but it waked me instantly.

I said it was like a "start". I know what I mean, but it's hard to
explain without seeming to talk nonsense. Of course you cannot exactly
"hear" a person "start"; at the most, you might hear the quick drawing
of the breath between the parted lips and closed teeth, and the almost
imperceptible sound of clothing that moved suddenly though very
slightly. It was like that.

You know how one feels what a sailing vessel is going to do, two or
three seconds before she does it, when one has the wheel. Riders say
the same of a horse, but that's less strange, because the horse is a
live animal with feelings of its own, and only poets and landsmen talk
about a ship being alive, and all that. But I have always felt somehow
that besides being a steaming machine or a sailing machine for
carrying weights, a vessel at sea is a sensitive instrument, and a
means of communication between nature and man, and most particularly
the man at the wheel, if she is steered by hand. She takes her
impressions directly from wind and sea, tide and stream, and transmits
them to the man's hand, just as the wireless telegraphy picks up the
interrupted currents aloft and turns them out below in the form of a

You see what I am driving at; I felt that something started in the
cupboard, and I felt it so vividly that I heard it, though there may
have' been nothing to hear, and the sound inside my head waked me
suddenly. But I really heard the other noise. It was as if it were
muffled inside a box, as far away as if it came through a long-
distance telephone; and yet I knew that it was inside the cupboard
near the head of my bed. My hair did not bristle and my blood did not
run cold that time. I simply resented being waked up by something that
had no business to make a noise, any more than a pencil should rattle
in the drawer of my cabin table on board ship. For I did not
understand; I just supposed that the cupboard had some communication
with the outside air, and that the wind had got in and was moaning
through it with a sort of very faint screech. I struck a light and
looked at my watch, and it was seventeen minutes past three. Then I
turned over and went to sleep on my right ear. That's my good one; I'm
pretty deaf with the other, for I struck the water with it when I was
a lad in diving from the fore-topsail yard. Silly thing to do, it was,
but the result is very convenient when I want to go to sleep when
there's a noise.

That was the first night, and the same thing happened again and
several times afterwards, but not regularly, though it was always at
the same time, to a second; perhaps I was sometimes sleeping on my
good ear, and sometimes not. I overhauled the cupboard and there was
no way by which the wind could get in, or anything else, for the door
makes a good fit, having been meant to keep out moths, I suppose; Mrs.
Pratt must have kept her winter things in it, for it still smells of
camphor and turpentine.

After about a fortnight I had had enough of the noises. So far I had
said to myself that it would be silly to yield to it and take the
skull out of the room. Things always look differently by daylight,
don't they? But the voice grew louder--I suppose one may call it a
voice--and it got inside my deaf ear, too, one night. I realized that
when I was wide awake, for my good ear was jammed down on the pillow,
and I ought not to have heard a foghorn in that position. But I heard
that, and it made me lose my temper, unless it scared me, for
sometimes the two are not far apart. I struck a light and got up, and
I opened the cupboard, grabbed the bandbox and threw it out of the
window, as far as I could.

Then my hair stood on end. The thing screamed in the air, like a shell
from a twelve-inch gun. It fell on the other side of the road. The
night was very dark, and I could not see it fall, but I know it fell
beyond the road The window is just over the front door, it's fifteen
yards to the fence, more or less, and the road is ten yards wide.
There's a thick-set hedge beyond, along the glebe that belongs to the

I did not sleep much more than night. It was not more than half an
hour after I had thrown the bandbox out when I heard a shriek
outside--like what we've had tonight, but worse, more despairing, I
should call it; and it may have been my imagination, but I could have
sworn that the screams came nearer and nearer each time. I lit a pipe,
and walked up and down for a bit, and then took a book and sat up
reading, but I'll be hanged if I can remember what I read nor even
what the book was, for every now and then a shriek came up that would
have made a dead man turn in his coffin.

A little before dawn someone knocked at the front door. There was no
mistaking that for anything else, and I opened my window and looked
down, for I guessed that someone wanted the doctor, supposing that the
new man had taken Luke's house. It was rather a relief to hear a human
knock after that awful noise.

You cannot see the door from above, owing to the little porch. The
knocking came again, and I called out, asking who was there, but
nobody answered, though the knock was repeated. I sang out again, and
said that the doctor did not live here any longer. There was no
answer, but it occurred to me that it might be some old countryman who
was stone deaf. So I took my candle and went down to open the door.
Upon my word, I was not thinking of the thing yet, and I had almost
forgotten the other noises. I went down convinced that I should find
somebody outside, on the doorstep, with a message. I set the candle on
the hall table, so that the wind should not blow it out when I opened.
While I was drawing the old-fashioned bolt I heard the knocking again.
It was not loud, and it had a queer, hollow sound, now that I was
close to it, I remember, but I certainly thought it was made by some
person who wanted to get in.

It wasn't. There was nobody there, but as I opened the door inward,
standing a little on one side, so as to see out at once, something
rolled across the threshold and stopped against my foot.

I drew back as I felt it, for I knew what it was before I looked down.
I cannot tell you how I knew, and it seemed unreasonable, for I am
still quite sure that I had thrown it across the road. It's a French
window, that opens wide, and I got a good swing when I flung it out.
Besides, when I went out early in the morning, I found the bandbox
beyond the thick hedge.

You may think it opened when I threw it, and that the skull dropped
out; but that's impossible, for nobody could throw an empty cardboard
box so far. It's out of the question; you might as well try to fling a
ball of paper twenty-five yards, or a blown bird's egg.

To go back, I shut and bolted the hall door, picked the thing up
carefully, and put it on the table beside the candle. I did that
mechanically, as one instinctively does the right thing in danger
without thinking at all--unless one does the opposite. It may seem
odd, but I believe my first thought had been that somebody might come
and find me there on the threshold while it was resting against my
foot, lying a little on its side, and turning one hollow eye up at my
face, as if it meant to accuse me. And the light and shadow from the
candle played in the hollows of the eyes as it stood on the table, so
that they seemed to open and shut at me. Then the candle went out
quite unexpectedly, though the door was fastened and there was not the
least draught; and I used up at least half a dozen matches before it
would burn again.

I sat down rather suddenly, without quite knowing why. Probably I had
been badly frightened, and perhaps you will admit there was no great
shame in being scared. The thing had come home, and it wanted to go
upstairs, back to its cupboard. I sat still and stared at it for a bit
till I began to feel very cold; then I took it and carried it up and
set it in its place, and I remember that I spoke to it, and promised
that it should have its bandbox again in the morning.

You want to know whether I stayed in the room till daybreak? Yes but I
kept a light burning, and sat up smoking and reading, most likely out
of fright; plain, undeniable fear, and you need not call it cowardice
either, for that's not the same thing. I could not have stayed alone
with that thing in the cupboard; I should have been scared to death,
though I'm not more timid than other people. Confound it all, man, it
had crossed the road alone, and had got up the doorstep and had
knocked to be let in.

When the dawn came, I put on my boots and went out to find the
bandbox. I had to go a good way round, by the gate near the high road,
and I found the box open and hanging on the other side of the hedge.
It had caught on the twigs by the string, and the lid had fallen off
and was lying on the ground below it. That shows that it did not open
till it was well over; and if it had not opened as soon as it left my
hand, what was inside it must have gone beyond the road too.

That's all. I took the box upstairs to the cupboard, and put the skull
back and locked it up. When the girl brought me my breakfast she said
she was sorry, but that she must go, and she did not care if she lost
her month's wages. I looked at her, and her face was a sort of
greenish yellowish white. I pretended to be surprised, and asked what
was the matter; but that was of no use, for she just turned on me and
wanted to know whether I meant to stay in a haunted house, and how
long I expected to live if I did, for though she noticed I was
sometimes a little hard of hearing, she did not believe that even I
could sleep through those screams again--and if I could, why had I
been moving about the house and opening and shutting the front door,
between three and four in the morning? There was no answering that,
since she had heard me, so off she went, and I was left to myself. I
went down to the village during the morning and found a woman who was
willing to come and do the little work there is and cook my dinner, on
condition that she might go home every night. As for me, I moved
downstairs that day, and I have never tried to sleep in the best
bedroom since. After a little while I got a brace of middle-aged
Scotch servants from London, and things were quiet enough for a long
time. I began by telling them that the house was in a very exposed
position, and that the wind whistled round it a good deal in the
autumn and winter, which had given it a bad name in the village, the
Cornish people being inclined to superstition and telling ghost
stories. The two hard-faced, sandy-haired sisters almost smiled, and
they answered with great contempt that they had no great opinion of
any Southern bogey whatever, having been in service in two English
haunted houses, where they had never seen so much as the Boy in Grey,
whom they reckoned no very particular rarity in Forfarshire.

They stayed with me several months, and while they were in the house
we had peace and quiet. One of them is here again now, but she went
away with her sister within the year. This one--she was the cook--
married the sexton, who works in my garden. That's the way of it. It's
a small village and he has not much to do, and he knows enough about
flowers to help me nicely, besides doing most of the hard work; for
though I'm fond of exercise, I'm getting a little stiff in the hinges.
He's a sober, silent sort of fellow, who minds his own business, and
he was a widower when I came here--Trehearn is his name, James
Trehearn. The Scottish sisters would not admit that there was anything
wrong about the house, but when November came they gave me warning
that they were going, on the ground that the chapel was such a long
walk from here, being in the next parish, and that they could not
possibly go to our church. But the younger one came back in the
spring, and as soon as the banns could be published she was married to
James Trehearn by the vicar, and she seems to have had no scruples
about hearing him preach since then. I'm quite satisfied, if she is!
The couple live in a small cottage that looks over the churchyard.

I suppose you are wondering what all this has to do with what I was
talking about. I'm alone so much that when an old friend comes to see
me, I sometimes go on talking just for the sake of hearing my own
voice. But in this case there is really a connection of ideas. It was
James Trehearn who buried poor Mrs. Pratt, and her husband after her
in the same grave, and it's not far from the back of his cottage.
That's the connection in my mind, you see. It's plain enough. He knows
something; I'm quite sure that he does, though he's such a reticent

Yes, I'm alone in the house at night now, for Mrs. Trehearn does
everything herself, and when I have a friend the sexton's niece comes
in to wait on the table. He takes his wife home every evening in
winter, but in summer, when there's light, she goes by herself. She's
not a nervous woman, but she's less sure than she used to be that
there are no bogies in England worth a Scotch-woman's notice. Isn't it
amusing, the idea that Scotland has a monopoly of the supernatural?
Odd sort of national pride, I call that, don't you?

That's a good fire, isn't it? When driftwood gets started at last
there's nothing like it, I think. Yes, we get lots of it, for I'm
sorry to say there are still a great many wrecks about here. It's a
lonely coast, and you may have all the wood you want for the trouble
of bringing it in. Trehearn and I borrow a cart now and then, and load
it between here and the Spit. I hate a coal fire when I can get wood
of any sort A log is company, even if it's only a piece of a deck beam
or timber sawn off, and the salt in it makes pretty sparks. See how
they fly, like Japanese hand-fireworks! Upon my word, with an old
friend and a good fire and a pipe, one forgets all about that thing
upstairs, especially now that the wind has moderated. It's only a
lull, though, and it will blow a gale before morning.

You think you would like to see the skull? I've no objection. There's
no reason why you shouldn't have a look at it, and you never saw a
more perfect one in your life, except that there are two front teeth
missing in the lower jaw.

Oh yes--I had not told you about the jaw yet. Trehearn found it in the
garden last spring when he was digging a pit for a new asparagus bed.
You know we make asparagus beds six or eight feet deep here. Yes,
yes--I had forgotten to tell you that. He was digging straight down,
just as he digs a grave; if you want a good asparagus bed made, I
advise you to get a sexton to make it for you. Those fellows have a
wonderful knack at that sort of digging.

Trehearn had got down about three feet when he cut into a mass of
white lime in the side of the trench. He had noticed that the earth
was a little looser there, though he says it had not been disturbed
for a number of years. I suppose he thought that even old lime might
not be good for asparagus, so he broke it out and threw it up. It was
pretty hard, he says, in biggish lumps, and out of sheer force of
habit he cracked the lumps with his spade as they lay outside the pit
beside him; the jaw bone of the skull dropped out of one of the
pieces. He thinks he must have knocked out the two front teeth in
breaking up the lime, but he did not see them anywhere. He's a very
experienced man in such things, as you may imagine, and he said at
once that the jaw had probably belonged to a young woman, and that the
teeth had been complete when she died. He brought it to me, and asked
me if I wanted to keep it; if I did not, he said he would drop it into
the next grave he made in the churchyard, as he supposed it was a
Christian jaw, and ought to have decent burial, wherever the rest of
the body might be. I told him that doctors often put bones into
quicklime to whiten them nicely, and that I supposed Dr Pratt had once
had a little lime pit in the garden for that purpose, and had
forgotten the jaw. Trehearn looked at me quietly.

"Maybe it fitted that skull that used to be in the cupboard upstairs,
sir," he said. "Maybe Dr Pratt had put the skull into the lime to
clean it, or something, and when he took it out he left the lower jaw
behind. There's some human hair sticking in the lime, sir."

I saw there was, and that was what Trehearn said. If he did not
suspect something, why in the world should he have suggested that the
jaw might fit the skull? Besides, it did. That's proof that he knows
more than he cares to tell. Do you suppose he looked before she was
buried? Or perhaps--when he buried Luke in the same grave--

Well, well, it's of no use to go over that, is it? I said I would keep
the jaw with the skull, and I took it upstairs and fitted it into its
place. There's not the slightest doubt about the two belonging
together, and together they are.

Trehearn knows several things. We were talking about plastering the
kitchen a while ago, and he happened to remember that it had not been
done since the very week when Mrs. Pratt died. He did not say that the
mason must have left some lime on the place, but he thought it, and
that it was the very same lime he had found in the asparagus pit. He
knows a lot. Trehearn is one of your silent beggars who can put two
and two together. That grave is very near the back of his cottage,
too, and he's one of the quickest men with a spade I ever saw. If he
wanted to know the truth, he could, and no one else would ever be the
wiser unless he chose to tell. In a quiet village like ours, people
don't go and spend the night in the churchyard to see whether the
sexton potters about by himself between ten o'clock and daylight.

What is awful to think of, is Luke's deliberation, if he did it; his
cool certainty that no one would find him out; above all, his nerve,
for that must have been extraordinary. I sometimes think it's bad
enough to live in the place where it was done, if it really was done.
I always put in the condition, you see, for the sake of his memory,
and a little bit for my own sake, too.

I'll go upstairs and fetch the box in a minute. Let me light my pipe;
there's no hurry! We had supper early, and it's only half-past nine
o'clock. I never let a friend go to bed before twelve, or with less
than three glasses--you may have as many more as you like, but you
shan't have less, for the sake of old times.

It's breezing up again, do you hear? That was only a lull just now,
and we are going to have a bad night.

A thing happened that made me start a little when I found that the jaw
fitted exactly. I'm not very easily startled in that way myself, but I
have seen people make a quick movement, drawing their breath sharply,
when they had thought they were alone and suddenly turned and saw
someone very near them. Nobody can call that fear. You wouldn't, would
you? No. Well, just when I had set the jaw in its place under the
skull, the teeth closed sharply on my finger. It felt exactly as if it
were biting me hard, and I confess that I jumped before I realized
that I had been pressing the jaw and the skull together with my other
hand. I assure you I was not at all nervous. It was broad daylight,
too, and a fine day, and the sun was streaming into the best bedroom.
It would have been absurd to be nervous, and it was only a quick
mistaken impression, but it really made me feel queer. Somehow it made
me think of the funny verdict of the coroner's jury on Luke's death,
"by the hand or teeth of some person or animal unknown". Ever since
that I've wished I had seen those marks on his throat, though the
lower jaw was missing then.

I have often seen a man do insane things with his hands that he does
not realize at all. I once saw a man hanging on by an old awning stop
with one hand, leaning backward, outboard, with all his weight on it,
and he was just cutting the stop with the knife in his other hand when
I got my arms round him. We were in mid-ocean, going twenty knots. He
had not the smallest idea what he was doing; neither had I when I
managed to pinch my finger between the teeth of that thing. I can feel
it now. It was exactly as if it were alive and were trying to bite me.
It would if it could, for I know it hates me, poor thing! Do you
suppose that what rattles about inside is really a bit of lead? Well,
I'll get the box down presently, and if whatever it is happens to drop
out into your hands, that's your affair. If it's only a clod of earth
or a pebble, the whole matter would be off my mind, and I don't
believe I should ever think of the skull again; but somehow I cannot
bring myself to shake out the bit of hard stuff myself. The mere idea
that it may be lead makes me confoundedly uncomfortable, yet I've got
the conviction that I shall know before long. I shall certainly know.
I'm sure Trehearn knows, but he's such a silent beggar.

I'll go upstairs now and get it. What? You had better go with me? Ha,
ha! do you think I'm afraid of a bandbox and a noise? Nonsense!

Bother the candle, it won't light! As if the ridiculous thing
understood what it's wanted for! Look at that--the third match. They
light fast enough for my pipe. There, do you see? It's a fresh box,
just out of the tin safe where I keep the supply on account of the
dampness. Oh, you think the wick of the candle may be damp, do you?
All right, I'll light the beastly thing in the fire. That won't go
out, at all events. Yes, it sputters a bit, but it will keep lighted
now. It burns just like any other candle, doesn't it? The fact is,
candles are not very good about here. I don't know where they come
from, but they have a way of burning low occasionally, with a greenish
flame that spits tiny sparks, and I'm often annoyed by their going out
of themselves. It cannot be helped, for it will be long before we have
electricity in our village. It really is rather a poor light, isn't

You think I had better leave you the candle and take the lamp, do you?
I don't like to carry lamps about, that's the truth. I never dropped
one in my life, but I have always thought I might, and it's so
confoundedly dangerous if you do. Besides, I am pretty well used to
these rotten candles by this time.

You may as well finish that glass while I'm getting it, for I don't
mean to let you off with less than three before you go to bed. You
won't have to go upstairs, either, for I've put you in the old study
next to the surgery--that's where I live myself. The fact is, I never
ask a friend to sleep upstairs now. The last man who did was
Crackenthorpe, and he said he was kept awake all night. You remember
old Crack, don't you? He stuck to the Service, and they've just made
him an admiral. Yes, I'm off now--unless the candle goes out. I
couldn't help asking if you remembered Crackenthorpe. If anyone had
told us that the skinny little idiot he used to be was to turn out the
most successful of the lot of us, we should have laughed at the idea,
shouldn't we? You and I did not do badly, it's true--but I'm really
going now. I don't mean to let you think that I've been putting it off
by talking! As if there were anything to be afraid of! If I were
scared, I should tell you so quite frankly, and get you to go upstairs
with me.

Here's the box. I brought it down very carefully, so as not to disturb
it, poor thing. You see, if it were shaken, the jaw might get
separated from it again, and I'm sure it wouldn't like that. Yes, the
candle went out as I was coming downstairs, but that was the draught
from the leaky window on the landing. Did you hear anything? Yes,
there was another scream. Am I pale, do you say? That's nothing. My
heart is a little queer sometimes, and I went upstairs too fast. In
fact, that's one reason why I really prefer to live altogether on the
ground floor.

Wherever the shriek came from, it was not from the skull, for I had
the box in my hand when I heard the noise, and here it is now; so we
have proved definitely that the screams are produced by something
else. I've no doubt I shall find out some day what makes them. Some
crevice in the wall, of course, or a crack in a chimney, or a chink in
the frame of a window. That's the way all ghost stories end in real
life. Do you know, I'm jolly glad I thought of going up and bringing
it down for you to see, for that last shriek settles the question. To
think that I should have been so weak as to fancy that the poor skull
could really cry out like a living thing!

Now I'll open the box, and we'll take it out and look at it under the
bright light. It's rather awful to think that the poor lady used to
sit there, in your chair, evening after evening, in just the same
light, isn't it? But then--I've made up my mind that it's all rubbish
from beginning to end, and that it's just an old skull that Luke had
when he was a student and perhaps he put it into the lime merely to
whiten it, and could not find the jaw.

I made a seal on the string, you see, after I had put the jaw in its
place, and I wrote on the cover. There's the old white label on it
still, from the milliner's, addressed to Mrs. Pratt when the hat was
sent to her, and as there was room I wrote on the edge: "A skull, once
the property of the late Luke Pratt, MD." I don't quite know why I
wrote that, unless it was with the idea of explaining how the thing
happened to be in my possession. I cannot help wondering sometimes
what sort of hat it was that came in the bandbox. What colour was it,
do you think? Was it a gay spring hat with a bobbing feather and
pretty ribands? Strange that the very same box should hold the head
that wore the finery--perhaps. No--we made up our minds that it just
came from the hospital in London where Luke did his time. It's far
better to look at it in that light, isn't it? There's no more
connection between that skull and poor Mrs. Pratt than there was
between my story about the lead and--

Good Lord! Take the lamp--don't let it go out, if you can help it--
I'll have the window fastened again in a second--I say, what a gale!
There, it's out! I told you so! Never mind, there's the firelight--
I've got the window shut--the bolt was only half down. Was the box
blown off the table? Where the deuce is it? There! That won't open
again, for I've put up the bar. Good dodge, an old-fashioned bar--
there's nothing like it. Now, you find the bandbox while I light the
lamp. Confound those wretched matches! Yes, a pipe spill is better--it
must light in the fire--hadn't thought of it--thank you--there we are
again. Now, where's the box? Yes, put it back on the table, and we'll
open it.

That's the first time I have ever known the wind to burst that window
open; but it was partly carelessness on my part when I last shut it.
Yes, of course I heard the scream. It seemed to go all round the house
before it broke in at the window. That proves that it's always been
the wind and nothing else, doesn't it? When it was not the wind, it
was my imagination I've always been a very imaginative man: I must
have been, though I did not know it. As we grow older we understand
ourselves better, don't you know?

I'll have a drop of the Hulstkamp neat, by way of an exception, since
you are filling up your glass. That damp gust chilled me, and with my
rheumatic tendency I'm very much afraid of a chill, for the cold
sometimes seems to stick in my joints all winter when it once gets in.

By George, that's good stuff! I'll just light a fresh pipe, now that
everything is snug again, and then we'll open the box. I'm so glad we
heard that last scream together, with the skull here on the table
between us, for a thing cannot possibly be in two places at the same
time, and the noise most certainly came from outside, as any noise the
wind makes must. You thought you heard it scream through the room
after the window was burst open? Oh yes, so did I, but that was
natural enough when everything was open. Of course we heard the wind.
What could one expect?

Look here, please. I want you to see that the seal is intact before we
open the box together. Will you take my glasses? No, you have your
own. All right. The seal is sound, you see, and you can read the words
of the motto easily. "Sweet and low"--that's it--because the poem goes
on "Wind of the Western Sea", and says, "blow him again to me", and
all that. Here is the seal on my watch chain, where it's hung for more
than forty years. My poor little wife gave it to me when I was
courting, and I never had any other. It was just like her to think of
those words--she was always fond of Tennyson.

It's no use to cut the string, for it's fastened to the box, so I'll
just break the wax and untie the knot, and afterwards we'll seal it up
again. You see, I like to feel that the thing is safe in its place,
and that nobody can take it out. Not that I should suspect Trehearn of
meddling with it, but I always feel that he knows a lot more than he

You see, I've managed it without breaking the string, though when I
fastened it I never expected to open the bandbox again. The lid comes
off easily enough. There! Now look!

What! Nothing in it! Empty! It's gone, man, the skull is gone!

No, there's nothing the matter with me. I'm only trying to collect my
thoughts. It's so strange. I'm positively certain that it was inside
when I put on the seal last spring. I can't have imagined that: it's
utterly impossible. If I ever took a stiff glass with a friend now and
then, I would admit that I might have made some idiotic mistake when I
had taken too much. But I don't, and I never did. A pint of ale at
supper and half a go of rum at bedtime was the most I ever took in my
good days. I believe it's always we sober fellows who get rheumatism
and gout! Yet there was my seal, and there is the empty bandbox.
That's plain enough.

I say, I don't half like this. It's not right. There's something wrong
about it, in my opinion. You needn't talk to me about supernatural
manifestations, for I don't believe in them, not a little bit!
Somebody must have tampered with the seal and stolen the skull.
Sometimes, when I go out to work in the garden in summer, I leave my
watch and chain on the table. Trehearn must have taken the seal then,
and used it, for he would be quite sure that I should not come in for
at least an hour.

If it was not Trehearn--oh, don't talk to me about the possibility
that the thing has got out by itself! If it has, it must be somewhere
about the house, in some out-of-the-way corner, waiting. We may come
upon it anywhere, waiting for us, don't you know?--just waiting in the
dark. Then it will scream at me; it will shriek at me in the dark, for
it hates me, I tell you!

The bandbox is quite empty. We are not dreaming, either of us. There,
I turn it upside down.

What's that? Something fell out as I turned it over. It's on the
floor, it's near your feet. I know it is, and we must find it. Help me
to find it, man. Have you got it? For God's sake, give it to me,

Lead! I knew it when I heard it fall. I knew it couldn't be anything
else by the little thud it made on the hearthrug. So it was lead after
all and Luke did it.

I feel a little bit shaken up--not exactly nervous, you know, but
badly shaken up, that's the fact. Anybody would, I should think. After
all, you cannot say that it's fear of the thing, for I went up and
brought it down--at least, I believed I was bringing it down, and
that's the same thing, and by George, rather than give in to such
silly nonsense, I'll take the box upstairs again and put it back in
its place. It's not that. It's the certainty that the poor little
woman came to her end in that way, by my fault, because I told the
story. That's what is so dreadful. Somehow, I had always hoped that I
should never be quite sure of it, but there is no doubting it now.
Look at that!

Look at it! That little lump of lead with no particular shape. Think
of what it did, man! Doesn't it make you shiver? He gave her something
to make her sleep, of course, but there must have been one moment of
awful agony. Think of having boiling lead poured into your brain.
Think of it. She was dead before she could scream, but only think of--
oh! there it is again--it's just outside--I know it's just outside--I
can't keep it out of my head!--oh!--oh!

You thought I had fainted? No, I wish I had, for it would have stopped
sooner. It's all very well to say that it's only a noise, and that a
noise never hurt anybody--you're as white as a shroud yourself.
There's only one thing to be done, if we hope to close an eye tonight.
We must find it and put it back into its bandbox and shut it up in the
cupboard, where it likes to be I don't know how it got out, but it
wants to get in again. That's why it screams so awfully tonight--it
was never so bad as this--never since I first--

Bury it? Yes, if we can find it, we'll bury it, if it takes us all
night. We'll bury it six feet deep and ram down the earth over it, so
that it shall never get out again, and if it screams, we shall hardly
hear it so deep down. Quick, we'll get the lantern and look for it. It
cannot be far away; I'm sure it's just outside--it was coming in when
I shut the window, I know it.

Yes, you're quite right. I'm losing my senses, and I must get hold of
myself. Don't speak to me for a minute or two; I'll sit quite still
and keep my eyes shut and repeat something I know. That's the best

"Add together the altitude, the latitude, and the polar distance,
divide by two and subtract the altitude from the half-sum; then add
the logarithm of the secant of the latitude, the cosecant of the polar
distance, the cosine of the half-sum and the sine of the half-sum
minus the altitude"--there! Don't say that I'm out of my senses, for
my memory is all right, isn't it?

Of course, you may say that it's mechanical, and that we never forget
the things we learned when we were boys and have used almost every day
for a lifetime. But that's the very point. When a man is going crazy,
it's the mechanical part of his mind that gets out of order and won't
work right; he remembers things that never happened, or he sees things
that aren't real, or he hears noises when there is perfect silence.
That's not what is the matter with either of us, is it?

Come, we'll get the lantern and go round the house. It's not raining--
only blowing like old boots, as we used to say. The lantern is in the
cupboard under the stairs in the hall, and I always keep it trimmed in
case of a wreck.

No use to look for the thing? I don't see how you can say that. It was
nonsense to talk of burying it, of course, for it doesn't want to be
buried; it wants to go back into its bandbox and be taken upstairs,
poor thing! Trehearn took it out, I know, and made the seal over
again. Perhaps he took it to the churchyard, and he may have meant
well. I dare say he thought that it would not scream any more if it
were quietly laid in consecrated ground, near where it belongs. But it
has come home. Yes, that's it. He's not half a bad fellow, Trehearn,
and rather religiously inclined, I think. Does not that sound natural,
and reasonable, and well meant? He supposed it screamed because it was
not decently buried--with the rest. But he was wrong. How should he
know that it screams at me because it hates me, and because it's my
fault that there was that little lump of lead in it?

No use to look for it, anyhow? Nonsense! I tell you it wants to be
found--Hark! what's that knocking? Do you hear it? Knock--knock--
knock--three times, then a pause, and then again. It has a hollow
sound, hasn't it?

It has come home. I've heard that knock before. It wants to come in
and be taken upstairs in its box. It's at the front door.

Will you come with me? We'll take it in. Yes, I own that I don't like
to go alone and open the door. The thing will roll in and stop against
my foot, just as it did before, and the light will go out. I'm a good
deal shaken by finding that bit of lead, and, besides, my heart isn't
quite right--too much strong tobacco, perhaps. Besides, I'm quite
willing to own that I'm a bit nervous tonight, if I never was before
in my life.

That's right, come along! I'll take the box with me, so as not to come
back. Do you hear the knocking? It's not like any other knocking I
ever heard. If you will hold this door open, I can find the lantern
under the stairs by the light from this room without bringing the lamp
into the hall--it would only go out.

The thing knows we are coming--hark! It's impatient to get in. Don't
shut the door till the lantern is ready, whatever you do. There will
be the usual trouble with the matches, I suppose--no, the first one,
by Jove! I tell you it wants to get in, so there's no trouble. All
right with that door now; shut it, please. Now come and hold the
lantern, for it's blowing so hard outside that I shall have to use
both hands. That's it, hold the light low. Do you hear the knocking
still? Here goes--I'll open just enough with my foot against the
bottom of the door--now!

Catch it! it's only the wind that blows it across the floor, that's
all--there s half a hurricane outside, I tell you! Have you got it?
The bandbox is on the table. One minute, and I'll have the bar up.

Why did you throw it into the box so roughly? It doesn't like that,
you know.

What do you say? Bitten your hand? Nonsense, man! You did just what I
did. You pressed the jaws together with your other hand and pinched
yourself. Let me see. You don't mean to say you have drawn blood? You
must have squeezed hard by Jove, for the skin is certainly torn. I'll
give you some carbolic solution for it before we go to bed, for they
say a scratch from a skull's tooth may go bad and give trouble.

Come inside again and let me see it by the lamp. I'll bring the
bandbox--never mind the lantern, it may just as well burn in the hall
for I shall need it presently when I go up the stairs. Yes, shut the
door if you will; it makes it more cheerful and bright. Is your finger
still bleeding? I'll get you the carbolic in an instant; just let me
see the thing.

Ugh! There's a drop of blood on the upper jaw. It's on the eyetooth.
Ghastly, isn't it? When I saw it running along the floor of the hall,
the strength almost went out of my hands, and I felt my knees bending,
then I understood that it was the gale, driving it over the smooth
boards. You don t blame me? No, I should think not! We were boys
together, and we've seen a thing or two, and we may just as well own
to each other that we were both in a beastly funk when it slid across
the floor at you. No wonder you pinched your finger picking it up,
after that, if I did the same thing out of sheer nervousness, in broad
daylight, with the sun streaming in on me.

Strange that the jaw should stick to it so closely, isn't it? I
suppose it's the dampness, for it shuts like a vice--I have wiped off
the drop of blood, for it was not nice to look at. I'm not going to
try to open the jaws, don't be afraid! I shall not play any tricks
with the poor thing, but I'll just seal the box again, and we'll take
it upstairs and put it away where it wants to be. The wax is on the
writing-table by the window. Thank you. It will be long before I leave
my seal lying about again, for Trehearn to use, I can tell you.
Explain? I don't explain natural phenomena, but if you choose to think
that Trehearn had hidden it somewhere in the bushes, and that the gale
blew it to the house against the door, and made it knock, as if it
wanted to be let in, you're not thinking the impossible, and I'm quite
ready to agree with you.

Do you see that? You can swear that you've actually seen me seal it
this time, in case anything of the kind should occur again. The wax
fastens the strings to the lid, which cannot possibly be lifted, even
enough to get in one finger. You're quite satisfied, aren't you? Yes.
Besides, I shall lock the cupboard and keep the key in my pocket

Now we can take the lantern and go upstairs. Do you know? I'm very
much inclined to agree with your theory that the wind blew it against
the house. I'll go ahead, for I know the stairs; just hold the lantern
near my feet as we go up. How the wind howls and whistles! Did you
feel the sand on the floor under your shoes as we crossed the hall?

Yes--this is the door of the best bedroom. Hold up the lantern,
please. This side, by the head of the bed. I left the cupboard open
when I got the box. Isn't it queer how the faint odour of women's
dresses will hang about an old closet for years? This is the shelf.
You've seen me set the box there, and now you see me turn the key and
put it into my pocket. So that's done!

Goodnight. Are you sure you're quite comfortable? It's not much of a
room, but I dare say you would as soon sleep here as upstairs tonight.
If you want anything, sing out; there's only a lath and plaster
partition between us. There's not so much wind on this side by half.
There's the Hollands on the table, if you'll have one more nightcap.
No? Well, do as you please. Goodnight again, and don't dream about
that thing, if you can.

The following paragraph appeared in the Penraddon News, 23rd November


The village of Tredcombe is much disturbed by the strange death of
Captain Charles Braddock, and all sorts of impossible stories are
circulating with regard to the circumstances, which certainly seem
difficult of explanation. The retired captain, who had successfully
commanded in his time the largest and fastest liners belonging to one
of the principal transatlantic steamship companies, was found dead in
his bed on Tuesday morning in his own cottage, a quarter of a mile
from the village. An examination was made at once by the local
practitioner, which revealed the horrible fact that the deceased had
been bitten in the throat by a human assailant, with such amazing
force as to crush the windpipe and cause death. The marks of the teeth
of both jaws were so plainly visible on the skin that they could be
counted, but the perpetrator of the deed had evidently lost the two
lower middle incisors. It is hoped that this peculiarity may help to
identify the murderer, who can only be a dangerous escaped maniac. The
deceased, though over sixty-five years of age, is said to have been a
hale man of considerable physical strength, and it is remarkable that
no signs of any struggle were visible in the room, nor could it be
ascertained how the murderer had entered the house. Warning has been
sent to all the insane asylums in the United Kingdom, but as yet no
information has been received regarding the escape of any dangerous

The coroner's Jury returned the somewhat singular verdict that Captain
Braddock came to his death "by the hands or teeth of some person
unknown". The local surgeon is said to have expressed privately the
opinion that the maniac is a woman, a view he deduces from the small
size of the jaws, as shown by the marks of the teeth. The whole affair
is shrouded in mystery. Captain Braddock was a widower, and lived
alone. He leaves no children.

(AUTHOR'S NOTE.--Students of ghost lore and haunted houses will find
the foundation of the foregoing story in the legends about a skull
which is still preserved in the farmhouse called Bettiscombe Manor,
situated, I believe, on the Dorsetshire coast.)


YES--I have heard "Man over-board!" a good many times since I was a
boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more men lost
in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn of. I have
stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when there was a step
beside me, and something flew past my head like a big black bat--and
then there was a splash! Stokers often go like that. They go mad with
the heat, and they slip up on deck and are gone before anybody can
stop them, often without being seen or heard. Now and then a passenger
will do it, but he generally has what he thinks a pretty good reason.
I have seen a man empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants
forward, and then go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who
respects himself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather
is not so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't think
I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly gone more
than two or three times in all my life, though we have often picked up
the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap. Stokers and passengers
jump over; I never knew a sailor to do that, drunk or sober. Yes, they
say it has happened on hard ships, but I never knew a case myself.
Once in a long time a man is fished out when it is just too late, and
dies in the boat before you can get him aboard, and---well, I don't
know that I ever told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow
who went over, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came
back; only one of us did, but we all knew he was there.

No, I am not giving you "sharks." There isn't a shark in this story,
and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't alone, just
you and I. But you and I have seen things in various parts, and maybe
you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am telling what I know
about, and nothing else; and it has been on my mind to tell you ever
since it happened, only there hasn't been a chance.

It's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began a
good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I was mate
then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about three years
later. She was the Helen B. Jackson, of New York, with lumber for the
West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain Hackstaff. She was an old-
fashioned one, even then--no steam donkey, and all to do by hand.
There were still sailors in the coasting trade in those days, you
remember. She wasn't a hard ship, for the old man was better than most
of them, though he kept to himself and had a face like a monkey-
wrench. We were thirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of
them afterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,
but I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I
don't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I have
gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and twice before
that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands didn't turn up at
the last minute, and nothing ever happened either--nothing worse than
the loss of a light spar or two, or a little canvas. Whenever I have
been wrecked, we had sailed as cheerily as you please--no thirteens,
no Fridays, no dead men in the hold. I believe it generally happens
that way.

I dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much
allke? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped with
us as boys on the old Boston Belle, when you were mate and I was
before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which of those two,
even then; and when they both had beards it was harder than ever to
tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other was Jack; James Benton and
John Benton. The only difference I ever could see was, that one seemed
to be rather more cheerful and inclined to talk than the other; but
one couldn't even be sure of that. Perhaps, they had moods. Anyhow,
there was one of them that used to whistle when he was alone. He only
knew one tune, and that was "Nancy Lee," and the other didn't know any
tune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they both
knew it.

Well, those two Benton boys turned up on board the Helen B. Jackson.
They had been on half a dozen ships since the Boston Belle, and they
had grown up and were good seamen. They had reddish beards and bright
blue eyes and freckled faces; and they were quiet fellows, good
workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and both good men at the wheel.
They managed to be in the same watch--it was the port watch on the
Helen B., and that was mine, and I had great confidence in them both.
If there was any job aloft that needed two hands, they were always the
first to jump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a
fore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was to be
taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be out at the
bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul. The men liked
them for that, and because they didn't blow about what the could do. I
remember one day in a reefing job, the downhaul parted and came do on
deck from the peak of the spanker. When the weather moderated, and we
shook the reefs out, the downhaul was forgotten until we happened to
think we might soon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom
was off and the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the
wheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on the
gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it through its
block. The one who was steering watched him, and got as white as
cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff end, and every
time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a jerk that would have
sent anything but a monkey flying into space. But he didn't leave it
until he had rove the new rope, and he got back all right. I think it
was Jack at the wheel; the one that seemed more cheerful, the one that
whistled "Nancy Lee." He had rather have been doing the job himself
than watch his brother do it, and he had a scared look; but he kept
her as steady as he could in the swell, and he drew a long breath when
Jim had worked his way back to the peak-halliard block, and had
something to hold on to. I think it was Jim.

They had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the
forecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no
mother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as if a
woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had one ditty
bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it. One of the men
said something about it to them, and they looked at each other; and
one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of their clothes were alike,
but they had one red guernsey between them. For some time I used to
think it was always the same one that wore it, and I thought that
might be a way to tell them apart. But then I heard one asking the
other for it, and saying that the other had worn it last. So that was
no sign either. The cook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his
father had been hanged for putting lights in cocoanut [sic] trees
where they didn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his
business; and it wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday.
That's what I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys
Jim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must be
right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a painted
clock point right twice a day.

What started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons apart
was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at night, in our
watch, and the wind had headed us off a little rather suddenly, and
when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed down the topsails, while
the two Benton boys got the spanker sheet aft. One of them was at the
helm. I coiled down the mizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going
aft to see how she headed up, when I stopped to look at a light, and
leaned against the deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the
two boys talking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing
before, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first belonged
to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the other,--the one who was
Jim when one knew which he was.

"Does Mamie know?" Jim asked.

"Not yet," Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. "I mean to
tell her next time we get home."

"All right."

That was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there listening
while they were talking about their own affairs; so I went aft to look
into the binnacle, and I told the one at the wheel to keep her so as
long as she had way on her, for I thought the wind would back up again
before long, and there was land to leeward. When he answered, his
voice, somehow, didn't sound like the cheerful one. Perhaps his
brother had relieved the wheel while they had been speaking, but what
I had heard set me wondering which of them it was that had a girl at
home. There's lots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair

After that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more
silent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had
overheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about. Some
men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them separately
about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it was would have
let the cat out of the bag if I had done that. But, somehow, I didn't
like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting married myself at that time,
so I had a sort of fellow-feeling for whichever one it was, that made
me not want to chaff him.

They didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when
there was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other was
everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve the
wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all I cared
in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at the lookout,
the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him. One kept near the
other, at night more than in the daytime. I noticed that. They were
fond of sitting on that anchor, and they generally tucked away their
pipes under it for the Helen B. was a dry boat in most weather, and
like most fore-and-afters was better on a wind than going free. With a
beam sea we sometimes shipped a little water aft. We were by the
stern, anyhow, on that voyage, and that is one reason why we lost the

We fell in with a southerly gale, southeast at first; and then the
barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long swell
began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months earlier we
might have been in for a cyclone, but it's "October all over" in those
waters, as you know better than I. It was just going to blow, and then
it was going to rain, that was all; and we had plenty of time to make
everything snug before it breezed up much. It blew harder after
sunset, and by the time it was quite dark it was a full gale. We had
shortened sail for it, but as we were by the stern we were carrying
the spanker close reefed instead of the storm trysail. She steered
better so, as long as we didn't have to heave to. I had the first
watch with the Benton boys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a
child might have seen that the weather meant business.

The old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a
minute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to, and
I was glad of it; for though the Helen B. was a good vessel enough,
she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no good to drive
her in that weather. I asked whether I should call all hands, but just
then the cook came aft, and the old man said he thought we could
manage the job without waking the sleepers, and the trysail was handy
on deck already, for we hadn't been expecting anything better. We were
all in oilskins, of course, and the night was as black as a coal mine,
with only a ray of light from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you
couldn't tell one man from another except by his voice. The old man
took the wheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the
wind until she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all
that I and two others could do to get in the slack of the downhaul,
while the others lowered away at the peak and throat, and we had our
hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet sail. It's all
child's play on a fore-and-after compared with reefing topsails in
anything like weather, but the gear of a schooner sometimes does
unhandy things that you don't expect, and those everlasting long
halliards get foul of everything if they get adrift. I remember
thinking how unhandy that particular job was. Somebody unhooked the
throat-halliard block, and thought he had hooked it into the head-
cringle of the trysail, and sang out to hoist away, but he had missed
it in the dark, and the heavy block went flying into the lee rigging,
and nearly killed him when it swung back with the weather roll. Then
the old man got her up in the wind until the jib was shaking like
thunder; then he held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-
sails filled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.
Then the Helen B. did her favourite trick, and before we had time to
say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our waists, with
the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round the mast, and the
deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your foot on a plank, and
the spanker beginning to get adrift again, being badly stopped, and
the general confusion and hell's delight that you can only have on a
fore-and-after when there's nothing really serious the matter. Of
course, I don't mean to say that the old man couldn't have steered his
trick as well as you or I or any other seaman; but I don't believe he
had ever been on board the Helen B. before, or had his hand on her
wheel till then; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that
what happened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps
nobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on board
when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my head. I
hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the rest of the
trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack, and the throat-
halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose there were at least
three men at it, hoisting away, while I was at the beckets.

Now I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and
boy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have always
been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort of man to
think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear, or to think I
see things when there is nothing to see? No, you don't. Thank you.
Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I sang out to the men to
sway away, and I was standing on the jaws of the spanker-gaff, with my
left hand on the bolt-rope of the trysail, so that I could feel when
it was board-taut, and I wasn't thinking of anything except being glad
the job was over, and that we were going to heave her to. It was as
black as a coal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the
seas as they went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of
light from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he stood at
the wheel---or rather I might have seen it if I had looked round at
that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a man whistling. It was
"NancyLee," and I could have sworn that the man was right over my head
in the crosstrees. Only somehow I knew very well that if anybody could
have been up there, and could have whistled a tune, there were no
living ears sharp enough to hear it on deck then. I heard it
distinctly, and at the same time I heard the real whistling of the
wind in the weather rigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a
Dago's peanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it
should be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and stiff, as
if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the flannel lining
of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had dropped a lump of ice
down my back.

I said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if the
other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it. But it
was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I came to
relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks, he was
swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear before, and
I don't think I did again, though several queer things happened after
that. Perhaps he said all he had to say then; I don't see how he could
have said anything more. I used to think nobody could swear like a
Dane, except a Neapolitan or a South American; but when I had heard
the old man I changed my mind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that
can beat one of your quiet American skippers, if he gets off on that
tack. I didn't need to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had
heard "Nancy Lee," as I had, only it affected us differently.

He did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get the
second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better. As we
tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me knocked his
sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came so close to me
that I could see it in the dark. It must have been very white for me
to see it, but I only thought of that afterwards. I don't see how any
light could have fallen upon it, but I knew it was one of the Benton
boys. I don't know what made me speak to him. "Hullo, Jim! Is that
you?" I asked. I don't know why I said Jim, rather than Jack.

"I am Jack," he answered.

We made all fast, and things were much quieter.

"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now," I said,
"and he didn't like it."

It was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was
ghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything, and
the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find his
sou'wester at the foot of the mast.

When all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling off
her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm lashed a
little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I managed to light
a pipe in the lee of the deckhouse, for there was nothing more to be
done till the gale chose to moderate, and the ship was as easy as a
baby in its cradle. Of course the cook had gone below, as he might
have done an hour earlier; so there were supposed to be four of us in
the watch. There was a man at the lookout, and there was a hand by the
wheel, though there was no steering to be done, and I was having my
pipe in the lee of the deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere
about decks, probably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I
had sailed with would have called the watch aft, and given them a
drink after that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old
man wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and feet
were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry clothes when
it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and smoked. But by and
by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder why nobody moved on deck;
just that sort of restless wanting to know where every man is that one
sometimes feels in a gale of wind on a dark night. So when I had
finished my pipe I began to move about. I went aft, and there was a
man leaning over the wheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging
down in the light from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes.
Then I went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back
against the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the staysail.
I knew by his small height that he was not one of the Benton boys.
Then I went round by the weather side, and poked about in the dark,
for I began to wonder where the other man was. But I couldn't find
him, though I searched the decks until I got right aft again. It was
certainly one of the Benton boys that was missing, but it wasn't like
either of them to go below to change his clothes in such warm weather.
The man at the wheel was the other, of course. I spoke to him.

"Jim, what's become of your brother?"

"I am Jack, sir."

"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck."

"I don't know, sir."

When I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,
and had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering, though
the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and it was half
hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed to be staring at
the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but that was natural, for
the captain had left his door open when he turned in, as it was a warm
night in spite of the storm, and there was no fear of shipping any
more water now.

"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've been
at sea long enough to know better."

He said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as if
he were denying the charge.

"Somebody whistled," I said.

He didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the
old man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug of
tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He knew my
tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a word of
thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.

"Go forward and see if you can find Jim," I said.

He started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me, and
was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the
whistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that because
we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go forward any way
he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke good-naturedly

"Pass to leeward, Jack," I said.

He didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and the
deckhouse to the lee side. She was only falling off and coming to, and
riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the man was not steady
on his feet and reeled against the corner of the deckhouse and then
against the lee rail. I was quite sure he couldn't have had anything
to drink, for neither of the brothers were the kind to hide rum from
their shipmates, if they had any, and the only spirits that were
aboard were locked up in the captain's cabin. I wondered whether he
had been hit by the throat-halliard block and was hurt.

I left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner of
the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I went
back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she went off,
and she must have come to again half a dozen times before I heard
voices, more than three or four, forward; and then I heard the little
West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill above' the rest:---

"Man overboard!"

There wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the
wheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the water
right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have happened, but I
ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook first, half-dressed in
his shirt and trousers, just as he had tumbled out of his bunk. He was
jumping into the main rigging, evidently hoping to see the man, as if
any one could have seen anything on such a night, except the foam-
streaks on the black water, and now and then the curl of a breaking
sea as it went away to leeward. Several of the men were peering over
the rail into the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who
was gone.

"It's Jim Benton," he shouted down to me. "He's not aboard this

There was no doubt about that Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in a
flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were setting the
storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then; she had run like
wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to, and no swimmer that
ever swam could have lived as long as that in such a sea. The men knew
it as well as I, but still they stared into the foam as if they had
any chance of seeing the lost man. I let the cook get into the rigging
and joined the men, and asked if they had made a thorough search on
board, though I knew they had and that it could not take long, for he
wasn't on deck, and there was only the forecastle below.

"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born," said one of
the men close beside me.

We had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and we
all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift astern two
or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought they could haul
me aboard again; but none of them would listen to that, and I should
probably have been drowned if I had tried it, even with a life-belt;
for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they all knew as well as I did
that the man could not be right in our wake. I don't know why I spoke

"Jack Benton, are you there? Will you go if I will?"

"No, sir," answered a voice; and that was all.

By that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my
shoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.

"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen," he said. "God
knows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use; but he
must have gone half an hour ago."

He was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they had
seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the trysail--if
anybody had seen him then. The captain went below again, and for some
time the men stood around Jack, quite near him, without saying
anything, as sailors do when they are sorry for a man and can't help
him; and then the watch below turned in again, and we were three on

Nobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a
funeral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a man's
gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen think it would
be easier if they didn't have to bury their fathers and mothers and
friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the funeral keeps up the idea of
something beyond. You may believe in that something just the same; but
a man who has gone in the dark, between two seas, without a cry, seems
much more beyond reach than if he were still lying on his bed, and had
only just stopped breathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted
to come back to us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what
happened, and you may think what you like.

Jack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I don't
know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck four hours
later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his sou'wester over
his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that he would rather stand
there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it was some consolation to him
to get that ray of light when everything was so dark. It began to
rain, too, as it can when a southerly gale is going to break up, and
we got every bucket and tub on board, and set them under the booms to
catch the fresh water for washing our clothes. The rain made it very
thick, and I went and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking
out. I could tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter
in the dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black
rain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of the
port light on the water when she went off and rolled to leeward. The
gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour we should be
under way again. I was still standing there when Jack Benton came
forward. He stood still a few minutes near me. The rain came down in a
solid sheet, and I could see his wet beard and a corner of his cheek,
too, grey in the dawn. Then he stooped down and began feeling under
the anchor for his pipe. We had hardly shipped any water forward, and
I suppose he had some way of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain
hadn't floated it off. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw
that he had two pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his
brother, and after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised
his own, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he
looked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had made up
his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee rail, without
even looking round to see whether I was watching him. I thought it was
a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with a nickel ferrule, and
somebody would have been glad to have it. But I didn't like to make
any remark, for he had a right to do what he pleased with what had
belonged to his dead brother. He blew the water out of his own pipe,
and dried it against his jacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin;
he filled it, standing under the lee of the foremast, got a light
after wasting two or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in
his teeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I
noticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I felt
sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was anything I could
say that would make him feel better. But I didn't think of anything,
and as it was broad daylight I went aft again, for I guessed that the
old man would turn out before long and order the spanker set and the
helm up. But he didn't turn out before seven bells, just as the clouds
broke and showed blue sky to leeward--"the Frenchman's barometer," you
used to call it.

Some people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as others
are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch, and I couldn't
get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks with me. I was always
expecting to see him, and his brother was so exactly like him that I
often felt as if I did see him and forgot he was dead, and made the
mistake of calling Jack by his name; though I tried not to, because I
knew it must hurt. If ever Jack had been the cheerful one of the two,
as I had always supposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he
grew to be more silent than Jim had ever been.

One fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling the
clockwork of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering very well
of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a coffeecup to hold the
small screws as I took them out, and a saucer for the sperm-oil I was
going to use. I noticed that he didn't go away, but hung round without
exactly watching what I was doing, as if he wanted to say something to
me. I thought if it were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I
didn't ask him questions; and sure enough he began of his own accord
before long. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and
the other man away forward.

"Mr. Torkeldsen," the cook began, and then stopped.

I supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a
barrel of flour, or some salt horse.

"Well, doctor?" I asked, as he didn't go on.

"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen," he answered, "I somehow want to ask you
whether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?"

"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any complaints
from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing, and I think you
know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting out of his clothes.
That looks as if you are giving satisfaction. What makes you think you
are not?"

I am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't try;
but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told me he
thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and he didn't
like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would like his
discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d--d fool, of course,
to begin with; and that men were more apt to try a joke with a chap
they liked than with anybody they wanted to get rid of; unless it was
a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or filling his boots with tar. But
it wasn't that kind of practical joke. The doctor said that the men
were trying to frighten him, and he didn't like it, and that they put
things in his way that frightened him. So I told him he was a d--d
fool to be frightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they
put in his way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons
and forks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.

I set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under it,
and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a sort of
hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't trying to make
trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him questions.

He said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without using
his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way he did use
his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said that when he and
the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals there were more things
to wash than he had given out. There'd be a fork more, or there'd be a
spoon more, and sometimes there'd be a spoon and a fork, and there was
always a plate more. It wasn't that he complained of that. Before poor
Jim Benton was lost they had a man more to feed, and his gear to wash
up after meals, and that was in the contract, the doctor said. It
would have been if there were twenty in the ship's company; but he
didn't think it was right for the men to play tricks like that. He
kept his things in good order, and he counted them, and he was
responsible for them, and it wasn't right that the men should take
more things than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil
them and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think---

He stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't
know what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to humour
any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the men himself,
and not come bothering me about such things.

"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit
down to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when they
have finished, count the things again, and if the count isn't right,
find out who did it. You know it must be one of them. You're not a
green hand; you've been going to sea ten or eleven years, and don't
want any lesson about how to behave if the boys play a trick on you."

"If I could catch him," said the cook, "I'd have a knife into him
before he could say his prayers."

Those West India men are always talking about knives, especially
when they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't ask
him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent log and
oiling the bearings with a feather. "Wouldn't it be better to wash it
out with boiling water, sir?" asked the cook, in an insinuating tone.
He knew that he had made a fool of himself, and was anxious to make it
right again.

I heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three
days, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor
evidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he didn't
quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough on a bright
afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the water, and every
rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea looked as pleasant and
harmless as a cat that has just eaten a canary. But when it was toward
the end of the first watch, and the waning moon had not risen yet, and
the water was like still oil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless
like the wings of a dead bird---it wasn't the same then. More than
once I have started then, and looked round when a fish jumped,
expecting to see a face sticking up out of the water with its eyes
shut. I think we all felt something like that at the time.

One afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the jib-sheet-
pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by looking on. Just
then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to look for his pipe
under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn, and his eyes were cold
like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke now, but he did his duty as
usual and nobody had to complain of him, though we were all beginning
to wonder how long his grief for his dead brother was going to last
like that. I watched him as he crouched down, and ran his hand into
the hidingplace for the pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in
his hand.

Now, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes
away, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now, and
I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I caught
sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the foam on shallow
water, and he stood a long time looking at the two pipes. He wasn't
looking to see which was his, for I wasn't five yards from him as he
stood, and one of those pipes had been smoked that day, and was shiny
where his hand had rubbed it, and the bone mouthpiece was chafed white
where his teeth had bitten it. The other was water-logged. It was
swelled and cracking with wet, and it looked to me as if there were a
little green weed on it.

Jack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away, and
then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on the lee
side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on a stretch to
serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I could see what Jack
did, just under the forestaysail. He couldn't see me, and he was
looking about for something. His hand shook as he picked up a bit of
half-bent iron rod, about a foot long, that had been used for turning
an eyebolt, and had been left on the mainhatch. His hand shook as he
got a piece of marline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged
pipe fast to the iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he
took his turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so
that they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two half-hitches
round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then he tried it with
his hands, and looked up and down the deck furtively, and then quietly
dropped the pipe and iron over the rail, so that I didn't even hear
the splash. If anybody was playing tricks on board, they weren't meant
for the cook.

I asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told me
that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and swallowed all
the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used up all his own
tobacco and had begun on what his brother had left.

"The doctor says it ain't so, sir," said the man, looking at me
shyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; "the doctor says there's
as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was before Jim fell
overboard, though there's a mouth less and another that eats nothing.
I says it's the cabin-boy that gets it. He's bu'sting."

I told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must
work more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man laughed
queerly, and looked at me again.

"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so."

"Well, how is it?"

"How is it?" asked the man, half-angry all at once. "I don't know
how it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack along
with us as regular as the bells."

"Does he use tobacco?" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him, but
as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.

"I guess he's using his own still," the man answered, in a queer,
low voice. "Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all gone."

It was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just then
the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while he took his
fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of those old skippers
who do everything themselves with a pocket watch, and keep the key of
the chronometer in their waistcoat pocket, and won't tell the mate how
far the dead reckoning is out. He was rather the other way, and I was
glad of it, for he generally let me work the sights he took, and just
ran his eye over my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was
pretty good, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell
me that I had worked the "Equation of Time" with the wrong sign,
before it seemed to me that he could have got as far as "half the sum,
minus the altitude." He was always right, too, and besides he knew a
lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting the compass,
and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came to be in command
of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked about himself, and maybe
he had just been mate on one of those big steel square-riggers, and
something had put him back. Perhaps he had been captain, and had got
his ship aground, through no particular fault of his, and had to begin
over again. Sometimes he talked just like you and me, and sometimes he
would speak more like books do, or some of those Boston people I have
heard. I don't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men
who have seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what
makes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough good
seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail, which those
Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with men before the
mast who had their master's certificates in their pockets,---English
Board of Trade certificates, too,---who could work a double altitude
if you would lend them a sextant and give them a look at the
chronometer, as well as many a man who commands a big square-rigger.
Navigation ain't everything, nor seamanship, either. You've got to
have it in you, if you mean to get there.

I don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble forward.
The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have talked outside
his door when they relieved the wheel at night. Anyhow, he got wind of
it, and when he had got his sight that morning he had all hands aft,
and gave them a lecture. It was just the kind of talk you might have
expected from him. He said he hadn't any complaint to make, and that
so far as he knew everybody on board was doing his duty, and that he
was given to understand that the men got their whack, and were
satisfied. He said his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked
quiet, and that was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense,
and the men might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great
misfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a man we
all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the ship ought
to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left behind, and that it
was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust and unmanly and cowardly,
to be playing schoolboy tricks with forks and spoons and pipes, and
that sort of gear. He said it had got to stop right now, and that was
all, and the men might go forward. And so they did.

It got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the cook
watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other; but I
think everybody felt that there was something else. One evening, at
supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to relieve the wheel
while the man who was steering got his supper. He hadn't got past the
main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a man running in slippers
that slapped on the deck, and there was a sort of a yell and I saw the
coloured cook going for Jack, with a carving-knife in his hand. I
jumped to get between them, and Jack turned round short, and put out
his hand. I was too far to reach them, and the cook jabbed out with
his knife. But the blade didn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook
seemed to be jabbing it into the air again and again, at least four
feet short of the mark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the
whites of his eyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail,
and caught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by
that time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too, for I
thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was standing
staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But instead, the
cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and his teeth were
chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the point stuck into the

"He's crazy!" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said and he went

When he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite low,
near my ear.

"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!"

I don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a
good shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave it to
him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make a fool of
himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at something he
thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt that same thing,
like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I felt that night when
we were bending the trysail.

When the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him, but
they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by, the man
who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He was a stocky
little chap, with a red head.

"Well," he said, "there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been
eating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the after
corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to sit at the
end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big piece of pie to
finish up with, and when he had finished he didn't stop for a smoke,
but went off quick to relieve the wheel. Just as he had gone, the
doctor came in from the galley, and when he saw Jack's empty plate he
stood stock still staring at it; and we all wondered what was the
matter, till we looked at the plate. There were two forks in it, sir,
lying side by side. Then the doctor grabbed his knife, and flew up
through the hatch like a rocket. The other fork was there all right,
Mr. Torkeldsen, for we all saw it and handled it; and we all had our
own. That's all I know."

I didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story; but
I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't believe
it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have stories like that
going round about his ship. It gives her a bad name. But that was all
anybody ever saw except the cook, and he isn't the first man who has
thought he saw things without having any drink in him. I think, if the
doctor had been weak in the head as he was afterwards, he might have
done something foolish again, and there might have been serious
trouble. But he didn't. Only, two or three times I saw him looking at
Jack Benton in a queer, scared way, and once, I heard him talking to

"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!"

He didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I
knew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should
never see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and his
money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and he
wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use to talk
to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to send a boy to
the main truck when he has lost his nerve.

Jack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't know
whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he understood
what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other men, he was
evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet enough, and too
quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it twitched oddly when he
was at the wheel, and he would turn his head round sharp to look
behind him. A man doesn't do that naturally, unless there's a vessel
that he thinks is creeping up on the quarter. When that happens, if
the man at the wheel takes a pride in his ship, he will almost always
keep glancing over his shoulder to see whether the other fellow is
gaining. But Jack Benton used to look round when there was nothing
there; and what is curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick
when they were steering. One day the old man turned out just as the
man at the wheel looked behind him.

"What are you looking at?" asked the captain.

"Nothing, sir," answered the man.

"Then keep your eye on the mizzenroyal," said the old man, as if he
were forgetting that we weren't a squarerigger.

"Ay, ay, sir," said the man.

The captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the
dead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deckhouse and sat down to
read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the wheel was
looking round again, and I stood beside him and just asked him quietly
what everybody was looking at, for it was getting to be a general
habit. He wouldn't say anything at first, but just answered that it
was nothing. But when he saw that I didn't seem to care, and just
stood there as if there were nothing more to be said, he naturally
began to talk.

He said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't
anything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and
working in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short
seas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the
sheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet;
and in dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a
creak and a wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said
nothing; and presently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice
anything peculiar about the noise. I listened awhile, and said I
didn't notice anything. Then he looked rather sheepish, but said he
didn't think it could be his own ears, because every man who steered
his trick heard the same thing now and then,--sometimes once in a day,
sometimes once in a night, sometimes it would go on a whole hour.

"It sounds like sawing wood," I said, just like that.

"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'NancyLee."
He started nervously as he spoke the last words. "There, sir, don't
you hear it?" he asked suddenly.

I heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It was
getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern waters,---just
the sort of day and the time when you would least expect to feel
creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same tune overhead at
night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier, and I am not ashamed to
say that the same sensation came over me now, and I wished myself well
out of the Helen B., and aboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a
windmill on deck, and an eighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a
fresh leak whenever it breezed up.

Little by little during the next few days life on board that vessel
came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It wasn't that
there was much talk, for I think the men were shy even of speaking to
each other freely about what they thought. The whole ship's company
grew silent, until one hardly ever heard a voice, except giving an
order and the answer. The men didn't sit over their meals when their
watch was below, but either turned in at once or sat about on the
forecastle smoking their pipes without saying a word. We were all
thinking of the same thing. We all felt as if there were a hand on
board, sometimes below, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft,
sometimes on the boom end; taking his full share of what the others
got, but doing no work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He
took up no room, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on
deck; but he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells, and
he whistled "Nancy Lee." It was like the worst sort of dream you can
imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to believe it was
nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over the weather rail in
fine weather with the breeze in our faces; but if we happened to turn
round and look into each other's eyes, we knew it was something worse
than any dream could be; and we would turn away from each other with a
queer, sick feeling, wishing that we could just for once see somebody
who didn't know what we knew.

There's not much more to tell about the Helen B. Jackson so far as I
am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than anything
else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in Havana. The
cook had brain fever and was raving mad in his delirium; and the rest
of the men weren't far from the same state. The last three or four
days had been awful, and we had been as near to having a mutiny on
board as I ever want to be. The men didn't want to hurt anybody; but
they wanted to get away out of that ship, if they had to swim for it;
to get away from that whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come
back, and who filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the
old man and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a
boat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,
leaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner into
harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we hadn't far
to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I found myself
wishing that the crew were really gone, for the awful state of fright
in which they lived was beginning to work on me too. You see I partly
believed and partly didn't; but anyhow I didn't mean to let the thing
get the better of me, whatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept
the men at work on all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they
wished I was overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were
trying to drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say
a good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff was as
straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows should be
cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them for wanting to
leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only chance to keep
everybody sane through those last days was to work the men till they
dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a little, and forgot the
thing until they had to tumble up on deck and face it again. That was
a good many years ago. Do you believe that I can't hear "Nancy Lee"
now, without feeling cold down my back? For I heard it too, now and
then, after the man had explained why he was always looking over his
shoulder. Perhaps it was imagination. I don't know. When I look back
it seems to me that I only remember a long fight against something I
couldn't see, against an appalling presence, against something worse
than cholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the
mildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men got
as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at night, no
matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in his bunk the
forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and there wasn't a spare
cabin on board. There never is on a fore-and-after. So I put him into
mine, and he was more quiet there, and at last fell into a sort of
stupor as if he were going to die. I don't know what became of him,
for we put him ashore alive and left him in the hospital.

The men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain if
he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men wouldn't
have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and had signed
articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get an idea into
their heads they're no better than children; and if he forced them to
stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of them, and couldn't rely
on them in a difficulty. So he paid them off, and let them go. When
they had gone forward to get their kits, he asked me whether I wanted
to go too, and for a minute I had a sort of weak feeling that I might
just as well. But I didn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards.
Perhaps he was grateful to me for sticking to him.

When the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty to
stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for making
them work during the last few days, and most of them dropped into the
boat without so much as a word or a look, as sailors will. Jack Benton
was the last to go over the side, and he stood still a minute and
looked at me, and his white face twitched. I thought he wanted to say

"Take care of yourself, Jack," said I. "So long!"

It seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then his
words came thick.

"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!"

That was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder
what he meant.

The captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a West
India boy to cook for us.

That evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail having
a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter of a mile
off, reflected in the still water. There was music of some sort
ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I had no doubt that
most of the men who had left the ship were there, and already full of
jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of sailors' tunes that ran into
each other, and we could hear the men's voices in the chorus now and
then. One followed another, and then it was "Nancy Lee," loud and
clear, and the men singing "Yo-ho, heave-ho!"

"I have no ear for music," said Captain Hackstaff, "but it appears
to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we lost the man
overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head, and of course
it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have heard it all the
rest of the trip."

I didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the old
man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours without
opening my eyes.

I stuck to the Helen B. Jackson after that as long as I could stand
a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was the last
time I ever heard "Nancy Lee" on board of her. The spare hand had gone
ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and he took his tune
with him; but all those things are just as clear in my memory as if
they had happened yesterday. After that I was in deep water for a year
or more, and after I came home I got my certificate, and what with
having friends and having saved a little money, and having had a small
legacy from an uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise
vessel, with a small share in her. I was at home three weeks before
going to sea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and
wrote to me.

He said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he was
going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for that,
for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and Mamie would
be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how I had heard one
brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That meant, whether she
knew, he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She had taken her time about
it, for it was pretty nearly three years then since we had lost Jim
Benton overboard.

I had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for sea;
nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean; and I thought
I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the girl he was going
to marry. I wondered whether he had grown cheerful again, and had got
rid of that drawn look he had when he told me it wasn't his fault. How
could it have been his fault, anyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would
come down and see him married; and when the day came I took the train,
and got there about ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack
met me at the station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late
in the afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly wedding
trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from her mother's
house to his cottage. That was good enough for him, he said. I looked
at him hard for a minute after we met. When we had parted I had a sort
of idea that he might take to drink, but he hadn't. He looked very
respectable and well-to-do in his black coat and high city collar; but
he was thinner and bonier than when I had known him, and there were
lines in his face, and I thought his eyes had a queer look in them,
half shifty, half scared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I
didn't mean to talk to his bride about the Helen B. Jackson.

He took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was proud
of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from highwater mark, but the
tide was running out, and there was already a broad stretch of hard
wet sand on the other side of the beach road. Jack's bit of land ran
back behind the cottage about a quarter of a mile, and he said that
some of the trees we saw were his. The fences were neat and well kept,
and there was a fair-sized barn a little way from the cottage, and I
saw some nice-looking cattle in the meadows; but it didn't look to me
to be much of a farm, and I thought that before long Jack would have
to leave his wife to take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said
it was a nice farm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much
about these things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but
that once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in the
cottage, and that when their father and mother died they leased the
land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to live in when they
came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat a little place as you
would care to see: the floors as clean as the decks of a yacht, and
the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war. Jack always was a good painter.
There was a nice parlour on the ground floor, and Jack had papered it
and had hung the walls with photographs of ships and foreign ports,
and with things he had brought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a
South Sea club, Japanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-
fight on it, and all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss
Mamie had taken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished
iron Franklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth
from Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian letters.
It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he showed me
everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked him the better
for it. But I wished that his voice would sound more cheerful, as it
did when we first sailed in the Helen B., and that the drawn look
would go out of his face for a minute. Jack showed me everything, and
took me upstairs, and it was all the same: bright and fresh and ready
for the bride. But on the upper landing there was a door that Jack
didn't open. When we came out of the bedroom I noticed that it was
ajar, and Jack shut it quickly and turned the key.

"That lock's no good," he said, half to himself. "The door is always

I didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down the
short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was almost
afraid to step on them, he spoke again.

"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it."

"You may be wanting it in a year or so," I said, wishing to be

"I guess we won't use his room for that," Jack answered in a low

Then he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and he
took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the front
door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if she were
waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I didn't wonder that
Jack had been willing to wait three years for her. I could see that
she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat and cold storage, but had
grown into a woman by the sea-shore. She had brown eyes, and fine
brown hair, and a good figure.

"This is Captain Torkeldsen," said Jack. "This is Miss Brewster,
captain; and she is glad to see you."

"Well, I am," said Miss Mamie, "for Jack has often talked to us
about you, captain."

She put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I
suppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.

The front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there was a
straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There was another
path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the right, broad
enough for two people to walk easily, and it led straight across the
fields through gates to a larger house about a quarter of a mile away.
That was where Mamie's mother lived, and the wedding was to be there.
Jack asked me whether I would like to look round the farm before
dinner, but I told him I didn't know much about farms. Then he said he
just wanted to look round himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more
chance that day; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.

"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie," he said. "I'll be
along in a minute."

So Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up toward
the barn.

"It was sweet of you to come, captain," Miss Mamie began, "for I
have always wanted to see you."

"Yes," I said, expecting something more.

"You see, I always knew them both," she went on. "They used to take
me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl, and I
liked them both," she added thoughtfully. "Jack doesn't care to talk
about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't mind telling me
how it happened, will you? I should so much like to know."

Well, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night when
we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been anybody's
fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old captain's, if it
was. But I didn't tell her anything about what happened afterwards. As
she didn't speak, I just went on talking about the two brothers, and
how like they had been, and how when poor Jim was drowned and Jack was
left, I took Jack for him. I told her that none of us had ever been
sure which was which.

"I wasn't always sure myself," she said, "unless they were together.
Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home from sea. And now
it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim, as I remember him,
than he ever was, for Jim was always more quiet, as if he were

I told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into the
next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to look for
Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she said next.

"Are you sure now?" she asked.

I stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and
looked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could count
five or six.

"I know it's silly," she went on, "it's silly, and it's awful, too,
and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't help it.
You see it was always Jack I meant to marry."

"Yes," I said stupidly, "I suppose so."

She waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went on

"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I
have only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry, but
now he is so like the other one."

When a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one way
to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her. That's what I
did, and she went or, talking the same way for a little while, and I
kept on agreeing and agreeing until she turned round on me.

"You know you don't believe what you say," she said, and laughed.
"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack I am going to

"Of course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a
weak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could
interfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on Jack
Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the ship in
Havana: that it wasn't his fault.

"All the same," Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without
realising what she was saying, "all the same, I wish I had seen it
happen. Then I should know."

Next minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid that
I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she would
really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go overboard.
Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I wondered how she
could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he might be Jim after all. I
suppose she had really got used to him since he had given up the sea
and had stayed ashore, and she cared for him.

Before long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked
very slowly to wait for him.

"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain," said Mamie, as
girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.

Anyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the first
time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took the train
from that place. I am not going to tell you all about the day. Miss
Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet, hard-f aced old
New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and relations; and
there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there was the parson
besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell Baptist in those parts,
with a long, shaven upper lip and a whacking appetite, and a sort of
superior look, as if he didn't expect to see many of us hereafter---
the way a New York pilot looks round, and orders things about when he
boards an Italian cargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much
anyway, though it was his business to see that she didn't get aground.
That's the way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if
he were ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get the
helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was warm
autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along the beach
road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come in. The
morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it began to look
like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and settled on
everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and have a last
look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or soon after, and he
wanted to light the lights, so as to have things look cheerful.

"I will just take a last look," he said again, as we reached the
house. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it and
sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first in the
kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the kitchen again;
and then before I knew anything I heard somebody moving upstairs
again. I knew he couldn't have got up those stairs as quick as that.
He came into the parlour, and he took a cigar himself, and while he
was lighting it I heard those steps again overhead. His hand shook,
and he dropped the match.

"Have you got in somebody to help?" I asked.

"No," Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.

"There's somebody upstairs, Jack," I said. "Don't you hear

"It's the wind, captain," Jack answered; but I could see he was

"That isn't any wind, Jack," I said; "it's still and foggy. I'm sure
there's somebody upstairs."

"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,
captain," Jack answered, almost angrily.

He was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the
fireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that could
make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps over--head. I knew
there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into the bedroom,
and it was all quiet, and the evening light was streaming in, reddish
through the foggy air; and I went out on the landing and looked in the
little back room that was meant for a servant girl or a child. And as
I came back again I saw that the door of the other room was wide open,
though I knew Jack had locked it. He had said the lock was no good. I
looked in. It was a room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for
it had shutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of
old gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with sea
chests, and that there were oilskins and such stuff piled on the bed.
But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I went in
and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four walls and
the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked looking-glass, and the
stuff on the floor. But there was nobody there. So I put out the
match, and came out and shut the door and turned the key. Now, what I
am telling you is the truth. When I had turned the key, I heard
footsteps walking away from the door inside the room. Then I felt
queer for a minute, and when I went downstairs I looked behind me, as
the men at the wheel used to look behind them on board the Helen B.

Jack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea that
he didn't like to stay inside alone.

"Well?" he asked, trying to seem careless.

"I didn't find anybody," I answered, "but I heard somebody moving

"I told you it was the wind," said Jack, contemptuously. "I ought to
know, for I live here, and I hear it often."

There was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down
toward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would take
Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we strolled along,
and the sun was setting through the fog, and the tide was coming in. I
knew the moon was full, and that when she rose the fog would roll away
from the land, as it does sometimes. I felt that Jack didn't like my
having heard that noise, so I talked of other things, and asked him
about his prospects, and before long we were chatting as pleasantly as
possible. I haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't
suppose you have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it
was pretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of
the ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's and
held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was still

Mamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud
scream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were half
frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her what was
the matter, and the family gathered round.

"Your hand's like ice," said Mamie to Jack, "and it's all wet!"

She kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.

"It don't feel cold to me," said Jack, and he held the back of his
hand against his cheek. "Try it again."

Mamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at
first, and then took hold of it.

"Why, that's funny," she said.

"She's been as nervous as a witch all day," said Mrs. Brewster,

"It is natural," said the parson, "that young Mrs. Benton should
experience a little agitation at such a moment."

Most of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy
people, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the middle
of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards, and that we
should just have a bite after the wedding was over, and then that
everybody should go home, and the young couple would walk down to the
cottage by themselves. When I looked out I could see the light burning
brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter of a mile away. I said I didn't
think I could get any train to take me back before half-past nine, but
Mrs. Brewster begged me to stay until it was time, as she said her
daughter would want to take off her wedding dress before she went
home; for she had put on something white with a wreath, that was very
pretty, and she couldn't walk home like that, could she?

So when we had all had a little supper the party began to break up,
and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went upstairs, and
Jack and I went out on the piazza to have a smoke, as the old lady
didn't like tobacco in the house.

The full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked down
toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and white, and
there was only the light burning in the window. The fog had rolled
down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for the tide was high,
or nearly, and was lapping up over the last reach of sand, within
fifty feet of the beach road.

Jack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for coming
to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy; and so I
did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those footsteps upstairs,
just then, and that the house wouldn't seem so lonely with a woman in
it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice talking to her mother on the
stairs, and in a minute she was ready to go. She had put on again the
dress she had worn in the morning, and it looked black at night,
almost as black as Jack's coat.

Well, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the
day's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that path
alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them good-night,
although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with them by the path
as far as the cottage, instead of going to the station by the beach
road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed to me a sensible way of
getting married; and when Mamie kissed her mother good-night I just
looked the other way, and knocked my ashes over the rail of the
piazza. So they started down the straight path to Jack's cottage, and
I waited a minute with Mrs. Brewster, looking after them, before
taking my hat to go. They walked side by side, a little shyly at
first, and then I saw Jack put his arm round her waist. As I looked he
was on her left, and I saw the outline of the two figures very
distinctly against the moonlight on the path; and the shadow on
Mamie's right was broad and black as ink, and it moved along,
lengthening and shortening with the unevenness of the ground beside
the path.

I thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she was
a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she answered,
but being a sensible person she went in and shut the door behind her
as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the couple in the
distance a last time, meaning to go down to the road, so as not to
overtake them; but when I had made a few steps I stopped and looked
again, for I knew I had seen something queer, though I had only
realised it afterwards. I looked again, and it was plain enough now;
and I stood stock-still, staring at what I saw. Mamie was walking
between two men. The second man was just the same height as Jack, both
being about a half ahead taller than she; Jack on her left in his
black tail-coat and round hat, and the other man on her right---well,
he was a sailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining
on the water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had
settled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind: and one
of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just above Jack's. I
was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a minute I thought I was
crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for dinner, and tea in the
evening, otherwise I'd have thought something had got into my head,
though I was never drunk in my life. It was more like a bad dream
after that.

I was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help
following the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would happen, to
see whether the sailorman in his wet togs would just melt away into
the moonshine. But he didn't.

I moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the
grass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might hear me
coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five minutes after
that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an hour. Neither Jack nor
Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She didn't seem to know that his
wet arm was round her, and little by little they got near the cottage,
and I wasn't a hundred yards from them when they reached the door.
Something made me stand still then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw
everything that happened just as I see you now.

Mamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward I
saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't move to
go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all three stood
that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I heard a man cry
like that once, when his arm was taken off by a steam-crane,--and she
fell back in a heap on the little piazza.

I tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair
rising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and
swung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to walk him
down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight down that
path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the moonlight
shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the gate, and
across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where the tide was
high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for them across the
grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled across the road. But
when I felt the sand under my feet, the two were at the water's edge;
and when I reached the water they were far out, and up to their
waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's head had fallen forward on his
breast, and his free arm hung limp beside him, while his dead brother
steadily marched him to his death. The moonlight was on the dark
water, but the fog-bank was white beyond, and I saw them against it;
and they went slowly and steadily down. The water was up to their
armpits, and then up to their shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to
the black rim of Jack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads
went straight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was
just a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.

It has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a
chance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I
thought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I always
thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack, and Jim just
let him go when he might have saved him; and then Jim passed himself
off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If that's what happened, he
got what he deserved. People said the next day that Mamie found it out
as they reached the house, and that her husband just walked out into
the sea, and drowned himself; and they would have blamed me for not
stopping him if they'd known that I was there. But I never told what I
had seen, for they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I
had come too late.

When I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving mad.
She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her head again.

Oh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know whether
it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port where I was with
my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore in a gale down East,
in pretty bad shape. They were locked together, and one was a skeleton
in oilskins.


We had dined at sunset on the broad roof of the old tower, because
it was cooler there during the great heat of summer. Besides, the
little kitchen was built at one corner of the great square platform,
which made it more convenient than if the dishes had to be carried
down the steep stone steps broken in places and everywhere worn with
age. The tower was one of those built all down the west coast of
Calabria by the Emperor Charles V early in the sixteenth century, to
keep off the Barbary pirates, when the unbelievers were allied with
Francis I against the Emperor and the Church. They have gone to ruin,
a few still stand intact, and mine is one of the largest. How it came
into my possession ten years ago, and why I spend a part of each year
in it, are matters which do not concern this tale. The tower stands in
one of the loneliest spots in Southern Italy, at the extremity of a
curving, rocky promontory, which forms a small but safe natural
harbour at the southern extremity of the Gulf of Policastro, and just
north of Cape Scalea, the birthplace of Judas Iscariot, according to
the old local legend. The tower stands alone on this hooked spur of
the rock, and there is not a house to be seen within three miles of
it. When I go there I take a couple of sailors, one of whom is a fair
cook, and when I am away it is in charge of a gnome-like little being
who was once a miner and who attached himself to me long ago.

My friend, who sometimes visits me in my summer solitude, is an
artist by profession, a Scandinavian by birth, and a cosmopolitan by
force of circumstances.

We had dined at sunset; the sunset glow had reddened and faded
again, and the evening purple steeped the vast chain of the mountains
that embrace the deep gulf to eastward and rear themselves higher and
higher towards the south. It was hot, and we sat at the landward
corner of the platform, waiting for the night breeze to come down from
the lower hills. The colour sank out of the air, there was a little
interval of deep-grey twilight, and a lamp sent a yellow streak from
the open door of the kitchen, where the men were getting their supper.

Then the moon rose suddenly above the crest of the promontory,
flooding the platform and lighting up every little spur of rock and
knoll of grass below us, down to the edge of the motionless water. My
friend lighted his pipe and sat looking at a spot on the hillside. I
knew that he was looking at it, and for a long time past I had
wondered whether he would ever see anything there that would fix his
attention. I knew that spot well. It was clear that he was interested
at last, though it was a long time before he spoke. Like most
painters, he trusts to his own eyesight, as a lion trusts his strength
and a stag his speed, and he is always disturbed when he cannot
reconcile what he sees with what he believes that he ought to see.

"It's strange," he said. "Do you see that little mound just on this
side of the boulder?"

"Yes," I said, and I guessed what was coming.

"It looks like a grave," observed Holger.

"Very true. It does look like a grave."

"Yes," continued my friend, his eyes still fixed on the spot. "But
the strange thing is that I see the body lying on the top of it. Of
course," continued Holger, turning his head on one side as artists do,
"it must be an effect of light. In the first place, it is not a grave
at all. Secondly, if it were, the body would be inside and not
outside. Therefor, it's an effect of the moonlight. Don't you see it?"

"Perfectly; I always see it on moonlight nights."

"It doesn't seem it interest you much," said Holger.

"On the contrary, it does interest me, though I am used to it.
You're not so far wrong, either. The mound is really a grave."

"Nonsense!" cried Holger incredulously. "I suppose you'll tell me
that what I see lying on it is really a corpse!"

"No," I answered, "it's not. I know, because I have taken the
trouble to go down and see."

"Then what is it?" asked Holger.

"It's nothing."

"You mean that it's an effect of light, I suppose?"

"Perhaps it is. But the inexplicable part of the matter is that it
makes no difference whether the moon is rising or setting, or waxing
or waning. If there's any moonlight at all, from east or west or
overhead, so long as it shines on the grave you can see the outline of
the body on top."

Holger stirred up his pipe with the point of his knife, and then
used his finger for a stopper. When the tobacco burned well, he rose
from his chair.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll go down and take a look at it."

He left me, crossed the roof, and disappeared down the dark steps. I
did not move, but sat looking down until he came out of the tower
below. I heard him humming an old Danish song as he crossed the open
space in the bright moonlight, going straight to the mysterious mound.
When he was ten paces from it, Holger stopped short, made two steps
forward, and then three or four backward, and then stopped again. I
know what that meant. He had reached the spot where the Thing ceased
to be visible--where, as he would have said, the effect of light

Then he went on till he reached the mound and stood upon it. I could
see the Thing still, but it was no longer lying down; it was on its
knees now, winding its white arms round Holger's body and looking up
into his face. A cool breeze stirred my hair at that moment, as the
night wind began to come down from the hills, but it felt like a
breath from another world.

The Thing seemed to be trying to climb to its feet helping itself up
by Holger's body while he stood upright, quite unconcious of it and
apparently looking toward the tower, which is very picturesque when
the moonlight falls upon it on that side.

"Come along!" I shouted. "Don't stay there all night!"

It seemed to me that he moved reluctantly as he stepped from the
mound, or else with difficulty. That was it. The Thing's arms were
still round his waist, but its feet could not leave the grave. As he
came slowly forward it was drawn and lengthened like a wreath of mist,
thin and white, till I saw distinctly that Holger shook himself, as a
man does who feels a chill. At the same instant a little wail of pain
came to me on the breeze--it might have been the cry of the small owl
that lives amongst the rocks--and the misty presence floated swiftly
back from Holger's advancing figure and lay once more at its length
upon the mound.

Again I felt the cool breeze in my hair, and this time an icy thrill
of dread ran down my spine. I remembered very well that I had once
gone down there alone in the moonlight; that presently, being near, I
had seen nothing; that, like Holger, I had gone and had stood upon the
mound; and I remembered how when I came back, sure that there was
nothing there, I had felt the sudden conviction that there was
something after all if I would only look back, a temptation I had
resisted as unworthy of a man of sense, until, to get rid of it, I had
shaken myself just as Holger did.

And now I knew that those white, misty arms had been round me, too;
I knew it in a flash, and I shuddered as I remembered that I had heard
the night owl then, too. But it had not been the night owl. It was the
cry of the Thing.

I refilled my pipe and poured out a cup of strong southern wine; in
less than a minute Holger was seated beside me again.

"Of course there's nothing there," he said, "but it's creepy, all
the same. Do you know, when I was coming back I was so sure that there
was something behind me that I wanted to turn around and look? It was
an effort not to."

He laughed a little, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and poured
himself out some wine. For a while neither of us spoke, and the moon
rose higher and we both looked at the Thing that lay on the mound.

"You might make a story about that," said Holger after a long time.

"There is one," I answered. "If you're not sleepy, I'll tell it to

"Go ahead," said Holger, who likes stories.

Old Aderio was dying up there in the village beyond the hill. You
remember him, I have no doubt. They say that he made his money by
selling sham jewelry in South America, and escaped with his gains when
he was found out.. Like all those fellows, if they bring anything back
with them, he at once set to work to enlarge his house, and as there
are no masons here, he sent all the way to Paola for two workmen. They
were a rough-looking pair of scoundrels--a Neapolitan who had lost one
eye and a Sicilian with an old scar half an inch deep across his left
cheek. I often saw them, for on Sundays they used to come down here
and fish off the rocks. When Alario caught the fever that killed him
the masons were still at work. As he had agreed that part of their pay
should be their board and lodging, he made them sleep in the house.
His wife was dead, and he had an only son called Angelo, who was a
much better sort than himself. Angelo was to marry the daughter of the
richest man in the village, and, strange to say, though the marriage
was arranged by their parents, the young people were said to be in
love with eachother.

For that matter, the whole village was in love with Angelo, and
among the rest a wild, good-looking creature called Cristina, who was
more like a gipsy than any girl I ever saw about here. She had very
red lips and very black eyes, she was built like a greyhound, and had
the tongue of the devil. But Angelo did not care a straw for her. He
was rather a simpleminded fellow, quite different from his old
scoundrel of a father, and under what I should call normal
circumstances I really believe that he would never have looked at any
girl except the nice plump little creature, with a fat dowry, whom his
father meant him to marry. But things turned up which were neither
normal nor natural.

On the other hand, a very handsome young shepherd from the hills
above Maratea was in love with Cristina, who seems to have been quite
indifferent to him. Cristina had no regular means of subsistence, but
she was a good girl and willing to do any work or go on errands to any
distance for the sake of a loaf of bread or a mess of beans, and
permission to sleep under cover. She was especially glad when she
could get something to do about the house of Angelo's father. There is
no doctor in the village, and when the neighbours saw that old Alario
was dying they sent Cristina to Scalea to fetch one. That was late in
the afternoon, and if they had waited so long it was because the dying
miser refused to allow any such extravagance while he was able to
speak. But while Cristina was gone matters grew rapidly worse, the
priest was brough tothe bedside, and when he had done what he could he
gave it as his opinion to the bystanders that the old man was dead,
and left the house.

You know these people. They have a physical horror of death. Until
the priest spoke, the room had been full of people. The words were
hardly out of his mouth before it was empty. It was night now. They
hurried down the dark steps and out into the street.

Angelo, as I have said, was away, Cristina had not come back--the
simple woman-servant who had nursed the sick man fled with the rest,
and the body was left alone in the flickering light of the earthen oil

Five minutes later two men looked in cautiously and crept forward
toward the bed. They were the one-eyed Neapolitan mason and his
Sicilian companion. They knew what they wanted. In a moment they had
dragged from under the bed a small but heavy iron-bound box, and long
before anyone thought of coming back to the dead man they had left the
house and the village under cover of darkness. It was easy enough, for
Alario's house is the last toward the gorge which leads down here, and
the thieves merely went out by the back door, got over the stone wall,
and had nothing to risk after that except that possibility of meeting
some belated countryman, which was very small indeed, since few of the
people use that path. They had a mattock and shovel, and they made
their way without accident.

I am telling you this story as it must have happened, for, of
course, there were no witnesses to this part of it. The men brought
the box down by the gorge, intending to bury it on the beach in the
wet sand, where it would have been much safer. But the paper would
have rotted if they had been obliged to leave it there long, so they
dug their hole down there, close to that boulder. Yes, just where the
mound is now.

Cristina did not find the doctor in Scalea, for he had been sent for
from a place up the valley, half-way to San Domenico. If she had found
him we would have come on his mule by the upper road, which is
smoother but much longer. But Cristina took the short cut by the
rocks, which passes about fifty feet above the mound, and goes round
that corner. The men were digging when she passed, and she heard them
at work. It would not hav been like her to go by without finding out
what the noise was, for she was never afraid of anything in her life,
and, besides, the fishermen sometimes come ashore here at night to get
a stone for an anchor or to gather sticks to make a little fire. The
night was dark and Cristina probably came close to the two men before
she could see what they were doing. She knew them, of course, and they
knew her, and understood instantly that they were in her power. There
was only one thing to be done for their safety, and they did it. They
knocked her on the head, they dug the hole deep, and they buried her
quickly with the iron-bound chest. They must have understood that
their only chance of escaping suspicion lay in getting back to the
village before their absence was noticed, for they returned
immediately, and were found half and hour later gossiping quietly with
the man who was making Alario's coffin. He was a crony of theirs, and
had been working at the repairs in the old man's house. So far as I
have been able to make out, the only persons who were supposed to know
where Alario kept his treasure were Angelo and the one woman-servant I
have mentioned. Angelo was away; it was the woman who discovered the

It was easy enough to understand why no one else knew where the
money was. The old man kept his door locked and the key in his pocket
when he was out, and did not let the woman enter to clean the place
unless he was there himself. The whole village knew that he had money
somewhere, however, and the masons had probably discovered the
whereabouts of the chest by climbing in at the window in his absence.
If the old man had not been delirious until he lost conciousness he
would have been in frightful agony of mind for his riches. The
faithful woman-servant forgot their existence only for a few moments
when she fled with the rest, overcome by the horror of death. Twenty
minutes had not passed before she returned with the two hideous old
hags who are always called in to prepare the dead for burial. Even
then she had not at first the courage to go near the bed with them,
but she made a pretence of dropping something, went down on her knees
as if to find it, and looked under the bedstead. The walls of the room
were newly whitewashed down to the floor and she saw at a glance that
the chest was gone. It had been there in the afternoon, it had
therefore been stolen in the short interval since she had left the

There are no carabineers stationed in the village; there is not so
much as a municipal watchman, for there is no municipality. There
never was such a place, I believe. Scalea is supposed to look after it
in some mysterious way, and it takes a couple of hours to get anybody
from there. As the old woman had lived in the village all her life, it
did not even occur to her to apply to any civil authority for help.
She simply set up a howl and ran through the village in the dark,
screaming out that her dead master's house had been robbed. Many of
the people looked out, but at first no one seemed inclined to help
her. Most of them, judging her by themselves, whispered to each other
that she had probably stolen the money herself. The first man to move
was the father of the girl whom Angelo was to marry; having collected
his household, all of whom felt a personal interest in the wealth
which was to have come into the family, he declared it to be his
opinion that the chest had been stolen by the two journeymen masons
who lodged in the house. He headed a search for them, which naturally
began in Alario's house and ended in the carpenter's workshop, where
the thieves were found discussing a measure of wine with the carpenter
over the half-finished coffin, by the light of one earthen lamp filled
with oil and tallow. The search-party at once accused the delinquents
of the crime, and threatened to lock them up in the cellar till the
carabineers could be fetched from Scalea. The two men looked at each
other for one moment, and then without the slightest hesitation they
put out the single light, seized the unfinished coffin between them,
and using it as a sort of battering ram, dashed upon their assailants
in the dark. In a few moments they were beyond pursuit.

That is the end of the first part of the story. The tresure had
disappeared, and as no trace of it could be found the people supposed
that the thieves had succeeded in carrying it off. The old man was
buried, and when Angelo came back at last he had to borrow money to
pay for the miserable funeral, and had some difficulty in doing so. He
hardly needed to be told that in losing his inheritance he had lost
his bride. In this part of the world marriages are made on strictly
business principles, and if the promised cash is not forthcoming on
the appointed day, the bride or the bridegroom whose parents have
failed to produce it may as well take themselves off, for there will
be no wedding. Poor Angelo knew that well enough. His father had been
possessed of hardly any land, and now that the hard cash which he had
brought from South America was gone, there was nothing left but debts
for the building materials that were to have been used for enlarging
and improving the old house. Angelo was beggared, and the nice plump
little creature who was to have been his, turned up her nose at him in
the most approved fashion. As for Cristina, it was several days before
she was missed, for no one remembered that she had been sent to Scalea
for the doctor, who had never come. She often disappeared in the same
way for days together, when she could find a little work here and
there at the distant farms among the hills. But when she did not come
back at all, people began to wonder, and at last made up their minds
that she had connived with the masons and had escaped with them.

I paused and emptied my glass.

"That sort of thing could not happen anywhere else," observed
Holger, filling his everlasting pipe again. "It is wonderful what a
natural charm there is about murder and sudden death in a romantic
country like this. Deeds that would be simply brutal and disgusting
anywhere else become dramatic and mysterious because this is Italy,
and we are living in a genuine tower of Charles V built against
Barbary pirates."

"There's something in that," I admitted. Holger is the most romantic
man in the world inside of himself, but he always thinks it necessary
to explain why he feels anything.

"I suppose the found the poor girl's body with the box," he said

"As it seems to interest you," I answered, "I'll tell you the rest
of the story."

The mood had risen by this time; the outline of the Thing on the
mound was clearer to our eyes than before.

The village very soon settled down to its small dull life. No one
missed old Alario, who had been away so much on his voyages to South
America that he had never been a familiar figure in his native place.
Angelo lived in the half-finished house, and because he had no money
to pay the old woman-servant, she would not stay with him, but once in
a long time she would come and wash a shirt for him for old
acquaintance' sake. Besides the house, he had inherited a small patch
of ground at some distance from the village; he tried to cultivate it,
but he had no heart in the work, for he knew he could neer pay the
taxes on it and on the house, which would certainly be confiscated by
the Government, or seized for the debt of the building material, which
the man who had supplied it refused to take back.

Angelo was very unhappy. So long as his father had been alive and
rich, every girl in the village had been in love with him; but that
was all changed now. It had been pleasant to be admired and courted,
and invited to drink wine by fathers who had girls to marry. It was
hard to be stared at coldly, and sometimes laughed at because he had
been robbed of his inheritance. He cooked his miserable meals for
himself, and from being sad became melancholy and morose.

At twilight, when the day's work was done, instead of hanging about
in the open space before the church with young fellows of his own age,
he took to wandering in lonely places on the outskirts of the village
till it was quite dark. Then he slunk home and went to bed to save the
expense of a light. But in those lonely twilight hours he began to
have strange waking dreams. He was not always alone, for often when he
sat on the stump of a tree, where the narrow path turns down the
gorge, he was sure that a woman came up noiselessly over the rough
stones, as if her feet were bare; and she stood under a clump of
chestnut trees only half a dozen yards down the path, and beckoned to
him without speaking. Though she was in the shadow he knew that her
lips were red, and that when they parted a little and smiled at him
she showed two small sharp teeth. He knew this at first rather than
saw it, and he knew that it was Cristina, and that she was dead. Yet
he was not afraid; he only wondered whether it was a dream, for he
thought that if he had been awake he should have been frightened.

Besides, the dead woman had red lips, and that could only happen in
a dream. Whenever he went near the gorget after sunset she was already
there waiting for him, or else she very soon appeared, and he began to
be sure of her blood-red mouth, but now each feature grew distinct,
and the pale face looked at him with deep and hungry eyes.

It was the eyes that grew dim. Little by little he came to know that
someday the dream would not end when he turned away to go home, but
would lead him down the gorge out of which the vision rose. She was
nearer now when she beckoned to him. Her cheeks were not livid like
those of the dead, but pale with starvation, with the furious and
unappeased physical hunger of her eyes that devoured him. They feasted
on his soul and cast a spell over him, and at last they were close to
his own and held him. He could not tell whether her breath was as hot
as fire, or as cold as ice; he could not tell whether her red lips
burned his or froze them, or whether her five fingers on his wrists
seared scorching scars or bit his flesh like frost; he could not tell
whether he was awake or asleep, whether she was alive or dead, but he
knew that she loved him, she alone of all creatures, earthly or
unearthly, and her spell had power over him.

When the moon rose high that night the shadow of that Thing was not
alone down there upon the mound.

Angelo awoke in the cool dawn, drenched with dew and chilled through
flesh, and blood, and bone. He opened his eyes to the faint grey
light, and saw the stars were still shining overhead. He was very
weak, and his heart was beating so slowly that he was almost like a
man fainting. Slowly he turned his head on the mound, as on a pillow,
but the other face was not there. Fear seized him suddenly, a fear
unspeakable and unknown; he sprang to his feet and fled up the gorge,
and he never looked behind him until he reached the door of the house
on the outskirts of the village. Drearily he went to his work that
day, and wearily the hours dragged themselves after the sun, till at
last it touched the sea and sank, and the great sharp hills above
Maratea turned purple against the dove-coloured eastern sky.

Angelo shouldered his heavy hoe and left the field. He felt less
tired now than in the morning when he had begun to work, but he
promised himself that he would go home without lingering by the gorge,
and eat the best supper he could get himself, and sleep all night in
his bed like a Christian man. Not again would he be tempted down the
narrow way by a shadow with red lips and icy breath; not again would
he dream that dream of terror and delight. He was near the village
now; it was half an hour since the sun had set, and the cracked church
bell sent little discordant echoes across the rocks and ravines to
tell all good people that the day was done. Angelo stood still a
moment where the path forked, where it led toward the village on the
left, and down to the gorge on the right, where a clump of chestnut
trees overhung the narrow way. He stood still a minute, lifting his
battered hat from his head and gazing at the fast-fading sea westward,
and his lips moved as he silently repeated the familiar evening
prayer. His lips moved, but the words that followed them in his brain
lost their meaning and turned into others, and ended in a name that he
spoke aloud--Cristina! With the name, the tension of his will relaxed
suddenly, reality went out and the dream took him again, and bore him
on swiftly and surely like a man walking in his sleep, down, down, by
the steep path in the gathering darkness. And as she glided beside
him, Cristina whispered strange, sweet things in his ear, which
somehow, if he had been awake, he knew that he could not quite have
understood; but now they were the most wonderful words he had ever
heard in his life. And she kissed him also, but not upon his mouth. He
felt her sharp kisses upon his white throat, and he knew that her lips
were red. So the wild dream sped on through twilight and darkness and
moonrise, and all the glory of the summer's night. But in the chilly
dawn he lay as one half dead upon the mound down there, recalling and
not recalling, drained of his blood, yet strangely longing to give
those red lips more. Then came the fear, the awful nameless panic, the
mortal horror that guards the confines of the world we see not,
neither know of as we know of other things, but which we feel when its
icy chill freezes our bones and stirs our hair with the touch of a
ghostly hand. Once more Angelo sprang from the mound and fled up the
gorge in the breaking day, but his step was less sure this time, and
he panted for breath as he ran; and when he came to the bright spring
of water that rises half way up the hillside, he dropped upon his
knees and hands and plunged his whole face in and drank as he had
never drunk before--for it was the thirst of the wounded man who has
lain bleeding all night upon the battle-field.

She had him fast now, and he could not escape her, but would come to
her every evening at dusk until she had drained him of his last drop
of blood. It was in vain that when the day was done he tried to take
another turning and to go home by a path that did not lead near the
gorge. It was in vain that he made promises to himself each morning at
dawn when he climbed the lonely way up from the shore to the village.
It was all in vain, for when the sun sank burning into the sea, and
the coolness of the evening stole out as from a hiding-place to
delight the weary world, his feet turned toward the old way, and she
was waiting for him in the shadow under the chestnut trees; and then
all happened as before, and she fell to kissing his white throat even
as she flitted lightly down the way, winding one arm about him. And as
his blood failed, she grew more hungry and more thirsty every day, and
every day when he awoke in the early dawn it was harder to rouse
himself to the effort of climbing the steep path to the village; and
when he went to his work his feet dragged painfully, and there was
hardly strength in his arms to wield the heavy hoe. He scarcely spoke
to anyone now, but the people said he was "consuming himself" for love
of the girl he was to have married when he lost his inheritance; and
they laughed heartily at the thought, for this is not a very romantic
country. At this time Antonio, the man who stays here to look after
the tower, returned from a visit to his people, who live near Salerno.
He had been away all the time since before Alario's death and knew
nothing of what had happened. He has told me that he came back late in
the afternoon and shut himself up in the tower to eat and sleep, for
he was very tired. It was past midnight when he awoke, and when he
looked out toward the mound, and he saw something, and he did not
sleep again that night. When he went out again in the morning it was
broad daylight, and there was nothing to be seen on the mound but
loose stones and driven sand. Yet he did not go very near it; he went
straight up the path to the village and directly to the house of the
old priest.

"I have seen an evil thing this night," he said; "I have seen how
the dead drink the blood of the living. And the blood is the life."

"Tell me what you have seen," said the priest in reply.

Antonio told him everything he had seen.

"You must bring your book and your holy water to-night," he added.
"I will be here before sunset to go down with you, and if it pleases
your reverence to sup with me while we wait, I will make ready."

"I will come," the priest answered, "for I have read in old books of
these strange beings which are neither quick nor dead, and which lie
ever fresh in their graves, stealing out in the dusk to taste life and

Antonio cannot read, but he was glad to see that the priest
understood the business; for, of course, the books must have been
instructed him as to the best means of quieting the half-living Thing
for ever.

So Antonio went away to his work, which consists largely in sitting
on the shady side of the tower, when he is not perched upon a rock
with a fishing-line catching nothing. But on that day he went twice to
look at the mound in the bright sunlight, and he searched round and
round it for some hole through which the being might get in and out;
but he found none. When the sun began to sink and the air was cooler
in the shadows, he went up to fetch the old priest, carrying a little
wicker basket with him; and in this they placed a bottle of holy
water, and the basin, and sprinkler, and the stole which the priest
would need; and they came down and waited in the door of the tower
till it should be dark. But while the light still lingered very grey
and faint, they saw something moving, just there, two figures, a man's
that walked, and a woman's that flitted beside him, and while her head
lay on his shoulder she kissed his throat. The priest has told me
that, too, and that his teeth chattered and he grasped Antonio's arm.
The vision passed and disappeared into the shadow. Then Antonio got
the leathern flask of strong liquor, which he kept for great
occasions, and poured such a draught as made the old man feel almost
young again; and gave the priest his stole to put on and the holy
water to carry, and they went out together toward the spot where the
work was to be done. Antonio says that in spite of the rum his own
knees shook together, and the priest stumbled over his Latin. For when
they were yet a few yards from the mound the flickering light of the
lantern fell upon Angelo's white face, unconscious as if in sleep, and
on his upturned throat, over which a very thin red line of blood
trickled down into his collar; and the flickering light of the lantern
played upon another face that looked up from the feast, upon two deep,
dead eyes that saw in spite of death--upon parted lips, redder than
life itself--upon two gleaming teeth on which glistened a rosy drop.
Then the priest, good old man, shut his eyes tight and showered holy
water before him, and his cracked voice rose almost to a scream; and
then Antonio, who is no coward after all, raised his pick in one hand
and the lantern in the other, as he sprang forward, not knowing what
the end should be; and then he swears that he heard a woman's cry, and
the Thing was gone, and Angelo lay alone on the mound unconscious,
with the red line on his throat and the beads of deathly sweat on his
cold forehead. They lifted him, half-dead as he was, and laid him on
the ground close by; then Antonio went to work, and the priest helped
him, thought he was old and could not do much; and they dug deep, and
at last Antonio, standing in the grave, stooped down with his lantern
to see what he might see.

His hair used to be dark brown, with grizzled streaks about the
temples; in less than a month from that day he was as grey as a
badger. He was a miner when he was young, and most of these fellows
have seen ugly sights now and then, when accidents have happened, but
he had never seen what he saw that night--that Thing which is neither
alive nor dead, that Thing that will abide neither above ground nor in
the grave. Antonio had brought something with him which the priest had
not noticed--a sharp stake shaped from a piece of tough old driftwood.
He had it with him now, and he had his heavy pick, and he had taken
the lantern down into the grave. I don't think any power on earth
could make him speak of what happened then, and the old priest was too
frightened to look in. He says he heard Antonio breathing like a wild
beast, and moving as if he were fighting with something almost as
strong as himself; and he heard an evil sound also, with blows, as of
something violently driven through flesh and bone; and then, the most
awful sound of all--a woman's shriek, the unearthly scream of a woman
neither dead nor alive, but buried deep for many days. And he, the
poor old priest, could only rock himself as he knelt there in the
sand, crying aloud his prayers and exorcisms to drown these dreadful
sounds. Then suddenly a small iron-bound chest was thrown up and
rolled over against the old man's knee, and in a moment more Antonio
was beside him, his face as white as tallow in the flickering light of
the lantern, shoveling the sand and pebbles into the grave with
furious haste, and looking over the edge till the pit was half full;
and the priest said that there was much fresh blood on Antonio's hands
and on his clothes.

I had come to the end of my story. Holger finished his wine and
leaned back in his chair.

"So Angelo got his own again." he said. "Did he marry the prim and
plump young person to whom he had been betrothed?"

"No; he had been badly frightened. He went to South America, and has
not been heard of since."

"And that poor thing's body is there still, I suppose," said Holger.
"Is it quite dead yet, I wonder?"

I wonder, too. But whether it be dead or alive, I should hardly care
to see it, even in broad daylight. Antonio is as grey as a badger, and
he has never been quite the same man since that night.


Chapter I

SOMEBODY asked for the cigars. We had talked long, and the
conversation as beginning to languish; the tobacco smoke had got into
the heavy curtains, he wine had got into those brains which were
liable to become heavy, and it was already perfectly evident that,
unless somebody did something to rouse our oppressed spirits, the
meeting would soon come to its natural conclusion, and we, the guests,
would speedily go home to bed, and most certainly to sleep. No one had
said anything very remarkable; it may be that no one had anything very
remarkable to say. Jones had given us every particular of his last
hunting adventure in Yorkshire. Mr. Tompkins, of Boston, had explained
at elaborate length those working principles, by the due and careful
maintenance of which the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa F Railroad not
only extended its territory, increased its departmental influence, and
transported live stock without starving them to death before the day
of actual delivery, but, also, had for years succeeded in deceiving
those passengers who bought its tickets into the fallacious belief
that the corporation aforesaid was really able to transport human life
without destroying it. Signor Tombola had endeavoured to persuade us,
by arguments which we took no trouble to oppose, that the unity of his
country in no way resembled the average modern torpedo, carefully
planned, constructed with all the skill of the greatest European
arsenals, but, when constructed, destined to be directed by feeble
hands into a region where it must undoubtedly explode, unseen,
unfeared, and unheard, into the illimitable wastes of political chaos.

It is unnecessary to go into further details. The conversation had
assumed proportions which would have bored Prometheus on his rock,
which would have driven Tantalus to distraction, and which would have
impelled Ixion to seek relaxation in the simple but instructive
dialogues of Herr Ollendorff, rather than submit to the greater evil
of listening to our talk. We had sat at table for hours; we were
bored, we were tired, and nobody showed signs of moving.

Somebody called for cigars. We all instinctively looked towards the
speaker. Brisbane was a man of five-and-thirty years of age, and
remarkable for those gifts which chiefly attract the attention of men.
He was a strong man. The external proportions of his figure presented
nothing extraordinary to the common eye, though his size was above the
average. He was a little over six feet in height, and moderately broad
in the shoulder; he did not appear to be stout, but, on the other
hand, he was certainly not thin; his small head was supported by a
strong and sinewy neck; his broad, muscular hands appeared to possess
a peculiar skill in breaking walnuts without the assistance of the
ordinary cracker, and, seeing him in profile, one could not help
remarking the extraordinary breadth of his sleeves, and the unusual
thickness of his chest. He was one of those men who are commonly
spoken of among men as deceptive; that is to say, that though he
looked exceedingly strong he was in reality very much stronger than he
looked. Of his features I need say little. His head was small, his
hair is thin, his eyes are blue, his nose is large, he has a small
moustache, and a square jaw. Everybody knows Brisbane, and when he
asked for a cigar everybody looked at him.

"It is a very singular thing," said Brisbane.

Everybody stopped talking. Brisbane's voice was not loud, but
possessed a peculiar quality of penetrating general conversation, and
cutting it like a knife. Everybody listened. Brisbane, perceiving that
he had attracted their general attention, lit his cigar with great

"It is very singular," he continued, "that thing about ghosts.
People are always asking whether anybody has seen a ghost. I have."

"Bosh! What, you? You don't mean to say so, Brisbane? Well, for a
man of his intelligence!"

A chorus of exclamations greeted Brisbane's remarkable statement.
Everybody called for cigars, and Stubbs, the butler, suddenly appeared
from the depths of nowhere with a fresh bottle of dry champagne. The
situation was saved; Brisbane was going to tell a story.

I am an old sailor, said Brisbane, and as I have to cross the
Atlantic pretty often, I have my favourites. Most men have their
favourites. I have seen a man wait in a Broadway bar for three-
quarters of an hour for a particular car which he liked. I believe the
bar-keeper made at least one-third of his living by that man's
preference. I have a habit of waiting for certain ships when I am
obliged to cross that duck-pond. It may be a prejudice, but I was
never cheated out of a good passage but once in my life. I remember it
very well; it was a warm morning in June, and the Custom House
officials, who were hanging about waiting for a steamer already on her
way up from the Quarantine, presented a peculiarly hazy and thoughtful
appearance. I had not much luggage--I never have. I mingled with the
crowd of passengers, porters, and officious individuals in blue coats
and brass buttons, who seemed to spring up like mushrooms from the
deck of a moored steamer to obtrude their unnecessary services upon
the independent passenger. I have often noticed with a certain
interest the spontaneous evolution of these fellows. They are not
there when you arrive; five minutes after the pilot has called 'Go
ahead!' they, or at least their blue coats and brass buttons, have
disappeared from deck and gangway as completely as though they had
been consigned to that locker which tradition ascribes to Davy Jones.
But, at the moment of starting, they are there, clean shaved, blue
coated, and ravenous for fees. I hastened on board. The Kamtschatka
was one of my favourite ships. I saw was, because she emphatically no
longer is. I cannot conceive of any inducement which could entice me
to make another voyage in her. Yes, I know what you are going to say.
She is uncommonly clean in the run aft, she has enough bluffing off in
the bows to keep her dry, and the lower berths are most of them
double. She has a lot of advantages, but I won't cross in her again.
Excuse the digression. I got on board. I hailed a steward, whose red
nose and redder whiskers were equally familiar to me.

"One hundred and five, lower berth," said I, in the businesslike
tone peculiar to men who think no more of crossing the Atlantic than
taking a whisky cocktail at down-town Delmonico's.

The steward took my portmanteau, greatcoat, and rug. I shall never
forget the expression on his face. Not that he turned pale. It is
maintained by the most eminent divines that even miracles cannot
change the course of nature. I have no hesitation in saying that he
did not turn pale; but, from his expression, I judged that he was
either about to shed tears, to sneeze, or to drop my portmanteau. As
the latter contained two bottles of particularly fine old sherry
presented to me for my voyage by my old friend Snigginson van Pickyns,
I felt extremely nervous. But the steward did none of these things.

"Well, I'm d--d!" said he in a low voice, and led the way.

I supposed my Hermes, as he led me to the lower regions, had had a
little grog, but I said nothing, and followed him. One hundred and
five was on the port side, well aft. There was nothing remarkable
about the state-room. The lower berth, like most of those upon the
Kamtschatka, was double. There was plenty of room; there was the usual
washing apparatus, calculated to convey an idea of luxury to the mind
of a North American Indian; there were the usual inefficient racks of
brown wood, in which it is more easy to hand a large-sized umbrella
than the common tooth-brush of commerce. Upon the uninviting
mattresses were carefully bolded together those blankets which a great
modern humorist has aptly compared to cold buckwheat cakes. The
question of towels was left entirely to the imagination. The glass
decanters were filled with a transparent liquid faintly tinged with
brown, but from which an odour less faint, but not more pleasing,
ascended to the nostrils, like a far-off sea-sick reminiscence of oily
machinery. Sad-coloured curtains half-closed the upper berth. The hazy
June daylight shed a faint illumination upon the desolate little
scene. Ugh! how I hate that state-room!

The steward deposited my traps and looked at me, as though he wanted
to get away--probably in search of more passengers and more fees. It
is always a good plan to start in favour with those functionaries, and
I accordingly gave him certain coins there and then.

"I'll try and make yer comfortable all I can," he remarked, as he
put the coins in his pocket. Nevertheless, there was a doubtful
intonation in his voice which surprised me. Possibly his scale of fees
had gone up, and he was not satisfied; but on the whole I was inclined
to think that, as he himself would have expressed it, he was "the
better for a glass". I was wrong, however, and did the man injustice.

Chapter II

NOTHING especially worthy of mention occurred during that day. We
left the pier punctually, and it was very pleasant to be fairly under
way, for the weather was warm and sultry, and the motion of the
steamer produced a refreshing breeze. Everybody knows what the first
day at sea is like. People pace the decks and stare at each other, and
occasionally meet acquaintances whom they did not know to be on board.
There is the usual uncertainty as to whether the food will be good,
bad, or indifferent, until the first two meals have put the matter
beyond a doubt; there is the usual uncertainty about the weather,
until the ship is fairly off Fire Island. The tables are crowded at
first, and then suddenly thinned. Pale-faced people spring from their
seats and precipitate themselves towards the door, and each old sailor
breathes more freely as his sea-sick neighbour rushes from his side,
leaving him plenty of elbow-room and an unlimited command over the

One passage across the Atlantic is very much like another, and we
who cross very often do not make the voyage for the sake of novelty.
Whales and icebergs are indeed always objects of interest, but, after
all, one whale is very much like another whale, and one rarely sees an
iceberg at close quarters. To the majority of us the most delightful
moment of the day on board an ocean steamer is when we have taken our
last turn on deck, have smoked our last cigar, and having succeeded in
tiring ourselves, feel at liberty to turn in with a clear conscience.
On that first night of the voyage I felt particularly lazy, and went
to bed in one hundred and five rather earlier than I usually do. As I
turned in, I was amazed to see that I was to have a companion. A
portmanteau, very like my own, lay in the opposite corner, and in the
upper berth had been deposited a neatly-folded rug, with a stick and
umbrella. I had hoped to be alone, and I was disappointed; but I
wondered who my room-mate was to be, and I determined to have a look
at him.

Before I had been long in bed he entered. He was, as far as I could
see, a very tall man, very thin, very pale, with sandy hair and
whiskers and colourless grey eyes. He had about him, I thought, an air
of rather dubious fashion; the short of man you might see in Wall
Street, without being able precisely to say what he was doing there--
the sort of man who frequents the Caf Anglais, who always seems to be
alone and who drinks champagne; you might meet him on a racecourse,
but he would never appear to be doing anything there either. A little
over-dressed--a little odd. There are three or four of his kind on
every ocean steamer. I made up my mind that I did not care to make his
acquaintance, and I went to sleep saying to myself that I would study
his habits in order to avoid him. If he rose early, I would rise late;
if he went to bed late, I would go to bed early. I did not care to
know him. If you once know people of that kind they are always turning
up. Poor fellow! I need not have taken the trouble to come to so many
decisions about him, for I never saw him again after that first night
in one hundred and five.

I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly waked by a loud noise. To
judge from the sound, my room-mate must have sprung with a single leap
from the upper berth to the floor. I heard him fumbling with the latch
and bolt of the door, which opened almost immediately, and then I
heard his footsteps as he ran at full speed down the passage, leaving
the door open behind him. The ship was rolling a little, and I
expected to hear him stumble or fall, but he ran as though he were
running for his life. The door swung on its hinges with the motion of
the vessel, and the sound annoyed me. I got up and shut it, and groped
my way back to my berth in the darkness. I went to sleep again; but I
have no idea how long I slept.

When I awoke it was still quite dark, but I felt a disagreeable
sensation of cold, and it seemed to me that the air was damp. You know
the peculiar smell of a cabin which has been wet with sea-water. I
covered myself up as well as I could and dozed off again, framing
complaints to be made the next day, and selecting the most powerful
epithets in the language. I could hear my room-mate turn over in the
upper berth. He had probably returned while I was asleep. Once I
thought I heard him groan, and I argued that he was sea-sick. That is
particularly unpleasant when one is below. Nevertheless I dozed off
and slept till early daylight.

The ship was rolling heavily, much more than on the previous
evening, and the grey light which came in through the porthole changed
in tint with every movement according as the angle of the vessel's
side turned the glass seawards or skywards. It was very cold--
unaccountably so for the month of June. I turned my head and looked at
the porthole, and saw to my surprise that it was wide open and hooked
back. I believe I swore audibly. Then I got up and shut it. As I
turned back I glanced at the upper berth. The curtains were drawn
close together; my companion had probably felt cold as well as I. It
struck me that I had slept enough. The state-room was uncomfortable,
though, strange to say, I could not smell the dampness which had
annoyed me in the night. My room-mate was still asleep--excellent
opportunity for avoiding him, so I dressed at once and went on deck.
The day was warm and cloudy, with an oily smell on the water. It was
seven o'clock as I came out--much later than I had imagined. I came
across the doctor, who was taking his first sniff of the morning air.
He was a young man from the West of Ireland--a tremendous fellow, with
black hair and blue eyes, already inclined to be stout; he had a
happy-go-lucky, healthy look about him which was rather attractive.

"Fine morning," I remarked, by way of introduction.

"Well," said he, eyeing me with an air of ready interest, "it's a
fine morning and it's not a fine morning. I don't think it's much of a

"Well, no--it is not so very fine," said I.

"It's just what I call fuggly weather," replied the doctor.

"It was very cold last night, I thought," I remarked. "However, when
I looked about, I found that the porthole was wide open. I had not
noticed it when I went to bed. And the state-room was damp, too."

"Damp!" said he. "Whereabouts are you?"

"One hundred and five----"

To my surprise the doctor started visibly, and stared at me.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Oh--nothing," he answered; "only everybody has complained of that
state-room for the last three trips."

"I shall complain too," I said. "It has certainly not been properly
aired. It is a shame!"

"I don't believe it can be helped," answered the doctor. "I believe
there is something--well, it is not my business to frighten

"You need not be afraid of frightening me," I replied. "I can stand
any amount of damp. If I should get a bad cold I will come to you."

I offered the doctor a cigar, which he took and examined very

"It is not so much the damp," he remarked. "However, I dare say you
will get on very well. Have you a room-mate?"

"Yes; a deuce of a fellow, who bolts out in the middle of the night,
and leaves the door open."

Again the doctor glanced curiously at me. Then he lit the cigar and
looked grave.

"Did he come back?" he asked presently.

"Yes. I was asleep, but I waked up, and heard him moving. Then I
felt cold and went to sleep again. This morning I found the porthole

"Look here," said the doctor quietly, "I don't care much for this
ship. I don't care a rap for her reputation. I tell you what I will
do. I have a good-sized place up here. I will share it with you,
though I don't know you from Adam."

I was very much surprised at the proposition. I could not imagine
why he should take such a sudden interest in my welfare. However, his
manner as he spoke of the ship was peculiar.

"You are very good, doctor," I said. "But, really, I believe even
now the cabin could be aired, or cleaned out, or something. Why do you
not care for the ship?"

"We are not superstitious in our profession, sir," replied the
doctor, "but the sea makes people so. I don't want to prejudice you,
and I don't want to frighten you, but if you will take my advice you
will move in here. I would as soon see you overboard," he added
earnestly, "as know that you or any other man was to sleep in one
hundred and five."

"Good gracious! Why?" I asked.

"Just because on the last three trips the people who have slept
there actually have gone overboard," he answered gravely.

The intelligence was startling and exceedingly unpleasant, I
confess. I looked hard at the doctor to see whether he was making game
of me, but he looked perfectly serious. I thanked him warmly for his
offer, but told him I intended to be the exception to the rule by
which every one who slept in that particular state-room went
overboard. He did not say much, but looked as grave as ever, and
hinted that, before we got across, I should probably reconsider his
proposal. In the course of time we went to breakfast, at which only an
inconsiderable number of passengers assembled. I noticed that one or
two of the officers who breakfasted with us looked grave. After
breakfast I went into my state-room in order to get a book. The
curtains of the upper berth were still closely drawn. Not a word was
to be heard. My room-mate was probably still asleep.

As I came out I met the steward whose business it was to look after
me. He whispered that the captain wanted to see me, and then scuttled
away down the passage as if very anxious to avoid any questions. I
went toward the captain's cabin, and found him waiting for me.

"Sir," said he, "I want to ask a favour of you."

I answered that I would do anything to oblige him.

"Your room-mate had disappeared," he said. "He is known to have
turned in early last night. Did you notice anything extraordinary in
his manner?"

The question coming, as it did, in exact confirmation of the fears
the doctor had expressed half an hour earlier, staggered me.

"You don't mean to say he has gone overboard?" I asked.

"I fear he has," answered the captain.

"This is the most extraordinary thing--" I began.

"Why?" he asked.

"He is the fourth, then?" I exclaimed. In answer to another question
from the captain, I explained, without mentioning the doctor, that I
had heard the story concerning one hundred and five. He seemed very
much annoyed at hearing that I knew of it. I told him what had
occurred in the night.

"What you say," he replied, "coincides almost exactly with what was
told me by the room-mates of two of the other three. They bolt out of
bed and run down the passage. Two of them were seen to go overboard by
the watch; we stopped and lowered boats, but they were not found.
Nobody, however, saw or heard the man who was lost last night--if he
is really lost. The steward, who is a superstitious fellow, perhaps,
and expected something to go wrong, went to look for him, this
morning, and found his berth empty, but his clothes lying about, just
as he had left them. The steward was the only man on board who knew
him by sight, and he has been searching everywhere for him. He has
disappeared! Now, sir, I want to beg you not to mention the
circumstance to any of the passengers; I don't want the ship to get a
bad name, and nothing hangs about an ocean-goer like stories of
suicides. You shall have your choice of any one of the officers'
cabins you like, including my own, for the rest of the passage. Is
that a fair bargain?"

"Very," said I; "and I am much obliged to you. But since I am alone,
and have the state-room to myself, I would rather not move. If the
steward will take out that unfortunate man's things, I would as leave
stay where I am. I will not say anything about the matter, and I think
I can promise you that I will not follow my room-mate."

The captain tried to dissuade me from my intention, but I preferred
having a state-room alone to being the chum of any officer on board. I
do not know whether I aced foolishly, but if I had taken his advice I
should have had nothing more to tell. There would have remained the
disagreeable coincidence of several suicides occurring among men who
had slept in the same cabin, but that would have been all.

That was not the end of the matter, however, by any means. I
obstinately made up my mind that I would not be disturbed by such
tales, and I even went so far as to argue the question with the
captain. There was something wrong about the state-room, I said. It
was rather damp. The porthole had been left open last night. My room-
mate might have been ill when he came on board, and he might have
become delirious after he went to bed. He might even now be hiding
somewhere on board, and might be found later. The place ought to be
aired and the fastening on the port looked to. If the captain would
give me leave, I would see that what I thought necessary were done

"Of course you have a right to stay where you are if you please," he
replied, rather petulantly; "but I wish you would turn out and let me
lock the place up, and be done with it."

I did not see it in the same light, and left the captain, after
promising to be silent concerning the disappearance of my companion.
The latter had had no acquaintances on board, and was not missed in
the course of the day. Towards evening I met the doctor again, and he
asked me whether I had changed my mind. I told him I had not.

"Then you will before long," he said, very gravely.

Chapter III

WE played whist in the evening, and I went to bed late. I will
confess now that I felt a disagreeable sensation when I entered my
state-room. I could not help thinking of the tall man I had seen on
the previous night, who was now dead, drowned, tossing about in the
long swell, two or three hundred miles astern. His face rose very
distinctly before me as I undressed, and I even went so far as to draw
back the curtains of the upper berth, as though to persuade myself
that he was actually gone. I also bolted the door of the state-room.
Suddenly I became aware that the porthole was open, and fastened back.
This was more than I could stand. I hastily threw on my dressing-gown
and went in search of Robert, the steward of my passage. I was very
angry, I remember, and when I found him I dragged him roughly to the
door of one hundred and five, and pushed him towards the open

"What the deuce do you mean, you scoundrel, by leaving that port
open every night? Don't you know it is against the regulations? Don't
you know that if the ship heeled and the water began to come in, ten
men could not shut it? I will report you to the captain, you
blackguard, for endangering the ship!"

I was exceedingly wroth. The man trembled and turned pale, and then
began to shut the round glass plate with the heavy brass fittings.

"Why don't you answer me?" I said roughly.

"If you please, sir," faltered Robert, "there's nobody on board as
can keep this 'ere port shut at night. You can try it yourself, sir. I
ain't a-going to stop hany longer on board o' this vessel, sir; I
ain't, indeed. But if I was you, sir, I'd just clear out and go and
sleep with the surgeon, or something, I would. Look 'ere, sir, is that
fastened what you may call securely, or not, sir? Try it, sir, see if
it will move a hinch."

I tried the port, and found it perfectly tight.

"Well, sir," continued Robert triumphantly, "I wager my reputation
as a A1 steward that in 'arf an hour it will be open again; fasteneed
back, too, sir, that's the horful thing--fastened back!"

I examined the great screw and the looped nut that ran on it.

"If I find it open in the night, Robert, I will give you a
sovereign. It is not possible. You may go."

"Soverin' did you say, sir? Very good, sir. Thank ye, sir. Good-
night, sir. Pleasant reepose, sir, and all manner of hinchantin'
dreams, sir."

Robert scuttled away, delighted at being released. Of course, I
thought he was trying to account for his negligence by a silly story,
intended to frighten me, and I disbelieved him. The consequence was
that he got his sovereign, and I spent a very peculiarly unpleasant

I went to bed, and five minutes after I had rolled myself up in my
blankets the inexorable Robert extinguished the light that burned
steadily behind the ground-glass pane near the door. I lay quite still
in the dark trying to go to sleep, but I soon found that impossible.
It had been some satisfaction to be angry with the steward, and the
diversion had banished that unpleasant sensation I had at first
experienced when I thought of the drowned man who had been my chum;
but I was no longer sleepy, and I lay awake for some time,
occasionally glancing at the porthole, which I could just see from
where I lay, and which, in the darkness, looked like a faintly-
luminous soup-plate suspended in blackness. I believe I must have lain
there for an hour, and, as I remember, I was just dozing into sleep
when I was roused by a draught of cold air, and by distinctly feeling
the spray of the sea blown upon my face. I started to my feet, and not
having allowed in the dark for the motion of the ship, I was instantly
thrown violently across the state-room upon the couch which was placed
beneath the port-hole. I recovered myself immediately, however, and
climbed upon my knees. The port-hole was again wide open and fastened

Now these things are facts. I was wide awake when I got up, and I
should certainly have been waked by the fall had I still been dozing.
Moreover, I bruised my elbows and knees badly, and the bruises were
there on the following morning to testify to the fact, if I myself had
doubted it. The porthole was wide open and fastened back--a thing so
unaccountable that I remember very well feeling astonishment rather
that fear when I discovered it. I at once closed the plate again, and
screwed down the loop nut with all my strength. It was very dark in
the state-room. I reflected that the port had certainly been opened
within an hour after Robert had at first shut it in my presence, and I
determined to watch it, and see whether it would open again. Those
brass fittings are very heavy and by no means easy to move; I could
not believe that the clamp had been turned by the shaking of the
screw. I stood peering out through the thick glass at the alternate
white and grey streaks of the sea that foamed beneath the ship's side.
I must have remained there a quarter of an hour.

Suddenly, as I stood, I distinctly heard something moving behind me
in one of the berths, and a moment afterwards, just as I turned
instinctively to look--though I could, of course, see nothing in the
darkness--I heard a very faint groan. I sprang across the state-room,
and tore the curtains of the upper berth aside, thrusting in my hands
to discover if there were any one there. There was some one.

I remember that the sensation as I put my hands forward was as
though I were plunging them into the air of a damp cellar, and from
behind the curtains came a gust of wind that smelled horribly of
stagnant sea-water. I laid hold of something that had the shape of a
man's arm, but was smooth, and wet, and icy cold. But suddenly, as I
pulled, the creature sprang violently forward against me, a clammy
oozy mass, as it seemed to me, heavy and wet, yet endowed with a sort
of supernatural strength. I reeled across the state-room, and in an
instant the door opened and the thing rushed out. I had not had time
to be frightened, and quickly recovering myself, I sprang through the
door and gave chase at the top of my speed, but I was too late. Ten
yards before me I could see--I am sure I saw it--a dark shadow moving
in the dimly lighted passage, quickly as the shadow of a fast horse
thrown before a dog-cart by the lamp on a dark night. But in a moment
it had disappeared, and I found myself holding on to the polished rail
that ran along the bulkhead where the passage turned towards the
companion. My hair stood on end, and the cold perspiration rolled down
my face. I am not ashamed of it in the least: I was very badly

Still I doubted my senses, and pulled myself together. It was
absurd, I thought. The Welsh rare-bit I had eaten had disagreed with
me. I had been in a nightmare. I made my way back to my state-room,
and entered it with an effort. The whole place smelled of stagnant
sea-water, as it had when I had waked on the previous evening. It
required my utmost strength to go in, and grope among my things for a
box of wax lights. As I lighted a railway reading lantern which I
always carry in case I want to read after the lamps are out, I
perceived that the porthole was again open, and a sort of creeping
horror began to take possession of me which I never felt before, nor
wish to feel again. But I got a light and proceeded to examine the
upper berth, expecting to find it drenched with sea-water.

But I was disappointed. The bed had been slept in, and the smell of
the sea was strong; but the bedding was as dry as a bone. I fancied
that Robert had not had the courage to make the bed after the accident
of the previous night--it had all been a hedeous dream. I drew the
curtains back as far as I could and examined the place very carefully.
It was perfectly dry. But the porthole was open again. With a sort of
dull bewilderment of horror I closed it and screwed it down, and
thrusting my heavy stick through the brass loop, wrenched it with all
my might, till the thick metal began to bend under the pressure. Then
I hooked my reading lantern into the red velvet at the head of the
couch, and sat down to recover my senses if I could. I sat there all
night, unable to think of rest--hardly able to think at all. But the
porthole remained closed, and I did not believe it would now open
again without the application of a considerable force.

The morning dawned at last, and I dressed myself slowly, thinking
over all that had happened in the night. It was a beautiful day and I
went on deck, glad to get out into the early, pure sunshine, and to
smell the breeze from the blue water, so different from the noisome,
stagnant odour of my state-room. Instinctively I turned aft, towards
the surgeon's cabin. There he stood, with a pipe inhis mouth, taking
his morning airing precisely as on the preceding day.

"Good-morning," said he quietly, but looking at me with evident

"Doctor, you were quite right," said I. "There is something wrong
about that place."

"I thought you would change your mind," he answered, rather
triumphantly. "You have had a bad night, eh? Shall I make you a pick-
me-up? I have a capital recipe."

"No, thanks," I cried. "But I would like to tell you what happened."

I then tried to explain as clearly as possible precisely what had
occurred, not omitting to state that I had been scared as I had never
been scared in my whole life before. I dwelt particularly on the
phenomenon of the porthole, which was a fact to which I could testify,
even if the rest had been an illusion. I had closed it twice in the
night, and the second time I had actually bent the brass in wrenching
it with my stick. I believe I insisted a good deal on this point.

"You seem to think I am likely to doubt the story," said the doctor,
smiling at my detailed account of the state of the porthole. "I do not
doubt in the least. I renew my invitation to you. Bring your traps
here, and take half my cabin."

"Come and take half of mine for one night," I said. "Help me to get
at the bottom of this thing."

"You will get to the bottom of something else if you try," answered
the doctor.

"What?" I asked.

"The bottom of the sea. I am going to leave this ship. It is not

"Then you will not help me to find out--"

"Not I," said the doctor quickly. "It is my business to keep my wits
aobut me--not to go fiddling about with ghosts and things."

"Do you really believe it is a ghost?" I enquired, rather
contemptuously. But as I spoke I remembered very well the horrible
sensation of the supernatural which had got possession of me during
the night. The doctor turned sharply on me--

"Have you any reasonable explanation of these things to offer?" he
asked. "No; you have not. Well, you say you will find an explanation.
I say that you won't, sir, simply because there is not any."

"But, my dear sir," I retorted, "do you, a man of science, mean to
tell me that such things cannot be explained?"

"I do," he answered stoutly. "And, if they could, I would not be
concerned in the explanation."

I did not care to spend another night alone in the state-room, and
yet I was obstinately determined to get at the root of the
disturbances. I do not believe there are many men who would have slept
there alone, after passing two such nights. But I made up my mind to
try it, if I could not get any one to share a watch with me. The
doctor was evidently not inclined for such an experiment. He said he
was a surgeon, and that in case any accident occurred on board he must
be always in readiness. He could not afford to have his nerves
unsettled. Perhaps he was quite right, but I am inclined to think that
his precaution was prompted by his inclination. On enquiry, he
informed me that there was no one on board who would be likely to join
me in my investigations, and after a little more conversation I left
him. A little later I met the captain, and told him my story. I said
that, if no one would spend the night with me, I would ask leave to
have the light burning all night, and would try it alone.

"Look here," said he, "I will tell you what I will do. I will share
your watch myself, and we will see what happens. It is my belief that
we can find out between us. There may be some fellow skulking on
board, who steals a passage by frightening the passengers. It is just
possible that there may be something queer in the carpentering of that

I suggested taking the ship's carpenter below and examining the
place; but I was overjoyed at the captain's offer to spend the night
with me. He accordingly sent for the workman and ordered him to do
anything I required. We went below at once. I had all the bedding
cleared out of the upper berth, and we examined the place thoroughly
to see if there was a board loose anywhere, or a panel which could be
opened or pushed aside. We tried the planks everywhere, tapped the
flooring, unscrewed the fittings of the lower berth and took it to
pieces--in short, there was not a square inch of the state-room which
was not searched and tested. Everything was in perfect order, and we
put everything back in its place. As we were finishing our work,
Robert came to the door and looked in.

"Well, sir--find anything, sir?" he asked, with a ghastly grin.

"You were right about the porthole, Robert," I said, and I gave him
the promised sovereign. The carpenter did his work silently and
skilfully, following my directions. When he had done he spoke.

"I'm a plain man, sir," he said. "But it's my belief you had better
just turn out your things, and let me run half a dozen four-inch
screws through the door of this cabin. There's no good never came o'
this cabin yet, sir, and that's all about it. There's been four lives
lost out o' here to my own remembrance, and that is four trips. Better
give it up, sir--better give it up!"

"I will try it for one night more," I said.

"Better give it up, sir--better give it up! It's a precious bad
job," repeated the workman, putting his tools in his bag and leaving
the cabin.

But my spirits had risen considerably at the prospect of having the
captain's company, and I made up my mind not to be prevented from
going to the end of this strange business. I abstained from Welsh
rare-bits and grog that evening, and did not even join in the
customary game of whist. I wanted to be quite sure of my nerves, and
my vanity made me anxious to make a good figure in the captain's eyes.

Chapter IV

THE captain was one of those splendidly tough and cheerful specimens
of seafaring humanity whose combined courage, hardihood, and calmness
in difficulty leads them naturally into high positions of trust. He
was not the man to be led away by an idle tale, and the mere fact that
he was willing to join me in the investigation was proof that he
thought there was something seriously wrong, which could not be
accounted for on ordinary theories, nor laughed down as a common
superstition. To some extent, too, his reputation was at stake, as
well as the reputation of the ship. It is no light thing to lose
passengers overboard, and he knew it.

About ten o'clock that evening, as I was smoking a last cigar, he
came up to me, and drew me aside from the beat of the other passengers
who were patrolling the deck in the warm darkness.

"This is a serious matter, Mr. Brisbane," he said. "We must make up
our minds either way--to be disappointed or to have a pretty rough
time of it. You see I cannot afford to laugh at the affair, and I will
ask you to sign your name to a statement of whatever occurs. If
nothing happens tonight we will try it again tomorrow and next day.
Are you ready?"

So we went below, and entered the state-room. As we went in I could
see Robert the steward, who stood a little further down the passage,
watching us, with his usual grin, as though certain that something
dreadful was about to happen. The captain closed the door behind us
and bolted it.

"Supposing we put your portmanteau before the door," he suggested.
"One of us can sit on it. Nothing can get out then. Is the port
screwed down?"

I found it as I had left it in the morning. Indeed, without using a
lever, as I had done, no one could have opened it. I drew back the
curtains of the upper berth so that I could see well into it. By the
captain's advice I lighted my reading lantern, and placed it so that
it shone upon the white sheets above. He insisted upon sitting on the
portmanteau, declaring that he wished to be able to swear that he had
sat before the door.

Then he requested me to search the state-room thoroughly, an
operation very soon accomplished, as it consisted merely in looking
beneath the lower berth and under the couch below the porthole. The
spaces were quite empty.

"It is impossible for any human being to get in," I said, "or for
any human being to open the port."

"Very good," said the captain calmly. "If we see anything now, it
must be either imagination or something supernatural."

I sat down on the edge of the lower berth.

"The first time it happened," said the captain, crossing his legs
and leaning back against the door, "was in March. The passenger who
slept here, in the upper berth, turned out have been a lunatic--at all
events, he was known to have been a little touched, and he had taken
his passage without the knowledge of his friends. He rushed out in the
middle of the night, and threw himself overboard, before the officer
who had the watch could stop him. We stopped and lowered a boat; it
was a quiet night, just before that heavy weather came on; but we
could not find him. Of course his suicide was afterwards accounted for
on the ground of his insanity."

"I suppose that often happens?" I remarked, rather absently.

"Not often--no," said the captain; "never before in my experience,
though I have heard of it happening on board of other ships. Well, as
I was saying, that occurred in March. On the very next trip----What
are you looking at?" he asked, stopping suddenly in his narration.

I believe I gave no answer. My eyes were riveted upon the porthole.
It seemed to me that the brass loop-nut was beginning to turn very
slowly upon the screw--so slowly, however, that I was not sure it
moved at all. I watched it intently, fixing its position in my mind,
and trying to ascertain whether it changed. Seeing where I was
looking, the captain looked too.

"It moves!" he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction. "No, it does
not," he added, after a minute.

"If it were the jarring of the screw," said I, "it would have opened
during the day; but I found it this evening jammed tight as I left it
this morning."

I rose and tried the nut. It was certainly loosened, for by an
effort I could move it with my hands.

"The queer thing," said the captain, "is that the second man who was
lost is supposed to have got through that very port. We had a terrible
time over it. It was in the middle of the night, and the weather was
very heavy; there was an alarm that one of the ports was open and the
sea running in. I came below and found everything flooded, the water
pouring in every time she rolled, and the whole port swinging from the
top bolts--not the porthole in the middle. Well, we managed to shut
it, but the water did some damage. Ever since that the place smells of
sea-water from time to time. We supposed the passenger had thrown
himself out, though the Lord only knows how he did it. The steward
kept telling me that he cannot keep anything shut here. Upon my word--
I can smell it now, cannot you?" he enquired, sniffing the air

"Yes--distinctly," I said, and I shuddered as that same odour of
stagnant sea-water grew stronger in the cabin. "Now, to smell like
this, the place must be damp," I continued, "and yet when I examined
it with the carpenter this morning everything was perfectly dry. It is
most extraordinary--hallo!"

My reading lantern, which had been placed in the upper berth, was
suddenly extinguished. There was still a good deal of light from the
pane of ground glass near the door, behind which loomed the regulation
lamp. The ship rolled heavily, and the curtain of the upper berth
swung far out into the state-room and back again. I rose quickly from
my seat on the edge of the bed, and the captain at the same moment
started to his feet with a loud cry of surprise. I had turned with the
intention of taking down the lantern to examine it, when I heard his
exclamation, and immediately afterwards his call for help. I sprang
towards him. He was wrestling with all his might with the brass loop
of the port. It seemed to turn against his hands in spite of all his
efforts. I caught up my cane, a heavy oak stick I always used to
carry, and thrust it through the ring and bore on it with all my
strength. But the strong wood snapped suddenly and I fell upon the
couch. When I rose again the port was wide open, and the captain was
standing with his back against the door, pale to the lips.

"There is something in that berth!" he cried, in a strange voice,
his eyes almost starting from his head. "Hold the door, while I look--
it shall not escape us, whatever it is!"

But instead of taking his place, I sprang upon the lower bed, and
seized something which lay in the upper berth.

It was something ghostly, horrible beyond words, and it moved in my
grip. It was like the body of a man long drowned, and yet it moved,
and had the strength of ten men living; but I gripped it with all my
might--the slippery, oozy, horrible thing--the dead white eyes seemed
to stare at me out of the dusk; the putrid odour of rank sea-water was
about it, and its shiny hair hung in foul wet curls over its dead
face. I wrestled with the dead thing; it thrust itself upon me and
forced me back and nearly broke my arms; it wound its corpse's arms
about my neck, the living death, and overpowered me, so that I, at
last, cried aloud and fell, and left my hold.

As I fell the thing sprang across me, and seemed to throw itself
upon the captain. When I last saw him on his feet his face was white
and his lips set. It seemed to me that he struck a violent blow at the
dead being, and then he, too, fell forward upon his face, with an
inarticulate cry of horror.

The thing paused an instant, seeming to hover over his prostrate
body, and I could have screamed again for very fright, but I had no
voice left. The thing vanished sudddenly, and it seemed to my
disturbed senses that it made its exit through the open port, though
how that was possible, considering the smallness of the aperture, is
more than any one can tell. I lay a long time on the floor, and the
captain lay beside me. At last I partially recovered my senses and
moved, and instantly I knew that my arm was broken--the small bone of
my left forearm near the wrist.

I got upon my feet somehow, and with my remaining hand I tried to
raise the captain. He groaned and moved, and at last came to himself.
He was not hurt, but he seemed badly stunned.

Well, do you want to hear any more? There is nothing more. That is
the end of my story. The carpenter carried out his scheme of running
half a dozen four-inch screws through the door of one hundred and
five; and if ever you take a passage in the Kamtschatka, you may ask
for a berth in that state-room. You will be told that it is engaged--
yes--it is engaged by that dead thing.

I finished the trip in the surgeon's cabin. He doctored my broken
arm, and advised me not to "fiddle about with ghosts and things" any
more. The captain was very silent, and never sailed again in that
ship, though it is still running. And I will not sail in her either.
It was a very disagreeable experience, and I was very badly
frightened, which is a thing I do not like. That is all. That is how I
saw a ghost--if it was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.


Chapter 1

I REMEMBER my childhood very distinctly. I do not think that the
fact argues a good memory, for I have never been clever at learning
words by heart, in prose or rhyme; so that I believe my remembrance of
events depends much more upon the events themselves than upon my
possessing any special facility for recalling them. Perhaps I am too
imaginative, and the earliest impressions I received were of a kind to
stimulate the imagination abnormally. Along series of little
misfortunes, connected with each other so as to suggest a sort of
weird fatality, so worked upon my melancholy temperament when I was a
boy that, before I was of age, I sincerely believed myself to be under
a curse, and not only myself, but my whole family, and every
individual who bore my name.

I was born in the old place where my father, and his father, and all
his predecessors had been born, beyond the memory of man. It is a very
old house, and the greater part of it was originally a castle,
strongly fortified, and surrounded by a deep moat supplied with
abundant water from the hills by a hidden aqueduct. Many of the
fortifications have been destroyed, and the moat has been filled up.
The water from the aqueduct supplies great fountains, and runs down
into huge oblong basins in the terraced gardens, one below the other,
each surrounded by a broad pavement of marble between the water and
the flower-beds. The waste surplus finally escapes through an
artificial grotto, some thirty yards long, into a stream, flowing down
through the park to the meadows beyond, and thence to the distant
river. The buildings were extended a little and greatly altered more
than two hundred years ago, in the time of Charles II., but since then
little has been done to improve them, though they have been kept in
fairly good repair, according to our fortunes.

In the gardens there are terraces and huge hedges of box and
evergreen, some of which used to be clipped into shapes of animals, in
the Italian style. I can remember when I was a lad how I used to try
to make out what the trees were cut to represent, and how I used to
appeal for explanations to Judith, my Welsh nurse. She dealt in a
strange mythology of her own, and peopled the gardens with griffins,
dragons, good genii and bad, and filled my mind with them at the same
time. My nursery window afforded a view of the great fountains at the
head of the upper basin, and on moonlight nights the Welshwoman would
hold me up to the glass, and bid me look at the mist and spray rising
into mysterious shapes, moving mystically in the white light like
living things.

"It's the Woman of the Water," she used to say; and sometimes she
would threaten that, if I did not go to sleep, the Woman of the Water
would steal up to the high window end carry me away in her wet arms.

The place was gloomy. The broad basins of water and the tall
evergreen hedges gave it a funereal look, and the damp-stained marble
causeways by the pools might have been made of tombstones. The grey
and weather-beaten walls and towers without, the dark and massively
furnished rooms within, the deep, mysterious recesses and the heavy
curtains, all affected my spirits. I was silent and sad from my
childhood. There was a great clock-tower above, from which the hours
rang dismally during the day and tolled like a knell in the dead of
night. There was no light nor life in the house, for my mother was a
helpless invalid, and my father had grown melancholy in his long task
of caring for her. He was a thin, dark man, with sad eyes; kind, I
think, but silent and unhappy. Next to my mother, I believe he loved
me better than anything on earth, for he took immense pains and
trouble in teaching me, and what he taught me I have never forgotten.

Perhaps it was his only amusement, and that may be the reason why I
had no nursery governess or teacher of any kind while he lived.

I used to be taken to see my mother every day, and sometimes twice a
day, for an hour at a time. Then I sat upon a little stool near her
feet, and she would ask me what I had been doing, and what I wanted to
do. I dare say she saw already the seeds of a profound melancholy in
my nature, for she looked at me always with a sad smile, and kissed me
with a sigh when I was taken away.

One night, when I was just six years old, I lay awake in the
nursery. The door was not quite shut, and the Welsh nurse was sitting
sewing in the next room. Suddenly I heard her groan, and say in a
strange voice, "One--two--one--two!" I was frightened, and I jumped up
and ran to the door, barefooted as I was.

"What is it, Judith?" I cried, clinging to her skirts. I can
remember the look in her strange dark eyes as she answered.

"One--two leaden coffins, fallen from the ceiling!" she crooned,
working herself in her chair.

"One--two--a light coffin and a heavy coffin, failing to the floor!"

Then she seemed to notice me, and she took me back to bed and sang
me to sleep with a queer old Welsh song.

I do not know how it was, but the impression got hold of me that she
had meant that my father and mother were going to die very soon. They
died in the very room where she had been sitting that night. It was a
great room, my day nursery, full of sun when there was any; and when
the days were dark it was the most cheerful place in the house. My
mother grew rapidly worse, and I was transferred to another part of
the building to make place for her. They thought my nursery was gayer
for her, I suppose; but she could not live. She was beautiful when she
was dead, and I cried bitterly.

"The light one, the light one--the heavy one to come," crooned the
Welshwoman. And she was right. My father took the room after my mother
was gone, and day by day he grew thinner and paler and sadder.

"The heavy one, the heavy one--all of lead," moaned my nurse, one
night in December, standing still, just as she was going to take away
the light after putting me to bed. Then she took me up again, and
wrapped me in a little gown, and led me away to my father's room. She
knocked, but no one answered. She opened the door, and we found him in
his easy-chair before the fire, very white, quite dead.

So I was alone with the Welshwoman till strange people came, and
relations, whom I had never seen; and then I heard them saying that I
must be taken away to some more cheerful place. They were kind people,
and I will not believe that they were kind only because I was to be
very rich when I grew to be a man. The world never seemed to be a very
bad place to me, nor all the people to be miserable sinners, even when
I was most melancholy. I do not remember that any one ever did me any
great injustice, nor that I was ever oppressed or ill-treated in any
way, even by the boys at school. I was sad, I suppose, because my
childhood was so gloomy, and, later, because I was unlucky in
everything I undertook, till I finally believed I was pursued by fate,
and I used to dream that the old Welsh nurse and the Woman of the
Waters between them had vowed to pursue me to my end. But my natural
disposition should have been cheerful, as I have often thought.

Among lads of my age I was never last, or even among the last, in
anything; but I was never first.

If I trained for a race, I was sure to sprain my ankle on the day
when I was to run. If I pulled an oar with others, my oar was sure to
break. If I competed for a prize, some unforeseen accident prevented
my winning it at the last moment. Nothing to which I put my hand
succeeded, and I got the reputation of being unlucky, until my
companions felt it was always safe to bet against me, no matter what
the appearances might be. I became discouraged and listless in
everything. I gave up the idea of competing for any distinction at the
University, comforting myself with the thought that I could not fail
in the examination for the ordinary degree. The day before the
examination began I fell ill; and when at last I recovered, after a
narrow escape from death, I turned my back upon Oxford, and went down
alone to visit the old place where I had been born, feeble in health
and profoundly disgusted and discouraged. I was twenty-one years of
age, master of myself and of my fortune; but so deeply had the long
chain of small unlucky circumstances affected me, that I thought
seriously of shutting myself up from the world to live the life of a
hermit, and to die as soon as possible. Death seemed the only cheerful
possibility in my existence, and my thoughts soon dwelt upon it

I had never shown any wish to return to my own home since I had been
taken away as a little boy, and no one had ever pressed me to do so.
The place had been kept in order after a fashion, and did not seem to
have suffered during the fifteen years or more of my absence. Nothing
earthly could affect those odd grey walls that had fought the elements
for so many centuries. The garden was more wild than I remembered it;
the marble causeways about the pools looked more yellow and damp than
of old, and the whole place at first looked smaller. It was not until
I had wandered about the house and grounds for many hours that I
realised the huge size of the home where I was to live in solitude.
Then I began to delight in it, and my resolution to live alone grew

The people had turned out to welcome me, of course, and I tried to
recognise the changed faces of the old gardener and the old
housekeeper, and to call them by name. My old nurse I knew at once.
She had grown very grey since she heard the coffin fall in the nursery
fifteen years before, but her strange eyes were the same, and the look
in them woke all my old memories. She went over the house with me.

"And how is the Woman of the Water?" I asked, trying to laugh a
little. "Does she still play in the moonlight?"

"She is hungry," answered the Welshwoman, in a low voice.

"Hungry? Then we will feed her." I laughed. But old Judith turned
very pale, and looked at me strangely.

"Feed her? Ay--you will feed her well," she muttered, glancing
behind her at the ancient housekeeper, who tottered after us with
feeble steps through the halls and passages.

I did not think much of her words. She had always talked oddly, as
Welshwomen will, and though I was very melancholy I am sure I was not
superstitious, and I was certainly not timid. Only, as in a far-off
dream, I seemed to see her standing with the light in her hand and
muttering, "The heavy one--all of lead," and then leading a little boy
through the long corridors to see his father lying dead in a great
easy-chair before a smouldering fire. So we went over the house, and I
chose the rooms where I would live; and the servants I had brought
with me ordered and arranged everything, and I had no more trouble. I
did not care what they did, provided I was left in peace, and was not
expected to give directions; for I was more listless than ever, owing
to the effects of my illness at college.

I dined in solitary state, and the melancholy grandeur of the vast
old dining-room pleased me. Then I went to the room I had selected for
my study, and sat down in a deep chair, under a bright light, to
think, or to let my thoughts meander through labyrinths of their own
choosing, utterly indifferent to the course they might take.

The tall windows of the room opened to the level of the ground upon
the terrace at the head of the garden. It was in the end of July, and
everything was open, for the weather was warm. As I sat alone I heard
the unceasing plash of the great fountains, and I fell to thinking of
the Woman of the Water. I rose, and went out into the still night and
sat down upon a seat on the terrace, between two gigantic Italian
flower-pots. The air was deliciously soft and sweet with the smell of
the flowers, and the garden was more congenial to me than the house.
Sad people always like running water and the sound of it at night,
though I cannot tell why. I sat and listened in the gloom, for it was
dark below, and the pale moon had not yet climbed over the hills in
front of me, though all the air above was light with her rising beams.
Slowly the white halo in the eastern sky ascended in an arch above the
wooded crests, making the outline of the mountains more intensely
black by contrast, as though the head of some great white saint were
rising from behind a screen in a vast cathedral, throwing misty
glories from below. I longed to see the moon herself, and I tried to
reckon the seconds before she must appear. Then she sprang up quickly,
and in a moment more hung round and perfect in the sky. I gazed at
her, and then at the floating spray of the tall fountains, and down at
the pools, where the water-lilies were rocking softly in their sleep
on the velvet surface of the moonlit water. Just then a great swan
floated out silently into the midst of the basin, and wreathed his
long neck, catching the water in his broad bill, and scattering
showers of diamonds around him.

Suddenly, as I gazed, something came between me and the light. I
looked up instantly. Between me and the round disc of the moon rose a
luminous face of a woman, with great strange eyes, and a woman's
mouth, full and soft, but not smiling, hooded in black, staring at me
as I sat still upon my bench. She was close to me--so close that I
could have touched her with my hand. But I was transfixed and
helpless. She stood still for a moment, but her expression did not
change. Then she passed swiftly away, and my hair stood up on my head,
while the cold breeze from her white dress was wafted to my temples as
she moved. The moonlight, shining through the tossing spray of the
fountain, made traceries of shadow on the gleaming folds of her
garments. In an instant she was gone, and I was alone.

I was strangely shaken by the vision, and some time passed before I
could rise to my feet, for I was still weak from my illness, and the
sight I had seen would have startled any one. I did not reason with
myself, for I was certain that I had looked on the unearthly, and no
argument could have destroyed that belief. At last I got up and stood
unsteadily, gazing in the direction in which I thought the face had
gone; but there was nothing to be seen--nothing but the broad paths,
the tall, dark evergreen hedges, the tossing water of the fountains
and the smooth pool below. I fell back upon the seat and recalled the
face I had seen. Strange to say, now that the first impression had
passed, there was nothing startling in the recollection; on the
contrary, I felt that I was fascinated by the face, and would give
anything to see it again. I could retrace the beautiful straight
features, the long dark eyes and the wonderful mouth, most exactly in
my mind, and, when I had reconstructed every detail from memory, I
knew that the whole was beautiful, and that I should love a woman with
such a face.

"I wonder whether she is the Woman of the Water!" I said to myself.
Then rising once more I wandered down the garden, descending one short
flight of steps after another, from terrace to terrace by the edge of
the marble basins, through the shadow and through the moonlight; and I
crossed the water by the rustic bridge above the artificial grotto,
and climbed slowly up again to the highest terrace by the other side.
The air seemed sweeter, and I was very calm, so that I think I smiled
to myself as I walked, as though a new happiness had come to me. The
woman's face seemed always before me, and the thought of it gave me an
unwonted thrill of pleasure, unlike anything I had ever felt before.

I turned, as I reached the house, and looked back upon the scene. It
had certainly changed in the short hour since I had come out, and my
mood had changed with it. Just like my luck, I thought, to fall in
love with a ghost! But in old times I would have sighed, and gone to
bed more sad than ever, at such a melancholy conclusion. Tonight I
felt happy, almost for the first time in my life. The gloomy old study
seemed cheerful when I went in. The old pictures on the walls smiled
at me, and I sat down in my deep chair with a new and delightful
sensation that I was not alone. The idea of having seen a ghost, and
of feeling much the better for it, was so absurd that I laughed
softly, as I took up one of the books I had brought with me and began
to read.

That impression did not wear off. I slept peacefully, and in the
morning I threw open my windows to the summer air, and looked down at
the garden, at the stretches of green and at the coloured flowerbeds,
at the circling swallows, and at the bright water.

"A man might make a paradise of this place," I exclaimed. "A man and
a woman together!"

From that day the old castle no longer seemed gloomy, and I think I
ceased to be sad; for some time, too, I began to take an interest in
the place, and to try and make it more alive. I avoided my old Welsh
nurse, lest she should damp my humour with some dismal prophecy, and
recall my old self by bringing back memories of my dismal childhood.
But what I thought of most was the ghostly figure I had seen in the
garden that first night after my arrival. I went out every evening and
wandered through the walks and paths; but, try as I might, I did not
see my vision again. At last, after many days, the memory grew more
faint, and my old moody nature gradually overcame the temporary sense
of lightness I had experienced.

The summer turned to autumn, and I grew restless. It began to rain.
The dampness pervaded the gardens, and the outer halls smelted musty,
like tombs; the grey sky oppressed me intolerably. I left the place as
it was and went abroad, determined to try anything which might
possibly make a second break in the monotonous melancholy from which I

Chapter 2

MOST people would be struck by the utter insignificance of the small
events which, after the death of my parents, influenced my life and
made me unhappy. The gruesome forebodings of a Welsh nurse, which
chanced to be realised by an odd coincidence of events, should not
seem enough to change the nature of a child, and to direct the bent of
his character in after years. The little disappointments of schoolboy
life, and the somewhat less childish ones of an uneventful and
undistinguished academic career, should not have sufficed to turn me
out at one-and-twenty years of age a melancholic, listless idler. Some
weakness of my own character may have contributed to the result, but
in a greater degree it was due to my having a reputation for bad luck.
However, I will not try to analyse the causes of my state, for I
should satisfy nobody, least of all myself. Still less will I attempt
to explain why I felt a temporary revival of my spirits after my
adventure in the garden. It is certain that I was in love with the
face I had seen, and that I longed to see it again; that I gave up all
hope of a second visitation, grew more sad than ever, packed up my
traps, and finally went abroad. But in my dreams I went back to my
home, and it always appeared to me sunny and bright, as it had looked
on that summer's morning after I had seen the woman by the fountain.

I went to Paris. I went further, and wandered about Germany. I tried
to amuse myself, and I failed miserably. With the aimless whims of an
idle and useless man, came all sorts of suggestions for good
resolutions. One day I made up my mind that I would go and bury myself
in a German university for a time, and live simply like a poor
student. I started with the intention of going to Leipzic, determined
to stay there until some event should direct my life or change my
humour, or make an end of me altogether. The express train stopped at
some station of which I did not know the name. It was dusk on a
winter's afternoon, and I peered through the thick glass from my seat.

Suddenly another train came gliding in from the opposite direction,
and stopped alongside of ours. I looked at the carriage which chanced
to be abreast of mine, and idly read the black letters painted on a
white board swinging from the brass handrail: "BERLIN-COLOGNE-PARIS."
Then I looked up at the window above. I started violently and the cold
perspiration broke out upon my forehead, In the dim light, not six
feet from where I sat, I saw the face of a woman, the face I loved,
the straight, fine features, the strange eyes, the wonderful mouth,
the pale skin. Her head-dress was a dark veil which seemed to be tied
about her head and passed over the shoulders under her chin. As I
threw down the window and knelt on the cushioned seat, leaning far out
to get a better view, a long whistle screamed through the station,
followed by a quick series of dull, clanking sounds; then there was a
slight jerk, and my train moved on. Luckily the window was narrow,
being the one over the seat, beside the door, or I believe I would
have jumped out of it then and there. In an instant the speed
increased, and I was being carried swiftly away in the opposite
direction from the thing I loved.

For a quarter of an hour I lay back in my place, stunned by the
suddenness of the apparition. At last one of the two other passengers,
a large and gorgeous captain of the White Konigsberg Cuirassiers,
civilly but firmly suggested that I might shut my window, as the
evening was cold. I did so, with an apology, and relapsed into
silence. The train ran swiftly on for a long time, and it was already
beginning to slacken speed before entering another station when I
roused myself, and made a sudden resolution. As the carriage stopped
before the brilliantly lighted platform, I seized my belongings,
saluted my fellow passengers, and got out, determined to take the
first express back to Paris.

This time the circumstances of the vision had been so natural that
it did not strike me that there was anything unreal about the face, or
about the woman to whom it belonged. I did not try to explain to
myself how the face, and the woman, could be travelling by a fast
train from Berlin to Paris on a winter's afternoon, when both were in
my mind indelibly associated with the moonlight and the fountains in
my own English home. I certainly would not have admitted that I had
been mistaken in the dusk, attributing to what I had seen a
resemblance to my former vision which did not really exist. There was
not the slightest doubt in my mind, and I was positively sure that I
had again seen the face I loved. I did not hesitate, and in a few
hours I was on my way back to Paris. I could not help reflecting on my
ill-luck. Wandering as I had been for many months, it might as easily
have chanced that I should be travelling in the same train with that
woman, instead of going the other way. But my luck was destined to
turn for a time.

I searched Paris for several days. I dined at the principal hotels;
I went to the theatres; I rode in the Bois de Boulogne in the morning,
and picked up an acquaintance, whom I forced to drive with me in the
afternoon. I went to mass at the Madeleine, and I attended the
services at the English Church. I hung about the Louvre and Notre
Dame. I went to Versailles. I spent hours in parading the Rue de
Rivoli, in the neighbourhood of Meurice's corner, where foreigners
pass and repass from morning till night. At last I received an
invitation to a reception at the English Embassy. I went, and I found
what I had sought so long.

There she was, sitting by an odd lady in grey satin and diamonds,
who had a wrinkled but kindly face and keen grey eyes that seemed to
take in everything they saw, with very little inclination to give much
in return. But I did not notice the chaperon. I saw only the face that
had haunted me for months, and in the excitement of the moment I
walked quickly towards the pair, forgetting such a trifle as the
necessity for an introduction.

She was far more beautiful than I had thought, but I never doubted
that it was she herself and no other. Vision or no vision before, this
was the reality, and I knew it. Twice her hair had been covered, now
at last I saw it, and the added beauty of its magnificence glorified
the whole woman. It was rich hair, fine and abundant, golden, with
deep ruddy tints in it like red bronze spun fine. There was no
ornament in it, not a rose, not a thread of 'gold, and I felt that it
needed nothing to enhance its splendour; no thing but her pale face,
her dark strange eyes, and her heavy eyebrows. I could see that she
was slender, too, but strong withal, as she sat there quietly gazing
at the moving scene in the midst of the brilliant lights and the hum
of perpetual conversation.

I recollected the detail of introduction in time, and turned aside
to look for my host. I found him at last. I begged him to present me
to the two ladies, pointing them out to him at the same time.

"Yes--uh--by all means--uh--" replied his Excellency, with a
pleasant smile. He evidently had no idea of my name, which was not to
be wondered at.

"I am Lord Cairngorm," I observed.

"Oh--by all means," answered the Ambassador, with the same
hospitable smile. "Yes---uh--the fact is, I must try and find out who
they are; such lots of people, you know."

"Oh, if you will present me, I will try and find out for you," said
I, laughing.

"Ah, yes--so kind of you--come along," said my host.

We threaded the crowd, and in a few minutes we stood before the two

"'Lowmintrduce L'd Cairngorm," he said; then, adding quickly to me,
"come and dine tomorrow, won't you?" he glided away with his pleasant
smile, and disappeared in the crowd.

I sat down beside the beautiful girl, conscious that the eyes of the
duenna were upon me.

"I think we have been very near meeting before," I remarked, byway
of opening the conversation.

My companion turned her eyes full upon me with an air of enquiry.
She evidently did not recall my face, if she had ever seen me.

"Really--I cannot remember," she observed, in a low and musical
voice. "When?"

"In the first place, you came down from Berlin by the express, ten
days ago. I was going the other way, and our carriages stopped
opposite each other. I saw you at the window."

"Yes--we came that way, but I do not remember-" She hesitated.

"Secondly," I continued, "I was sitting alone in my garden last
summer--near the end of July-do you remember? You must have wandered
in there through the park; you came up to the house and looked at me--

"Was that you?" she asked, in evident surprise. Then she broke into
a laugh. "I told everybody I had seen a ghost; there had never been
any Cairngorms in the place since the memory of man. We left the next
day, and never heard that you had come there; indeed, I did not know
the castle belonged to you."

"Where were you staying?" I asked.

"Where? Why, with my aunt, where I always stay. She is your
neighbour, since it is you."

"I--beg your pardon--but then--is your aunt Lady Bluebell? I did not
quite catch--"

"Don't be afraid. She is amazingly deaf. Yes. She is the relict of
my beloved uncle, the sixteenth or seventeenth Baron Bluebell--I
forget exactly how many of them there have been. And I--do you know
who I am?" She laughed, well knowing that I did not.

"No," I answered frankly. "I have not the least idea. I asked to be
introduced because I recognised you. Perhaps--perhaps you are a Miss

"Considering that you are a neighbour, I will tell you who I am,"
she answered. "No; I am of the tribe of Bluebells, but my name is
Lammas, and I have been given to understand that I was christened
Margaret. Being a floral family, they call me Daisy. A dreadful
American man once told me that my aunt was a Bluebell and that I was a
Harebell---with two l's and an e--because my hair is so thick. I warn
you, so that you may avoid making such a bad pun."

"Do I look like a man who makes puns?" I asked, being very conscious
of my melancholy face and sad looks.

Miss Lammas eyed me critically.

"No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I can trust you," she
answered. "Do you think you could communicate to my aunt the fact that
you are a Cairngorm and a neighbour? I am sure she would like to

I leaned towards the old lady, inflating my lungs for a yell. But
Miss Lammas stopped me.

"That is not of the slightest use," she remarked. "You can write it
on a bit of paper. She is utterly deaf."

"I have a pencil," I answered, "but I have no paper. Would my cuff
do, do you think?"

"Oh yes!" replied Miss Lacunas, with alacrity; "men often do that."

I wrote on my cuff: "Miss Lammas wishes me to explain that I am your
neighbour, Cairngorm." Then I held out my arm before the old lady's
nose. She seemed perfectly accustomed to the proceeding, put up her
glasses, read the words, smiled, nodded, and addressed me in the
unearthly voice peculiar to people who hear nothing.

"I knew your grandfather very well," she said. Then she smiled and
nodded to me again, and to her niece, and relapsed into silence.

"It is all right," remarked Miss Lammas.

"Aunt Bluebell knows she is deaf, and does not say much, like the
parrot. You see, she knew your grandfather. How odd, that we should be
neighbours! Why have we never met before?"

"If you had told me you knew my grandfather when you appeared in the
garden, I should not have been in the least surprised," I answered
rather irrelevantly. "I really thought you were the ghost of the old
fountain. How in the world did you come there at that hour?"

"We were a large party, and we went out for a walk. Then we thought
we should like to see what your park was like in the moonlight, and so
we trespassed. I got separated from the rest, and came upon you by
accident, just as I was admiring the extremely ghostly look of your
house, and wondering whether anybody would ever come and live there
again. It looks like the castle of Macbeth, or a scene from the opera.
Do you know anybody here?"

"Hardly a soul. Do you?"

"No. Aunt Bluebell said it was our duty to come. It is easy for her
to go out; she does not bear the burden of the conversation."

"I am sorry you find it a burden," said I. "Shall I go away?"

Miss Lammas looked at me with a sudden gravity in her beautiful
eyes, and there was a sort of hesitation about the lines of her full,
soft mouth.

"No," she said at last, quite simply, "don't go away. We may like
each other, if you stay a little longer--and we ought to because we
are neighbours in the country."

I suppose I ought to have thought Miss Lammas a very odd girl. There
is, indeed, a sort of freemasonry between people who discover that
they live near each other, and that they ought to have known each
other before. But there was a sort of unexpected frankness and
simplicity in the girl's amusing manner which would have struck any
one else as being singular, to say the least of it. To me, however, it
all seemed natural enough. I had dreamed of her face too long not to
be utterly happy when I met her at last, and could talk to her as much
as I pleased. To me, the man of ill luck in everything, the whole
meeting seemed too good to be true. I felt again that strange
sensation of lightness which I had experienced after I had seen her
face in the garden. The great rooms seemed brighter, life seemed worth
living; my sluggish, melancholy blood ran faster, and filled me with a
new sense of strength. I said to myself that without this woman I was
but an imperfect being, but that with her I could accomplish
everything to which I should set my hand. Like the great Doctor, when
he thought he had cheated Mephistopheles at last, I could have cried
aloud to the fleeting moment, Verweile dock du hist so schon!

"Are you always gay?" I asked suddenly. "How happy you must be!"

"The days would sometimes seem very long if I were gloomy," she
answered thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I find life very pleasant, and I
tell it so."

"How can you 'tell life' anything?" I enquired. "If I could catch my
life and talk to it, I would abuse it prodigiously, I assure you."

"I dare say. You have a melancholy temper. You ought to live out of
doors, dig potatoes, make hay, shoot, hunt, tumble into ditches, and
come home muddy and hungry for dinner. It would be much better for you
than moping in your rook tower, and hating everything."

"It is rather lonely down there," I murmured apologetically, feeling
that Miss Lammas was quite right.

"Then marry, and quarrel with your wife," she laughed. "Anything is
better than being alone."

"I am a very peaceable person. I never quarrel with anybody. You can
try it. You will find it quite impossible."

"Will you let me try?" she asked, still smiling.

"By all means-especially if it is to be only a preliminary canter,"
I answered rashly.

"What do you mean?" she enquired, turning quickly upon me.

"Oh--nothing. You might try my paces with a view to quarrelling in
the future. I cannot imagine how you are going to do it. You will have
to resort to immediate and direct abuse."

"No. I will only say that if you do not like your life, it is your
own fault. How can a man of your age talk of being melancholy, or of
the hollowness of existence? Are you consumptive? Are you subject to
hereditary insanity? Are you deaf, like Aunt Bluebell? Are you poor,
like--lots of people? Have you been crossed in love? Have you lost the
world for a woman, or any particular woman for the sake of the world?
Are you feebleminded, a cripple, an outcast? Are you--repulsively
ugly?" She laughed again. "Is there any reason in the world why you
should not enjoy all you have got in life?"

"No. There is no reason whatever, except that I am dreadfully
unlucky, especially in small things."

"Then try big things, just for a change," suggested Miss Lammas.
"Try and get married, for instance, and see how it turns out."

"If it turned out badly, it would be rather serious."

"Not half so serious as it is to abuse everything unreasonably. If
abuse is your particular talent, abuse something that ought to be
abused. Abuse the Conservatives--or the Liberals--it does not matter
which, since they are always abusing each other. Make yourself felt by
other people. You will like it, if they don't. It will make a man of
you. Fill your mouth with pebbles, and howl at the sea, if you cannot
do anything else. It did Demosthenes no end of good, you know. You
will have the satisfaction of imitating a great man."

"Really, Miss Lammas, I think the list of innocent exercises you

"Very well--if you don't care for that sort of thing, care for some
other sort of thing. Care for something, or hate something. Don't be
idle. Life is short, and though art may be long, plenty of noise
answers nearly as well."

"I do care for something--I mean somebody," I said.

"A woman? Then marry her. Don't hesitate."

"I do not know whether she would marry me," I replied. "I have never
asked her."

"Then ask her at once," answered Miss Lammas. "I shall die happy if
I feel I have persuaded a melancholy fellow-creature to rouse himself
to action. Ask her, by all means, and see what she says. If she does
not accept you at once, she may take you the next time. Meanwhile, you
will have entered for the race. If you lose, there are the 'All-aged
Trial Stakes,' and the 'Consolation Race.'"

"And plenty of selling races into the bargain. Shall I take you at
your word, Miss Lammas?"

"I hope you will," she answered.

"Since you yourself advise me, I will. Miss Lammas, will you do me
the honour to marry me?"

For the first time in my life the blood rushed to my head and my
sight swam. I cannot tell why I said it. It would be useless to try to
explain the extraordinary fascination the girl exercised over me, or
the still more extraordinary feeling of intimacy with her which had
grown in me during that half-hour. Lonely, sad, unlucky as I had been
all my life, I was certainly not timid, nor even shy. But to propose
to marry a woman after half an hour's acquaintance was a piece of
madness of which I never believed myself capable, and of which I
should never be capable again, could I be placed in the same
situation. It was as though my whole being had been changed in a
moment by magic---by the white magic of her nature brought into
contact with mine. The blood sank back to my heart, and a moment later
I found myself staring at her with anxious eyes. To my amazement she
was as calm as ever, but her beautiful mouth smiled, and there was a
mischievous light in her dark-brown eyes.

"Fairly caught," she answered. "For an individual who pretends to be
listless and sad you are not lacking in humour. I had really not the
least idea what you were going to say. Wouldn't it be singularly
awkward for you if I had said 'Yes'? I never saw anybody begin to
practice so sharply what was preached to him--with so very little loss
of time!"

"You probably never met a man who had dreamed of you for seven
months before being introduced."

"No, I never did," she answered gaily. "It smacks of the romantic.
Perhaps you are a romantic character after all. I should think you
were, if I believed you. Very well; you have taken my advice, entered
for a Stranger's Race and lost it. Try the All-aged Trial Stakes. You
have another cuff, and a pencil. Propose to Aunt Bluebell; she would
dance with astonishment, and she might recover her hearing."

Chapter 3

THAT was how I first asked Margaret Lammas to be my wife, and I will
agree with any one who says I behaved very foolishly. But I have not
repented of it, and I never shall. I have long ago understood that I
was out of my mind that evening, but I think my temporary insanity on
that occasion has had the effect of making me a saner man ever since.
Her manner turned my head, for it was so different from what I had
expected. To hear this lovely creature, who, in my imagination, was a
heroine of romance, if not of tragedy, talking familiarly and laughing
readily was more than my equanimity could bear, and I lost my head as
well as my heart. But when I went back to England in the spring, I
went to make certain arrangements at the Castle--certain changes and
improvements which would be absolutely necessary. I had won the race
for which I had entered myself so rashly, and we were to be married in

Whether the change was due to the orders I had left with the
gardener and the rest of the servants, or to my own state of mind, I
cannot tell. At all events, the old place did not look the same to me
when I opened my window on the morning after my arrival. There were
the grey walls below me, and the grey turrets flanking the huge
building; there were the fountains, the marble causeways, the smooth
basins, the tall box hedges, the waterlilies and the swans, just as of
old. But there was something else there, too--something in the air, in
the water, and in the greenness that I did not recognise--a light over
everything by which everything was transfigured. The clock in the
tower struck seven, and the strokes of the ancient bell sounded like a
wedding chime. The air sang with the thrilling treble of the song-
birds, with the silvery music of the Flashing water, and he softer
harmony of the leaves stirred by the fresh morning wind. There was a
smell of new-mown hay from the distant meadows, and of blooming roses
from the beds below, wafted up together to my window. I stood in the
pure sunshine and drank the air and all the sounds and the odours that
were in it; and I looked down at my garden and said, "It is Paradise,
after all. I think the men of old were right when they called heaven a
garden, and Eden a garden inhabited by one man and one woman, the
Earthly Paradise."

I turned away, wondering what had become of the gloomy memories I
had always associated with my home. I tried to recall the impression
of my nurse's horrible prophecy before the death of my parents--an
impression which hitherto had been vivid enough. I tried to remember
my own self, my dejection, my listlessness, my bad luck, and my petty
disappointments. I endeavoured to force myself to think as I used to
think, if only to satisfy myself that I had not lost my individuality.
But I succeeded in none of these efforts. I was a different man, a
changed being, incapable of sorrow, of ill-luck, or of sadness. My
life had been a dream, not evil, but infinitely gloomy and hopeless.
It was now a reality, full of hope, gladness, and all manner of good.
My home had been like a tomb; to-day it was Paradise. My heart had
been as though it had not existed; to-day it beat with strength and
youth, and the certainty of realised happiness. I revelled in the
beauty of the world, and called loveliness out of the future to enjoy
it before time should bring it to me, as a traveller in the plains
looks up to the mountains, and already tastes the cool air through the
dust of the road.

Here, I thought, we will live and live for years. There we will sit
by the fountain towards evening and in the deep moonlight. Down those
paths we will wander together. On those benches we will rest and talk.
Among those eastern hills we will ride through the soft twilight, and
in the old house we will tell tales on winter nights, when the logs
burn high, and the holly berries are red, and the old clock tolls out
the dying year. On these old steps, in these dark passages and stately
rooms, there will one day be the sound of little pattering feet, and
laughing child-voices will ring up to the vaults of the ancient hall.
Those tiny footsteps shall not be slow and sad as mine were, nor shall
the childish words be spoken in an awed whisper. No gloomy Welshwoman
shall people the dusty corners with weird horrors, nor utter horrid
prophecies of death and ghastly things. All shall be young, and fresh,
and joyful, and happy, and we will turn the old luck again, and forget
that there was ever any sadness.

So I thought, as I looked out of my window that morning and for many
mornings after that, and every day it all seemed more real than ever
before, and much nearer. But the old nurse looked at me askance, and
muttered odd sayings about the Woman of the Water. I cared little what
she said, for I was far too happy.

At last the time came near for the wedding. Lady Bluebell and all
the tribe of Bluebells, as Margaret called them, were at Bluebell
Grange, for we had determined to be married in the country, and to
come straight to the Castle afterwards. We cared little for
travelling, and not at all for a crowded ceremony at St. George's in
Hanover Square, with all the tiresome formalities afterwards. I used
to ride over to the Grange every day, and very often Margaret would
come with her aunt and some of her cousins to the Castle. I was
suspicious of my own taste, and was only too glad to let her have her
way about the alterations and improvements in our home.

We were to be married on the thirtieth of July, and on the evening
of the twenty-eighth Margaret drove over with some of the Bluebell
party. In the long summer twilight we all went out into the garden.
Naturally enough, Margaret and I were left to ourselves, and we
wandered down by the marble basins.

"It is an odd coincidence," I said; "it was on this very night last
year that I first saw you."

"Considering that it is the month of July," answered Margaret, with
a laugh, "and that we have been here almost every day, I don't think
the coincidence is so extraordinary, after all."

"No, dear," said I, "I suppose not. I don't know why it struck me.
We shall very likely be here a year from to-day, and a year from that.
The odd thing, when I think of it, is that you should be here at all.
But my luck has turned. I ought not to think anything odd that happens
now that I have you. It is all sure to be good."

"A slight change in your ideas since that remarkable performance of
yours in Paris," said Margaret. "Do you know, I thought you were the
most extraordinary man I had ever met."

"I thought you were the most charming woman I have ever seen. I
naturally did not want to lose any time in frivolities. I took you at
your word, I followed your advice, I asked you to marry me, and this
is the delightful result--what's the matter?"

Margaret had started suddenly, and her hand tightened on my arm. An
old woman was coming up the path, and was close to us before we saw
her, for the moon had risen, and was shining full in our faces. The
woman turned out to be my old nurse.

"It's only old Judith, dear, don't be frightened," I said. Then I
spoke to the Welshwoman: "What are you about, Judith? Have you been
feeding the Woman of the Water?"

"Ay--when the clock strikes, Willie--my lord, I mean," muttered the
odd creature, drawing aside to let us pass, and fixing her strange
eyes on Margaret's face.

"What does she mean?" asked Margaret, when we had gone by.

"Nothing, darling. The old thing is mildly crazy, but she is a good

We went on in silence for a few moments, and came to the rustic
bridge just above the artificial grotto through which the water ran
out into the park, dark and swift in its narrow channel. We stopped,
and leaned on the wooden rail. The moon was now behind us, and shone
full upon the long vista of basins and on the huge walls and towers of
the Castle above.

"How proud you ought to be of such a grand old place!" said
Margaret, softly.

"It is yours now, darling," I answered. "You have as good a right to
love it as I--but I only love it because you are to live in it, dear."

Her hand stole out and lay on mine, and we were both silent. Just
then the clock began to strike far off in the tower. I counted the
strokes--eight-nine ten--eleven--I looked at my watch--twelve---
thirteen--I laughed. The bell went on striking.

"The old clock has gone crazy, like Judith," I exclaimed. Still it
went on, note after note ringing out monotonously through the still
air. We leaned over the rail, instinctively looking in the direction
whence the sound came. On and on it went. I counted nearly a hundred,
out of sheer curiosity, for I understood that something had broken and
that the thing was running itself down.

Suddenly there was a crack as of breaking wood, a cry and a heavy
splash, and I was alone, clinging to the broken end of the rail of the
rustic bridge.

I do not think I hesitated while my pulse beat twice. I sprang clear
of the bridge into the black rushing water, dived to the bottom, came
up again with empty hands, turned and swam downwards through the
grotto in the thick darkness, plunging and diving at every stroke,
striking my head and hands against jagged stones and sharp corners,
clutching at last something in my fingers, and dragging it up with all
my might. I spoke, I cried aloud, but there was no answer. I was alone
in the pitchy blackness with my burden, and the house was five hundred
yards away. Struggling still, I felt the ground beneath my feet, I saw
a ray of moonlight--the grotto widened, and the deep water became a
broad and shallow brook as I stumbled over the stones and at last laid
Margaret's body on the bank in the park beyond.

"Ay, Willie, as the clock struck!" said the voice of Judith, the
Welsh nurse, as she bent down and looked at the white face. The old
woman must have turned back and followed us, seen the accident, and
slipped out by the lower gate of the garden. "Ay," she groaned, "you
have fed the Woman of the Water this night, Willie, while the clock
was striking."

I scarcely heard her as I knelt beside the lifeless body of the
woman I loved, chafing the wet white temples, and gazing wildly into
the wide-staring eyes. I remember only the first returning look of
consciousness, the first heaving breath, the first movement of those
dear hands stretching out towards me.

That is not much of a story, you say. It is the story of my life.
That is all. It does not pretend to be anything else. Old Judith says
my luck turned on that summer's night, when I was struggling in the
water to save all that was worth living for. A month later there was a
stone bridge above the grotto, and Margaret and I stood on it, and
looked up at the moonlit Castle, as we had done once before, and as we
have done many times since. For all those things happened ten years
ago last summer, and this is the tenth Christmas Eve we have spent
together by the roaring logs in the old hall, talking of old times;
and every year there are more old times to talk of. There are curly-
headed boys, too, with red-gold hair and dark-brown eyes like their
mother's, and a little Margaret, with solemn black eyes like mine. Why
could she not look like her mother, too, as well as the rest of them?

The world is very bright at this glorious Christmas time, and
perhaps there is little use in calling up the sadness of long ago,
unless it be to make the jolly firelight seem more cheerful, the good
wife's face look gladder, and to give the children's laughter a
merrier ring, by contrast with all that is gone. Perhaps, too, some
sad-faced, listless, melancholy youth, who feels that the world is
very hollow, and that life is like a perpetual funeral service, just
as I used to feel myself, may take courage from my example, and having
found the woman of his heart, ask her to marry him after half an
hour's acquaintance. But, on the whole, I would not advise any man to
marry, for the simple reason that no man will ever find a wife like
mine, and being obliged to go further, he will necessarily fare worse.
My wife has done miracles, but I will not assert that any other woman
is able to follow' her example.

Margaret always said that the odd place was beautiful, and that I
ought to be proud of it. I dare say she is right. She has even more
imagination than I. But I have a good answer and a plain one, which is
this--that all the beauty of the Castle comes from her. She has
breathed upon it all, as the children blow upon the cold glass window-
panes in winter; and as their warm breath crystallises into landscapes
from fairyland, full of exquisite shapes and traceries upon the blank
surface, so her spirit has transformed every grey stone of the old
towers, every ancient tree and hedge in the gardens, every thought in
my once melancholy self. All that was old is young, and all that was
sad is glad, and I am the gladdest of all. Whatever heaven may be,
there is no earthly paradise without woman, nor is there anywhere a
place so desolate, so dreary, so unutterably miserable that a woman
cannot make it seem heaven to the man she loves, and who loves her.

I hear certain cynics laugh, and cry that all that has been said
before. Do not laugh, my good cynic. You are too small a man to laugh
at such a great thing as love. Prayers have been said before now by
many, and perhaps you say yours, too. I do not think they lose
anything by being repeated, nor you by repeating them. You say that
the world is bitter, and full of the Waters of Bitterness. Love, and
so live that you may be loved--the world will turn sweet for you, and
you shall rest like me by the Waters of Paradise.


IT was a terrible accident, and for one moment the splendid
machinery of Cranston House got out of gear and stood still. The
butler emerged from the retirement in which he spent his elegant
leisure. Two grooms of the chambers appeared simultaneously from
opposite directions. There were actually housemaids on the grand
staircase, and those who remember the facts most exactly assert that
Mrs. Pringle herself positively stood upon the landing. Mrs. Pringle
was the housekeeper.

As for the head nurse, the undernurse, and the nursery maid, their
feelings cannot be described. The head nurse laid one hand upon the
polished marble balustrade and stared stupidly before her. The
undernurse stood rigid and pale, leaning against the polished marble
wall while the nursery maid collapsed and sat down upon the polished
marble step--just beyond the limits of the velvet carpet--and burst
into tears.

The Lady Gwendolen Lancaster-Douglas-Scroop, youngest daughter of
the ninth Duke of Cranston--of the age of six years and three months--
picked herself up quite alone, and sat down on the third step from the
foot of the grand staircase in Cranston House.

"Oh!" exclaimed the butler before he disappeared again.

"Ah!" responded the grooms of the chambers, as they also went away.

"It's only that doll," Mrs. Pringle was distinctly heard to say, in
a tone of contempt.

The undernurse heard her say it. Then the three nurses gathered
round Lady Gwendolen and patted her, gave her unhealthy things out of
their pockets, and hurried her out of Cranston House as fast as they
could, lest it should be found out upstairs that they had allowed the
Lady Gwendolen Lancaster-Douglas-Scroop to tumble down the grand
staircase with her doll in her arms. And as the doll was badly broken,
the nursery-maid carried it, and the pieces, wrapped up in Lady
Gwendolen's little cloak. It was not far to Hyde Park, and when they
had reached a quiet place they took means to find out that Lady
Gwendolen had no bruises--for the carpet was very thick and soft, and
there was thick stuff under it to make it softer.

Lady Gwendolen Douglas-Scroop sometimes yelled, but she never cried.
It was because she had yelled that the nurse had allowed her to go
downstairs alone, with Nina the doll under one arm, steadying herself
with her other hand on the balustrade as she trod upon the polished
marble steps beyond the edge of the carpet. So she had fallen, and
Nina had come to grief.

When the nurses were quite sure that she was not hurt, they
unwrapped the doll and looked at her in her turn. She had been a very
beautiful doll, very large, and fair, and healthy. She had real yellow
hair and eyelids that would open and shut over very grown-up dark
eyes. Moreover, when you moved her right arm up and down, she said
"Pa-pa," and when you moved the left, she said "Ma-ma," very

"I heard her say 'Pa' when she fell," said the undernurse, who heard
everything. "But she ought to have said 'Pa-pa.'"

"That's because her arm went up when she hit the step," said the
head nurse. "She'll say the other 'Pa' when I put it down again."

"Pa," said Nina, as her right arm was pushed down. She spoke through
a face that was cracked, with a hideous gash, from the upper corner of
the forehead, through the nose, and down to the little frilled collar
of the pale green silk Mother Hubbard frock--where two little three-
cornered pieces of porcelain had fallen out. "I'm sure it's a wonder
she can speak at all, being all smashed," said the undernurse.

"You'll have to take her to Mr. Puckler," said her superior. "It's
not far, and you'd better go at once."

Lady Gwendolen was occupied with digging a hole in the ground with a
little spade, and paid no attention to the nurses.

"What are you doing?" inquired the nursery maid, looking on.

"Nina's dead, and I'm diggin' her a grave," replied her ladyship

"Oh, she'll come to life again all right," said the nursery maid.

The undernurse wrapped Nina up again and departed. Fortunately a
kind soldier, with very long legs and a very small cap, happened to be
there; and as he had nothing to do, he offered to see the undernurse
safely to Mr. Puckler's and back.

Mr. Bernard Puckler and his little daughter lived in a little house
in a little alley, which led out off a quiet little street not very
far from Belgrave Square. He was the great doll doctor whose extensive
practice lay in the most aristocratic quarter. He mended dolls of all
sizes and ages, boy dolls and girl dolls, baby dolls in long clothes,
grown-up dolls in fashionable gowns. He repaired talking dolls and
dumb dolls, dolls that shut their eyes when they lay down, and those
whose eyes had to be shut for them by means of a mysterious wire. His
daughter Else was only twelve years old, but she was already very
clever at mending dolls' clothes and at doing their hair--which is
harder than you might think, though the dolls sit quite still while it
is being done.

Mr. Puckler had originally been a German, but he had dissolved his
nationality in the ocean of London many years ago, like a great many
foreigners. He still had one or two German friends, however, who came
on Saturday evenings to smoke with him and play picquet or "skat" for
farthing points. They called him "Herr Doctor," which seemed to please
Mr. Puckler very much.

He looked older than he was, for his beard was rather long and
ragged, his hair was grizzled and thin, and he wore horn-rimmed
spectacles. As for Else, she was a thin, pale child--very quiet and
neat--with dark eyes and brown hair that was plaited down her back and
tied with a bit of black ribbon. She mended the dolls' clothes and
took the dolls back to their homes when they were strong again.

The house was a little one, but too big for the two people who lived
in it. There was a small sitting room facing the street, three rooms
upstairs, and the workshop was at the back. But the father and
daughter lived most of their time in the workshop, because they were
generally at work, even in the evenings.

Mr. Puckler laid Nina on the table and looked at her a long time--
until the tears began to fill his eyes behind the horn-rimmed
spectacles. He was a very sensitive man who often fell in love with
the dolls he mended, and who found it hard to part with them when they
had smiled at him for a few days. They were real little people to him,
with characters and thoughts and feelings of their own and he was very
tender with them all. But some attracted him especially from the
first, and when they were brought to him maimed and injured, their
state seemed so pitiful to him that the tears came easily. You must
remember that he had lived among dolls during a great part of his
life, and understood them.

"How do you know that they feel nothing?" he went on to say to Else.
"You must be gentle with them. It costs nothing to be kind to the
little beings, and perhaps it makes a difference to them."

And Else understood him, because she was a child, and she knew that
she was more to him than all the dolls.

He fell in love with Nina at first sight, perhaps because her
beautiful brown glass eyes were something like Else's, and he loved
Else first and best, with all his heart. And, besides, it was a very
sorrowful case.

Nina had not been long in the world. Her complexion was perfect, her
hair was smooth where it should be smooth, curly where it should be
curly, and her silk clothes were perfectly new. But across her face
was that frightful gash, like a sabre cut, deep and shadowy within,
but clean and sharp at the edges. When he tenderly pressed her head to
close the gaping wound, the edges made a fine grating sound that was
painful to hear, and the lids of the dark eyes quivered and trembled
as though Nina were suffering dreadfully.

"Poor Nina!" he exclaimed sorrowfully. "I shall not hurt you much,
but you will take a long time to get strong."

He always asked the names of the broken dolls when they were brought
to him. Sometimes the people knew what the children called them, and
told him. He liked "Nina" for a name. Altogether and in every way she
pleased him more than any doll he had seen for many years, and he felt
drawn to her. He made up his mind to make her perfectly strong and
sound, no matter how much labor it might cost him.

Mr. Puckler worked patiently a little at a time while Else watched
him. She could do nothing for poor Nina, whose clothes needed no
mending. The longer the doll doctor worked, the more fond he became of
the yellow hair and the beautiful brown glass eyes. He sometimes
forgot all the other dolls that were waiting to be mended, lying side
by side on a shelf, and sat for an hour gazing at Nina's face while he
racked his ingenuity for some new invention by which to hide even the
smallest trace of the terrible accident.

Eventually she was wonderfully mended. Even he was obliged to admit
that. All the conditions had been most favorable for a cure, since the
cement had set quite hard at the first attempt and the weather had
been fine and dry, which makes a great difference in a dolls'
hospital. But the scar---a very fine line right across the face,
downwards from right to left--was still visible to his keen eyes.

At last he knew that he could do no more, and the undernurse had
already come twice to see whether the job was finished, as she
coarsely expressed it.

"Nina is not quite strong yet," Mr. Puckler had answered each time,
for he could not make up his mind to face the parting.

And-now he sat before the square table at which he worked. Nina lay
before him for the last time with a big brown paper box beside her. It
stood there like her coffin, waiting for her, he thought. At the
thought of placing her into it, laying tissue paper over her dear
face, putting on the lid, and tying the string, his sight was dim with
tears again. He was never to look into the glassy depths of the
beautiful brown eyes anymore nor to hear the little wooden voice say
"Pa-pa" and "Ma-ma." It was a very painful moment.

In the vain hope of gaining time before the separation, he took up
the little sticky bottles of cement, glue, gum and colour, looking at
each one in turn, and then at Nina's face. And all his small tools lay
there, neatly arranged in a row, but he knew that he could not use
them again for Nina. She was quite strong at last, and in a country
where there should be no cruel children to hurt her, she might live a
hundred years with only that almost imperceptible line across her face
to tell of the fearful thing that had befallen her on the marble steps
of Cranston House.

Suddenly Mr. Puckler's heart was quite full, and he rose abruptly
from his seat and turned away.

"Else," he said unsteadily, "you must do it for me. I cannot bear to
see her go into the box." So he went and stood at the window with his
back turned, while Else did what he had not the heart to do.

"Is it done?" he asked, not turning round. "Then take her away, my
dear. Put on your hat, and take her to Cranston House quickly. When
you are gone I will turn round."

Else was used to her father's queer ways with the dolls, and though
she had never seen him so much moved by a parting, she was not much

"Come back quickly," he said, when he heard her hand on the latch.
"It is growing late. I should not send you at this hour. But I cannot
bear to look forward to it any more."

When Else was gone, he left the window and sat down in his place
before the table again, to wait for the child to come back. He touched
the place where Nina had lain, very gently, and he recalled the softly
tinted pink face, the glass eyes, and the ringlets of yellow hair,
till he could almost see them.

The evenings were long, for it was late in the spring, but it began
to grow dark soon and Else had not come back. She had been gone an
hour and a half, much longer than he had expected, for it was barely
half a mile from Belgrave Square to Cranston House. He reasoned that
the child might have been kept waiting, but as the twilight deepened
he grew anxious and walked up and down in the dim workshop, no longer
thinking of Nina, but of Else, his own living child, whom he loved.

An undefinable, disquieting sensation came upon him by fine degrees,
a chilliness and a faint stirring of his thin hair, joined with a wish
to be in any company rather than to be alone much longer. It was the
beginning of fear.

He told himself in strong German-English that he was a foolish old
man and began to feel about for the matches in the dusk. He knew just
where they should be, for he always kept them in the same place, close
to the little tin box that held bits of sealing wax of various colours
for some kinds of mending. But somehow he could not find the matches
in the gloom.

Something had happened to Else, he was sure. As his fear increased,
he felt as though it might be allayed if he could get a light and see
what time it was. He called himself a foolish old man again and the
sound of his own voice startled him in the dark. He could not find the

The window was grey. Still, he thought he might see what time it was
if he went close to it. He could go and get matches out of the
cupboard afterwards. He stood back from the table, to get out of the
way of the chair, and began to cross the board floor.

He stopped. Something was following him in the dark. There was a
small pattering, as of tiny feet, upon the boards. He stopped and
listened as the roots of his hair tingled. It was nothing. He was a
foolish old man he thought. Then he made two steps more and he was
sure that he heard the little pattering again. He turned his back to
the window, leaning against the sash until the panes began to crack,
and he faced the dark. Everything was quite still and it smelt of
paste and cement and wood filings as usual.

"Is that you, Else?" he asked, and he was surprised by the fear in
his voice.

There was no answer in the room, and he held up his watch and tried
to make out what time it was by the grey dusk that was just not quite
darkness. So far as he could see, it was within two or three minutes
often o'clock. He had been a long time alone. He was shocked, and
frightened for Else, out in London so late. He ran across the room to
the door and as he fumbled for the latch, he distinctly heard the
running of little feet after him.

"Mice!" he exclaimed feebly, just as he got the door open. He shut
it quickly behind him, feeling as though some cold thing had settled
on his back and was writhing upon him. The passage was quite dark, but
he found his hat and was out in the alley in a moment--breathing more
freely--and surprised to find how much light there still was in the
open air. He could see the pavement clearly under his feet, and far
off in the street to which the alley led, he could hear the laughter
and calls of children playing some game out of doors. He wondered how
he could have been so nervous and for an instant he thought of going
back into the house to wait quietly for Else, but instantly he felt
that nervous fright of something stealing over him again. In any case
it was better to walk up to Cranston House and ask the servants about
the child. One of the women had perhaps taken a fancy to her, and was
even now giving her tea and cake.

He walked quickly to Belgrave Square, and then up the broad streets,
listening as he went---whenever there was no other sound--for the tiny
footsteps. But he heard nothing and was laughing at himself when he
rang the servants' bell at the big house. Of course, the child must be

The person who opened the door was quite an inferior person, for it
was a back door, but affected the manners of the front while staring
superciliously at Mr. Puckler under the strong light. "No little girl
had been seen," he said and he knew "nothing about no dolls."

"She is my little girl," said Mr. Puckler tremulously, for all his
anxiety was returning tenfold, "and I am afraid something has

The inferior person said rudely that "nothing could have happened to
her in that house, because she had not been there." Mr. Puckler was
obliged to admit that the man ought to know, as it was his business to
keep the door and let people in, still he wished to be allowed to
speak to the undernurse, who knew him. But the man was ruder than
ever, and finally shut the door in his face.

When the doll doctor was alone in the street, he steadied himself by
the railing, for he felt as though he were breaking in two--just as
some dolls break--in the middle of the backbone.

Presently he knew that he must be doing something to find Else, and
that gave him strength. He began to walk as quickly as he could
through the streets, following every highway and byway which his
little girl might have taken on her errand. He also asked several
policemen in vain if they had seen her. Most of them answered him
kindly, for they saw that he was a sober man, in his right senses, and
some of them had little girls of their own.

It was one o'clock in the morning when he returned to his own door,
worn out, hopeless and broken-hearted. As he turned the key in the
lock, his heart stood still, for he knew that he was awake and had not
been dreaming. He had really heard those tiny footsteps pattering to
meet him inside the house along the passage. But he was too unhappy to
be much frightened any more, and his heart was a dull regular pain,
that found its way all through him with every pulse. Sadly he went in,
hung up his hat in the dark, and found the matches in the cupboard and
the candlestick in its place in the corner.

Mr. Puckler was so overcome and so completely worn out that he sat
down in his chair before the work table and almost fainted; his face
dropped forward upon his folded hands. Beside him the solitary candle
burned steadily with a low flame in the still warm air.

"Else! Else!" he moaned against his yellow knuckles. It was all he
could say, but it was of no relief to him. On the contrary, the very
sound of her name was a new and sharp pain that pierced his ears and
his head and his very soul. For every time he repeated her name it
meant that little Else was dead, somewhere out in the streets of
London in the dark.

He was so terribly hurt that he did not even feel something pulling
gently at the skirt of his old coat, so gently that it was like the
nibbling of a tiny mouse. He might have thought that it was really a
mouse if he had noticed it.

"Else! Else!" he groaned against his hands. Then a cool breath
stirred his thin hair and the low flame of the one candle dropped down
almost to a mere spark, not flickering as though a draught were going
to blow it out, but just dropping down as if it were tired out. Mr.
Puckler felt his hands stiffening with fright. Then he heard a faint
rustling sound, like some small silk thing blown in a gentle breeze.
He sat up straight, stark and scared, as a small wooden voice spoke in
the stillness.

"Pa-pa," it said, with a break between the syllables.

Mr. Puckler stood up in a single jump. His chair fell over backwards
with a smashing noise upon the wooden floor. The candle had almost
gone out.

It was Nina's doll voice that had spoken. He would have known it
among the voices of a hundred other dolls, yet there was something
more in it, a little human ring with a pitiful cry, a call for help,
and the wail of a hurt child. Mr. Puckler stood up, stark and stiff,
and tried to look round, but at first he could not, for he seemed to
be frozen from head to foot.

He made a great effort and raised one hand to each of his temples to
press his own head around as he would have turned a doll's. The candle
was burning so low that it might as well have been out altogether. The
room seemed quite dark at first, then he saw something. He would not
have believed that he could be more frightened than he had been just
before, but he was. His knees shook, for he saw Nina the doll,
standing in the middle of the floor. She was shining with a faint and
ghostly radiance. Her beautiful glassy brown eyes fixed on his. And
across her face the very thin line of the break he had mended shone as
though it were drawn in light with a fine point of white flame.

But there was something more in the eyes, something human, like
Else's, but as if only the doll saw him through them, and not Else.
Still there was enough of Else to bring back all his pain and to make
him forget his fear.

"Else! my little Else!" he cried aloud.

The small ghost moved. Its doll arm slowly rose and fell with a
stiff, mechanical motion. "Pa-pa," it said.

It seemed this time that there was even more of Else's tone echoing
somewhere between the wooden notes that reached his ears so
distinctly, and yet so far away. Else was calling him, he was sure.

His face was perfectly white in the gloom, but his knees did not
shake any more. He felt that he was less frightened.

"Yes, child! But where? Where?" he asked. "Where are you, Else?"


The syllables died away in the quiet room. There was a low rustling
of silk, the glassy brown eyes turned slowly away, and Mr. Puckler
heard the pitter-patter of the small feet in the bronze kid slippers
as the figure ran straight to the door. The candle burned high again.
The room was full of light, and he was alone.

Mr. Puckler passed his hand over his eyes and looked about him. He
could see everything quite clearly and he felt that he must have been
dreaming, though he was standing instead of sitting down, as he should
have been if he had just awakened. The candle burned brightly now.
There on the shelf were the dolls to be mended, lying in a row with
their toes up. The third one had lost her right shoe, and Else had
been making a new one.

He knew that. He certainly was not dreaming now. And he had not been
dreaming when he had come in from his fruitless search and had heard
the doll's footsteps running to the door. He had not fallen asleep in
his chair. How could he possibly have fallen asleep when his heart was
breaking? He had been awake all the time.

He steadied himself, set the fallen chair upon its legs, and said to
himself again, very emphatically, that he was a foolish old man. He
ought to be out in the streets looking for his child, asking
questions, and inquiring at the police stations where all accidents
were reported as soon as they were known, or at the hospitals.


The longing, wailing, pitiful little wooden cry rang from the
passage outside the door. Mr. Puckler stood for an instant, his white
face transfixed and rooted to the spot. A moment later his hand was on
the latch. Then he was in the passage, with the light streaming from
the open door behind him.

Quite at the other end he saw the little phantom shining clearly in
the shadow. The right hand seemed to beckon to him as it rose and fell
once more. He knew all at once that it had not come to frighten him
but to lead him. When it disappeared and he walked boldly towards the
door, he knew that it was in the street outside waiting for him. He
forgot that he was tired and had eaten no supper, and had walked many
miles, for a sudden hope ran through him, like a golden stream of

And sure enough, at the corner of the alley, at the corner of the
street, and out in Belgrave Square, he saw the small ghost flitting
before him. Sometimes it was only a shadow, where there was other
light, but then the glare of the lamps made a pale green sheen on its
little Mother Hubbard frock of silk; and sometimes, where the streets
were dark and silent, the whole figure shone out brightly with its
yellow curls and rosy neck. It seemed to trot along like a tiny child.
Mr. Puckler could almost hear the pattering of the bronze kid slippers
on the pavement as it ran. It went so very fast that he could only
just keep up with it, tearing along with his hat on the back of his
head and his thin hair blown by the night breeze; his horn-rimmed
spectacles firmly set upon his broad nose.

On and on he went with no idea where he was. He did not even care,
for he knew certainly that he was going the right way. Then at last,
in a wide, quiet street, he was standing before a big, sober-looking
door that had two lamps on each side of it, and a polished brass
bellhandle, which he pulled.

Just inside, when the door was opened, in the bright light, there
was the pale green sheen of the little silk dress, and once more the
small cry came to his ears, less pitiful, more longing.


The shadow turned suddenly bright, and out of the brightness the
beautiful brown glass eyes were turned up happily to his, while the
rosy mouth smiled so divinely that the phantom doll looked almost like
a little angel.

"A little girl was brought in soon after ten o'clock," said the
quiet voice of the hospital doorkeeper. "I think they thought she was
only stunned. She was holding a big brown paper box against her, they
could not get it out of her arms, and she had a long plait of brown
hair that hung down as they carried her."

"She is my little girl," said Mr. Puckler, but he hardly heard his
own voice.

He leaned over Else's face in the gentle light of the children's
ward, and when he had stood there a minute the beautiful brown eyes
opened and looked up to his.

"Pa-pa!" cried Else, softly, "I knew you would come!"

Mr. Puckler did not know what he did or said for a moment and what
he felt was worth all the fear and terror and despair that had almost
killed him that night. But by and by Else was telling her story, and
the nurse let her speak, for there were only two other children in the
room, who were getting well and were sound asleep.

"They were big boys with bad faces," said Else, "and they tried to
get Nina away from me, but I held on and fought as well as I could
till one of them hit me with something. I don't remember any more, for
I tumbled down. I suppose the boys ran away and somebody found me
there, but I'm afraid Nina is all smashed."

"Here is the box," said the nurse. "We could not take it out of her
arms till she came to herself. Would you like to see if the doll is

She undid the string quickly. There Nina lay, all smashed to pieces,
but the gentle light of the children's ward made a pale green sheen in
the folds of her little Mother Hubbard frock.


It was a rather dim daylight dinner I remember that quite
distinctly, for I could see the glow of the sunset over the trees in
the park, through the high window at the west end of the dining-room.
I had expected to find a larger party, I believe, for I recollect
being a little surprised at seeing only a dozen people assembled at
table. It seemed to me that in old times, ever so long ago, when I had
last stayed in that house, there had been as many as thirty or forty
guests. I recognized some of them among a number of beautiful
portraits that hung on the walls. There was room for a great many
because there was only one huge window, at one end, and one large door
at the other. I was very much surprised, too, to see a portrait of
myself, evidently painted about twenty years ago by Lenbach. It seemed
very strange that I should have so completely forgotten the picture,
and that I should not be able to remember having sat for it. We were
good friends, it is true, and he might have painted it from memory,
without my knowledge, but it was certainly strange that he should
never have told me about it. The portraits that hung in the dining-
room were all very good indeed and all, I should say, by the best
painters of that time.

My left-hand neighbor was a lovely young girl whose name I had
forgotten, though I had known her long, and I fancied that she looked
a little disappointed when she saw that I was beside her. On my right
there was a vacant seat, and beyond it sat an elderly woman with
features as hard as the overwhelmingly splendid diamonds she wore. Her
eyes made me think of grey glass marbles cemented into a stone mask.
It was odd that her name should have escaped me, too, for I had often
met her.

The table looked irregular, and I counted the guests mechanically
while I ate my soup. We were only twelve, but the empty chair beside
me was the thirteenth place.

I suppose it was not very tactful of me to mention this, but I
wanted to say something to the beautiful girl on my left, and no other
subject for a general remark suggested itself. Just as I was going to
speak I remembered who she was.

"Miss Lorna," I said, to attract her attention, for she was looking
away from me toward the door. "I hope you are not superstitious about
there being thirteen at table, are you?"

"We are only twelve," she said, in the sweetest voice in the world.

"Yes; but some one else is coming. There's an empty chair here
beside me."

"Oh, he doesn't count," said Miss Lorna quietly. "At least, not for
everybody. When did you get here? Just in time for dinner, I suppose."

"Yes," I answered. "I'm in luck to be beside you. It seems an age
since we were last here together."

"It does indeed," Miss Lorna sighed and looked at the pictures on
the opposite wall. "I've lived a lifetime since I saw you last."

I smiled at the exaggeration. "When you are thirty, you won't talk
of having your life behind you, I said.

"I shall never be thirty," Miss Lorna answered, with such an odd
little air of conviction that I did not think of anything to say.
"Besides, life isn't made up of years or months or hours, or of
anything that has to do with time," she continued. "You ought to know
that. Our bodies are something better than mere clocks, wound up to
show just how old we are at every moment, by our hair turning grey and
our teeth falling out and our faces getting wrinkled and yellow, or
puffy and red. Look at your own portrait over there. I don't mind
saying that you must have been twenty years younger when that was
painted, but I'm sure you are just the same man today, improved by
age, perhaps."

I heard a sweet little echoing laugh that seemed very far away; and
indeed I could not have sworn that it rippled from Miss Lorna's
beautiful lips, for though they were parted and smiling, my impression
is that they did not move, even as little as most women's lips are
moved by laughter.

"Thank you for thinking me improved," I said. "I find you a little
changed, too. I was just going to say that you seem sadder, but you
laughed just then."

"Did I? I suppose that's the right thing to do when the play is
over, isn't it?"

"If it has been an amusing play," I answered, humoring her.

The wonderful violet eyes turned to me, full of light. "It's not
been a bad play. I don't complain."

"Why do you speak of it as over?"

"I'll tell you, because I'm sure you will keep my secret. You will,
won't you? We were always such good friends, you and I, even two years
ago when I was young and silly. Will you promise not to tell anyone
till I'm gone?"


"Yes. Will you promise?"

"Of course I will. But..." I did not finish the sentence, because
Miss Lorna bent nearer to me, so as to speak in a much lower tone.
While I listened, I felt her sweet young breath on my cheek. "I'm
going away tonight with the man who is to sit at your other side," she
said. "He's a little late; he often is, for he is tremendously busy;
but he'll come presently, and after dinner we shall just stroll out
into the garden and never come back. That's my secret. You won't
betray me, will you?" Again, as she looked at me, I heard that far-off
silver laugh, sweet and low--I was almost too much surprise by what
she had told me to notice how still her parted lips were, but that
comes back to me now, with many other details.

"My dear Miss Lorna," I said, "do think of your parents before
taking such a step."

"I have thought of them," she answered. "Of course they would never
consent, and I am very sorry to leave them, but it can't be helped."

At this moment, as often happens when two people are talking in low
tones at a large dinner-table, there was a momentary lull in the
general conversation, and I was spared the trouble of making any
further answer to what Miss Lorna had told me so unexpectedly, and
with such profound confidence in my discretion.

To tell the truth, she would very probably not have listened,
whether my words expressed sympathy or protest, for she had turned
suddenly pale, and her eyes were wide and dark. The lull in the talk
at table was due to the appearance of the man who was to occupy the
vacant place beside me.

He had entered the room very quietly, and he made no elaborate
apology for being late, as he sat down, bending his head courteously
to our hostess and her husband, and smiling in a gentle sort of way as
he nodded to the others.

"Please forgive me," he said quietly. "I was detained by a funeral
and missed the train."

It was not until he had taken his place that he looked across me at
Miss Lorna and exchanged a glance of recognition with her. I noticed
that the lady with the hard face and the splendid diamonds, who was at
his other side, drew away from him a little, as if not wishing even to
let his sleeve brush against her bare arm. It occurred to me at the
same time that Miss Lorna must be wishing me anywhere else than
between her and the man with whom she was just about to run away, and
I wished for their sake and mine that I could change places with him.
He was certainly not like other men, and though few people would have
called him handsome there was something about him that instantly fixed
the attention; rarely beautiful though Miss Lorna was, almost everyone
would have noticed him first on entering the room, and most people, I
think, would have been more interested by his face than by hers. I
could well imagine that some women might love him, even to
distraction, though it was just as easy to understand that others
might be strongly repelled by him, and might even fear him.

For my part, I shall not try to describe him as one describes an
ordinary man, with a dozen or so adjectives that leave nothing to the
imagination but yet offer it no picture that it can grasp. My instinct
was to fear him rather than think of him as a possible friend, but I
could not help feeling instant admiration for him, as one does at
first sight for anything that is very complete, harmonious, and
strong. He was dark, and pale with a shadowy pallor I never saw in any
other face; the features of thrice-great Hermes were not modeled in
more perfect symmetry, his luminous eyes were not unkind, but there
was something fateful in them, and they were set very deep under the
grand white brow. His age I could not guess, but I should have called
him young; standing, I had seen that he was tall and sinewy, and now
that he was seated, he had the unmistakable look of a man accustomed
to be in authority, to be heard and to be obeyed. His hands were
white, his fingers straight, lean, and very strong.

Everyone at the table seemed to know him, but as often happens among
civilized people no one called him by name in speaking to him.

"We were beginning to be afraid that you might not get here," said
our host.

"Really?" The Thirteenth Guest smiled quietly, but shook his head.
"Did you ever know me to break an engagement, under any

The master of the house laughed, though not very cordially, I
thought. "No," he answered. "Your reputation for keeping your
appointments is proverbial. Even your enemies must admit that."

The Guest nodded and smiled again. Miss Lorna bent toward me.

"What do you think of him?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"Very striking sort of man," I answered, in a low tone. "But I'm
inclined to be a little afraid of him."

"So was I, at first," she said, and I heard the silver laugh again.
"But that soon wears off," she went on. "You'll know him better some

"Shall I?"

"Yes; I'm quite sure you will. Oh, I don't pretend that I fell in
love with him at first sight. I went through a phase of feeling afraid
of him, as almost everyone does. You see, when people first meet him
they cannot possibly know how kind and gentle he can be, though he is
so tremendously strong. I've heard him called cruel and ruthless and
cold, but it's not true. Indeed it's not. He can be as gentle as a
woman, and he' s the truest friend in all the world."

I was going to ask her to tell me his name, but just then I saw that
she was looking at him, across me, and I sat as far back in my chair
as I could, so that they might speak to each other if they wished to.
Their eyes met, and there was a longing light in both. I could not
help glancing from one to the other; and Miss Lorna's sweet lips moved
almost imperceptibly, though no sound came from them. I have seen
young lovers make that small sign to each other even across a room,
the signal of a kiss given and returned in the heart's thoughts.

If she had been less beautiful and young, if the man she loved had
not been so magnificently manly, it would have irritated me, but it
seemed natural that they should love and not be ashamed of it, and I
only hoped that no one else at the table had noticed the tenderly
quivering little contraction of the young girl's exquisite mouth.

"You remembered," said the man quietly. "I got your message this
morning. Thank you."

"I hope it's not going to be very hard," murmured Miss Lorna,
smiling. "Not that it would make any great difference if it were," she
added more thoughtfully.

"It's the easiest thing in life," he said, "And I promise that you
shall never regret it."

"I trust you," the young girl answered simply.

Then she turned away, for she no doubt felt the awkwardness of
talking to him across me of a secret which she had confided to me
without letting him know that she had done so. Instinctively I turned
to him, feeling that the moment had come for disregarding formality
and making his acquaintance, since we were neighbors at table in a
friend's house and I had known Miss Lorna so long. Besides, it is
always interesting to talk with a man who is just going to do
something very dangerous or dramatic and who does not guess that you
know what he is about.

"I suppose you motored here from town, as you said you missed the
train," I said. "It's a good road, isn't it?"

"Yes, I literally flew," replied the dark man, with his gentle
smile. "I hope you're not superstitious about thirteen at table?"

"Not in the least," I answered. "In the first place, I'm a fatalist
about everything that doesn't depend on my own free will. As I have
not the slightest intention of doing anything to shorten my life, it
will certainly not come to an abrupt end by any autosuggestion arising
from a silly superstition like that about thirteen."

"Autosuggestion? That's rather a new light on the old beliefs."

"And secondly," I continued, "I don't believe in death. There is no
such thing."

"Really?" My neighbor seemed greatly surprised. "How do you mean?"
he asked. "I don't think I understand you."

"I'm sure I don't," put in Miss Lorna, and the silver laugh
followed. She had overheard the conversation, and some of the others
were listening, too.

"You don't kill a book by translating it," I said, rather glad to
expound my views. "Death is only a translation of life into another
language. That's what I mean."

"That's a most interesting point of view," observed the Thirteenth
Guest thoughtfully. "I never thought of the matter in that way before,
though I've often seen the expression 'translated' in epitaphs. Are
you sure that you are not indulging in a little paronomasia?"

"What's that?" inquired the hard-faced lady, with all the contempt
which a scholarly word deserves in polite society.

"It means punning," I answered. "No, I am not making a pun. Grave
subjects do not lend themselves to low forms of humor. I assure you, I
am quite in earnest. Death, in the ordinary sense, is not a real
phenomenon at all, so long as there is any life in the universe. It's
a name we apply to a change we only partly understand."

"Learned discussions are an awful bore," said the hard-faced lady
very audibly.

"I don't advise you to argue the question too sharply with your
neighbor there," laughed the master of the house, leaning forward and
speaking to me. "He'll get the better of you. He's an expert at what
you call 'translating people into another language.'"

If the man beside me was a famous surgeon, as our host perhaps
meant, it seemed to me that the remark was not in very good taste. He
looked more like a soldier.

"Does our friend mean that you are in the army, and that you are a
dangerous person?" I asked of him.

"No," he answered quietly. "I'm only a King's Messenger, and in my
own opinion I'm not at all dangerous."

"It must be rather an active life," I said, in order to say
something; "constantly coming and going, I suppose?"

"Yes, constantly."

I felt that Miss Lorna was watching and listening, and I turned to
her, only to find that she was again looking beyond me, at my
neighbor, though he did not see her. I remember her face very
distinctly as it was just then; the recollection is, in fact the last
impression I retain of her matchless beauty, for I never saw her after
that evening.

It is something to have seen one of the most beautiful women in the
world gazing at the man who was more to her than life and all it held,
it is something I cannot forget. But he did not return her look just
then, for he had joined in the general conversation, and very soon
afterward he practically absorbed it.


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