I scratched
my fingers, inured to the pen but a stranger to any rougher substance;
I ruined my box-calf boots, I split my trousers at the knees, and I
felt that my hat had parted with its shape for ever; and yet I
continued the ascent. The end came all too suddenly. When within an
ace of victory, I yielded to impulse, and with an energy the desperate
condition of my skin and clothes alone could account for, I swung up,
and--the outer edge of the wall melted beneath me, my hands
frantically clutched at nothingness, a hideous sensation of falling
surged through my brain, my ears and eyes filled to bursting, and with
a terrific crash that seemed to drive my head and spine right through
my stomach, I met the black, uprising earth, and lost consciousness. Providentially for me, I had pitched head first into a furze bush
which broke the fall, otherwise I must have met with serious injury. As it was, when I recovered my momentary loss of consciousness, I
found that I had sustained no worse harm than a severe shaking,
scratches galore, and the utter demolition of my clothes! I picked
myself up with difficulty, and spent some time searching for my hat
and stick--which I at length discovered, lodged, of course, where one
would least have thought of looking for them. I then took close stock
of my surroundings, and found them even grimmer than I had
anticipated. Though the trees were packed closely together, and there
was much undergrowth, the moonbeams were so powerful and so fully
concentrated on the spinney, that I could see no inconsiderable
distance ahead of me. Over everything hung a solemn and preternatural
hush. I saw shadows everywhere--shadows that defied analysis and had
no material counterparts. A sudden crashing of brushwood brought me to
a standstill, and sent the blood in columns to my heart. Then I
laughed loudly--it was only a hare, the prettiest and pertest thing
imaginable. I went on. Something whizzed past my face. I drew back in
horror--it was a bat, merely a bat. My nerves were out of order, the
fall had unsteadied them; I must pull myself together. I did so, and
continued to advance. A shadow, long, narrow, and grotesque, fell
across my path, and sent a thousand and one icy shivers down my back. In an agony of terror I shut my eyes and plunged madly on. Something
struck me in the face and hurled me back. My eyes opened
involuntarily, and I saw a tree that, either out of pique or sheer
obstinacy, had planted itself half-way across the path. I examined its
branches to make sure they _were_ branches, and continued my march. A
score more paces, a sudden bend, and I was in an open space,
brilliantly illuminated by moonbeams and peopled with countless,
moving shadows. One would have to go far to find a wilder, weirder,
and more grimly suggestive spot. As I stood gazing at the scene in
awestruck wonder, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine trees,
and moaning through their long and gloomy aisles reverberated like
thunder. The sounds, suggesting slightly, ever so slightly, a tattoo,
brought with them vivid pictures of the Drummer, too vivid just then
to be pleasant, and I turned to go. To my unmitigated horror, a white
and lurid object barred my way. My heart ceased to beat, my blood
turned to ice; I was sick, absolutely sick, with terror. Besides this,
the figure held me spellbound--I could neither move nor utter a sound. It had a white, absolutely white face, a tall, thin, perpendicular
frame, and a small, glittering, rotund head. For some seconds it
remained stationary, and then, with a gliding motion, left the path
and vanished in the shadows. Again a breeze rustled through the tops of the pine trees, moaned
through their long and gloomy aisles, and reverberated like thunder;
rat-tat, tat, rat-tat, tat--and with this sound beating in my ears,
reaction set in, and I never ceased running till I had reached my
hotel. CASE IX

    THE ROOM BEYOND. AN ACCOUNT OF THE HAUNTINGS
      AT HENNERSLEY, NEAR AYR


To me Hennersley is what the Transformation Scene at a Pantomime was
to the imaginative child--the dreamy child of long ago--a floral
paradise full of the most delightful surprises. Here, at Hennersley,
from out the quite recently ice-bound earth, softened and moistened
now by spring rain, there rises up row upon row of snowdrops,
hyacinths and lilies, of such surpassing sweetness and beauty that I
hold my breath in astonishment, and ecstatically chant a Te Deum to
the fairies for sending such white-clad loveliness. And then--then, ere my wonder has had time to fade, it is summer. The
ground opens, and there springs up, on all sides, a veritable sea of
vivid, variegated colour,--scarlet, pink, and white geraniums; red,
white and yellow roses; golden honeysuckle; bright-hued marigolds;
purple pansies; pale forget-me-nots; wallflowers; sweet peas;
many-tinted azaleas; showy hydrangeas; giant rhododendrons; foxgloves,
buttercups, daisies, hollyhocks, and heliotropes; a floral host too
varied to enumerate. Overcome with admiration, bewildered with happiness, I kneel on the
soft carpet of grass, and, burying my face extravagantly, in alternate
laps of luxurious, downy, scent-laden petals, fill my lungs with
soul-inspiring nectar. My intoxication has barely worn off before my eyes are dimly conscious
that the soil all around me is generously besprinkled with the remains
of my floral friends. I spring hurriedly to my feet, and, gazing
anxiously about me, suddenly perceive the gaily nodding heads of new
arrivals--dahlias, sunflowers, anemones, chrysanthemums. As I continue
gazing, the aromatic odour of mellow apples from the Hennersley
orchards reaches my nostrils; I turn round, and there, there in front
of me, I see row upon row of richly-laden fruit trees, their leaves a
brilliant copper in the scintillating rays of the ruddy autumn sun. I
gasp for breath--the beauty of tint and tone surpasses all that I have
hitherto seen--it is sublime, the grand climax of transformation. As
the curtain falls with the approach of winter, I hurry to my Edinburgh
home and pray for the prompt return of early spring. For many years my aged relatives, the Misses Amelia and Deborah
Harbordeens, lived at Hennersley. Rarest and kindest of old ladies,
they were the human prototypes of the flowers both they and I loved. Miss Amelia, with her beautiful complexion, rounded form and regal
mien, suggested to my childish mind more, much more, than the mere
semblance of a rose, whilst Miss Deborah, with her sprightly grace and
golden hair, was only masquerading as a woman--she was in reality a
daffodil. Unlike so many of the fair sex who go in for gardening, my aunts were
essentially dainty. Their figures were shapely and elegant, their
hands slim and soft. I never saw them working without gloves, and I
have good reason to believe they anointed their fingers every night
with a special preparation to keep them smooth and white.