There we should
wait to see if anybody attempted to fire it. That somebody, whenever he
showed his light, would be instantly covered by a rifle and challenged. It was about ten when we dismounted and stalked our way up to the house. The light burned in my window; all else was quiet. Personally, I was
unarmed, and so, when I had planted the men in places of advantageous
concealment round the house, my work was over. Then I returned to
Sergeant Duncan, the chief constable, at the corner of the hedge by the
garden, and waited. How long we waited I do not know, but it seemed as if æons slipped by
over us. Now and then an owl would hoot, now and then a rabbit ran out
from cover and nibbled the short sweet grass of the lawn. The night was
thickly overcast with clouds, and the house seemed no more than a black
blot, with slits of light where windows were lit within. By and by even
these slits of illumination were extinguished, and other lights appeared
in the top story. After a while they, too, vanished; no sign of life
appeared on the quiet house. Then suddenly the end came: I heard a foot
grate on the gravel; I saw the gleam of a lantern, and heard Duncan’s
voice. “Man,” he shouted, “if you move hand or foot I fire. My rifle-bead is
dead on you.”

Then I blew the whistle; the others ran up, and in less than a minute it
was all over. The man we closed in on was Maclaren. “They killed my mither with that hell-carriage,” he said, “as she juist
sat on the road, puir body, who had niver hurt them.”

And that seemed to him an excellent reason for attempting to burn us all
to death. But it took time to get into the house: their preparations had been
singularly workmanlike, for every window and door on the ground floor
was wired up. Now, we had Achnaleish for two months, but we had no wish to be burned
or otherwise murdered. What we wanted was not a prosecution of our
head-keeper, but peace, the necessaries of life, and beaters. For that
we were willing to shoot no hares, and release Maclaren. An hour’s
conclave next morning settled these things; the ensuing two months were
most enjoyable, and relations were the friendliest. But if anybody wants to test how far what Jim still calls cock-and-bull
stories can enter into practical life, I should suggest to him to go
a-shooting hares at Achnaleish. HOW FEAR DEPARTED FROM THE LONG GALLERY


CHURCH-PEVERIL is a house so beset and frequented by spectres, both
visible and audible, that none of the family which it shelters under its
acre and a half of green copper roofs takes psychical phenomena with any
seriousness. For to the Peverils the appearance of a ghost is a matter
of hardly greater significance than is the appearance of the post to
those who live in more ordinary houses. It arrives, that is to say,
practically every day, it knocks (or makes other noises), it is observed
coming up the drive (or in other places). I myself, when staying there
have seen the present Mrs Peveril, who is rather short-sighted, peer
into the dusk, while we were taking our coffee on the terrace after
dinner, and say to her daughter:

“My dear, was not that the Blue Lady who has just gone into the
shrubbery. I hope she won’t frighten Flo. Whistle for Flo, dear.”

(Flo, it may be remarked, is the youngest and most precious of many
dachshunds). Blanche Peveril gave a cursory whistle, and crunched the sugar left
unmelted at the bottom of her coffee-cup between her very white teeth. “Oh, darling, Flo isn’t so silly as to mind,” she said. “Poor blue Aunt
Barbara is such a bore! Whenever I meet her she always looks as if she
wanted to speak to me, but when I say, ‘What is it, Aunt Barbara?’ she
never utters, but only points somewhere towards the house, which is so
vague. I believe there was something she wanted to confess about two
hundred years ago, but she has forgotten what it is.”

Here Flo gave two or three short pleased barks, and came out of the
shrubbery wagging her tail, and capering round what appeared to me to be
a perfectly empty space on the lawn. “There! Flo has made friends with her,” said Mrs Peveril. “I wonder why
she dresses in that very stupid shade of blue.”

       *       *       *       *       *

From this it may be gathered that even with regard to psychical
phenomena there is some truth in the proverb that speaks of familiarity. But the Peverils do not exactly treat their ghosts with contempt, since
most of that delightful family never despised anybody except such people
as avowedly did not care for hunting or shooting, or golf or skating. And as all of their ghosts are of their family, it seems reasonable to
suppose that they all, even the poor Blue Lady, excelled at one time in
field-sports. So far then they harbour no such unkindness or contempt,
but only pity. Of one Peveril, indeed, who broke his neck in vainly
attempting to ride up the main staircase on a thoroughbred mare after
some monstrous and violent deed in the back-garden, they are very fond,
and Blanche comes downstairs in the morning with an eye unusually bright
when she can announce that Master Anthony was “very loud” last night. He
(apart from the fact of his having been so foul a ruffian) was a
tremendous fellow across country, and they like these indications of the
continuance of his superb vitality. In fact, it is supposed to be a
compliment, when you go to stay at Church-Peveril, to be assigned a
bedroom which is frequented by defunct members of the family. It means
that you are worthy to look on the august and villainous dead,
and you will find yourself shown into some vaulted or tapestried
chamber, without benefit of electric light, and are told that
great-great-grandmamma Bridget occasionally has vague business by the
fireplace, but it is better not to talk to her, and that you will hear
Master Anthony “awfully well” if he attempts the front staircase any
time before morning. There you are left for your night’s repose, and,
having quakingly undressed, begin reluctantly to put out your candles. It is draughty in these great chambers, and the solemn tapestry swings
and bellows and subsides, and the firelight dances on the forms of
huntsmen and warriors and stern pursuits. Then you climb into your bed,
a bed so huge that you feel as if the desert of Sahara was spread for
you, and pray, like the mariners who sailed with St Paul, for day. And,
all the time, you are aware that Freddy and Harry and Blanche and
possibly even Mrs Peveril are quite capable of dressing up and making
disquieting tappings outside your door, so that when you open it some
inconjecturable horror fronts you. For myself, I stick steadily to the
assertion that I have an obscure valvular disease of the heart, and so
sleep undisturbed in the new wing of the house where Aunt Barbara, and
great-great-grandmamma Bridget and Master Anthony never penetrate.