“Aye, that’s it; and they give out the noises and the trouble is allus worser in summer-time, and full o’ the moon, and that whenever you hear a board creak in these old floors, she is not far off!”
Mrs. Pilcher suddenly rose to her feet, shook the crumbs from her gown, and took leave; she understood the value of a brief and effective departure.
At supper that evening there was an animated discussion respecting the creaking board, and the lady with the shining knife. Fanny, in the wildest spirits, challenged George, James, Tom, or Mr. Trail himself, to go and meet the ghost in the middle room—she even offered them a vague reward. But no one came forward to pick up her gage, in spite of her jeers and gibes. The household was, however, profoundly interested to recognise among the family portraits in the library the identical lady, as described by Mrs. Pilcher, with a long thin face, black eyes, white powdered hair, and a mole on her chin.
The days that followed were dull and drowsy. Fanny invested all her superfluous energies in incessantly tormenting James Hegan. At last he became desperate, and said:
“Well, look here, Fan; as you say the moon is near the full, it’s summer—now’s my chance for the ghost! But if I go alone to the middle room in the oak corridor at twelve o’clock, leave the door open, and bring your thimble from off the mantelpiece, and stay there for an hour, you will marry me—come, now. I’ll go for that—and no less, I swear!”
To this ultimatum Fanny, after much sparring and giggling, eventually agreed. Jim was a handsome fellow; though he had no talk, he had more inches and broader shoulders than anyone in the house—not to speak of considerable savings.
Sir Eldred and Lady Millard were not expected for a week, and the ordeal was fixed for a certain day and hour. Fanny was unusually lively, talkative, and irresponsible, and all the under-servants were agog with keen anticipation.
When the great evening arrived, Jim, who was secretly in a deadly fright (and had fortified himself with two glasses of beer), was conducted to the swing-door, and seen off about eleven o’clock by all his associates, with many jokes, and good wishes for the success of his adventure. He was too early—his friends had been so anxious to speed him; he felt a sense of dull resentment as he pulled the baize door behind him, walked down the corridor, and entered the middle room, now flooded by moonlight. First of all he went over to the chimney-piece and appropriated Fanny’s dainty little thimble. Then for a long time he stood by the window gazing on the sleeping woods, and waiting—for what? he asked himself. The night air was hot and breathless, every sound was audible, from the flutter of a bat’s wings or the hoot of an owl to the far-away barking of a dog or the hum of a belated motor on the distant highroad.
Gradually he became aware of a stillness, a chilliness, and a silence—as if Nature were holding her breath prior to some prodigious effort. He was also sensible of a cold sensation of creeping uneasiness, and began to realise that his Dutch courage had evaporated, and that he felt sickeningly nervous. Tales from his grandmother, and tales from the dinner-table, invaded his memory, and repeated themselves with a vividness of detail, and a plausibility befitting the hour, the locality, and the man.
Yet, so far, nothing had happened! Possibly it was all nonsense and rot, urged another cheerful mental voice; his spirits stirred, and rose. But what was that?