Uncanny Tales Part 7

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

What _could_ I say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," I said, "I shall speak to father and Phil about it to-morrow.

If any one has been trying to frighten us," I added unguardedly, "by playing tricks, they certainly must be exposed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head.

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

But in his turn Philip shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father looked very blank indeed.

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

"You can easily replace us," said my brother, "I have thought of that,"

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

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

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

She glanced at me with a peculiar expression. I had not observed it.

Now, looking up, I saw that the two locked doors were visible in the dark polish of their old mahogany as of yore--no longer shrouded by the ancient _portieres_. I started in surprise.

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

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

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

"MY DEAR LEILA,

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

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

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

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

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