Uncanny Tales. Molesworth Mrs.

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      But Phil, however convinced, behaved consistently. He examined the closed door thoroughly, to detect any possible trickery. He explored the attics, he went up and down the staircase leading to the offices, till the servants must have thought he was going crazy. He found nothing– no vaguest hint even as to why the gallery was chosen by the ghostly shadow for its nightly round.

      Strange to say, however, as the moon waned, our horror faded, so that we almost began to hope the thing was at an end, and to trust that in time we should forget about it. And we congratulated ourselves that we had kept our own counsel and not disturbed any of the others – even father, who would, no doubt, have hooted at the idea – by the baleful whisper that our charming castle by the sea was haunted!

      And the days passed by, growing into weeks. The second detachment of our guests had left, and a third had just arrived, when one morning as I was waiting at what we called "the sea-door" for some of the others to join me in a walk along the sands, some one touched me on the shoulder. It was Philip.

      "Leila," he said, "I am not happy about Dormer. He is looking ill again, and – "

      "I thought he seemed so much stronger," I said, surprised and distressed, "quite rosy, and so much merrier."

      "So he was till a few days ago," said Philip. "But if you notice him well you'll see that he's getting that white look again. And – I've got it into my head – he is an extraordinarily sensitive child, that it has something to do with the moon. It's getting on to the full."

      For the moment I stupidly forgot the association.

      "Really, Phil," I said, "you are too absurd! Do you actually – oh," as he was beginning to interrupt me, and my face fell, I feel sure – "you don't mean about the gallery."

      "Yes, I do," he said.

      "How? Has Dormy told you anything?" and a sort of sick feeling came over me. "I had begun to hope," I went on, "that somehow it had gone; that, perhaps, it only comes once a year at a certain season, or possibly that newcomers see it at the first and not again. Oh, Phil, we can't stay here, however nice it is, if it is really haunted."

      "Dormy hasn't said much," Philip replied. "He only told me he had felt the cold once or twice, 'since the moon came again,' he said. But I can see the fear of more is upon him. And this determined me to speak to you. I have to go to London for ten days or so, to see the doctors about my leave, and a few other things. I don't like it for you and Miss Larpent if – if this thing is to return – with no one else in your confidence, especially on Dormy's account. Do you think we must tell father before I go?"

      I hesitated. For many reasons I was reluctant to do so. Father would be exaggeratedly sceptical at first, and then, if he were convinced, as I knew he would be, he would go to the other extreme and insist upon leaving Finster, and there would be a regular upset, trying for mother and everybody concerned. And mother liked the place, and was looking so much better!

      "After all," I said, "it has not hurt any of us. Miss Larpent got a shake, so did I. But it wasn't as great a shock to us as to you, Phil, to have to believe in a ghost. And we can avoid the gallery while you are away. No, except for Dormy, I would rather keep it to ourselves – after all, we are not going to live here always. Yet it is so nice, it seems such a pity."

      It was such an exquisite morning; the air, faintly breathing of the sea, was like elixir; the heights and shadows on the cliffs, thrown out by the darker woods behind, were indeed, as Janet Miles had said, "wonderful".

      "Yes," Phil agreed, "it is an awful nuisance. But as for Dormy," he went on, "supposing I get mother to let me take him with me? He'd be as jolly as a sand-boy in London, and my old landlady would look after him like anything if ever I had to be out late. And I'd let my doctor see him – quietly, you know – he might give him a tonic or something."

      I heartily approved of the idea. So did mamma when Phil broached it – she, too, had thought her "baby" looking quite pale lately. A London doctor's opinion would be such a satisfaction. So it was settled, and the very next day the two set off. Dormer, in his "old-fashioned," reticent way, in the greatest delight, though only by one remark did the brave little fellow hint at what was, no doubt, the principal cause of his satisfaction.

      "The moon will be long past the full when we come back," he said. "And after that there'll only be one other time before we go, won't there, Leila? We've only got this house for three months?"

      "Yes," I said, "father only took it for three," though in my heart I knew it was with the option of three more – six in all.

      And Miss Larpent and I were left alone, not with the ghost, certainly, but with our fateful knowledge of its unwelcome proximity.

      We did not speak of it to each other, but we tacitly avoided the gallery, even, as much as possible, in the daytime. I felt, and so, she has since confessed, did she, that it would be impossible to endure that cold without betraying ourselves.

      And I began to breathe more freely, trusting that the dread of the shadow's possible return was really only due to the child's overwrought nerves.

      Till – one morning – my fool's paradise was abruptly destroyed.

      Father came in late to breakfast – he had been for an early walk, he said, to get rid of a headache. But he did not look altogether as if he had succeeded in doing so.

      "Leila," he said, as I was leaving the room after pouring out his coffee – mamma was not yet allowed to get up early – "Leila, don't go. I want to speak to you."

      I stopped short, and turned towards the table. There was something very odd about his manner. He is usually hearty and eager, almost impetuous in his way of speaking.

      "Leila," he began again, "you are a sensible girl, and your nerves are strong, I fancy. Besides, you have not been ill like the others. Don't speak of what I am going to tell you."

      I nodded in assent; I could scarcely have spoken. My heart was beginning to thump. Father would not have commended my nerves had he known it.

      "Something odd and inexplicable happened last night," he went on. "Nugent and I were sitting in the gallery. It was a mild night, and the moon magnificent. We thought the gallery would be pleasanter than the smoking-room, now that Phil and his pipes are away. Well – we were sitting quietly. I had lighted my reading-lamp on the little table at one end of the room, and Nugent was half lying in his chair, doing nothing in particular except admiring the night, when all at once he started violently with an exclamation, and, jumping up, came towards me. Leila, his teeth were chattering, and he was blue with cold. I was very much alarmed – you know how ill he was at college. But in a moment or two he recovered.

      "'What on earth is the matter?' I said to him. He tried to laugh.

      "'I really don't know,' he said; 'I felt as if I had had an electric shock of cold– but I'm all right again now.'

      "I went into the dining-room, and made him take a little brandy and water, and sent him off to bed. Then I came back, still feeling rather uneasy about him, and sat down with my book, when, Leila – you will scarcely credit it – I myself felt the same shock exactly. A perfectly hideous thrill of cold. That was how it began. I started up, and then, Leila, by degrees, in some instinctive way, I seemed to realise what had caused it. My dear child, you will think I have gone crazy when I tell you that there was a shadow – a shadow in the moonlight —chasing me, so to say, round the room, and once again it caught me up, and again came that appalling sensation. I would not give in. I dodged it after that, and set myself to watch it, and then – "

      I need not quote my father further; suffice to say his experience matched that of the rest of us entirely – no, I think it surpassed them. It was the worst of all.

      Poor father! I shuddered for him. I think a shock of that kind is harder upon a man than upon a woman. Our sex is less sceptical, less entrenched in sturdy matters of fact, more imaginative, or whatever you like to call the readiness to believe what we cannot explain. And it was astounding to me to see how my father at once capitulated – never even alluding to a possibility of trickery. Astounding, yet at the same time not without a certain satisfaction in it.