boy, still did lessons with Sophy's governess. The two older "boys," as we called them, happened to be at home from different reasons – one, Nugent, on leave from India; Phil, forced to miss a term at college through an attack of the same illness which had treated mother and Dormy so badly.
But now that everybody was well again, and going to be very much better, thanks to Finster air, we thought the ill wind had brought us some very distinct good. It would not have been half such fun had we not been a large family party to start with, and before we had been a week at the place we had added to our numbers by the first detachment of the guests we had invited.
It was not a very large house; besides ourselves we had not room for more than three or four others. For some of the rooms – those on the top story – were really too dilapidated to suit any one but rats – "rats or ghosts," said some one laughingly one day, when we had been exploring them.
Afterwards the words returned to my memory.
We had made ourselves very comfortable, thanks to the invaluable Hunter. And every day the weather grew milder and more spring-like. The woods on the inland side were full of primroses. It promised to be a lovely season.
There was a gallery along one side of the house, which soon became a favourite resort; it made a pleasant lounging-place, in the day-time especially, though less so in the evening, as the fireplace at one end warmed it but imperfectly, and besides this it was difficult to light up. It was draughty, too, as there was a superfluity of doors, two of which, one at each end, we at once condemned. They were not needed, as the one led by a very long spiral staircase, to the unused attic rooms, the other to the kitchen and offices. And when we did have afternoon tea in the gallery, it was easy to bring it through the dining or drawing-rooms, long rooms, lighted at their extreme ends, which ran parallel to the gallery lengthways, both of which had a door opening on to it as well as from the hall on the other side. For all the principal rooms at Finster were on the first-floor, not on the ground-floor.
The closing of these doors got rid of a great deal of draught, and, as I have said, the weather was really mild and calm.
One afternoon – I am trying to begin at the beginning of our strange experiences; even at the risk of long-windedness it seems better to do so – we were all assembled in the gallery at tea-time. The "children," as we called Sophy and Dormer, much to Sophy's disgust, and their governess, were with us, for rules were relaxed at Finster, and Miss Larpent was a great favourite with us all.
Suddenly Sophy gave an exclamation of annoyance.
"Mamma," she said, "I wish you would speak to Dormer. He has thrown over my tea-cup – only look at my frock!" "If you cannot sit still," she added, turning herself to the boy, "I don't think you should be allowed to come to tea here."
"What is the matter, Dormy?" said mother.
Dormer was standing beside Sophy, looking very guilty, and rather white.
"Mamma," he said, "I was only drawing a chair out. It got so dreadfully cold where I was sitting, I really could not stay there," and he shivered slightly.
He had been sitting with his back to one of the locked-up doors. Phil, who was nearest, moved his hand slowly across the spot.
"You are fanciful, Dormy," he said, "there is really no draught whatever."
This did not satisfy mother.
"He must have got a chill, then," she said, and she went on to question the child as to what he had been doing all day, for, as I have said, he was still delicate.
But he persisted that he was quite well, and no longer cold.
"It wasn't exactly a draught," he said, "it was – oh! just icy, all of a sudden. I've felt it before – sitting in that chair."
Mother said no more, and Dormer went on with his tea, and when bed-time came he seemed just as usual, so that her anxiety faded. But she made thorough investigation as to the possibility of any draught coming up from the back stairs, with which this door communicated. None was to be discovered – the door fitted fairly well, and beside this, Hunter had tacked felt round the edges – furthermore, one of the thick heavy portières had been hung in front.
An evening or two later we were sitting in the drawing room after dinner, when a cousin who was staying with us suddenly missed her fan.
"Run and fetch Muriel's fan, Dormy," I said, for Muriel felt sure it had slipped under the dinner table. None of the men had as yet joined us.
"Why, where are you going, child?" as he turned towards the farther door. "It is much quicker by the gallery."
He said nothing, but went out, walking rather slowly, by the gallery door. And in a few minutes he returned, fan in hand, but by the other door.
He was a sensitive child, and though I wondered what he had got into his head against the gallery, I did not say anything before the others. But when, soon after, Dormy said "Good night," and went off to bed, I followed him.
"What do you want, Leila?" he said rather crossly.
"Don't be vexed, child," I said. "I can see there is something the matter. Why do you not like the gallery?"
He hesitated, but I had laid my hand on his shoulder, and he knew I meant to be kind.
"Leila," he said, with a glance round, to be sure that no one was within hearing – we were standing, he and I, near the inner dining-room door, which was open – "you'll laugh at me, but – there's something queer there – sometimes!"
"What? And how do you mean 'sometimes'?" I asked, with a slight thrill at his tone.
"I mean not always, I've felt it several times – there was the cold the day before yesterday, and besides that, I've felt a – a sort of breaving" – Dormy was not perfect in his "th's" – "like somebody very unhappy."
"Sighing?" I suggested.
"Like sighing in a whisper," he replied, "and that's always near the door. But last week – no, not so long ago, it was on Monday – I went round that way when I was going to bed. I didn't want to be silly. But it was moonlight – and – Leila, a shadow went all along the wall on that side, and stopped at the door. I saw it waggling about – its hands," and here he shivered – "on that funny curtain that hangs up, as if it were feeling for a minute or two, and then – "
"Well, – what then?"
"It just went out," he said simply. "But it's moonlight again to-night, sister, and I daren't see it again. I just daren't."
"But you did go to the dining-room that way," I reminded him.
"Yes, but I shut my eyes and ran, and even then I felt as if something cold was behind me."
"Dormy, dear," I said, a good deal concerned, "I do think it's your fancy. You are not quite well yet, you know."
"Yes, I am," he replied sturdily. "I'm not a bit frightened anywhere else. I sleep in a room alone you know. It's not me, sister, its somefing in the gallery."
"Would you be frightened to go there with me now? We can run through the dining-room; there's no one to see us," and I turned in that direction as I spoke.
Again my little brother hesitated.
"I'll go with you if you'll hold hands," he said, "but I'll shut my eyes. And I won't open them till you tell me there's no shadow on the wall. You must tell me truly."
"But there must be some shadows," I said, "in this bright moonlight, trees and branches, or even clouds scudding across – something of that kind is what you must have seen, dear."
He shook his head.
"No, no, of course I wouldn't mind that. I know the difference. No – you couldn't mistake. It goes along, right along, in a creeping way, and then at the door its hands come farther out, and it feels."
"Is it like a man or a woman?" I said, beginning to feel rather creepy myself.
"I think it's most like a rather little man," he replied, "but I'm not sure. Its head has got something fuzzy about it – oh, I know, like a sticking out wig. But