I don't wonder Mary was frightened." "But where did he go?" Mr. Whittingen cried. "You would not believe me if I told you," Martha said, her cheeks
flushing. "He seemed to pass right through me, and then to vanish
through the staircase window. I have never been so terribly upset in
my life," and, sinking on to the sofa, she began to laugh
hysterically. "Dear me! dear me! it is very odd!" Mr. Whittingen exclaimed, as Mary
handed her sister a wineglass of sal-volatile. "They can't both have
been dreaming; it must--but there, what a nonsensical notion, there
are no such things as ghosts! Only children and nursemaids believe in
them nowadays. As soon as you have quite recovered, my dears, we will
return to the garden, and I think that under the circumstances, the
rather peculiar circumstances, ahem! it will be better to say nothing
to your mother. Do you understand?" Mr. Whittingen went on, eyeing the
servants, "Nothing to your mistress." The affair thus terminated, and for some days nothing further happened
to disturb the peace of the family. At the end of a week, however,
exactly a week after the appearance of the piper, Mary met with a
serious accident. She was running across the croquet lawn to speak to
her sister-in-law, when she tripped over a hoop that had been
accidentally left there, and, in falling, ran a hatpin into her head. Blood poisoning ensued, and within a fortnight she was dead. Martha
was the only one in the house, however, who associated Mary's accident
and death with the piper; to her that sinister expression in the
mysterious Highlander's eyes portended mischief, and she could not
but suspect that, in some way or another, he had brought about the
catastrophe. The autumn waned, and Christmas was well within sight,
when another mysterious occurrence took place. It was early one Sunday
evening, tea was just over, and the Whittingen family were sitting
round the fire engaged in a somewhat melancholy conversation, for the
loss of Mary had affected them all very deeply, when they heard the
far-away rumble of a heavy coach on the high-road. Nearer and nearer
it came, till it seemed to be about on a level with the front lodge
gate; then to their surprise there was a loud crunching of gravel, and
they heard it careering at a breakneck speed up the carriage-drive. They looked at one another in the utmost consternation. "A coach, and driven in this mad fashion! Whose was it? What did it
mean? Not visitors, surely!" It pulled up at the front door, and the champing and stamping of the
horses vibrated loudly through the still night air. Sounds as of one
or more people descending were next heard, and then there came a
series of the most terrific knockings at the door. The Whittingen
family stared at one another aghast; there was something in those
knockings--something they could not explain--that struck terror in
their souls and made their blood run cold. They waited in breathless
anxiety for the door to be opened; but no servant went to open it. The
knocks were repeated, if anything louder than before, the door swung
back on its hinges, and the tread of heavy footsteps were heard slowly
approaching the drawing-room. Mrs. Whittingen gave a low gasp of
horror, Ruth screamed, Harvey buried his face in his hands, Mr.
Whittingen rose to his feet, and made desperate efforts to get to the
bell, but could not stir, whilst Martha rushed to the drawing-room
door and locked it. They then with one accord began to pray. The steps
halted outside the room, the door slowly opened, and the blurred
outlines of a group of ghastly-looking figures, supporting a
grotesquely shaped object in their midst, appeared on the threshold. For some seconds there was a grim silence. It was abruptly broken by a
thud--Ruth had slipped from her chair to the floor in a dead faint;
whereupon the shadowy forms solemnly veered round and made their way
back again to the front door. The latter swung violently open, there
was a rush of icy wind which swept like a hurricane across the hall
and into the drawing-room, the front door then slammed to with a
crash, and the coach drove away. Every one's attention was now directed to Ruth. At first sal-volatile
and cold water produced no effect, but after a time she slowly, very
slowly regained consciousness. As soon as she had recovered
sufficiently to speak, she expressed an earnest desire that no
reference should ever be made in her presence to what had just
happened. "It was for me!" she said in such an emphatic tone as filled
her audience with the direst forebodings. "I know it was for me; they
all looked in my direction. God help me! I shall die like Mary." Though greatly perplexed as to what she meant, for no one excepting
herself had been able to make out the phenomena with any degree of
distinctness, they yielded to her entreaties, and asked her no
questions. The servants had neither heard nor seen anything. A
fortnight later, Ruth was taken ill with appendicitis; peritonitis
speedily set in, and she died under the operation. The Whittingens now
began to wish they had never come to Donaldgowerie; but, with the
astuteness that had been characteristic of the family through
countless generations of fair days and foul, they took the greatest
precautions never to drop even as much as a hint to the servants or to
any one in the town that the house was haunted. A year passed without any further catastrophe, and they were beginning
to hope their ghastly visitors had left them, when something else
occurred. It was Easter-time, and Ernest, his wife, and baby were
staying with them. The baby, a boy, was fat and bonny, the very
picture of health and happiness. Mrs. Whittingen and Martha vied with one another in their devotion to
him; and either one or other of them was always dancing attendance on
him. It so happened that one afternoon, whilst the servants were
having their tea, Martha found herself alone in the upper part of the
house with her precious nephew. Mr. Whittingen had gone to Edinburgh
to consult his lawyer (the head of the firm with whom Harvey was
articled) on business, whilst Mrs. Whittingen had taken her son and
daughter-in-law for a drive. The weather was glorious, and Martha,
though as little appreciative of the beauties of nature as most
commercial-minded young women, could not but admire the colouring of
the sky as she looked out of the nursery window. The sun had
disappeared, but the effect of its rays was still apparent on the
western horizon, where the heavens were washed with alternate streaks
of gold and red and pink--the colour of each streak excessively
brilliant in the centre, but paling towards the edges. Here and there
were golden, pink-tipped clouds and crimson islets surrounded with
seas of softest blue.