Silent Snow, Secret Snow by Conrad Aiken

Just why it should have happened, or why it should have happened just when it did, he could not, of course, possibly have said; nor perhaps could it even have occurred to him to ask. The thing was above all a secret, something to be preciously concealed from Mother and Father; and to that very fact it owed an enormous part of its deliciousness. It was like a peculiarly beautiful trinket to be carried unmentioned in one’s trouser-pocket-a rare stamp, an old coin, a few tiny gold links found trodden out of shape on the path in the park, a pebble of carnelian, a sea shell distinguishable from all others by an unusual spot or stripe-and, as if it were any one of these, he carried around with him everywhere a warm and persistent and increasingly beautiful sense of possession. Nor was it only a sense of possession-it was also a sense of protection. It was as if, in some delightful way, his secret gave him a fortress, a wall behind which he could retreat into heavenly seclusion. This was almost the first thing he had noticed about it-apart from the oddness of the thing itself-and it was this that now again, for the fiftieth time, occurred to him, as he sat in the little schoolroom. It was the half hour for geography. Miss Robinson was revolving with one finger, slowly, a huge terrestrial globe which had been placed on her desk. The green and yellow continents passed and re-passed, questions were asked and answered, and now the little girl in front of him, Astrith, who had a funny little constellation of freckles on the back of her neck, exactly like the Big Dipper, was standing up and telling Miss Robinson that the equator was the line that ran round the middle.

Miss Robinson’s face, which was old and grayish and kindly, with gray stiff curls beside the cheeks, and eyes that swam very brightly, like little minnows, behind thick glasses, wrinkled itself into a complication of amusements.

“Ah! I see. The earth is wearing a belt, or a sash. Or someone drew a line around it!”

“Oh, no-not that-I mean”-

In the general laughter, he did not share, or only a very little. He was thinking about the Arctic and Antarctic regions, which of course, on the globe, were white. Miss Robinson was now telling them about tropics, the jungles, the steamy heat or equatorial swamps, where the birds and butterflies, and even the snakes, were like living jewels. As he listened to these things, he was already, with a pleasant sense of half-effort, putting his secret between himself and the words. Was it really an effort at all? For effort implied something voluntary, and perhaps even something one did not especially want; whereas this was distinctly pleasant, and came almost of its own accord. All he needed to do was to think of that morning, the first one, and then of all the others-

But it was all so absurdly simple! It had amounted to all so little. It was nothing, just an idea-and just why it should have become so wonderful, so permanent, was a mystery-a very pleasant one, to be sure, but also, in an amusing way, foolish. However, without ceasing to listen to Miss Robinson, who had now moved up to the north temperate zone, he deliberated his memory of the first morning. It was only a moment or two after he had awakened-or perhaps the moment itself. But was there, to be exact, an exact moment? Was one awake all at once? Or was it gradual? Anyway, it was after he had stretched a lazy hand up towards the head rail, and yawned, and then relaxed again among his warm covers, all the more grateful on a December morning, that the thing had happened. Suddenly, for no reason, he had thought of the postman, he remembered the postman. Perhaps there was nothing so odd in that. After all, he heard the postman almost every morning in his life-his heavy boots could be heard clumping round the corner at the top of the little cobbled hill-street, and then, progressively nearer, progressively louder, the double knock at each door, the crossings and re-crossings of the street, till finally the clumsy steps came stumbling across to the very door, and the tremendous knock came which shook the house itself.




(Miss Robinson was saying “Vast wheat-growing areas in North America and Siberia.”

Astrith had for the moment placed her left hand across the back of her neck.)

But on this particular morning, the first morning, as he lay there with his eyes closed, he had for some reason waited for the postman. He wanted to hear him come round the corner. And that was precisely the joke- he never did. He never came. He never had come –round the corner -again. For when at last the steps were heard, they had already, he was quite sure, come a little down the hill, to the first house; and even so, the steps were curiously different- they were softer, they had a new secrecy about them, they were muffled and indistinct; and while the rhythm of them was the same, it now said a new thing- it said peace, it said remoteness, it said cold, it said sleep. And he had understood the situation at once- nothing could have seemed simpler- there had been snow in the night, such as all winter he had been longing for; and it was this which had rendered the postman’s first footsteps inaudible, and the later ones faint. Of course! How lovely! And even now it must be snowing- it was going to be a snowy day- the long white ragged lines were drifting and sifting across the street, across the faces of the old houses, whispering and hushing, making little triangles of white in the corners between cobblestones, seething a little when the wind blew them over the ground to a drifted corner; and so it would be all day, getting deeper and deeper and growing more and more silent.

(Miss Robinson was saying “Land of perpetual snow.”)

All this time, of course (while he lay in bed), he had kept his eyes closed, listening to the nearer progress of the the postman, the muffled footsteps thumping and slipping on the snow-sheathed cobbles; and all the other sounds- the double knocks, a frosty far-off voice or two, a bell ringing thinly and softly as if under a sheet of ice- had the same slightly abstracted quality, as if removed by one degree from actuality- as if everything in the world had been insulated by snow. But when at last, pleased, he opened his eyes, and turned them towards the window, to see for himself this long-desired and now so clearly imagined miracle-what he saw instead was brilliant sunlight on a roof; and when, astonished, he jumped out of bed and stared down into the street, expecting to see the cobbles obliterated by snow, he saw nothing but the bare bright cobbles themselves.

Queer, the effect this extraordinary surprise had had upon him-all the following morning he had kept with him a sense as of snow falling about him, a secret screen of new snow between himself and the world. If he had not dreamed such a thing-and how could he have dreamed it while awake?-how else could one explain it? In any case, the delusion had been so vivid as to affect his entire behaviour. He could not now remember whether it was on the first or the second morning-or was it even the third?- that his mother had drawn attention to some oddness in his manner.

“But my darling”-she had said at the breakfast table-“what has come over you? You don’t seem to be listening…”

And how often that very thing had happened since!

(Miss Robinson was now asking if anyone knew the difference between the North Pole and the Magnetic Pole. Astrid was holding up her flickering freckled hand, and he could see the four white dimples that marked the knuckles.)

Perhaps it hadn’t been either the second or third morning-or even the fourth or fifth. How could he be sure? How could he be sure just when the delicious progress had become clear? Just when it had really begun? The intervals weren’t very precise… All he now knew was, that at some point or other- perhaps the second day, perhaps the sixth-he had noticed that the presence of the snow was a little more insistent, the sound of it clearer; and, conversely, the sound of the postman’s footsteps more indistinct. Not only could he not hear the steps come round the corner, he could not even hear them at the first house. It was below the second house that he heard them; and a few days later again, below the third. Gradually, gradually, the snow was becoming heavier, the sound of its seething louder, the cobblestones more and more muffled. When he found, each morning, on going to the window, after the ritual of listening, that the roofs and cobbles were bare as ever, it made no difference. This was, after all, only what he had expected. It was even what pleased him, what rewarded him: the thing was his own, belonged to no one else. No one else knew about it, not even his mother and father. There, outside, were the bare cobbles; and here, inside, was the snow. Snow growing heavier each day, muffling the world, hiding the ugly, and deadening increasingly-above all-the steps of the postman.




“But my darling”-she had said at the luncheon table-“what has come over you? You don’t seem to listen when people speak to you. That’s the third time I’ve asked you to pass your plate…”

How was one to explain this to Mother? or to Father? There was, of course, nothing to be done about it: nothing. All one could do was to laugh embarrassedly, pretend to be a little ashamed, apologize, and take a sudden and somewhat disingenuous interest in what was being done or said. The cat had stayed out all night. He had a curious swelling on his left cheek- perhaps somebody had kicked him, or a stone had struck him. Mrs Kensington was or was not coming to tea. The house was going to be cleaned, or “turned out,” on Wednesday instead of Friday. A new lamp was provided for his evening work-perhaps it was eyestrain which accounted for this new and so peculiar vagueness of his-Mother was looking at him with amusement as she said this, but with something else as well. A new lamp? A new lamp. No Mother, Yes Mother. School is going very well. The geometry is very easy. The history is very dull. The geography is very interesting-particularly when it takes one to the North Pole. Why the North Pole? Oh, well, it would be fun to be an explorer. Another Peary or Scott or Shackleton. And then abruptly he found his interest in the talk at an end, stared at the pudding on his plate, listened, waited, and began once more- ah how heavenly, too, the first beginnings-to hear or feel-for could he actually hear it?-the silent snow.

(Miss Robinson was telling them about the search for the Northwest Passage, about Hendrik Hudson.)

This had been, indeed, the only distressing feature of the new experience: the fact that it so increasingly had brought him into a kind of mute misunderstanding, or even conflict, with his father and mother. It was as if he were trying to lead a double life. On the one hand he had to be David Jones, and keep up the appearance of being that person-dress, wash, and answer intelligently when spoken to;- on the other, he had to explore this new world which had been opened to him. Nor could there be the slightest doubt-not the slightest-that the new world was the profounder and more wonderful of the two. It was irresistible. It was miraculous. Its beauty was simply beyond anything-beyond speech as beyond thought- utterly incommunicable. But how then, between the two worlds, of which he was thus constantly aware, was he to keep a balance? One must get up, one must go to breakfast, one must talk with Mother, go to school, do one’s lessons- and, in all this, try not to appear to much a fool. But if all the while one was also trying to extract the full deliciousness of another and quite separate existence, one which could not easily (if at all) be spoken of-how was one to manage? How was one to explain? Would it be safe to explain? Would it be absurd? Would it merely mean that he would get into some obscure kind of trouble?

These thoughts came and went, came and went, as softly and secretly as the snow; they were not precisely a disturbance, perhaps they were even a pleasure; he liked to have them; their presence was something almost palpable, something he could stroke with his hand, without closing his eyes, and without ceasing to see Miss Robinson and the schoolroom and the globe and the freckles on Astrid’s neck; nevertheless he did in a sense cease to see, or to see the obvious external world, and substituted for this vision the vision of snow, the sound of snow, and the slow, almost soundless, approach of the postman. Yesterday, it had been only at the sixth house that the postman had become audible; the snow was much deeper now, it was falling more swiftly and heavily, the sound of its seething was more distinct, more soothing, more persistent. And this morning, it had been-as nearly as he could figure-just above the seventh house-perhaps only a step or two above: at most, he had heard two or three footsteps before the knock had sounded…. And with each such narrowing of the sphere, each nearer approach of the limit at which the postman was first audible, it was odd how sharply was increased the amount of illusion which had to be carried into the ordinary business of daily life. Each day it was harder to get out of bed, to go to the window, to look out at the-as always-perfectly empty and snowless street. Each day it was more difficult to go through the perfunctory motions of greeting Mother and Father at breakfast, to reply to their questions, to put his books together and go to school. And at school, how extraordinarily hard to conduct with success simultaneously the public life and the life that was secret. There were times when he longed-positively ached-to tell everyone about it-to burst out with it-only to be checked almost at once by a far-off feeling as of some faint absurdity which was inherent in it-but was it absurd?-and more importantly by a sense of mysterious power in his very secrecy. Yes: it must be kept secret. That, more and more, became clear. At whatever cost to himself, whatever pain to others-




( Miss Robinson looked straight at him, smiling, and said, “Perhaps we’ll ask David. I’m sure David will come out of his day-dream long enough to be able to tell us. Won’t you, David?” He rose slowly from his chair, resting one hand on the brightly varnished desk, and deliberately stared through the snow towards the blackboard. It was an effort, but it was amusing to make it. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it was what we now call the Hudson River.” This he thought to be the Northwest Passage. He was disappointed.” He sat down again, and as he did so Astrid half turned in her chair and gave him a shy smile, of approval and admiration.)

At whatever pain to others.

This part of it was very puzzling, very puzzling. Mother was very nice, and so was Father. Yes, that was all true enough. He wanted to be nice to them, to tell them everything-and yet, was it really wrong of him to want to have a secret place of his own?

At bedtime, the night before, Mother had said, “If this goes on, my lad, we’ll have to see a doctor, we will! We can’t have our boy”- But what was it she had said? “Living in another world”? “Live so far away”? The word “far” had been in it, he was sure, and then Mother had taken up a magazine again and laughed a little, but with an expression which wasn’t mirthful. He had felt sorry for her….

The bell rang for dismissal. The sound came to him through long curved parallels of falling snow. He saw Astrid rise, and had himself risen almost as soon-but not quite as soon-as she.



II

On the walk homeward, which was timeless, it pleased him to see through the accompaniment, or counterpoint, of the snow, the items of mere externality on his way. There were many kinds of bricks in the sidewalks, and laid in many kinds of pattern. The garden walls were to various, some of wooden palings, some of plaster, some of stone. Twigs of bushes leaned over the walls; the little hard green winter-buds of lilac, on gray stems, sheathed and fat; other branches very thin and fine and black and desiccated. Dirty sparrows huddled in bushes, as dull in color as dead fruit left in the leafless trees. A single starling creaked on a weather vane. In the gutter, beside a drain, was a scrap of torn and dirty newspaper, caught in a little delta of filth: the word HEARTBURN appeared in large capitals, and below it was a letter from Mrs. Angela M. Barnet, 2001 Cyprus Hill, Beckenham, London, to the effect that after being a sufferer for years she had been cured by Carter’s pills. In the little delta, beside the fan-shaped and deeply runneled continent of brown mud, were lost twigs, descended from their parent trees, dead matches, a rusty horse-chestnut burr, a small concentration of sparkling gravel on the lip of the sewer, a fragment of eggshell, a streak of yellow sawdust which had been wet and was now dry and congealed, a brown pebble, and a broken feather. Further on was a cement sidewalk, ruled into geometrical parallelograms, with a brass inlay at one end commemorating the contractors who had laid it, and, halfway across, an irregular and random series of dog tracks, immortalized in synthetic stone. He knew these well, and always stepped on them; to cover the little hollows with his own foot had always been a queer pleasure; today he did it once more, but perfunctorily and detached, all the while thinking of something else. That was a dog, a long time ago, who had made a mistake and walked on the cement while it was still wet. He had probably wagged his tail, but that hadn’t been recorded. Now, David Jones, aged twelve, on his way home from school, crossed the same river, which in the meantime had frozen solid. Homeward through the snow, the snow falling in bright sunshine. Homeward?

Then came the gateway with the two posts surmounted by egg-shaped stones which had been cunningly balanced on their ends, and mortared in the very act of balance: a source of perpetual wonder. On the brick wall just beyond, the letter H. had been stenciled, presumably for some purpose. H? H.




The red hydrant, with a little green-painted chain attached to the brass screw-cap.

The willow tree, with the great gray wound in the bark, kidney-shaped, into which he always put his hand-to feel the cold but living wood. The injury, he had been sure, was due to the gnaw-ings of a tethered horse. But now it deserved only a passing palm, a merely tolerant eye. There were more important things. Miracles. Beyond the thoughts of trees, mere willows. Beyond the thoughts of sidewalks, mere stone, mere brick, mere cement. Beyond the thoughts even of his own shoes, which trod these sidewalks obediently, bearing a burden-far above-of elaborate mystery. He watched them. They were not polished; he had neglected them, for a very good reason: they were one of the many parts of the increasing difficulty of the daily return to daily life, the morning struggle. To get up, having at last opened one’s eyes, to go to the window, and discover no snow, to wash, to dress, to descend the curving stairs to breakfast-

At whatever pain to others, nevertheless, one must persevere in severance, since the incommunicability of the experience demanded it. It was desireable of course to be kind to Mother and Father, especially as they seemed to be worried, but it was also desirable to be resolute. If they should decide-as appeared likely-to consult the doctor, Doctor Roberts, and have David inspected, his heart listened to through a kind of dictaphone, his lungs, his stomach-well, that was all right. He would go through with it. He would give them answer for question, too-perhaps such answers as they hadn’t expected? No. That would never do. For the secret world must, at all costs, be preserved.

The bird-house in the apple-tree was empty-it was the wrong time of year for wrens. The little round black door had lost its pleasure. The wrens were enjoying other houses, other nests, remoter trees. But this too was a notion which he only vaguely and grazingly entertained-as if, for the moment, he merely touched an edge of it; there was something further on, which was already assuming a sharper importance; something which already teased at the corners of his eyes, teasing also at the corner of his mind. It was funny to think that he so wanted this, so awaited it-and yet found himself enjoying this momentary dalliance with the bird-house, as if for a quite deliberate postponement and enhancement of the approaching pleasure. He was aware of his delay, of his smiling and detached and now almost uncomprehending gaze at the little bird-house; he knew what he was going to look at next: it was his own little cobbled hill-street, his own house, the little river at the bottom of the hill, the grocer’s shop with the cardboard man in the window-and now, thinking of all this, he turned his head, still smiling, and looking quickly right and left through the snow-laden sunlight.

And the mist of snow, as he had foreseen, was still on it- a ghost of snow falling in the bright sunlight, softly and steadily floating and turning and pausing, soundlessly meeting the snow that covered, as with a transparent mirage, the bare bright cobbles. He loved it-he stood still and loved it. Its beauty was paralyzing-beyond all words, all experience, all dream. No fairy-story he had ever read could be compared with it-none had ever given him this extraordinary combination of ethereal loveliness with something else, unnameable, which was just faintly and deliciously terrifying. What was this thing? As he thought of it, he looked upward toward his own bedroom window, which was open-and it was as if he looked straight into the room and saw himself lying half awake in his bed. There he was-at this very instant he was still perhaps actually- more truly there than standing here at the edge of the cobbled hill-street, with one hand lifted to shade his eyes against the snow-sun. Had he indeed ever left his room, in all this time? since that very first morning? Was the whole progress still being enacted there, was it still the same morning, and himself not yet wholly awake? And even now, had the postman not yet come round the corner?…




This idea amused him, and automatically as he though of it, he turned his head and looked toward the top of the hill. There was, of course, nothing there-nothing and no one. The street was empty and quiet. And all the more because of its emptiness it occurred to him to count the houses-a thing which, oddly enough, he hadn’t before thought of doing. Of course, he had known there weren’t many-many, that is, on his own side of the street, which were the ones that figured in the postman’s progress-but nevertheless it came to him as something of a shock to find that there were precisely six, above his own house-his own house was the seventh.

Six!

Astonished, he looked at his own house-looked at the door, on which was the number 13 – and then realized that the whole thing was exactly and logically and absurdly what he ought to have known. Just the same, the realization gave him abruptly, and even a little frighteningly, a sense of hurry. He was being hurried-he was being rushed. For-he knit his brows-he couldn’t be mistaken-it was just above the seventh house, his own house, that the postman had first been audible this very morning. But in that case-in that case-did it mean that tomorrow he would hear nothing? The knock he had heard must have been the knock of their own door. Did it mean- and this was an idea which gave him a really extraordinary feeling of surprise- that he would never hear the postman again?-that tomorrow morning the postman would already have passed the house, in a snow by then so deep as to render his footsteps completely inaudible? That he would have made his approach down the snow-filled street so soundlessly, so secretly, that he, David Jones, there lying in bed, would not have awakened in time, or, waking, would have heard nothing?

But now could that be? Unless even the knocker should be muffled in the snow-frozen tight, perhaps?…But in that case-

A vague feeling of disappointment came over him; a vague sadness, as if he felt himself deprived of something which he had long looked forward to, something much prized. After all this, all this beautiful progress, the slow delicious advance of the postman through the silent and secret snow, the knock creeping closer each day, and the footsteps nearer, the audible compass of the world thus daily narrowed, narrowed, narrowed, as the snow soothingly and beautifully enroached and deepened, after all this, was he to be defrauded of the one thing he had so wanted-to be able to count, as it were, the last two or three solemn footsteps, as they finally approached his own door? Was it all going to happen, at the end, so suddenly? Or indeed, had it already happened? With no slow and subtle gradations of menace, in which he could luxuriate?

He gazed upward again, toward his own window which flashed in the sun: and this time almost with a feeling that it would be better if he were still in bed, in that room; for in that case this must still be the first morning, and there would be six more mornings to come-or, for that matter, seven or eight or nine-how could he be sure? or even more.

III

After supper, the inquisition began. He stood before the doctor, under the lamp, and submitted silently to the usual thumpings and tappings.

“Now will you please say ‘Ah!’?”

“Ah!”

“Now again please, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah.”

"Say it slowly, and hold it if you can–"

"Ah-h-h-h-h–"

“Good.”

How silly all this was. As if it had anything to do with his throat! Or his heart or lungs!

Relaxing his mouth, of which the corners, after all this absurd stretching, felt uncomfortable, he avoided the doctor’s eyes, and stared toward the fireplace, past his mother’s feet (in gray slippers) which projected from the green chair, and his father’s feet(in brown slippers) which stood neatly side by side on the hearth rug.

“Hm. There is certainly nothing wrong there…”

He felt the doctor’s eyes fixed upon him, and, as if merely to be polite, returned the look, but with a feeling of justifiable evasiveness.

“Now, young man, tell me,-do you feel all right?”

“Yes, sir, quite all right.”




“No headaches? No dizziness?”

“No I don’t think so.”

"Let me see. Let’s get a book, if you don’t mind-yes, thank you, that will do splendidly- and now, David, if you’ll just read it, holding it as you would normally hold it–"

He took the book and read:

“Now I plunge my pen against the page and scribble toward a purpose unperceived. For here within my fragile fractured frame, I am no more a poet than a rose; and though the visions I do view, bid beauty to my meaning (my muse is busied elsewhere, nursing other selves). Therefore unfailingly I fall into shadow, baptized by merciless melancholy. Enabled to imbue with silhouette of life a bit of martyred matter, from so faint a slate as this, I would label it as mine (ostensibly): mine to brag of, mine to burn; but when I feature feelings from the fire, they float away from me, like writing on the water.”

He stopped, tentatively, and lowered the heavy book.

“No-as I thought-there is certainly no superficial sign of eye-strain.”

Silence thronged the room, and he was aware of the focused scrutiny of the three people who confronted him…

“We could have his eyes examined-but I believe it is something else.”

“What could it be?” This was his fathers voice.

“It’s only this curious absent-minded”- This was his mother’s voice.

In the presence of the doctor, they both seemed irritatingly apologetic.

“I believe it is something else. Now David-I would like very much to ask you a question or two. You will answer them won’t you- you know I am an old, old friend of yours, eh? That’s right!…”

His back was thumped twice by the doctor’s fat fist- then the doctor was grinning at him with false amiability, while with one finger-nail he was scratching the top button of his waistcoat. Beyond the doctor’s shoulder was the fire, the fingers of flame making light prestidigitation against the sooty fire-back, the soft sound of their random flutter the only sound.

“I would like to know- is there anything that worries you?” The doctor was again smiling, his eyelids low against the little black pupils, in each of which was a tiny white bead of light. Why answer him? Why answer him at all? “At whatever pain to others”-but it was all a nuisance, this necessity for resistance, this necessity for attention: it was as if one had been stood up on a brilliantly lighted stage, under a great round blaze of spotlight; as if one were merely a trained seal, or a performing dog, or a fish, dipped out of an aquarium and held up by the tail. It would serve them right if he were merely to bark or growl. And meanwhile, to miss these last few precious hours, these hours of which every minute was more beautiful than the last, more menacing-? He still looked, as if from a great distance, at the beads of light in the doctor’s eyes, at the fixed false smile, and then, beyond, once more at his mother’s slippers, his father’s slippers, the soft flutter of the fire. Even here, even amongst these hostile presences, and in this arranged light, he could see the snow, he could hear it- it was in the corners of the room, where the shadow was deepest, under the sofa, behind the half-opened door which led to the dining room. It was gentler here, softer, its seethe the quietest of whispers, as if, in deference to the drawing room, it had quite deliberately put on its “manners”; it kept itself out of sight, obliterated itself, but distinctly with an air of saying, “Ah, but just wait! Wait till we are alone together! Then I will begin to tell you something new! Something white! Something cold! Something sleepy! Something of cease, and peace, and the long bright curve of space! Tell them to go away. Banish them. Refuse to speak. Leave them, go upstairs to your room, turn out the light and get into bed-I will go with you, I will be waiting for you, I will tell you a better story than The Monkey’s Paw, or La Grande Breteche-I will surround your bed, I will close the windows, pile a deep drift against the door, so that none will ever again be able to enter. Speak to them!…It seemed as if the little hissing voice came from a slow white spiral of falling flakes in the corner by the front window- but he could not be sure. He felt himself smiling, then, and said to the doctor, but without looking at him, looking beyond him still-




“Oh, no I think not-“

“But are you sure, my boy?”

His father’s voice came softly and coldly then- the familiar voice of silken warning….

“You needn’t answer at once, David- remember we’re trying to help you-think it over and be quite sure, won’t you?”

He felt himself smiling again, at the notion of being quite sure. What a joke! As if he weren’t so sure that reassurance was no longer necessary, and all this cross-examination a ridiculous farce, a grotesque parody! What could they know about it? Why, even now, even now, with the proof so abundant, so formidable, so imminent, so appallingly present here in this very room, could they believe it?-could even his mother believe it? No-it was only too plain that if anything were said about it, the merest hint given, they would be incredulous-they would laugh-they would say “Absurd!-think things about him which weren’t true…

“Why no, I’m not worried-why should I be?”

He looked then at the doctor’s low-lidded eyes, looked from one of them to the other, from one bead of light to the other, and gave a little laugh.

The doctor seemed to be disconcerted by this. He drew back in his chair, resting a fat white hand on either knee. The smile faded slowly from his face.

“Well David!” he said, and paused gravely, “I’m afraid you don’t take this quite seriously enough. I think you perhaps don’t quite realize-don’t quite realize-” He took a deep breath, and turned, as if helpless, at a loss for words, to the others. But Mother and Father were both silent-no help was forthcoming.

“You must surely know, be aware, that you have not been quite yourself, of late? Don’t you know that?…”

It was amusing to watch the doctor’s renewed attempt at a smile, a queer disorganized look, as of confidential embarrassment.

“I feel all right sir,” he said, and again gave a little laugh.

“And we’re trying to help you,” The doctor’s tone sharpened.

"Yes, sir, I know. But why? I’m all right. I’m just thinking, that’s all."

His mother made a quick movement forward, resting a hand on the back of the doctor’s chair.

"Thinking?" she said. "But my dear, about what?"

This was a direct challenge-and would have to be directly met. But before he met it, he looked again into the corner by the door, as if for reassurance. He smiled again at what he saw, at what he heard. The little spiral was still there, still softly whirling like the ghost of a white kitten chasing the ghost of a white tail, and making as it did so the faintest of whispers. It was all right! If only he could remain firm, everything was going to be all right.

“Oh, about anything, about nothing,-you know the way you do!”

“You mean-day-dreaming?”

“Oh, no-thinking!”

"But thinking about what?"

“Anything.”

He laughed a third time-but this time, happening to glance upward towards his mother’s face, he was appalled at the effect his laughter seemed to have upon her. Her mouth had opened in an expression of horror… This was too bad! Unfortunate! He had known it would cause pain, of course-but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so bad as this. Perhaps-perhaps if he gave them a tiny gleaming hint-?

“About the snow,” he said.

“What on earth!” This was his father’s voice. The brown slippers came a step nearer on the hearth-rug.

“But my dear, what do you mean!” This was his mother’s voice.

The doctor merely stared.

“Just snow, that’s all. I like to think about it.”

“Tell us about it, my boy.”

“But that’s all it is. There’s nothing to tell. You know what snow is.”

This he said almost angrily, for he felt they were trying to corner him. He turned sideways so as no longer to face the doctor, and better to see the inch of blackness between the window-sill and the lowered curtains,- the cold inch of beckoning and delicious night. At once he felt better, more assured.

“Mother-can I go to bed, now, please? I’ve got a headache.”

"But I thought you said–"

“It’s just come. It’s all these questions-! Can I Mother?”

“You can go as soon as the doctor has finished.”

“Don’t you think this thing ought to be gone into thoroughly, and now?” This was his Father’s voice. The brown slippers again came a step nearer, the voice was the well known “punishment” voice, resonant and cruel.




Oh, what’s the use, Steven"–

Quite suddenly, everyone was silent. And without precisely facing them, nevertheless he was aware that all three of them were watching him with extraordinary intensity-staring hard at him-as if he had done something monstrous, or was himself some kind of monster. He could hear the soft irregular flutter of the flames; the tic-toc-tic-toc-tic of the clock; far and faint, two sudden spurts of laughter from the kitchen, as quickly cut off as begun, a murmur of water in the pipes; and then, the silence seemed to deepen, to spread out, to become worldlong and worldwide, to become timeless and shapeless, and to the center inevitably and rightly, with a slow and sleepy but enormous concentration of all power, on the beginning of a new sound. What this new sound was going to be, he knew perfectly well. It might begin with a hiss, but it would end with a roar-there was no time to lose-he must escape. It mustn’t happen here-

Without another word, he turned and ran up the stairs.

The Magic Shop by H G Wells

I had seen the Magic Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once or twice, a shop window of alluring little objects, magic balls, magic hens, wonderful cones, ventriloquist dolls, the material of the basket trick, packs of cards that LOOKED all right, and all that sort of thing, but never had I thought of going in until one day, almost without warning, Gip hauled me by my finger right up to the window, and so conducted himself that there was nothing for it but to take him in.


I had not thought the place was there, to tell the truth a modest−sized frontage in Regent Street, between the picture shop and the place where the chicks run about just out of patent incubators, but there it was sure enough. I had fancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the corner in Oxford Street, or even in Holborn; always over the way and a little inaccessible it had been, with something of the mirage in its position; but here it was now quite indisputably, and the fat end of Gip's pointing finger made a noise upon the glass.


“If I was rich," said Gip, dabbing a finger at the Disappearing Egg,


“I'd buy myself that. And that" which was The Crying Baby, Very Human and that," which was a mystery, and called, so a neat card asserted,“Buy One and Astonish Your Friends."


“Anything," said Gip, “will disappear under one of those cones. I have read about it in a book.


“And there, dadda, is the Vanishing Halfpenny, only they've put it this way up so's we can't see how it's done." Gip, dear boy, inherits his mother's breeding, and he did not propose to enter the shop or worry in any way; only, you know, quite unconsciously he lugged my finger doorward, and he made his interest clear.


“That," he said, and pointed to the Magic Bottle.


“If you had that?" I said; at which promising inquiry he looked up with a sudden radiance.


“I could show it to Jessie," he said, thoughtful as ever of others.


“It's less than a hundred days to your birthday, Gibbles," I said, and laid my hand on the door−handle. Gip made no answer, but his grip tightened on my finger, and so we came into the shop. It was no common shop this; it was a magic shop, and all the prancing precedence Gip would have taken in the matter of mere toys was wanting. He left the burthen of the conversation to me. It was a little, narrow shop, not very well lit, and the door−bell pinged again with a plaintive note as we closed it behind us. For a moment or so we were alone and could glance about us.


There was a tiger in papier−mache on the glass case that covered the low counter a grave, kind−eyed tiger that waggled his head in a methodical manner; there were several crystal spheres, a china hand holding magic cards, a stock of magic fish−bowls in various sizes, and an immodest magic hat that shamelessly displayed its springs. On the floor were magic mirrors; one to draw you out long and thin, one to swell your head and vanish your legs, and one to make you short and fat like a draught; and while we were laughing at these the shopman, as I suppose, came in. At any rate, there he was behind the counter a curious, sallow, dark man, with one ear larger than the other and a chin like the toe−cap of a boot.


“What can we have the pleasure?" he said, spreading his long, magic fingers on the glass case; and so with a start we were aware of him.


“I want," I said, “to buy my little boy a few simple tricks."


“Legerdemain?" he asked.


“Mechanical? Domestic?"


“Anything amusing?" said I.


“Um!" said the shopman, and scratched his head for a moment as if thinking. Then, quite distinctly, he drew from his head a glass ball.


“Something in this way?" he said, and held it out. The action was unexpected. I had seen the trick done at entertainments endless times before it's part of the common stock of conjurers but I had not expected it here.


“That's good," I said, with a laugh.


“Isn't it?" said the shopman. Gip stretched out his disengaged hand to take this object and found merely a blank palm.


“It's in your pocket," said the shopman, and there it was!


“How much will that be?" I asked.


“We make no charge for glass balls," said the shopman politely.


“We get them," —he picked one out of his elbow as he spoke—"free." He produced another from the back of his neck, and laid it beside its predecessor on the counter. Gip regarded his glass ball sagely, then directed a look of inquiry at the two on the counter, and finally brought his round−eyed scrutiny to the shopman, who smiled.


“You may have those too," said the shopman, “and, if you DON'T mind, one from my mouth. SO!" Gip counselled me mutely for a moment, and then in a profound silence put away the four balls, resumed my reassuring finger, and nerved himself for the next event.


“We get all our smaller tricks in that way," the shopman remarked. I laughed in the manner of one who subscribes to a jest.


“Instead of going to the wholesale shop," I said.


“Of course, it's cheaper."


“In a way," the shopman said.


“Though we pay in the end. But not so heavily as people suppose. . . . Our larger tricks, and our daily provisions and all the other things we want, we get out of that hat. . . And you know, sir, if you'll excuse my saying it, there ISN'T a wholesale shop, not for Genuine Magic goods, sir. I don't know if you noticed our inscription —the Genuine Magic shop." He drew a business−card from his cheek and handed it to me.


“Genuine," he said, with his finger on the word, and added,“There is absolutely no deception, sir." He seemed to be carrying out the joke pretty thoroughly, I thought. He turned to Gip with a smile of remarkable affability.


“You, you know, are the Right Sort of Boy." I was surprised at his knowing that, because, in the interests of discipline, we keep it rather a secret even at home; but Gip received it in unflinching silence, keeping a steadfast eye on him.


“It's only the Right Sort of Boy gets through that doorway." And, as if by way of illustration, there came a rattling at the door, and a squeaking little voice could be faintly heard.


“Nyar! I WARN 'a go in there, dadda, I WARN 'a go in there. Ny−a−a−ah!" and then the accents of a down−trodden parent, urging consolations and propitiations.


“It's locked, Edward," he said.


“But it isn't," said I.


“It is, sir," said the shopman,


“always—for that sort of child," and as he spoke we had a glimpse of the other youngster, a little, white face, pallid from sweet−eating and over−sapid food, and distorted by evil passions, a ruthless little egotist, pawing at the enchanted pane.


“It's no good, sir," said the shopman, as I moved, with my natural helpfulness, doorward, and presently the spoilt child was carried off howling.


“How do you manage that?" I said, breathing a little more freely.


“Magic!" said the shopman, with a careless wave of the hand, and behold! sparks of coloured fire flew out of his fingers and vanished into the shadows of the shop.


“You were saying," he said, addressing himself to Gip,


“before you came in, that you would like one of our 'Buy One and Astonish your Friends' boxes?" Gip, after a gallant effort, said


“Yes."


“It's in your pocket." And leaning over the counter he really had an extraordinarily long body this amazing person produced the article in the customary conjurer's manner.


“Paper," he said, and took a sheet out of the empty hat with the springs; “string," and behold his mouth was a string−box, from which he drew an unending thread, which when he had tied his parcel he bit off and, it seemed to me, swallowed the ball of string. And then he lit a candle at the nose of one of the ventriloquist's dummies, stuck one of his fingers (which had become sealing−wax red) into the flame, and so sealed the parcel.


“Then there was the Disappearing Egg," he remarked, and produced one from within my coat−breast and packed it, and also The Crying Baby, Very Human. I handed each parcel to Gip as it was ready, and he clasped them to his chest. He said very little, but his eyes were eloquent; the clutch of his arms was eloquent. He was the playground of unspeakable emotions. These, you know, were REAL Magics. Then, with a start, I discovered something moving about in my hat something soft and jumpy. I whipped it off, and a ruffled pigeon no doubt a confederate —dropped out and ran on the counter, and went, I fancy, into a cardboard box behind the papier−mache tiger.


“Tut, tut!" said the shopman, dexterously relieving me of my headdress; “careless bird, and —as I live—nesting!"






He shook my hat, and shook out into his extended hand two or three eggs, a large marble, a watch, about half−a−dozen of the inevitable glass balls, and then crumpled, crinkled paper, more and more and more, talking all the time of the way in which people neglect to brush their hats INSIDE as well as out, politely, of course, but with a certain personal application.


“All sorts of things accumulate, sir. . . . Not YOU, of course, in particular. . . . Nearly every customer. . . . Astonishing what they carry about with them. . . ." The crumpled paper rose and billowed on the counter more and more and more, until he was nearly hidden from us, until he was altogether hidden, and still his voice went on and on.


“We none of us know what the fair semblance of a human being may conceal, sir. Are we all then no better than brushed exteriors, whited sepulchres " His voice stopped —exactly like when you hit a neighbour's gramophone with a well−aimed brick, the same instant silence, and the rustle of the paper stopped, and everything was still. . . .


“Have you done with my hat?" I said, after an interval. There was no answer. I stared at Gip, and Gip stared at me, and there were our distortions in the magic mirrors, looking very rum, and grave, and quiet. . . .


“I think we'll go now," I said.


“Will you tell me how much all this comes to? . . . .


“I say," I said, on a rather louder note,


“I want the bill; and my hat, please." It might have been a sniff from behind the paper pile. . . .


“Let's look behind the counter, Gip," I said.


“He's making fun of us." I led Gip round the head−wagging tiger, and what do you think there was behind the counter? No one at all! Only my hat on the floor, and a common conjurer's lop−eared white rabbit lost in meditation, and looking as stupid and crumpled as only a conjurer's rabbit can do. I resumed my hat, and the rabbit lolloped a lollop or so out of my way.


“Dadda!" said Gip, in a guilty whisper.


“What is it, Gip?" said I.


“I DO like this shop, dadda."


“So should I," I said to myself, “if the counter wouldn't suddenly extend itself to shut one off from the door." But I didn't call Gip's attention to that.


“Pussy!" he said, with a hand out to the rabbit as it came lolloping past us;


“Pussy, do Gip a magic!" and his eyes followed it as it squeezed through a door I had certainly not remarked a moment before. Then this door opened wider, and the man with one ear larger than the other appeared again. He was smiling still, but his eye met mine with something between amusement and defiance.


“You'd like to see our show−room, sir," he said, with an innocent suavity. Gip tugged my finger forward. I glanced at the counter and met the shopman's eye again. I was beginning to think the magic just a little too genuine.


“We haven't VERY much time," I said. But somehow we were inside the show−room before I could finish that.


“All goods of the same quality," said the shopman, rubbing his flexible hands together, “and that is the Best. Nothing in the place that isn't genuine Magic, and warranted thoroughly rum. Excuse me, sir!"


I felt him pull at something that clung to my coat−sleeve, and then I saw he held a little, wriggling red demon by the tail the little creature bit and fought and tried to get at his hand and in a moment he tossed it carelessly behind a counter. No doubt the thing was only an image of twisted indiarubber, but for the moment ! And his gesture was exactly that of a man who handles some petty biting bit of vermin. I glanced at Gip, but Gip was looking at a magic rocking− horse. I was glad he hadn't seen the thing.


“I say," I said, in an undertone, and indicating Gip and the red demon with my eyes,


“you haven't many things like THAT about, have you?"


“None of ours! Probably brought it with you," said the shopman also in an undertone, and with a more dazzling smile than ever.


“Astonishing what people WILL carry about with them unawares!" And then to Gip,


“Do you see anything you fancy here?" There were many things that Gip fancied there. He turned to this astonishing tradesman with mingled confidence and respect.


“Is that a Magic Sword?" he said.


“A Magic Toy Sword. It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts the fingers. It renders the bearer invincible in battle against anyone under eighteen. Half−a−crown to seven and sixpence, according to size. These panoplies on cards are for juvenile knights−errant and very useful shield of safety, sandals of swiftness, helmet of invisibility."


“Oh, daddy!" gasped Gip. I tried to find out what they cost, but the shopman did not heed me. He had got Gip now; he had got him away from my finger; he had embarked upon the exposition of all his confounded stock, and nothing was going to stop him. Presently I saw with a qualm of distrust and something very like jealousy that Gip had hold of this person's finger as usually he has hold of mine. No doubt the fellow was interesting, I thought, and had an interestingly faked lot of stuff, really GOOD faked stuff, still I wandered after them, saying very little, but keeping an eye on this prestidigital fellow. After all, Gip was enjoying it. And no doubt when the time came to go we should be able to go quite easily. It was a long, rambling place, that show−room, a gallery broken up by stands and stalls and pillars, with archways leading off to other departments, in which the queerest−looking assistants loafed and stared at one, and with perplexing mirrors and curtains. So perplexing, indeed, were these that I was presently unable to make out the door by which we had come. The shopman showed Gip magic trains that ran without steam or clockwork, just as you set the signals, and then some very, very valuable boxes of soldiers that all came alive directly you took off the lid and said . I myself haven't a very quick ear and it was a tongue− twisting sound, but Gip he has his mother's ear got it in no time.


“Bravo!" said the shopman, putting the men back into the box unceremoniously and handing it to Gip.


“Now," said the shopman, and in a moment Gip had made them all alive again.


“You'll take that box?" asked the shopman.


“We'll take that box," said I,


“unless you charge its full value. In which case it would need a Trust Magnate "


“Dear heart! NO!" and the shopman swept the little men back again, shut the lid, waved the box in the air, and there it was, in brown paper, tied up and WITH GIP'S FULL NAME AND ADDRESS ON THE PAPER! The shopman laughed at my amazement.


“This is the genuine magic," he said.


“The real thing."










“It's a little too genuine for my taste," I said again. After that he fell to showing Gip tricks, odd tricks, and still odder the way they were done. He explained them, he turned them inside out, and there was the dear little chap nodding his busy bit of a head in the sagest manner. I did not attend as well as I might.


“Hey, presto!" said the Magic Shopman, and then would come the clear, small


“Hey, presto!" of the boy. But I was distracted by other things. It was being borne in upon me just how tremendously rum this place was; it was, so to speak, inundated by a sense of rumness. There was something a little rum about the fixtures even, about the ceiling, about the floor, about the casually distributed chairs. I had a queer feeling that whenever I wasn't looking at them straight they went askew, and moved about, and played a noiseless puss−in−the−corner behind my back. And the cornice had a serpentine design with masks--masks altogether too expressive for proper plaster. Then abruptly my attention was caught by one of the odd−looking assistants. He was some way off and evidently unaware of my presence I saw a sort of three−quarter length of him over a pile of toys and through an arch and, you know, he was leaning against a pillar in an idle sort of way doing the most horrid things with his features! The particular horrid thing he did was with his nose. He did it just as though he was idle and wanted to amuse himself. First of all it was a short, blobby nose, and then suddenly he shot it out like a telescope, and then out it flew and became thinner and thinner until it was like a long, red, flexible whip. Like a thing in a nightmare it was! He flourished it about and flung it forth as a fly−fisher flings his line. My instant thought was that Gip mustn't see him. I turned about, and there was Gip quite preoccupied with the shopman, and thinking no evil. They were whispering together and looking at me. Gip was standing on a little stool, and the shopman was holding a sort of big drum in his hand.


“Hide and seek, dadda!" cried Gip.


“You're He!" And before I could do anything to prevent it, the shopman had clapped the big drum over him. I saw what was up directly.


“Take that off," I cried, “this instant! You'll frighten the boy. Take it off!" The shopman with the unequal ears did so without a word, and held the big cylinder towards me to show its emptiness. And the little stool was vacant! In that instant my boy had utterly disappeared? . . . You know, perhaps, that sinister something that comes like a hand out of the unseen and grips your heart about. You know it takes your common self away and leaves you tense and deliberate, neither slow nor hasty, neither angry nor afraid. So it was with me. I came up to this grinning shopman and kicked his stool aside.






“Stop this folly!" I said.






“Where is my boy?"






“You see," he said, still displaying the drum's interior,






“there is no deception−" I put out my hand to grip him, and he eluded me by a dexterous movement. I snatched again, and he turned from me and pushed open a door to escape.






“Stop!" I said, and he laughed, receding. I leapt after him into utter darkness. THUD!


“Lor' bless my 'eart! I didn't see you coming, sir!"






I was in Regent Street, and I had collided with a decent−looking working man; and a yard away, perhaps, and looking a little perplexed with himself, was Gip. There was some sort of apology, and then Gip had turned and come to me with a bright little smile, as though for a moment he had missed me. And he was carrying four parcels in his arm! He secured immediate possession of my finger. For the second I was rather at a loss. I stared round to see the door of the magic shop, and, behold, it was not there! There was no door, no shop, nothing, only the common pilaster between the shop where they sell pictures and the window with the chicks! . . . I did the only thing possible in that mental tumult; I walked straight to the kerbstone and held up my umbrella for a cab.






“'Ansoms," said Gip, in a note of culminating exultation. I helped him in, recalled my address with an effort, and got in also. Something unusual proclaimed itself in my tail−coat pocket, and I felt and discovered a glass ball. With a petulant expression I flung it into the street. Gip said nothing. For a space neither of us spoke.






“Dada!" said Gip, at last,






“that WAS a proper shop!" I came round with that to the problem of just how the whole thing had seemed to him. He looked completely undamaged so far, good; he was neither scared nor unhinged, he was simply tremendously satisfied with the afternoon's entertainment, and there in his arms were the four parcels. Confound it! what could be in them?






“Um!" I said.






“Little boys can't go to shops like that every day." He received this with his usual stoicism, and for a moment I was sorry I was his father and not his mother, and so couldn't suddenly there, coram publico, in our hansom, kiss him. After all, I thought, the thing wasn't so very bad. But it was only when we opened the parcels that I really began to be reassured. Three of them contained boxes of soldiers, quite ordinary lead soldiers, but of so good a quality as to make Gip altogether forget that originally these parcels had been Magic Tricks of the only genuine sort, and the fourth contained a kitten, a little living white kitten, in excellent health and appetite and temper. I saw this unpacking with a sort of provisional relief. I hung about in the nursery for quite an unconscionable time. . . . That happened six months ago. And now I am beginning to believe it is all right. The kitten had only the magic natural to all kittens, and the soldiers seem as steady a company as any colonel could desire. And Gip ? The intelligent parent will understand that I have to go cautiously with Gip.






But I went so far as this one day. I said,“How would you like your soldiers to come alive, Gip, and march about by themselves?"






“Mine do," said Gip.






“I just have to say a word I know before I open the lid."






“Then they march about alone?"






“Oh, QUITE, dadda. I shouldn't like them if they didn't do that." I displayed no unbecoming surprise, and since then I have taken occasion to drop in upon him once or twice, unannounced, when the soldiers were about, but so far I have never discovered them performing in anything like a magical manner. It's so difficult to tell. There's also a question of finance. I have an incurable habit of paying bills. I have been up and down Regent Street several times, looking for that shop. I am inclined to think, indeed, that in that matter honour is satisfied, and that, since Gip's name and address are known to them, I may very well leave it to these people, whoever they may be, to send in their bill in their own time.

The Crown Derby Plate by Marjorie Bowen

Martha Pym said that she had never seen a ghost and that she would very much like to do so, "particularly at Christmas, for you can laugh as you like, that is the correct time to see a ghost."

"I don't suppose you ever will," replied her cousin Mabel comfortably, while her cousin Clara shuddered and said that she hoped they would change the subject for she disliked even to think of such things.

The three elderly, cheerful women sat round a big fire, cosy and content after a day of pleasant activities; Martha was the guest of the other two, who owned the handsome, convenient country house; she always came to spend her Christmas with the Wyntons and found the leisurely country life delightful after the bustling round of London, for Martha managed an antique shop of the better sort and worked extremely hard. She was, however, still full of zest for work or pleasure, though sixty years old, and looked backwards and forwards to a succession of delightful days.

The other two, Mabel and Clara, led quieter but none the less agreeable lives; they had more money and fewer interests, but nevertheless enjoyed themselves very well.

"Talking of ghosts," said Mabel, "I wonder how that old woman at 'Hartleys' is getting on, for 'Hartleys,' you know, is supposed to be haunted."

"Yes, I know," smiled Miss Pym, "but all the years that we have known of the place we have never heard anything definite, have we?"

"No," put in Clara; "but there is that persistent rumour that the House is uncanny, and for myself, nothing would induce me to live there!"

"It is certainly very lonely and dreary down there on the marshes," conceded Mabel. "But as for the ghost—you never hear what it is supposed to be even."

"Who has taken it?" asked Miss Pym, remembering "Hartleys" as very desolate indeed, and long shut up.

"A Miss Lefain, an eccentric old creature—I think you met her here once, two years ago——"

"I believe that I did, but I don't recall her at all."

"We have not seen her since, 'Hartleys' is so un-get-at-able and she didn't seem to want visitors. She collects china, Martha, so really you ought to go and see her and talk 'shop.'"

With the word "china" some curious associations came into the mind of Martha Pym; she was silent while she strove to put them together, and after a second or two they all fitted together into a very clear picture.

She remembered that thirty years ago—yes, it must be thirty years ago, when, as a young woman, she had put all her capital into the antique business, and had been staying with her cousins (her aunt had then been alive) that she had driven across the marsh to "Hartleys," where there was an auction sale; all the details of this she had completely forgotten, but she could recall quite clearly purchasing a set of gorgeous china which was still one of her proud delights, a perfect set of Crown Derby save that one plate was missing.

"How odd," she remarked, "that this Miss Lefain should collect china too, for it was at 'Hartleys' that I purchased my dear old Derby service—I've never been able to match that plate——"

"A plate was missing? I seem to remember," said Clara. "Didn't they say that it must be in the house somewhere and that it should be looked for?"

"I believe they did, but of course I never heard any more and that missing plate has annoyed me ever since. Who had 'Hartleys'?"

"An old connoisseur, Sir James Sewell; I believe he was some relation to this Miss Lefain, but I don't know——"

"I wonder if she has found the plate," mused Miss Pym. "I expect she has turned out and ransacked the whole place——"

"Why not trot over and ask?" suggested Mabel. "It's not much use to her, if she has found it, one odd plate."

"Don't be silly," said Clara. "Fancy going over the marshes, this weather, to ask about a plate missed all those years ago. I'm sure Martha wouldn't think of it——"

But Martha did think of it; she was rather fascinated by the idea; how queer and pleasant it would be if, after all these years, nearly a lifetime, she should find the Crown Derby plate, the loss of which had always irked her! And this hope did not seem so altogether fantastical, it was quite likely that old Miss Lefain, poking about in the ancient house, had found the missing piece.

And, of course, if she had, being a fellow-collector, she would be quite willing to part with it to complete the set.

Her cousin endeavoured to dissuade her; Miss Lefain, she declared, was a recluse, an odd creature who might greatly resent such a visit and such a request.

"Well, if she does I can but come away again," smiled Miss Pym. "I suppose she can't bite my head off, and I rather like meeting these curious types—we've got a love for old china in common, anyhow."

"It seems so silly to think of it—after all these years—a plate!"

"A Crown Derby plate," corrected Miss Pym. "It is certainly strange that I didn't think of it before, but now that I have got it into my head I can't get it out. Besides," she added hopefully, "I might see the ghost."

So full, however, were the days with pleasant local engagements that Miss Pym had no immediate chance of putting her scheme into practice; but she did not relinquish it, and she asked several different people what they knew about "Hartleys" and Miss Lefain.

And no one knew anything save that the house was supposed to be haunted and the owner "cracky."

"Is there a story?" asked Miss Pym, who associated ghosts with neat tales into which they fitted as exactly as nuts into shells.

But she was always told: "Oh, no, there isn't a story, no one knows anything about the place, don't know how the idea got about; old Sewcll was half-crazy, I believe, he was buried in the garden and that gives a house a nasty name——"

"Very unpleasant," said Martha Pym, undisturbed.

This ghost seemed too elusive for her to track down; she would have to be content if she could recover the Crown Derby plate; for that at least she was determined to make a try and also to satisfy that faint tingling of curiosity roused in her by this talk about "Hartleys" and the remembrance of that day, so long ago, when she had gone to the auction sale at the lonely old house.

So the first free afternoon, while Mabel and Clara were comfortably taking their afternoon repose, Martha Pym, who was of a more lively habit, got out her little governess cart and dashed away across the Essex flats.

She had taken minute directions with her, but she had soon lost her way.

Under the wintry sky, which looked as grey and hard as metal, the marshes stretched bleakly to the horizon, the olive-brown broken reeds were harsh as scars on the saffron-tinted bogs, where the sluggish waters that rose so high in winter were filmed over with the first stillness of a frost; the air was cold but not keen, everything was damp; faintest of mists blurred the black outlines of trees that rose stark from the ridges above the stagnant dykes; the flooded fields were haunted by black birds and white birds, gulls and crows, whining above the long ditch grass and wintry wastes.

Miss Pym stopped the little horse and surveyed this spectral scene, which had a certain relish about it to one sure to return to a homely village, a cheerful house and good company.

A withered and bleached old man, in colour like the dun landscape, came along the road between the sparse alders.

Miss Pym, buttoning up her coat, asked the way to "Hartley" as he passed her; he told her, straight on, and she proceeded, straight indeed across the road that went with undeviating length across the marshes.

"Of course," thought Miss Pym, "if you live in a place like this, you are bound to invent ghosts."

The house sprang up suddenly on a knoll ringed with rotting trees, encompassed by an old brick wall that the perpetual damp had overrun with lichen, blue, green, white colours of decay.

"Hartleys," no doubt, there was no other residence of human being in sight in all the wide expanse; besides, she could remember it, surely, after all this time, the sharp rising out of the marsh, the colony of tall trees, but then fields and trees had been green and bright—there had been no water on the flats, it had been summer-time.

"She certainly," thought Miss Pym, "must be crazy to live here. And I rather doubt if I shall get my plate."

She fastened up the good little horse by the garden gate which stood negligently ajar and entered; the garden itself was so neglected that it was quite surprising to see a trim appearance in the house, curtains at the window and a polish on the brass door knocker, which must have been recently rubbed there, considering the taint in the sea damp which rusted and rotted everything.

It was a square-built, substantial house with "nothing wrong with it but the situation," Miss Pym decided, though it was not very attractive, being built of that drab plastered stone so popular a hundred years ago, with flat windows and door, while one side was gloomily shaded by a large evergreen tree of the cypress variety which gave a blackish tinge to that portion of the garden.

There was no pretence at flower-beds nor any manner of cultivation in this garden where a few rank weeds and straggling bushes matted together above the dead grass; on the enclosing wall which appeared to have been built high as protection against the ceaseless winds that swung along the flats were the remains of fruit trees; their crucified branches, rotting under the great nails that held them up, looked like the skeletons of those who had died in torment.

Miss Pym took in these noxious details as she knocked firmly at the door; they did not depress her; she merely felt extremely sorry for anyone who could live in such a place.

She noticed, at the far end of the garden, in the corner of the wall, a headstone showing above the sodden colourless grass, and remembered what she had been told about the old antiquary being buried there, in the grounds of "Hartleys."

As the knock had no effect she stepped back and looked at the house; it was certainly inhabited—with those neat windows, white curtains and drab blinds all pulled to precisely the same level.

And when she brought her glance back to the door she saw that it had been opened and that someone, considerably obscured by the darkness of the passage, was looking at her intently.

"Good afternoon," said Miss Pym cheerfully. "I just thought that I would call to see Miss Lefain—it is Miss Lefain, isn't it?"

"It's my house," was the querulous reply.

Martha Pym had hardly expected to find any servants here, though the old lady must, she thought, work pretty hard to keep the house so clean and tidy as it appeared to be.

"Of course," she replied. "May I come in? I'm Martha Pym, staying with the Wyntons, I met you there——"

"Do come in," was the faint reply. "I get so few people to visit me, I'm really very lonely."

"I don't wonder," thought Miss Pym; but she had resolved to take no notice of any eccentricity on the part of her hostess, and so she entered the house with her usual agreeable candour and courtesy.

The passage was badly lit, but she was able to get a fair idea of Miss Lefain; her first impression was that this poor creature was most dreadfully old, older than any human being had the right to be, why, she felt young in comparison—so faded, feeble, and pallid was Miss Lefain.

She was also monstrously fat; her gross, flaccid figure was shapeless and she wore a badly cut, full dress of no colour at all, but stained with earth and damp where Miss Pym supposed she had been doing futile gardening; this gown was doubtless designed to disguise her stoutness, but had been so carelessly pulled about that it only added to it, being rucked and rolled "all over the place" as Miss Pym put it to herself.

Another ridiculous touch about the appearance of the poor old lady was her short hair; decrepit as she was, and lonely as she lived she had actually had her scanty relics of white hair cropped round her shaking head.

"Dear me, dear me," she said in her thin treble voice. "How very kind of you to come. I suppose you prefer the parlour? I generally sit in the garden."

"The garden? But not in this weather?"

"I get used to the weather. You've no idea how used one gets to the weather."

"I suppose so," conceded Miss Pym doubtfully. "You don't live here quite alone, do you?"

"Quite alone, lately. I had a little company, but she was taken away, I'm sure I don't know where. I haven't been able to find a trace of her anywhere," replied the old lady peevishly.

"Some wretched companion that couldn't stick it, I suppose," thought Miss Pym. "Well, I don't wonder—but someone ought to be here to look after her."

They went into the parlour, which, the visitor was dismayed to see, was without a fire but otherwise well kept.

And there, on dozens of shelves was a choice array of china at which Martha Pym's eyes glistened.

"Aha!" cried Miss Lefain. "I see you've noticed my treasures! Don't you envy me? Don't you wish that you had some of those pieces?"

Martha Pym certainly did and she looked eagerly and greedily round the walls, tables, and cabinets while the old woman followed her with little thin squeals of pleasure.

It was a beautiful little collection, most choicely and elegantly arranged, and Martha thought it marvellous that this feeble ancient creature should be able to keep it in such precise order as well as doing her own housework.

"Do you really do everything yourself here and live quite alone?" she asked, and she shivered even in her thick coat and wished that Miss Lefain's energy had risen to a fire, but then probably she lived in the kitchen, as these lonely eccentrics often did.

"There was someone," answered Miss Lefain cunningly, "but I had to send her away. I told you she's gone, I can't find her, and I am so glad. Of course," she added wistfully, "it leaves me very lonely, but then I couldn't stand her impertinence any longer. She used to say that it was her house and her collection of china! Would you believe it? She used to try to chase me away from looking at my own things!"

"How very disagreeable," said Miss Pym, wondering which of the two women had been crazy. "But hadn't you better get someone else."

"Oh, no," was the jealous answer. "I would rather be alone with my things, I daren't leave the house for fear someone takes them away—there was a dreadful time once when an auction sale was held here——"

"Were you here then?" asked Miss Pym; but indeed she looked old enough to have been anywhere.

"Yes, of course," Miss Lefain replied rather peevishly and Miss Pym decided that she must be a relation of old Sir James Sewell. Clara and Mabel had been very foggy about it all. "I was very busy hiding all the china—but one set they got—a Crown Derby tea service——"

"With one plate missing!" cried Martha Pym. "I bought it, and do you know, I was wondering if you'd found it——"

"I hid it," piped Miss Lefain.

"Oh, you did, did you? Well, that's rather funny behaviour. Why did you hide the stuff away instead of buying it?"

"How could I buy what was mine?"

"Old Sir James left it to you, then?" asked Martha Pym, feeling very muddled.

"She bought a lot more," squeaked Miss Lefain, but Martha Pym tried to keep her to the point.

"If you've got the plate," she insisted, "you might let me have it—I'll pay quite handsomely, it would be so pleasant to have it after all these years."

"Money is no use to me," said Miss Lefain mournfully. "Not a bit of use. I can't leave the house or the garden."

"Well, you have to live, I suppose," replied Martha Pym cheerfully. "And, do you know, I'm afraid you are getting rather morbid and dull, living here all alone—you really ought to have a fire—why, it's just on Christmas and very damp."

"I haven't felt the cold for a long time," replied the other; she seated herself with a sigh on one of the horsehair chairs and Miss Pym noticed with a start that her feet were covered only by a pair of white stockings; "one of those nasty health fiends," thought Miss Pym, "but she doesn't look too well for all that."

"So you don't think that you could let me have the plate?" she asked briskly, walking up and down, for the dark, neat, clean parlour was very cold indeed, and she thought that she couldn't stand this much longer; as there seemed no sign of tea or anything pleasant and comfortable she had really better go.

"I might let you have it," sighed Miss Lefain, "since you've been so kind as to pay me a visit. After all, one plate isn't much use, is it?"

"Of course not, I wonder you troubled to hide it——"

"I couldn't bear," wailed the other, "to see the things going out of the house!"

Martha Pym couldn't stop to go into all this; it was quite clear that the old lady was very eccentric indeed and that nothing very much could be done with her; no wonder that she had "dropped out" of everything and that no one ever saw her or knew anything about her, though Miss Pym felt that some effort ought really to be made to save her from herself.

"Wouldn't you like a run in my little governess cart?" she suggested. "We might go to tea with the Wyntons on the way back, they'd be delighted to see you, and I really think that you do want taking out of yourself."

"I was taken out of myself some time ago," replied Miss Lefain. "I really was, and I couldn't leave my things—though," she added with pathetic gratitude, "it is very, very kind of you——"

"Your things would be quite safe, I'm sure," said Martha Pym, humouring her. "Who ever would come up here, this hour of a winter's day?"

"They do, oh, they do! And she might come back, prying and nosing and saying that it was all hers, all my beautiful china, hers!"

Miss Lefain squealed in her agitation and rising up, ran round the wall fingering with flaccid yellow hands the brilliant glossy pieces on the shelves.

"Well, then, I'm afraid that I must go, they'll be expecting me, and it's quite a long ride; perhaps some other time you'll come and see us?

"Oh, must you go?" quavered Miss Lefain dolefully. "I do like a little company now and then and I trusted you from the first—the others, when they do come, are always after my things and I have to frighten them away!"

"Frighten them away!" replied Martha Pym. "However do you do that?"

"It doesn't seem difficult, people are so easily frightened, aren't they?"

Miss Pym suddenly remembered that "Hartleys" had the reputation of being haunted—perhaps the queer old thing played on that; the lonely house with the grave in the garden was dreary enough around which to create a legend.

"I suppose you've never seen a ghost?" she asked pleasantly. "I'd rather like to see one, you know——"

"There is no one here but myself," said Miss Lefain.

"So you've never seen anything? I thought it must be all nonsense. Still, I do think it rather melancholy for you to live here all alone——"

Miss Lefain sighed:

"Yes, it's very lonely. Do stay and talk to me a little longer." Her whistling voice dropped cunningly. "And I'll give you the Crown Derby plate!"

"Are you sure you've really got it?" Miss Pym asked.

"I'll show you."

Fat and waddling as she was, she seemed to move very lightly as she slipped in front of Miss Pym and conducted her from the room, going slowly up the stairs—such a gross odd figure in that clumsy dress with the fringe of white hair hanging on to her shoulders.

The upstairs of the house was as neat as the parlour, everything well in its place; but there was no sign of occupancy; the beds were covered with dust sheets, there were no lamps or fires set ready. "I suppose," said Miss Pym to herself, "she doesn't care to show me where she reeally lives."

But as they passed from one room to another, she could not help saying:

"Where do you live, Miss Lefain?"

"Mostly in the garden," said the other.

Miss Pym thought of those horrible health huts that some people indulged in.

"Well, sooner you than I," she replied cheerfully.

In the most distant room of all, a dark, tiny closet, Miss Lefain opened a deep cupboard and brought out a Crown Derby plate which her guest received with a spasm of joy, for it was actually that missing from her cherished set.

"It's very good of you," she said in delight. "Won't you take something for it, or let me do something for you?"

"You might come and see me again," replied Miss Lefain wistfully.

"Oh, yes, of course I should like to come and see you again."

But now that she had got what she had really come for, the plate, Martha Pym wanted to be gone; it was really very dismal and depressing in the house and she began to notice a fearful smell—the place had been shut up too long, there was something damp rotting somewhere, in this horrid little dark closet no doubt.

"I really must be going," she said hurriedly.

Miss Lefain turned as if to cling to her, but Martha Pym moved quickly away.

"Dear me," wailed the old lady. "Why are you in such haste?"

"There's—a smell," murmured Miss Pym rather faintly.

She found herself hastening down the stairs, with Miss Lefain complaining behind her.

"How peculiar people are—she used to talk of a smell——"

"Well, you must notice it yourself."

Miss Pym was in the hall; the old woman had not followed her, but stood in the semi-darkness at the head of the stairs, a pale shapeless figure.

Martha Pym hated to be rude and ungrateful but she could not stay another moment; she hurried away and was in her cart in a moment—really—that smell——

"Good-bye!" she called out with false cheerfulness, "and thank you so much!"

There was no answer from the house.

Miss Pym drove on; she was rather upset and took another way than that by which she had come, a way that led past a little house raised above the marsh; she was glad to think that the poor old creature at "Hartleys" had such near neighbours, and she reined up the horse, dubious as to whether she should call someone and tell them that poor old Miss Lefain really wanted a little looking after, alone in a house like that, and plainly not quite right in her head.

A young woman, attracted by the sound of the governess cart, came to the door of the house and seeing Miss Pym called out, asking if she wanted the keys of the house?

"What house?" asked Miss Pym.

"'Hartleys,' mum, they don't put a board out, as no one is likely to pass, but it's to be sold. Miss Lefain wants to sell or let it——"

"I've just been up to see her——"

"Oh, no, mum—she's been away a year, abroad somewhere, couldn't stand the place, it's been empty since then, I just run in every day and keep things tidy——"

Loquacious and curious the young woman had come to the fence; Miss Pym had stopped her horse.

"Miss Lefain is there now," she said. "She must have just come back——"

"She wasn't there this morning, mum, 'tisn't likely she'd come, either—fair scared she was, mum, fair chased away, didn't dare move her china. Can't say I've noticed anything myself, but I never stay long—and there's a smell——"

"Yes," murmured Martha Pym faintly, "there's a smell. What—what—chased her away?"

The young woman, even in that lonely place, lowered her voice.

"Well, as you aren't thinking of taking the place, she got an idea in her head that old Sir James—well, he couldn't bear to leave 'Hartleys,' mum, he's buried in the garden, and she thought he was after her, chasing round them bits of china——"

"Oh!" cried Miss Pym.

"Some of it used to be his, she found a lot stuffed away, he said they were to be left in 'Hartleys,' but Miss Lefain would have the things sold, I believe—that's years ago——"

"Yes, yes," said Miss Pym with a sick look. "You don't know what he was like, do you?"

"No, mum—but I've heard tell he was very stout and very old—I wonder who it was you saw up at 'Hartleys'?"

Miss Pym took a Crown Derby plate from her bag.

"You might take that back when you go," she whispered. "I shan't want it, after all——"

Before the astonished young woman could answer Miss Pym had darted off across the marsh; that short hair, that earth-stained robe, the white socks, "I generally live in the garden——"

Miss Pym drove away, breakneck speed, frantically resolving to mention to no one that she had paid a visit to "Hartleys," nor lightly again to bring up the subject of ghosts.

She shook and shuddered in the damp, trying to get out of her clothes and her nostrils—that indescribable smell.

The Kit Bag by Algernon Blackwood

When the words 'Not Guilty' sounded through the crowded courtroom that
dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC, and
leader for the triumphant defence, was represented by his junior; but
Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his
chambers like lightning.

'It's what we expected, I think,' said the barrister, without emotion;
'and, personally, I am glad the case is over.' There was no particular
sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea
of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who
had watched the case felt, that no man had ever better deserved the
gallows.

'I'm glad too,' said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days
watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one
of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

Be counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and
employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. 'Ah, I
remember; yes,' he said with a kind smile, 'and you want to get away for
Christmas? You're going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren't you? If I
was your age I'd come with you.'

Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of twenty-six, with a
delicate face like a girl's. 'I can catch the morning boat now,' he said;
'but that's not the reason I'm glad the trial is over. I'm glad it's over
because I've seen the last of that man's dreadful face. It positively
haunted me. Bat white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the
forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way
the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that--'

'Don't dwell on it, my dear fellow,' interrupted the other, looking at
him curiously out of his keen eyes, 'don't think about it. Such pictures
have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.' He paused a
moment. 'Now go,' he added presently, 'and enjoy your holiday. I shall
want all your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And
don't break your neck skiing.'

Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.

'I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,' he said. 'Would you
mind lendang me one of your kit-bags? It's too late to get one tonight,
and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.'

'Of course; I'll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it
the moment I get home.'

'I promise to take great care of it,' said Johnson gratefully, delighted
to think that within thirty hours he would be nearing the brilliant
sunshine of the high Alps in winter. Be thought of that criminal court
was like an evil dream in his mind.

He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top
floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and
lofty. The floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that
were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he looked
forward heartily to a change. The night was even more cheerless: it was
miserable, and few people were about. A cold, sleety rain was driving
down the streets before the keenest east wind he had ever felt. It howled
dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he
reached his rooms he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of
black roofs beyond his windows.

In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the draughts with
her thin hand. 'This come by a man from Mr Wilbr'im's, sir.'

She pointed to what was evidently the kit-bag, and Johnson thanked her
and took it upstairs with him. 'I shall be going abroad in the morning
for ten days, Mrs Monks,' he said. 'I'll leave an address for letters.'

'And I hope you'll 'ave a merry Christmas, sir,' she said, in a raucous,
wheezy voice that suggested spirits, 'and better weather than this.'

'I hope so too,' replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went
roaring down the street outside.

When he got upstairs he heard the sleet volleying against the window
panes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee, and then set
about putting a few things in order for his absence. 'And now I must
pack--such as my packing is,' he laughed to himself, and set to work at
once.

He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly
before him, and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten
days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His fraend had lent him
the very thing--a stout canvas kit-bag, sack-shaped, with holes round the
neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not
much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to
pack carefully. He shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves,
his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow-boots, and ear-caps;
and then on the top of these he piled his woollen shirts and underwear,
his thick socks, puttees, and knickerbockers. The dress suit came next,
in case the hotel people dressed for dinner, and then, thinking of the
best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a moment to reflect. 'Bat's
the worst of these kit-bags,' he mused vaguely, standing in the centre of
the sitting-room, where he had come to fetch some string.

It was after ten o'clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as
though to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners
whose Christmas would be spent in such a climate, whilst he was skimming
over snowy slopes in bright sunshine, and dancing in the evening with
rosy-checked girls--Ah! that reminded him; he must put in his
dancing-pumps and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting-room to
the cupboard on the landing where he kept his linen.

And as he did so he heard someone coming softly up the stairs.

He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs Monks's
step, he thought; she must he coming up with the last post. But then the
steps ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two
flights down, and he came to the conclusion they were too heavy to be
those of his bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger
who had mistaken his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps
and dress-shirts as best he could.

Be kit-bag by this time was two-thirds full, and stood upright on its own
base like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old
and dirty, the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been
subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have
sent him--certainly not a new one, or one that his chief valued. He gave
the matter a passing thought, and went on with his packing. Once or
twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it could have been
wandering down below, for Mrs Monks had not come up with letters, and the
floor was empty and unfurnished. From time to time, moreover, he was
almost certain he heard a soft tread of someone padding about over the
bare boards--cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible--and,
further, that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly nearer.

For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as
though to emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the
bedroom, having, just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed
that the top of the kit-bag lopped over towards him with an extraordinary
resemblance to a human face. Be camas fell into a fold like a nose and
forehead, and the brass rings for the padlock just filled the position of
the eyes. A shadow--or was it a travel stain? for he could not tell
exactly--looked like hair. It gave him rather a turn, for it was so
absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk the murderer.

He laughed, and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.

'That horrid case has got on my mind,' he thought; 'I shall be glad of a
change of scene and air.' In the sitting-room, however, he was not
pleased to hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs, and to realize
that it was much closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And
this time he got up and went out to see who it could be creeping about on
the upper staircase at so late an hour.

But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to
the floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric
light to make sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the
unoccupied suite. There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide
a dog. Then he called over the banisters to Mrs Monks, but there was no
answer, and his voice echoed down into the dark vault of the house, and
was lost in the roar of the gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed
and asleep--everyone except himself and the owner of this soft and
stealthy tread.

'My absurd imagination, I suppose,' he thought. 'It must have been the
wind after all, although--it seemed so _very_ real and close, I thought.'
He went back to his packing. It was by this time getting on towards
midnight. He drank his coffee up and lit another pipe--the last before
turning in.

It is difficult to say exactly at what point fear begins, when the causes
of that fear are not plainly before the eyes. Impressions gather on the
surface of the mind, film by film, as ice gathers upon the surface of
still water, but often so lightly that they claim no definite recognation
from the consciousness. Then a point is reached where the accumulated
impressions become a definite emotion, and the mind realizes that
something has happened. With something of a start, Johnson suddenly
recognized that he felt nervous--oddly nervous; also, that for some time
past the causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in has mind,
but that he had only just reached the point where he was forced to
acknowledge them.

It was a singular and curious malaise that had come over him, and he
hardly knew what to make of it. He felt as though he were doing something
that was strongly objected to by another person, another person,
moreover, who had some right to object. It was a most disturbing and
disagreeable feeling, not unlike the persistent promptings of conscience:
almost, in fact, as if he were doing something he knew to be wrong. Yet,
though he searched vigorously and honestly in his mind, he could nowhere
lay his finger upon the secret of this growing uneasiness, and it
perplexed him. More, it distressed and frightened him.

'Pure nerves, I suppose,' he said aloud with a forced laugh. 'Mountain
air will cure all that! Ah,' he added, still speaking to himself, 'and
that reminds me--my snow-glasses.'

He was standing by the door of the bedroom during this brief soliloquy,
and as he passed quickly towards the sitting-room to fetch them from the
cupboard he saw out of the corner of his eye the indistinct outline of a
figure standing on the stairs, a few feet from the top. It was someone in
a stooping position, with one hand on the banisters, and the face peering
up towards the landing. And at the same moment he heard a shuffling
footstep. The person who had been creeping about below all this time had
at last come up to his own floor. Who in the world could it be? And what
in the name of Heaven did he want?

Johnson caught his breath sharply and stood stock still. Then, after a
few seconds' hesitation, he found his courage, and turned to investigate.
Be stairs, he saw to his utter amazement, were empty; there was no one.
He felt a series of cold shivers run over him, and something about the
muscles of his legs gave a little and grew weak. For the space of several
minutes he peered steadily into the shadows that congregated about the
top of the staircase where he had seen the figure, and then he walked
fast--almost ran, in fact--into the light of the front room; but hardly
had he passed inside the doorway when he heard someone come up the stairs
behind him with a quick bound and go swiftly into his bedroom. It was a
heavy, but at the same time a stealthy footstep--the tread of somebody
who did not wish to be seen. And it was at this precise moment that the
nervousness he had hitherto experienced leaped the boundary line, and
entered the state of fear, almost of acute, unreasoning fear. Before it
turned into terror there was a further boundary to cross, and beyond that
again lay the region of pure horror. Johnson's position was an unenviable
one.

By Jove! That was someone on the stairs, then,' he muttered, his flesh
crawling all over; 'and whoever it was has now gone into my bedroom.' His
delicate, pale face turned absolutely white, and for some minutes he
hardly knew what to think or do. Then he realized intuitively that delay
only set a premium upon fear; and he crossed the landing boldly and went
straight into the other room, where, a few seconds before, the steps had
disappeared.

'Who's there? Is that you, Mrs Monks?' he called aloud, as he went, and
heard the first half of his words echo down the empty stairs, while the
second half fell dead against the curtains in a room that apparently held
no other human figure than his own.

'Who's there?' he called again, in a voice unnecessarily loud and that
only just held firm. 'What do you want here?'

The curtains swayed very slightly, and, as he saw it, his heart felt as
if it almost missed a beat; yet he dashed forward and drew them aside
with a rush. A window, streaming with rain, was all that met his gaze. He
continued his search, but in vain; the cupboards held nothing but rows of
clothes, hanging motionless; and under the bed there was no sign of
anyone hiding. He stepped backwards into the middle of the room, and, as
he did so, something all but tripped him up. Turning with a sudden spring
of alarm he saw--the kit-bag.

'Odd!' he thought. 'That's not where I left it!' A few moments before it
had surely been on his right, between the bed and the bath; he did not
remember having moved it. It was very curious. What in the world was the
matter with everything? Were all his senses gone queer? A terrific gust
of wind tore at the windows, dashing the sleet against the glass with the
force of small gunshot, and then fled away howling dismally over the
waste of Bloomsbury roofs. A sudden vision of the Channel next day rose
in his mind and recalled him sharply to realities.

There's no one here at any rate; that's quite clear!' he exclaimed aloud.
Yet at the time he uttered them he knew perfectly well that his words
were not true and that he did not believe them himself. He felt exactly
as though someone was hiding close about him, watching all his movements,
trying to hinder his packing in some way. 'And two of my senses,' he
added, keeping up the pretence, 'have played me the most absurd tricks:
the steps I heard and the figure I saw were both entirely imaginary.'

He went hack to the front room, poked the fire into a blaze, and sat down
before it to think. What impressed him more than anythang else was the
fact that the kit-bag was no longer where he had left at. It had been
dragged nearer to the door.

What happened afterwards that night happened, of course, to a man already
excited by fear, and was perceived by a mand that had not the full and
proper control, therefore, of the senses. Outwardly, Johson remained calm
and master of himself to the end, pretending to the very last that
everything he witnessed had a natural explanation, or was merely
delusions of his tired nerves. But inwardly, in his very heart, he knew
all along that someone had been hiding downstairs in the empty suite when
he came in, that this person had watched his opportunity and then
stealthily made his way up to the bedroom, and that all he saw and heard
afterwards, from the moving of the kit-bag to--well, to the other things
this story has to tell--were caused directly by the presence of this
invisible person.

And it was here, just when he most desired to keep his mind and thoughts
controlled, that the vivid pictures received day after day upon the
mental plates exposed in the courtroom of the Old Bailey, came strongly
to light and developed themselves in the dark room of his inner vision.
Unpleasant, haunting memories have a way of coming to life again just
when the mind least desires them--in the silent watches of the night, on
sleepless pillows, during the lonely hours spent by sick and dying beds.
And so now, in the same way, Johnson saw nothing but the dreadful face of
John Turk, the murderer, lowering at him from every corner of his mental
field of vision; the white skin, the evil eyes, and the fringe of black
hair low over the forehead. All the pictures of those ten days in court
crowded back into his mind unbidden, and very vivid.

'This is all rubbish and nerves,' he exclaimed at length, springing with
sudden energy from his chair. 'I shall finish my packing and go to bed.
I'm overwrought, overtired. No doubt, at this rate I shall hear steps and
things all night!'

But his face was deadly white all the same. He snatched up his
field-glasses and walked across to the bedroom, humming a music-hall song
as he went--a trifle too loud to be natural; and the instant he crossed
the threshold and stood within the room something turned cold about his
heart, and he felt that every hair on his head stood up.

The kit-bag lay close in front of him, several feet nearer to the door
than he had left it, and just over its crumpled top he saw a head and
face slowly sinking down out of sight as though someone were crouching
behind it to hide, and at the same moment a sound like a long-drawn
sigh was distinctly audible in the still air about him between the
gusts of the storm outside.

Johnson had more courage and will-power than the girlish indecision of
his face indicated; but at first such a wave of terror came over him that
for some seconds he could do nothing but stand and stare. A violent
trembling ran down his back and legs, and he was conscious of a foolish,
almost a hysterical, impulse to scream aloud. That sigh seemed in his
very ear, and the air still quivered with it. It was unmistakably a human
sigh.

'Who's there?' he said at length, findinghis voice; but thought he meant
to speak with loud decision, the tones came out instead in a faint
whisper, for he had partly lost the control of his tongue and lips.

He stepped forward, so that he could see all round and over the kit-bag.
Of course there was nothing there, nothing but the faded carpet and the
bulgang canvas sides. He put out his hands and threw open the mouth of
the sack where it had fallen over, being only three parts full, and then
he saw for the first time that round the inside, some six inches from the
top, there ran a broad smear of dull crimson. It was an old and faded
blood stain. He uttered a scream, and drew hack his hands as if they had
been burnt. At the same moment the kit-bag gave a faint, but
unmistakable, lurch forward towards the door.

Johnson collapsed backwards, searching with his hands for the support of
something solid, and the door, being further behind him than he realized,
received his weight just in time to prevent his falling, and shut to with
a resounding bang. At the same moment the swinging of his left arm
accidentally touched the electric switch, and the light in the room went
out.

It was an awkward and disagreeable predicament, and if Johnson had not
been possessed of real pluck he might have done all manner of foolish
things. As it was, however, he pulled himself together, and groped
furiously for the little brass knob to turn the light on again. But the
rapid closing of the door had set the coats hanging on it a-swinging, and
his fingers became entangled in a confusion of sleeves and pockets, so
that it was some moments before he found the switch. And in those few
moments of bewilderment and terror two things happened that sent him
beyond recall over the boundary into the region of genuine horror--he
distinctly heard the kit-bag shuffling heavily across the floor in jerks,
and close in front of his face sounded once again the sigh of a human
being.

In his anguished efforts to find the brass button on the wall he nearly
scraped the nails from his fingers, but even then, in those frenzied
moments of alarm--so swift and alert are the impressaons of a mand
keyed-up by a vivid emotion--he had time to realize that he dreaded the
return of the light, and that it might be better for him to stay hidden
in the merciful screen of darkness. It was but the impulse of a moment,
however, and before he had time to act upon it he had yielded
automatically to the original desire, and the room was flooded again with
light.

But the second instinct had been right. It would have been better for him
to have stayed in the shelter of the kind darkness. For there, close
before him, bending over the half-packed kit-bag, clear as life in the
merciless glare of the electric light, stood the figure of John Turk, the
murderer. Not three feet from him the man stood, the fringe of black hair
marked plainly against the pallor of the forehead, the whole horrible
presentment of the scoundrel, as vivid as he had seen him day after day
in the Old Bailey, when he stood there in the dock, cynical and callous,
under the very shadow of the gallows.

In a flash Johnson realized what it all meant: the dirty and much-used
bag; the smear of crimson within the top; the dreadful stretched
condition of the bulging sides. He remembered how the victim's body had
been stuffed into a canvas bag for burial, the ghastly, dismembered
fragments forced with lime into this very bag; and the bag itself
produced as evidence--it all came back to him as clear as day...

Very softly and stealthily his hand groped behind him for the handle of
the door, but before he could actually turn it the very thing that he
most of all dreaded came about, and John Turk lifted his devil's face and
looked at him. At the same moment that heavy sigh passed through the air
of the room, formulated somehow into words: It's my bag. And I want it.'

Johnson just remembered clawing the door open, and then falling in a heap
upon the floor of the landing, as he tried frantically to make his way
into the front room.

He remained unconscious for a long time, and it was still dark when he
opened his eyes and realized that he was lying, stiff and bruised, on the
cold boards. Then the memory of what he had seen rushed back into his
mind, and he promptly fainted again. When he woke the second time the
wintry dawn was just beginning to peep in at the windows, painting the
stairs a cheerless, dismal grey, and he managed to crawl into the front
room, and cover himself with an overcoat in the armchair, where at length
he fell asleep.

A great clamour woke him. He recognized Mrs Monks's voice, loud and
voluble.

'What! You ain't been to bed, sir! Are you ill, or has anything 'appened?
And there's an urgent gentleman to see you, though it ain't seven o'clock
yet, and--'

'Who is it?' he stammered. 'I'm all right, thanks. Fell asleep in my
chair, I suppose.'

'Someone from Mr Wilb'rim's, and he says he ought to see you quick before
you go abroad, and I told him--'

'Show him up, please, at once,' said Johnson, whose head was whirling,
and his mind was still full of dreadful visions.

Mr Wilbraham's man came in with many apologies, and explained briefly and
quickly that an absurd mistake had been made, and that the wrong kit-bag
had been sent over the night before.

'Henry somehow got hold of the one that came over from the courtoom, and
Mr Wilbraham only discovered it when he saw his own lying in his room,
and asked why it had not gone to you,' the man said.

'Oh!' said Johnson stupidly.

'And he must have brought you the one from the murder case instead, sir,
I'm afraid,' the man continued, without the ghost of an expression on his
face. 'The one John Turk packed the dead both in. Mr Wilbraham's awful
upset about it, sir, and told me to come over first thing this morning
with the right one, as you were leaving by the boat.'

He pointed to a clean-looking kit-bag on the floor, which he had just
brought. 'And I was to bring the other one back, sir,' he added casually.

For some minutes Johnson could not find his voice. At last he pointed in
the direction of his bedroom. 'Perhaps you would kindly unpack it for me.
Just empty the things out on the floor.'

The man disappeared into the other room, and was gone for five minutes.
Johnson heard the shifting to and fro of the bag, and the rattle of the
skates and boots being unpacked.

'Thank you, sir,' the man said, returning with the bag folded over his
arm. 'And can I do anything more to help you, sir?'

'What is it?' asked Johnson, seeing that he still had something he wished
to say.

The man shuffled and looked mysterious. 'Beg pardon, sir, but knowing
your interest in the Turk case, I thought you'd maybe like to know what's
happened--'

'Yes.'

'John Turk killed hisself last night with poison immediately on getting
his release, and he left a note for Mr Wilbraham saying as he'd be much
obliged if they'd have him put away, same as the woman he murdered, in
the old kit-hag.'

'What time--did he do it?' asked Johnson.

'Ten o'clock last night, sir, the warder says.'