“If it were required, I know one that is not quite so hackneyed as the grandmothers' ghosts and wicked ancestors we are often surfeited with at Christmas,” replied her friend quickly. The whole circle drew closer around the fire, and imperiously demanded an explanation.
“But that will be descending to commonplace,” pleaded the traveller.
“Who knows? It may turn out the reverse, when you have done,” heedlessly said Mrs. Burtleigh.
“Well, if you will have it, here it is. Mind, now, I am not going to give you a three-volume novel, full of padding, but just tell you one incident, plain and unadorned. So do not look forward to anything thrilling or sensational.
“Some years ago, I was in Belgium, hastening home for Christmas, and spent three or four days in Bruges. I will spare you a description of the grand old city, and come to facts. I was just on the point of leaving, and had got to the railway station in order to catch the tidal train for Ostend, when a man suddenly and hurriedly came up to me, an old servant in faded livery, who, without breathing a word, placed a note in my hand, and was immediately lost to sight in the crowd. The waiting-room was dimly lighted, but I could make out my own name, initials and all, on the envelope. In my confusion, I hurried out of the station, and, stepping into a small hôtellerie, I opened the mysterious note. It was very short: ‘Come at once to No. 20 Rue Neuve.’ The signature was in initials only. The handwriting was small and undecided. I could hardly tell if it were a man's or a woman's. I knew my way to the Rue Neuve, not a really new street, but one of Bruges' most interesting old thoroughfares. No gas, a narrow street, great gaunt portes-cochères, and projecting windows on both sides, the pavement uneven, and a young moon just showing her crescent over the crazy-looking houses—such was the scene. I soon got to No. 20. It was a large, dilapidated house, with every sign about it of decayed grandeur and diminished wealth. Two large doors, heavily barred, occupied the lower part of the wall; above were oriels and dormers whose stone frames were tortured into weird half-human faces and impossible foliage. No light anywhere, and for bell a long, hanging, ponderous weight of iron. I pulled it, and a sepulchral sound answered the motion. I waited, no one came; I thought I must have mistaken the number. Taking out the letter, however, I made sure I was right. I pulled the bell again a little louder, and heard footsteps slowly echoing on the stone flags of the court within. Sabots evidently; they made a rattle like dead men's bones, I thought. A little grille, or tiny wicket, was opened, and an old dame, shading her candle with one brown hand, peered suspiciously out. Apparently dissatisfied, she closed the opening with a bang, muttering to herself in Flemish. It was cold standing in the street, and, as the portress of this mysterious No. 20 made no sign of opening the door for me, I was very nearly getting angry, and going away in no amiable mood at the unknown who had played me this too practical joke. Suddenly I heard the grille open again, very briskly this time, and a voice said in tolerably good French:
“ ‘Monsieur's name is—?’
“ ‘Yes,’ I replied rather impatiently.
“ ‘Then will monsieur wait an instant, till I undo the bars?’ A great drawing of chains and bolts on the inside followed her speech, and a little gate, three-quarters of a man's height, was opened in the massive and immovable porte-cochère. I stepped quickly in, nearly overturning the old dame's candlestick. She wore a full short petticoat of bright yet not gaudy blue, and over it a large black circular cloak which covered all but her clumsy sabots. Her cap was a miracle of neatness, and her brown face, wrinkled but cheery, reminded me of S. Elizabeth in Raphael's pictures. She said glibly and politely:
“ ‘Will monsieur give himself the trouble to wait a moment?’
“She disappeared with her candle, leaving me to peer round the courtyard, where the moon's feeble rays were playing at hide-and-seek behind the many projections. Almost as soon as she had left, she was with me again, bidding me follow her up-stairs. ‘My master is bed-ridden,’ she explained. ‘Since he got a wound in the war of independence against Holland, he has not been able to move. Monsieur will take care, I hope, not to excite him; he is nervous and irritable since his illness,’ she added apologetically.