But please be it understood, that my one and only object in alluding
to these trifling details is to point out that the Whittingens, being
entirely engrossed in matters mundane, were the very last people in
the world to be termed superstitious, and although imaginative where
future husbands' calls and cards were concerned, prior to the events
about to be narrated had not an ounce of superstition in their
natures. Indeed, until then they had always smiled in a very
supercilious manner at even the smallest mention of a ghost. September came, their first September in Donaldgowerie, and the family
welcomed with joy Ernest and his youthful bride. The latter was not, as they had fondly hoped (and roundly announced in
Perth), the daughter of a Peer, but of a wealthy Bristol draper, the
owner of a house near the Downs, whose son had been one of Ernest's
many friends at Oxford. The coming of the newly-married pair to
Donaldgowerie brought with it a burst of bird-like gaiety. All sorts
of entertainments--musical "at homes," dinners, dances, tennis and
garden parties, in fact, every variety that accorded with the family's
idea of good taste--were given; and with praiseworthy "push," for
which the Whittingens had fast become noted, all the County was
invited. This splendid display of wealth and hospitality was not
disinterested; I fear, it might be not only accounted a "send off" for
the immaculately-clad curate and his wife, but also a determined
effort on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Whittingen to attract the right
sort of lover for their girls. It was during the progress of one of
their alfresco entertainments that the scepticism of certain of the
Whittingens with regard to the supernatural received a rude blow. Martha, Mary, and two eligible young men, friends of Harvey's, having
finished a somewhat spirited game of croquet, were refreshing
themselves with lemonade, whilst they continued their flirtation. Presently Mary, whose partner declared how much he should like to see
some photographs she had recently had taken of herself, with a
well-affected giggle of embarrassment set off to the house to fetch
her album. The minutes passed, and, as she did not return, Martha went
in search of her. The album, she knew, was in their boudoir, which was
situated at the end of the long and rather gloomy corridor of the
upper storey. Highly incensed at her sister's slowness, she was
hastening along the corridor, when, to her supreme astonishment, she
suddenly saw the figure of a man in kilts, with a bagpipe under his
arm, emerge through the half-open door of the boudoir, and with a
peculiar gliding motion advance towards her. A curious feeling, with
which she was totally unfamiliar, compelled her to remain mute and
motionless; and in this condition she awaited the approach of the
stranger. Who was he? she asked herself, and how on earth had he got
there, and what was he doing? As he drew nearer, she perceived that
his face was all one hue,--a ghastly, livid grey,--and that his eyes,
which were all the time fixed on hers, were lurid and menacing,--so
terrible, in fact, that she turned cold with fear, and felt the very
hair on her head beginning to rise on end. She opened her mouth to
shriek, but found she could not ejaculate a syllable; neither could
she, even with the most desperate efforts, tear her feet from the
floor. On came the figure, and, without swerving either to the right
or left, it glided right up to and through her; and, as she
involuntarily turned round, she saw it disappear through a half-open
staircase window, at least twenty feet above the ground outside. Shaking all over with terror, and not understanding in the slightest
what to make of it, Martha ran to the boudoir, where her heart almost
sprang out of her body at the spectacle of her sister Mary stretched
at full length on the floor, her cheeks ashy pale, her lips blue. Martha at once made a frantic rush to the bell, and, in a few minutes,
half the establishment, headed by Mr. Whittingen, poured into the
room. With the aid of a little cold water, Mary speedily recovered,
and, in reply to the anxious inquiries of her sympathetic rescuers as
to what had happened, indignantly demanded why such a horrible
looking creature as "that" piper had been allowed not merely to enter
the house but to come up to her room, and half frighten her to death. "I had just got my album," she added, "when, feeling some one was in
the room, I turned round--and there (she indicated a spot on the
carpet) was the piper, not ten paces away from me, regarding me with
the most awful look imaginable. I was too taken aback with surprise to
say anything, nor--for some unaccountable reason--could I escape,
before he touched me on the shoulder with one of his icy cold hands,
and then commenced playing. Up and down the floor he paced, backwards
and forwards, never taking his hateful glance off my face and ever
piping the same dismal dirge. At last, unable to stand the strain of
it any longer, and convinced he was a madman, bent on murdering
me--for who but a lunatic would behave in such a way?--I gave way to a
violent fit of hysterics, and fainted. Now tell me who he was, and why
he was permitted to frighten me in this manner?" And Mary stamped her
feet and grew vicious, as only her class will when they are at all
vexed. Her speech was followed by a silence that exasperated her. She
repeated her inquiries with crimson cheeks, and then, as again no one
responded, she signalled out the head footman and raved at him. Up to
this point Mr. Whittingen had been dumb with amazement. The idea of a
strange piper having the twofold effrontery to enter his house and
proceed to the private and chaste sanctuary of his highly respectable
daughters, almost deprived him of breath. He could scarcely believe
his ears. "What--what in the name of--what does it all mean?" he at
length stammered, addressing the unfortunate footman. "A piper! and
without any invitation from me, how dare you let him in?" "I did not, sir," the luckless footman replied; "no such person came
to the door when I was in the hall." "No more he did when I was there," chimed in the second footman, and
all the other servants vociferated in a body, "We never saw any piper,
sir, nor heard one either," and they looked at Mary reproachfully. At this Mr. Whittingen looked exceedingly embarrassed. In the face of
such a unanimous denial what could he say? He knew if he suggested
the servants were untruthful they would all give notice to leave on
the spot, and knowing good servants are scarce in Perth as elsewhere,
he felt rather in a fix. At length, turning to Mary, he asked if she
was sure it was a piper. "Sure!" Mary screamed, "why, of course I am,
did I not tell you he marched up and down here playing on his
disgusting bagpipes, which nearly broke the drum of my ear." "And I saw him too, pa," Martha put in. "I met him in the corridor, he
had his pipes under his arm, and the most dreadful expression in his
face.