“Surely, Mr. Grant, you do not expect such a personal advent!” said Miss Graeme.
“I should not like to say what I do or don’t expect,” answered Donal—and held his peace, for he saw he was but casting stumbling-blocks.
The silence grew awkward; and Mr. Graeme’s good breeding called on him to say something; he supposed Donal felt himself snubbed by his sister.
“If you are fond of the marvellous, though, Mr. Grant,” he said, “there are some old stories about the castle would interest you. One of them was brought to my mind the other day in the town. It is strange how superstition seems to have its ebbs and flows! A story or legend will go to sleep, and after a time revive with fresh interest, no one knows why.”
“Probably,” said Donal, “it is when the tale comes to ears fitted for its reception. They are now in many counties trying to get together and store the remnants of such tales: possibly the wind of some such inquiry may have set old people recollecting, and young people inventing. That would account for a good deal—would it not?”
“Yes, but not for all, I think. There has been no such inquiry made anywhere near us, so far as I am aware. I went to the Morven Arms last night to meet a tenant, and found the tradesmen were talking, over their toddy, of various events at the castle, and especially of one, the most frightful of all. It should have been forgotten by this time, for the ratio of forgetting, increases.”
“I should like much to hear it!” said Donal.
“Do tell him, Hector,” said Miss Graeme, “and I will watch his hair.”
“It is the hair of those who mock at such things you should watch,” returned Donal. “Their imagination is so rarely excited that, when it is, it affects their nerves more than the belief of others affects theirs.”
“Now I have you!” cried Miss Graeme. “There you confess yourself a believer!”