II
Graeme possessed a lively imagination, else surely he had never taken to writing. But a lively imagination, sole occupant of a ten-roomed house in a strange land whose inhabitants believed firmly in ghosts and spirits and things that walked by night, and that house but a stone's-throw from the black churchyard where such discomforting things might naturally be supposed to congregate, was not nearly so enjoyable a possession at midnight as in the full light of day.
He lay awake for hours, hearing what seemed to him uncanny sounds about the house, inside and out. The night wind sighed through the heavy pale leaves of the eucalyptus trees, and set the roses and honeysuckle on the verandah posts whispering and tapping. In the stark silence, sounds came out of the other nine empty rooms as though they chose that quiet time for passing confidences. The stairs creaked as though invisible feet passed up and down. And once he could have sworn to stealthy footsteps along the verandah below his window.
He laughed at his own foolishness. Ghosts, he vowed, he did not believe in, and the Sark men were notably honest. All the same it was close on daylight before he slept.
When he pushed through the dewy hedge and went down to the cottage for breakfast, his hostess's eyes twinkled as she asked, "You did not see any ghosts—Noh?"
"Not a ghost, but all the same it did feel a bit lonesome. What would you say to my taking Punch with me to-night, just for company?"
"Yess indeed, tek him. He iss quiet. The other iss too lively."
"And when do your ladies arrive?"
"With the boat. When will you be pleased to have your dinner?"
"I'm off to Little Sark for the day. How would seven o'clock suit you and them?"
"I will mek it suit. They will haf dinner before or after. It will be quite all right."
He spent the day with the dogs, scrambling among the rugged bastions at the south end of the island, investigated the old silver mines, bathed, all three, in the great basin of Venus in the hollow under the southern cliffs, and came home after sunset, tired and ravenous.
"Well, have your ladies come?" he asked, as he sat down to his dinner.
"Oh yess, they are come. They are gone for a walk. One of them is Miss Hen and the other iss Miss Chum."
"Good Lord, what names! Two old maids, I presume,—curls and spectacles and that kind of thing!"
"They are not old, noh. And they are ferry nice to look at, especially Miss Chum."
"Well, well, so she ought to be to make up for her name."
"They were quite put out to think of having turned you out of your roomss—"
"Not half as much as I was, but you can assure them that I am delighted they came. It's as nice a house as one could wish for, and if you can arrange the meals all right I'll not trouble them in the least. How long are they going to stay?"
"They are like you. They do not know. It may be a month, it may be more."
"Oh well, I'll keep out of their way as much as possible. People who come to Sark come to be quiet, I expect. Don't trouble about coffee tonight, Mrs. Carré. I shall just have a smoke and then turn in. I'm tired but and I want a good night's rest."
"Ah yess. Well, you will tek Punch to-night, and then you will hear no ghosts."
The sky was still softly suffused with the clear rose and amber of the sunset when he leaned over the wall, as he filled his pipe, and looked out into the darkening road.
"Har-Héri! Qué-hou-hou!" croaked a hoarse little voice in the hedge opposite.
"Hello, Johnnie-boy! That you?"
"Where you bin te-day?"
"Where have I been? Down in Little Sark, prowling about the mines, stealing lumps of silver——"
"Godzamin! They an't any silver now."
"No? All right, my son. Then I'm telling you fibs."
"Show me."
"Ah, I don't carry it about with me."
"An't got any." And presently, as Graeme lit up, without deigning any answer,—"I seen a ghost las' night."
"Clever boy! What did you make out of it?"
"'Twas the ghost of old Tom Hamon's father. Was all white and dead-like."
"You're too previous, Johnnie. He's getting better."
"He's a-goin' to die."
"So are you sometime."
"No, I a'n't. Show me 'at silver."
"Sometime, perhaps, if you ask nicely. I'm going to bed now. Come along, Punch! Goodnight, Johnnie! Keep your eyes skinned for ghosts. Capital night for them, I should say," and he went off up the garden, with Punch stalking solemnly alongside.
And Johnnie Vautrin erected himself on his hands and haunches to see where he was going, while the vivacious Scamp, shut up in the wood-house and bereft of his bedfellow, and doubtless fearful of ghosts in every nerve of his quivering little body, rent the still night with his expostulations, as he heard them go past.
The scent of the pipe was lingering still in the forecourt when the ladies turned in out of the road, and they just caught a glimpse of the smoker disappearing through the gap in the hedge.
"Ah-ha! There goes the Bogey-Man!" said Miss Hen. "Does this dear little dog carry on this way all through the night, Mrs. Carré?"
"It iss becos the gentleman hass tekken Punch up to the house to kip away the ghosts," smiled Mrs. Carré.
"I should say this one would have been of more use."
"He will be quiet soon. Scamp, bad beast, be qui-et! A couche!"
"To keep away ghosts! What a muff he must be!" said Miss Hen. "Chum, what do you say to putting on white sheets and giving him a scare? If we did a skirly-whirly à la Loie Fuller, below his window, he'd probably have blue fits. Ghosts, indeed!"
"If that big brown Punch got out at you it's you would have the blue fits," said Miss Chum. "The Sark air is getting into your head, Hennie."
"Of course it is. That's what we came for, isn't it? You'll feel it yourself before you're two days older, my child. You're looking better than I've seen you for a month past."
"It's so delightful to feel free," said Miss Chum.