“Not so very comfortable in their day, Uncle,” suggested Una; “nor in ours, for that matter.”
Leighton chuckled grimly. “Are you interested in ghosts, David?” he asked, looking keenly at him.
“What do you mean by ghosts?”
“Ah, that’s it! This old room—are there ghosts in it, I wonder? The nail marks in the walls, the stains where the lights were hung, the shadowy remains of the altar—can you shake off the feeling that the Brotherhood is still at prayers here, that it still has Stoneleigh for its home?”
“The Brotherhood no longer exists.”
“There’s a family tradition, anyway, that assures us of its ability to produce some excellent examples of the old-fashioned, conventional ghost. A very great aunt of mine, for instance, once ventured alone into this room and was met by a stalwart being who scowled at her from under his brown hood and waved her majestically out of his presence.”
“That’s the kind of ghost one likes to hear about and see,” commented David.
“It didn’t please my aunt particularly. The fright prostrated her for months. Other imaginative ancestors have heard the monks chanting together, and seen spectral lights moving about here at midnight.”
“You speak as if you believed it all.”
“I can’t be defrauded of my family traditions.”