Suddenly he spoke, though in a whisper.
"You see it, sister, I know you do," he said.
"Wait, wait a minute, dear," I managed to reply in the same tone, though I could not have explained why I waited.
Dormer had said that after a time--after the ghastly and apparently fruitless _feeling_ all over the door--"it"--"went out".
I think it was this that I was waiting for. It was not quite as he had said. The door was in the extreme corner of the wall, the hinges almost in the angle, and as the shadow began to move on again, it _looked_ as if it disappeared; but no, it was only fainter. My eyes, preternaturally sharpened by my intense gaze, still saw it, working its way round the corner, as a.s.suredly no _shadow_ in the real sense of the word ever did nor could do. I realised this, and the sense of horror grew all but intolerable; yet I stood still, clasping the cold little hand in mine tighter and tighter. And an instinct of protection of the child gave me strength. Besides, it was coming on so quickly--we could not have escaped--it was coming, nay, it _was behind_ us.
"Leila!" gasped Dormy, "the cold--you feel it now?"
Yes, truly--like no icy breath that I had ever felt before was that momentary but horrible thrill of utter cold. If it had lasted another second I think it would have killed us both. But, mercifully, it pa.s.sed, in far less time than it has taken me to tell it, and then we seemed in some strange way to be released.
"Open your eyes, Dormy," I said, "you won"t see anything, I promise you.
I want to rush across to the dining-room."
He obeyed me. I felt there was time to escape before that awful presence would again have arrived at the dining-room door, though it was _coming_--ah, yes, it was coming, steadily pursuing its ghastly round.
And, alas! the dining-room door was closed. But I kept my nerve to some extent. I turned the handle without over much trembling, and in another moment, the door shut and locked behind us, we stood in safety, looking at each other, in the bright cheerful room we had left so short a time ago.
_Was_ it so short a time? I said to myself. It seemed hours!
And through the door open to the hall came at that moment the sound of cheerful laughing voices from the drawing-room. Some one was coming out. It seemed impossible, incredible, that within a few feet of the matter-of-fact pleasant material life, this horrible inexplicable drama should be going on, as doubtless it still was.
Of the two I was now more upset than my little brother. I was older and "took in" more. He, boy-like, was in a sense triumphant at having proved himself correct and no coward, and though he was still pale, his eyes shone with excitement and a queer kind of satisfaction.
But before we had done more than look at each other, a figure appeared at the open doorway. It was Sophy.
"Leila," she said, "mamma wants to know what you are doing with Dormy?
He is to go to bed at once. We saw you go out of the room after him, and then a door banged. Mamma says if you are playing with him it"s very bad for him so late at night."
Dormy was very quick. He was still holding my hand, and he pinched it to stop my replying.
"Rubbish!" he said. "I am speaking to Leila quietly, and she is coming up to my room while I undress. Good night, Sophy."
"Tell mamma Dormy really wants me," I added, and then Sophy departed.
"We musn"t tell _her_, Leila," said the boy. "She"d have "sterics."
"Whom shall we tell?" I said, for I was beginning to feel very helpless and upset.
"n.o.body, to-night," he replied sensibly. "You _mustn"t_ go in there,"
and he shivered a little as he moved his head towards the gallery; "you"re not fit for it, and they"d be wanting you to. Wait till the morning and then I"d--I think I"d tell Philip first. You needn"t be frightened to-night, sister. It won"t stop you sleeping. It didn"t me the time I saw it before."
He was right. I slept dreamlessly. It was as if the intense nervous strain of those few minutes had utterly exhausted me.
PART II.
Phil is our soldier brother. And there is nothing fanciful about _him_!
He is a rock of st.u.r.dy common-sense and unfailing good nature. He was the very best person to confide our strange secret to, and my respect for Dormy increased.
We did tell him--the very next morning. He listened very attentively, only putting in a question here and there, and though, of course, he was incredulous--had I not been so myself?--he was not mocking.
"I am glad you have told no one else," he said, when we had related the whole as circ.u.mstantially as possible. "You see mother is not very strong yet, and it would be a pity to bother father, just when he"s taken this place and settled it all. And for goodness" sake, don"t let a breath of it get about among the servants; there"d be the--something to pay, if you did."
"I won"t tell anybody," said Dormy.
"Nor shall I," I added. "Sophy is far too excitable, and if she knew, she would certainly tell Nannie." Nannie is our old nurse.
"If we tell any one," Philip went on, "that means," with a rather irritating smile of self-confidence, "if by any possibility I do not succeed in making an end of your ghost and we want another opinion about it, the person to tell would be Miss Larpent."
"Yes," I said, "I think so, too."
I would not risk irritating him by saying how convinced I was that conviction awaited _him_ as surely it had come to myself, and I knew that Miss Larpent, though far from credulous, was equally far from stupid scepticism concerning the mysteries "not dreamt of" in ordinary "philosophy".
"What do you mean to do?" I went on. "You have a theory, I see. Won"t you tell me what it is?"
"I have two," said Phil, rolling up a cigarette as he spoke. "It is either some queer optical illusion, partly the effect of some odd reflection outside--or it is a clever trick."
"A trick!" I exclaimed; "what _possible_ motive could there be for a trick?"
Phil shook his head.
"Ah," he said, "that I cannot at present say."
"And what are you going to do?"
"I shall sit up to-night in the gallery and see for myself."
"Alone?" I exclaimed, with some misgiving. For big, st.u.r.dy fellow as he was, I scarcely liked to think of him--of _any one_--alone with that awful thing.
"I don"t suppose you or Dormy would care to keep me company," he replied, "and on the whole I would rather not have you."
"I wouldn"t do it," said the child honestly, "not for--for nothing."
"I shall keep Tim with me," said Philip, "I would rather have him than any one."
Tim is Phil"s bull-dog, and certainly, I agreed, much better than n.o.body.
So it was settled.
Dormy and I went to bed unusually early that night, for as the day wore on we both felt exceedingly tired. I pleaded a headache, which was not altogether a fiction, though I repented having complained at all when I found that poor mamma immediately began worrying herself with fears that "after all" I, too, was to fall a victim to the influenza.
"I shall be all right in the morning," I a.s.sured her.
I knew no further details of Phil"s arrangements. I fell asleep almost at once. I usually do. And it seemed to me that I had slept a whole night when I was awakened by a glimmering light at my door, and heard Philip"s voice speaking softly.
"Are you awake, Lel?" he said, as people always say when they awake you in any untimely way. Of course, _now_ I was awake, very much awake indeed.