STEPPING BACKWARDS
Wonderful improvement,” said Mr. Jack Mills. “Show ‘em to me again.”
Mr. Simpson took his pipe from his mouth and, parting his lips, revealed his new teeth.
“And you talk better,” said Mr. Mills, taking his glass from the counter and emptying it; “you ain’t got that silly lisp you used to have. What does your missis think of ‘em?”
“She hasn’t seen ‘em yet,” said the other. “I had ‘em put in at dinner-time. I ate my dinner with ‘em.”
Mr. Mills expressed his admiration. “If it wasn’t for your white hair and whiskers you’d look thirty again,” he said, slowly. “How old are you?”
“Fifty-three,” said his friend. “If it wasn’t for being laughed at I’ve often thought of having my whiskers shaved off and my hair dyed black. People think I’m sixty.”
“Or seventy,” continued Mr. Mills. “What does it matter, people laughing? You’ve got a splendid head of ‘air, and it would dye beautiful.”
Mr. Simpson shook his head and, ordering a couple of glasses of bitter, attacked his in silence.
“It might be done gradual,” he said, after a long interval. “It don’t do anybody good at the warehouse to look old.”
“Make a clean job of it,” counselled Mr. Mills, who was very fond of a little cheap excitement. “Get it over and done with. You’ve got good features, and you’d look splendid clean-shaved.” Mr. Simpson smiled faintly. “Only on Wednesday the barmaid here was asking after you,” pursued Mr. Mills. Mr. Simpson smiled again. “She says to me, ‘Where’s Gran’pa?’ she says, and when I says, haughty like, ‘Who do you mean?’ she says, ‘Father Christmas!’ If you was to tell her that you are only fifty-three, she’d laugh in your face.”
“Let her laugh,” said the other, sourly.
“Come out and get it off,” said Mr. Mills, earnestly. “There’s a barber’s in Bird Street; you could go in the little back room, where he charges a penny more, and get it done without anybody being a bit the wiser.”
He put his hand on Mr. Simpson’s shoulder, and that gentleman, with a glare in the direction of the fair but unconscious offender, rose in a hypnotized fashion and followed him out. Twice on the way to Bird Street Mr. Simpson paused and said he had altered his mind, and twice did the propulsion of Mr. Mills’s right hand, and his flattering argument, make him alter it again.
It was a matter of relief to Mr. Simpson that the barber took his instructions without any show of surprise. It appeared, indeed, that an elderly man of seventy-eight had enlisted his services for a similar purpose not two months before, and had got married six weeks afterwards. Age of the bride given as twenty-four, but said to have looked older.
A snip of the scissors, and six inches of white beard fell to the floor. For the first time in thirty years Mr. Simpson felt a razor on his face. Then his hair was cut and shampooed; and an hour later he sat gazing at a dark-haired, clean-shaven man in the glass who gazed back at him with wondering eyes—a lean-jawed, good-looking man, who, in a favourable light, might pass for forty. He turned and met the admiring eyes of Mr. Mills.
“What did I tell you?” inquired the latter. “You look young enough to be your own son.”
“Or grandson,” said the barber, with professional pride.
Mr. Simpson got up slowly from the chair and, accompanied by the admiring Mr. Mills, passed out into the street. The evening was young, and, at his friend’s suggestion, they returned to the Plume of Feathers.
“You give the order,” said Mr. Mills, “and see whether she recognizes you.”
Mr. Simpson obeyed.
“Don’t you know him?” inquired Mr. Mills, as the barmaid turned away.
“I don’t think I have that pleasure,” said the girl, simpering.
“Gran’pa’s eldest boy,” said Mr. Mills.
“Oh!” said the girl. “Well, I hope he’s a better man than his father, then?”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Mr. Simpson, painfully conscious of his friend’s regards.
“Nothing,” said the girl, “nothing. Only we can all be better, can’t we? He’s a nice old gentleman; so simple.”
“Don’t know you from Adam,” said Mr. Mills, as she turned away. “Now, if you ask me, I don’t believe as your own missis will recognize you.”
“Rubbish,” said Mr. Simpson. “My wife would know me anywhere. We’ve been married over thirty years. Thirty years of sunshine and shadow together. You’re a single man, and don’t understand these things.”
“P’r’aps you’re right,” said his friend. “But it’ll be a bit of a shock to her, anyway. What do you say to me stepping round and breaking the news to her? It’s a bit sudden, you know. She’s expecting a white-haired old gentleman, not a black-haired boy.”
Mr. Simpson looked a bit uneasy. “P’r’aps I ought to have told her first,” he murmured, craning his neck to look in the glass at the back of the bar.
“I’ll go and put it right for you,” said his friend. “You stay here and smoke your pipe.”
He stepped out briskly, but his pace slackened as he drew near the house.
“I—I—came—to see you about your husband,” he faltered, as Mrs. Simpson opened the door and stood regarding him.
“What’s the matter?” she exclaimed, with a faint cry. “What’s happened to him?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Mills, hastily. “Nothing serious, that is. I just came round to warn you so that you will be able to know it’s him.”
Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his ears tingling. Then, steadying herself by the wall, she tottered into the front room, followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and sank into a chair.
“He’s dead!” she sobbed. “He’s dead!”
“He is not,” said Mr. Mills.
“Is he much hurt? Is he dying?” gasped Mrs. Simpson.
“Only his hair,” said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. “He is not hurt at all.”
Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes-and sat regarding him in bewilderment. Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes were beginning to harden. “What are you talking about?” she inquired, in a raspy voice.
“He’s been to a hairdresser’s,” said Mr. Mills. “He’s ‘ad all his white whiskers cut off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. And, what with that and his new teeth, I thought—he thought—p’r’aps you mightn’t know him when he came home.”
“Dyed?” cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to her feet.
Mr. Mills nodded. “He looks twenty years younger,” he said, with a smile. “He’d pass for his own son anywhere.”
Mrs. Simpson’s eyes snapped. “Perhaps he’d pass for my son,” she remarked.
“Yes, easy,” said the tactful Mr. Mills. “You can’t think what a difference it’s made to him. That’s why I came to see you—so you shouldn’t be startled.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Simpson. “I’m much obliged. But you might have spared yourself the trouble. I should know my husband anywhere.”
“Ah, that’s what you think,” retorted Mr. Mills, with a smile; “but the barmaid at the Plume didn’t. That’s what made me come to you.”
Mrs. Simpson gazed at him.
“I says to myself,” continued Mr. Mills, “‘If she don’t know him, I’m certain his missis won’t, and I’d better–’”
“You’d better go,” interrupted his hostess.
Mr. Mills started, and then, with much dignity, stalked after her to the door.
“As to your story, I don’t believe a word of it,” said Mrs. Simpson. “Whatever else my husband is, he isn’t a fool, and he’d no more think of cutting off his whiskers and dyeing his hair than you would of telling the truth.”
“Seeing is believing,” said the offended Mr. Mills, darkly.
“I’ll wait till I do see, and then I sha’n’t believe,” was the reply. “It is a put-up job between you and some other precious idiot, I expect. But you can’t deceive me. If your black-haired friend comes here, he’ll get it, I can tell you.”
She slammed the door on his protests and, returning to the parlour, gazed fiercely into the glass on the mantelpiece. It reflected sixteen stone of honest English womanhood, a thin wisp of yellowish-grey hair, and a pair of faded eyes peering through clumsy spectacles.
“Son, indeed!” she said, her lips quivering. “You wait till you come home, my lord!”
Mr. Simpson, with some forebodings, returned home an hour later. To a man who loved peace and quietness the report of the indignant Mr. Mills was not of a reassuring nature. He hesitated on the doorstep for a few seconds while he fumbled for his key, and then, humming unconcernedly, hung his hat in the passage and walked into the parlour.
The astonished scream of his wife warned him that Mr. Mills had by no means exaggerated. She rose from her seat and, crouching by the fireplace, regarded him with a mixture of anger and dismay.
“It—it’s all right, Milly,” said Mr. Simpson, with a smile that revealed a dazzling set of teeth.
“Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Simpson. “How dare you call me by my Christian name. It’s a good job for you my husband is not here.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me,” said Mr. Simpson, with an attempt at facetiousness. “He’s the best friend I ever had. Why, we slept in the same cradle.”
“I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mrs. Simpson. “You get out of my house before I send for the police. How dare you come into a respectable woman’s house in this fashion? Be off with you.”
“Now, look here, Milly–” began Mr. Simpson.
His wife drew herself up to her full height of four feet eleven.
“I’ve had a hair-cut and a shave,” pursued her husband; “also I’ve had my hair restored to its natural colour. But I’m the same man, and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the kind,” said his wife, doggedly. “I don’t know you from Adam. I’ve never seen you before, and I don’t want to see you again. You go away.”
“I’m your husband, and my place is at home,” replied Mr. Simpson. “A man can have a shave if he likes, can’t he? Where’s my supper?”
“Go on,” said his wife. “Keep it up. But be careful my husband don’t come in and catch you, that’s all.”
Mr. Simpson gazed at her fixedly, and then, with an impatient exclamation, walked into the small kitchen and began to set the supper. A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, butter, and cheese made an appetizing display. Then he took a jug from the dresser and descended to the cellar.
A musical trickling fell on the ear of Mrs. Simpson as she stood at the parlour door, and drew her stealthily to the cellar. The key was in the lock, and, with a sudden movement, she closed the door and locked it. A sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his discomfiture.
“Now I’m off for the police,” cried his wife.
“Don’t be a fool,” shouted Mr. Simpson, tugging wildly at the door-handle. “Open the door.”
Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her husband resumed his efforts until the door-knob, unused to such treatment, came off in his hand. A sudden scrambling noise on the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he had not pulled it off intentionally.
She stood for a few moments, considering. It was a stout door and opened inwards. She took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen and, walking softly to the street-door, set off to lay the case before a brother who lived a few doors away.
“Poor old Bill,” said Mr. Cooper, when she had finished. “Still, it might be worse; he’s got the barrel o’ beer with him.”
“It’s not Bill,” said Mrs. Simpson.
Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and looked at his wife.
“She ought to know,” said the latter. “We’ll come and have a look at him,” said Mr. Cooper.
Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him dubiously.
“Come in and have a bit of supper,” she said at last. “There’s a nice piece of beef and pickles.”
“And Bill—I mean the stranger—sitting on the beer-barrel,” said Mr. Cooper, gloomily.
“You can bring your beer with you,” said his sister, sharply. “Come along.”
Mr. Cooper grinned, and, placing a couple of bottles in his coat pockets, followed the two ladies to the house. Seated at the kitchen table, he grinned again, as a persistent drumming took place on the cellar door. His wife smiled, and a faint, sour attempt in the same direction appeared on the face of Mrs. Simpson.
“Open the door!” bellowed an indignant voice. “Open the door!”
Mrs. Simpson, commanding silence with an uplifted finger, proceeded to carve the beef. A rattle of knives and forks succeeded.
“O-pen-the-door!” said the voice again.
“Not so much noise,” commanded Mr. Cooper. “I can’t hear myself eat.”
“Bob!” said the voice, in relieved accents, “Bob! Come and let me out.”
Mr. Cooper, putting a huge hand over his mouth, struggled nobly with his feelings.
“Who are you calling ‘Bob’?” he demanded, in an unsteady voice. “You keep yourself to yourself. I’ve heard all about you. You’ve got to stay there till my brother-in-law comes home.”
“It’s me, Bob,” said Mr. Simpson—“Bill.”
“Yes, I dare say,” said Mr. Cooper; “but if you’re Bill, why haven’t you got Bill’s voice?”
“Let me out and look at me,” said Mr. Simpson.
There was a faint scream from both ladies, followed by protests.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Cooper, reassuringly. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I don’t want to get a crack over the head.”
“It’s all a mistake, Bob,” said the prisoner, appealingly. “I just had a shave and a haircut and—and a little hair-dye. If you open the door you’ll know me at once.”
“How would it be,” said Mr. Cooper, turning to his sister, and speaking with unusual distinctness—“how would it be if you opened the door, and just as he put his head out I hit it a crack with the poker?”
“You try it on,” said the voice behind the door, hotly. “You know who I am well enough, Bob Cooper. I don’t want any more of your nonsense. Milly has put you up to this!”
“If your wife don’t know you, how do you think I can?” said Mr. Cooper. “Now, look here; you keep quiet till my brother-in-law comes home. If he don’t come home perhaps we shall be more likely to think you’re him. If he’s not home by to-morrow morning we—Hsh! Hsh! Don’t you know there’s ladies present?”
“That settles it,” said Mrs. Cooper, speaking for the first time. “My brother-in-law would never talk like that.”
“I should never forgive him if he did,” said her husband, piously.
He poured himself out another glass of beer and resumed his supper with relish. Conversation turned on the weather, and from that to the price of potatoes. Frantic efforts on the part of the prisoner to join in the conversation and give it a more personal turn were disregarded. Finally he began to kick with monotonous persistency on the door.
“Stop it!” shouted Mr. Cooper.
“I won’t,” said Mr. Simpson.
The noise became unendurable. Mr. Cooper, who had just lit his pipe, laid it on the table and looked round at his companions.
“He’ll have the door down soon,” he said, rising. “Halloa, there!”
“Halloa!” said the other.
“You say you’re Bill Simpson,” said Mr. Cooper, holding up a forefinger at Mrs. Simpson, who was about to interrupt. “If you are, tell us something you know that only you could know; something we know, so as to identify you. Things about your past.”
A strange noise sounded behind the door.
“Sounds as though he is smacking his lips,” said Mrs. Cooper to her sister-in-law, who was eyeing Mr. Cooper restlessly.
“Very good,” said Mr. Simpson; “I agree. Who is there?”
“Me and my wife and Mrs. Simpson,” said Mr. Cooper.
“He is smacking his lips,” whispered Mrs. Cooper. “Having a go at the beer, perhaps.”
“Let’s go back fifteen years,” said Mr. Simpson in meditative tones. “Do you remember that girl with copper-coloured hair that used to live in John Street?”
“No!” said Mr. Cooper, loudly and suddenly.
“Do you remember coming to me one day—two days after Valentine Day, it was—white as chalk and shaking like a leaf, and—”
“NO!” roared Mr. Cooper.
“Very well, I must try something else, then,” said Mr. Simpson, philosophically. “Carry your mind back ten years, Bob Cooper—”
“Look here!” said Mr. Cooper, turning round with a ghastly smile. “We’d better get off home, Mary. I don’t like interfering in other people’s concerns. Never did.”
“You stay where you are,” said his wife.
“Ten years,” repeated the voice behind the door. “There was a new barmaid at the Crown, and one night you–”
“If I listen to any more of this nonsense I shall burst,” remarked Mr. Cooper, plaintively.
“Go on,” prompted Mrs. Cooper, grimly. “One night–”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Simpson. “It doesn’t matter. But does he identify me? Because if not I’ve got a lot more things I can try.”
The harassed Mr. Cooper looked around appealingly.
“How do you expect me to recognize you—” he began, and stopped suddenly.
“Go back to your courting days, then,” said Mr. Simpson, “when Mrs. Cooper wasn’t Mrs. Cooper, but only wanted to be.”
Mrs. Cooper shivered; so did Mr. Cooper.
“And you came round to me for advice,” pursued Mr. Simpson, in reminiscent accents, “because there was another girl you wasn’t sure of, and you didn’t want to lose them both. Do you remember sitting with the two photographs—one on each knee—and trying to make up your mind?”
“Wonderful imagination,” said Mr. Cooper, smiling in a ghastly fashion at his wife. “Hark at him!”
“I am harking,” said Mrs. Cooper.
“Am I Bill Simpson or am I not?” demanded Mr. Simpson.
“Bill was always fond of his joke,” said Mr. Cooper, with a glance at the company that would have moved an oyster. “He was always fond of making up things. You’re like him in that. What do you think, Milly?”
“It’s not my husband,” said Mrs. Simpson.
“Tell us something about her,” said Mr. Cooper, hastily.
“I daren’t,” said Mr. Simpson. “Doesn’t that prove I’m her husband? But I’ll tell you things about your wife, if you like.”
“You dare!” said Mrs. Cooper, turning crimson, as she realized what confidences might have passed between husband and wife. “If you say a word of your lies about me, I don’t know what I won’t do to you.”
“Very well, I must go on about Bob, then—till he recognizes me,” said Mr. Simpson, patiently. “Carry your mind—”
“Open the door and let him out,” shouted Mr. Cooper, turning to his sister. “How can I recognize a man through a deal door?”
Mrs. Simpson, after a little hesitation, handed him the key, and the next moment her husband stepped out and stood blinking in the gas-light.
“Do you recognize me?” he asked, turning to Mr. Cooper.
“I do,” said that gentleman, with a ferocious growl.
“I’d know you anywhere,” said Mrs. Cooper, with emphasis.
“And you?” said Mr. Simpson, turning to his wife.
“You’re not my husband,” she said, obstinately.
“Are you sure?” inquired Mr. Cooper.
“Certain.”
“Very good, then,” said her brother. “If he’s not your husband I’m going to knock his head off for telling them lies about me.”
He sprang forward and, catching Mr. Simpson by the collar, shook him violently until his head banged against the dresser. The next moment the hands of Mrs. Simpson were in the hair of Mr. Cooper.
“How dare you knock my husband about!” she screamed, as Mr. Cooper let go and caught her fingers. “You’ve hurt him.”
“Concussion, I think,” said Mr. Simpson, with great presence of mind.
His wife helped him to a chair and, wetting her handkerchief at the tap, tenderly bathed the dyed head. Mr. Cooper, breathing hard, stood by watching until his wife touched him on the arm.
“You come off home,” she said, in a hard voice. “You ain’t wanted. Are you going to stay here all night?”
“I should like to,” said Mr. Cooper, wistfully.
THE THREE SISTERS
Thirty years ago on a wet autumn evening the household of Mallett’s Lodge was gathered round the death-bed of Ursula Mallow, the eldest of the three sisters who inhabited it. The dingy moth-eaten curtains of the old wooden bedstead were drawn apart, the light of a smoking oil-lamp falling upon the hopeless countenance of the dying woman as she turned her dull eyes upon her sisters. The room was in silence except for an occasional sob from the youngest sister, Eunice. Outside the rain fell steadily over the steaming marshes.
“Nothing is to be changed, Tabitha,” gasped Ursula to the other sister, who bore a striking likeness to her although her expression was harder and colder; “this room is to be locked up and never opened.”
“Very well,” said Tabitha brusquely, “though I don’t see how it can matter to you then.”
“It does matter,” said her sister with startling energy. “How do you know, how do I know that I may not sometimes visit it? I have lived in this house so long I am certain that I shall see it again. I will come back. Come back to watch over you both and see that no harm befalls you.”
“You are talking wildly,” said Tabitha, by no means moved at her sister’s solicitude for her welfare. “Your mind is wandering; you know that I have no faith in such things.”
Ursula sighed, and beckoning to Eunice, who was weeping silently at the bedside, placed her feeble arms around her neck and kissed her.
“Do not weep, dear,” she said feebly. “Perhaps it is best so. A lonely woman’s life is scarce worth living. We have no hopes, no aspirations; other women have had happy husbands and children, but we in this forgotten place have grown old together. I go first, but you must soon follow.”
Tabitha, comfortably conscious of only forty years and an iron frame, shrugged her shoulders and smiled grimly.
“I go first,” repeated Ursula in a new and strange voice as her heavy eyes slowly closed, “but I will come for each of you in turn, when your lease of life runs out. At that moment I will be with you to lead your steps whither I now go.”
As she spoke the flickering lamp went out suddenly as though extinguished by a rapid hand, and the room was left in utter darkness. A strange suffocating noise issued from the bed, and when the trembling women had relighted the lamp, all that was left of Ursula Mallow was ready for the grave.
That night the survivors passed together. The dead woman had been a firm believer in the existence of that shadowy borderland which is said to form an unhallowed link between the living and the dead, and even the stolid Tabitha, slightly unnerved by the events of the night, was not free from certain apprehensions that she might have been right.
With the bright morning their fears disappeared. The sun stole in at the window, and seeing the poor earth-worn face on the pillow so touched it and glorified it that only its goodness and weakness were seen, and the beholders came to wonder how they could ever have felt any dread of aught so calm and peaceful. A day or two passed, and the body was transferred to a massive coffin long regarded as the finest piece of work of its kind ever turned out of the village carpenter’s workshop. Then a slow and melancholy cortege headed by four bearers wound its solemn way across the marshes to the family vault in the grey old church, and all that was left of Ursula was placed by the father and mother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.
To Eunice as they toiled slowly home the day seemed strange and Sabbath-like, the flat prospect of marsh wilder and more forlorn than usual, the roar of the sea more depressing. Tabitha had no such fancies. The bulk of the dead woman’s property had been left to Eunice, and her avaricious soul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings of regret for the deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.
“What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?” she asked as they sat at their quiet tea.
“I shall leave it as it stands,” said Eunice slowly. “We have both got sufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it to supporting some beds in a children’s hospital.”
“If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital,” said Tabitha in her deep tones, “she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you do not respect her wishes more.”
“What else can I do with it then?” inquired Eunice.
“Save it,” said the other with gleaming eyes, “save it.”
Eunice shook her head.
“No,” said she, “it shall go to the sick children, but the principal I will not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and you can do what you like with it.”
“Very well,” said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; “I don’t believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don’t believe she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the money she stored so carefully.”
“What do you mean?” asked Eunice with pale lips. “You are trying to frighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things.”
Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of her sister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composed herself for a nap.
For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of the dead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked, its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness of the others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn than ever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like an unquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive of much thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms and dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strange noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held accountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strange sounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied that she saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequent search with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunice was disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from a complaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabitha admitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and virtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another direction.
Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, and she yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced by avarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidly separate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsest dishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far the better dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featured creature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of the candle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did this passion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, and lay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking of the coins at her unholy vigils.
One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. “Why don’t you bank your money, Tabitha?” she said; “it is surely not safe to keep such large sums in such a lonely house.”
“Large sums!” repeated the exasperated Tabitha, “large sums! what nonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keep me.”
“It’s a great temptation to housebreakers,” said her sister, not pressing the point. “I made sure last night that I heard somebody in the house.”
“Did you?” said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face. “So did I. I thought they went to Ursula’s room, and I got out of bed and went on the stairs to listen.”
“Well?” said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister’s face.
“There was something there,” said Tabitha slowly. “I’ll swear it, for I stood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling on the floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat, but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and the cat was in the kitchen.”
“Oh, let us leave this dreadful house,” moaned Eunice.
“What!” said her sister grimly; “afraid of poor Ursula? Why should you be? Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who perhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers.”
“Oh!” said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, “if I saw her I should die. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. O God! have mercy on me, I am dying.”
She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sank senseless to the floor.
“Get some water,” cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up the stairs, “Eunice has fainted.”
The old woman, with a timid glance at her, retired, reappearing shortly afterwards with the water, with which she proceeded to restore her much-loved mistress to her senses. Tabitha, as soon as this was accomplished, stalked off to her room, leaving her sister and Martha sitting drearily enough in the small parlour, watching the fire and conversing in whispers.
It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not last much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so lonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at length consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small but comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a speedy change.
It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of the marshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for one supreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals, the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then the wind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce gusts which, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their full fury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air shrieked in its chimneys windows rattled, doors slammed, and even, the very curtains seemed to live and move.
Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed a sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs, bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her. But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor, crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on the stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with a quickly beating heart she regained her bed.