Tim knew him perfectly: the
knee-breeches of shining satin, the gleaming buckles on the shoes, the
neat dark stockings, the lace and ruffles about neck and wrists, the
coloured waistcoat opening so widely--all the details of the picture
over father's mantelpiece, where it hung between two Crimean bayonets,
were reproduced in life before his eyes at last. Only the polished cane
with the ivory handle was not there. Tim went three steps nearer to the advancing figure and held out both
his hands with the cane laid crosswise on them. "I've brought it, Grandfather," he said, in a faint but clear and
steady tone; "here it is." And the other stooped a little, put out three fingers half concealed
by falling lace, and took it by the ivory handle. He made a courtly bow
to Tim. He smiled, but though there was pleasure, it was a grave, sad
smile. He spoke then: the voice was slow and very deep. There was a
delicate softness in it, the suave politeness of an older day. "Thank you," he said; "I value it. It was given to me by my
grandfather. I forgot it when I----" His voice grew indistinct a little. "Yes?" said Tim. "When I--left," the old gentleman repeated. "Oh," said Tim, thinking how beautiful and kind the gracious figure was. The old man ran his slender fingers carefully along the cane, feeling
the polished surface with satisfaction. He lingered specially over the
smoothness of the ivory handle. He was evidently very pleased. "I was not quite myself--er--at the moment," he went on gently; "my
memory failed me somewhat." He sighed, as though an immense relief was
in him. "_I_ forget things, too--sometimes," Tim mentioned sympathetically. He simply loved his grandfather. He hoped--for a moment--he would
be lifted up and kissed. "I'm _awfully_ glad I brought it," he
faltered--"that you've got it again." The other turned his kind grey eyes upon him; the smile on his face was
full of gratitude as he looked down. "Thank you, my boy. I am truly and deeply indebted to you. You courted
danger for my sake. Others have tried before, but the Nightmare
Passage--er----" He broke off. He tapped the stick firmly on the stone
flooring, as though to test it. Bending a trifle, he put his weight
upon it. "Ah!" he exclaimed with a short sigh of relief, "I can now----"

His voice again grew indistinct; Tim did not catch the words. "Yes?" he asked again, aware for the first time that a touch of awe was
in his heart.

" --get about again," the other continued very low. "Without my cane,"
he added, the voice failing with each word the old lips uttered, "I
could not ... possibly ... allow myself ... to be seen. It was indeed
... deplorable ... unpardonable of me ... to forget in such a way. Zounds, sir...! I--I ..."

His voice sank away suddenly into a sound of wind. He straightened up,
tapping the iron ferrule of his cane on the stones in a series of loud
knocks. Tim felt a strange sensation creep into his legs. The queer
words frightened him a little. The old man took a step towards him. He still smiled, but there was
a new meaning in the smile. A sudden earnestness had replaced the
courtly, leisurely manner. The next words seemed to blow down upon the
boy from above, as though a cold wind brought them from the sky outside. Yet the words, he knew, were kindly meant, and very sensible. It was
only the abrupt change that startled him. Grandfather, after all, was
but a man! The distant sound recalled something in him to that outside
world from which the cold wind blew. "My eternal thanks to you," he heard, while the voice and face and
figure seemed to withdraw deeper and deeper into the heart of the
mighty chamber. "I shall not forget your kindness and your courage. It
is a debt I can, fortunately, one day repay.... But now you had best
return and with dispatch. For your head and arm lie heavily on the
table, the documents are scattered, there is a cushion fallen ... and
my son is in the house.... Farewell! You had best leave me quickly. See! _She_ stands behind you, waiting. Go with her! Go now...!" The entire scene had vanished even before the final words were uttered. Tim felt empty space about him. A vast, shadowy Figure bore him through
it as with mighty wings. He flew, he rushed, he remembered nothing
more--until he heard another voice and felt a heavy hand upon his
shoulder. "Tim, you rascal! What are you doing in my study? And in the dark,
like this!" He looked up into his father's face without a word. He felt dazed. The
next minute his father had caught him up and kissed him. "Ragamuffin! How did you guess I was coming back to-night?" He shook
him playfully and kissed his tumbling hair. "And you've been asleep,
too, into the bargain. Well--how's everything at home--eh? Jack's
coming back from school to-morrow, you know, and ..."


4

Jack came home, indeed, the following day, and when the Easter holidays
were over, the governess stayed abroad and Tim went off to adventures
of another kind in the preparatory school for Wellington. Life slipped
rapidly along with him; he grew into a man; his mother and his father
died; Jack followed them within a little space; Tim inherited, married,
settled down into his great possessions--and opened up the Other
Wing. The dreams of imaginative boyhood all had faded; perhaps he had
merely put them away, or perhaps he had forgotten them. At any rate,
he never spoke of such things now, and when his Irish wife mentioned
her belief that the old country house possessed a family ghost, even
declaring that she had met an Eighteenth Century figure of a man in
the corridors, "an old, old man who bends down upon a stick"--Tim only
laughed and said:

"That's as it ought to be! And if these awful land-taxes force us to
sell some day, a respectable ghost will increase the market value." But one night he woke and heard a tapping on the floor. He sat up in
bed and listened. There was a chilly feeling down his back. Belief
had long since gone out of him; he felt uncannily afraid. The sound
came nearer and nearer; there were light footsteps with it. The door
opened--it opened a little wider, that is, for it already stood
ajar--and there upon the threshold stood a figure that it seemed he
knew. He saw the face as with all the vivid sharpness of reality. There was a smile upon it, but a smile of warning and alarm. The arm
was raised. Tim saw the slender hand, lace falling down upon the long,
thin fingers, and in them, tightly gripped, a polished cane. Shaking
the cane twice to and fro in the air, the face thrust forward, spoke
certain words, and--vanished. But the words were inaudible; for, though
the lips distinctly moved, no sound, apparently, came from them. And Tim sprang out of bed. The room was full of darkness. He turned the
light on. The door, he saw, was shut as usual. He had, of course, been
dreaming. But he noticed a curious odour in the air. He sniffed it once
or twice--then grasped the truth. It was a smell of burning! Fortunately, he awoke just in time....