The house, which was built, or, rather, faced with split flints, and
edged and buttressed with cut grey stone, had a majestic but gloomy
appearance. Its front, lofty and handsome, was somewhat castellated in
style, two semicircular bows, or half-moons, placed at a suitable
distance from each other, rising from the base to the summit of the
edifice; these were pierced, at every floor, with rows of
stone-mullioned windows, rising to the height of four or five stories. The flat wall between had larger windows, lighting the great hall,
gallery, and upper apartments. These windows were abundantly ornamented
with stained glass, representing the arms, honours, and alms-deeds of
the Wimpole family. "The towers, half included in the building, were completely circular
within, and contained the winding stair of the mansion; and whoso
ascended them, when the winter wind was blowing, seemed rising by a
tornado to the clouds. Midway between the towers was a heavy stone
porch, with a Gothic gateway, surmounted by a battlemented parapet, made
gable fashion, the apex of which was garnished by a pair of dolphins,
rampant and antagonistic, whose corkscrew tails seemed contorted by the
last agonies of rage convulsed. "The porch doors thrown open to receive me, led into a hall, wide,
vaulted and lofty, and decorated here and there with remnants of
tapestry and grim portraits of the Wimpoles. One picture in particular
riveted my attention. Hung in an obscure corner, where the light rarely
penetrated, it represented the head and shoulders of a young man with a
strikingly beautiful face--the features small and regular like those of
a woman--the hair yellow and curly. It was the eyes that struck me
most--they followed me everywhere I went with a persistency that was
positively alarming. There was something in them I had never seen in
canvas eyes before, something deeper and infinitely more intricate than
could be produced by mere paint--something human and yet not human,
friendly and yet not friendly; something baffling, enigmatical,
haunting. I enquired of my deceased relative's aged housekeeper, Mrs.
Grimstone--whom I had retained--whose portrait it was, and she replied
with a scared look, 'Horace, youngest son of Sir Algernon Wimpole, who
died here in 1745.' "'The face fascinates me,' I said. 'Is there any history attached to
it?' "'Why, yes, sir!' she responded, her eyes fixed on the floor, 'but the
late master never liked referring to it.' "'Is it as bad as that?' I said, laughing. 'Tell me!' "'Well, sir,' she began, 'they do say as how Sir Algernon, who was a
thorough country squire--very fond of hunting and shooting and all sorts
of manly exercises--never liked Mr. Horace, who was delicate and
dandified--what the folk in those days used to style a macaroni. The
climax came when Mr. Horace took up with the Jacobites. Sir Algernon
would have nothing more to do with him then and turned him adrift. One
day there was a great commotion in the neighbourhood, the Government
troops were hunting the place in search of rebels, and who should come
galloping up the avenue with a couple of troopers in hot pursuit but Mr.
Horace. The noise brought out Sir Algernon, and he was so infuriated to
think that his son was the cause of the disturbance, a "disgraceful
young cub," he called him, that despite Mr. Horace's entreaties for
protection, he ran him through with his sword. It was a dreadful thing
for a father to do, and Sir Algernon bitterly repented it. His wife,
who had been devoted to Mr. Horace, left him, and at last, in a fit of
despondency, he hanged himself--out there, on one of the elms lining the
avenue. It is still standing. Ever since then they do say that the wood
is haunted, and that before the death of any member of the family Mr.
Horace is seen galloping along the old carriage drive.' "'Pleasant,' I grunted. 'And how about the house--is it haunted too?' "'I daresn't say,' she murmured. 'Some will tell you it is, and some
will tell you it isn't.' "'In which category are you included?' I asked. "'Well!' she said 'I have lived here happy and comfortable forty-five
years the day after to-morrow, and that speaks for itself, don't it?' And with that she hobbled off and showed me the way to the dining-room. "What a house it was! From the hall proceeded doorways and passages,
more than the ordinary memory could retain. Of these portals, one at
each end conducted to the tower stairs, others, to the reception-rooms
and domestic offices. In the right wing, besides bedrooms galore, was a
lofty and spacious picture gallery; in the left--a chapel; for the
Wimpoles were, formerly, Roman Catholics. The general fittings and
furniture, both of the hall and house in general, were substantial,
venerable and strongly corroborative of what Mrs. Grimstone hinted
at--they suggested ghosts. "The walls, lined with black oak panels, or dark hangings that fluttered
mysteriously each time the wind blew, were funereal indeed; and so high
and narrow were the windows, that little was to be discerned through
them but cross-barred portions of the sky. One spot in particular
appealed to my nerves--and that, a long, vaulted stone passage leading
from a morning room to the foot of the back staircase. Here the voice
and even the footsteps echoed with a hollow, low response, and often
when I have been hurrying along it--I never dared walk slowly--I have
fancied--and maybe it was more than fancy--I have been pursued. "Time passed, and from being merely used to my new environments, I grew
to take a pride in them, to love them. I made the acquaintance of
several of my neighbours, those I deemed the most desirable, and on
returning from wintering abroad, brought home a bride, a young Polish
girl, who added lustre to the surroundings, and in no small degree
helped to dissipate the gloom. Indeed, had it not been for the picture
in the hall, and for the twilight shadows and twilight footsteps in the
stone passage, I should soon have ceased to think of ghosts. Ghosts,
forsooth! When all around me vibrated with the sounds of girlish
laughter, and the summer sunshine, sparkling on the golden curls of my
child-wife, saw itself reflected a millionfold in the alluring depths of
her azure eyes. In halcyon days like these who thinks of ghosts and
death? "And yet! It is in just such times as these that hell is nearest. There
came a night in August when the air was so hot and sultry that I could
scarcely breathe, and unable to bear the atmosphere of the house and
gardens any longer, I sought the coolness of the wood. Olga--my
wife--did not accompany me, as she was suffering from a slight--thank
God, it was only slight--sunstroke. It was close on midnight, and there
was a dead stillness abroad that seemed as if it must be universal--as
if it enveloped the whole of nature.