“No—no. I mean in places being haunted, and apparitions and all that?”
“No. Certainly not. The Christmas numbers have a great deal to answer for in that line. Surroundings, solitude, the state of your nerves—the weather, even—all do the rest. You can get yourself into a state which I believe theologians call ‘the dispositions’—which done into plain English means that if you want to see a thing, you can, in the long run, bring yourself to see it—in imagination.”
“Only in imagination. You’re sure you mean that, Uncle Seward?”
“I should rather think I was sure. Go to bed now, child,”—she had lighted her candle—“and chuck out all that sort of disquieting bosh. Why, we are as jolly here together as we can be, and we are going to be ever so much jollier. So chuck these imaginings—by the way, just because the little poogie starts growling at nothing in particular. Eh? Sounds rather absurd doesn’t it?”
“It does rather,” she said, with a laugh as they bade each other good-night. But there was just a subtle something about her laugh, about her tone of voice, even about the expression of her eyes, that left her uncle in a state of vague uneasiness. Something must have occurred to alarm her; but then women were “skeery” creatures—especially where the imaginative element came in. But for all that he didn’t want even this to come in where Melian was concerned.
He sat on, after she had gone, sat on over the cosy fire, thinking. He could hear her footsteps overhead as she crossed and recrossed her room—could hear her sweet young voice trilling forth snatches of all sorts of melodies, and again he blessed the chance that had sent her here to him in his loneliness.
He lighted another pipe, and tilted a final “nightcap” out of the square bottle at his elbow. The little black kitten jumped lightly up on to his shoulder and rubbed its soft little woolly shape against his cheek, then dropped down on to his knees and sat purring.
What could have occurred to set up a scare in the child, he wondered? Something had—obviously—but he had purposely evaded pressing the point for fear of making it too important. Well, if it came to getting on her nerves, he would, by hook or by crook get her away—at any rate for a time. As a matter of hard fact he had grown attached to Heath Hover—strangely so—and he occupied it practically rent free, that was for the sheer keeping of it up; and this was a consideration. Also he enjoyed a fair modicum of sport—likewise free. But if it were to come to making a choice between this and his niece—why by now he knew that there would be no sort of difficulty in deciding.
He dropped more and more into the dreamy—and rather contented—stage. He was looking forward to a very pleasurable time before him when the year should grow and mellow into glorious spring and golden summer. The sound of footsteps overhead had ceased now, and that for some time. She was asleep, and had forgotten her uncanny imaginings. He found himself looking forward to the morrow when she would be with him again—her sweet, quick, animated face, and the golden hair shining in the sunlight.
And then?—What was this? A sudden pounding of feet overhead—a strange, half stifled cry—a rush down the old creaky stairs. In a fraction of a second he was at the door, and as he opened it, framed against the dark background of passage and staircase, Melian was standing, her face set with a strange horror that seemed to turn the spectator’s blood to ice, the blue eyes dilating in a wild stare, as though they saw—or had seen—something not of the earth earthly.