The Open Door, and the Portrait. - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
"But, Roland, what can I do?"
My boy opened his eyes, which were large with weakness and fever, and
gave me a smile such, I think, as sick children only know the secret of.
"I was sure you would know as soon as you came. I always said, Father
will know. And mother," he cried, with a softening of repose upon his
face, his limbs relaxing, his form sinking with a luxurious ease in his
bed,--"mother can come and take care of me."
I called her, and saw him turn to her with the complete dependence of a
child; and then I went away and left them, as perplexed a man as any in
Scotland. I must say, however, I had this consolation, that my mind was
greatly eased about Roland. He might be under a hallucination; but his
head was clear enough, and I did not think him so ill as everybody else
did. The girls were astonished even at the ease with which I took it.
"How do you think he is?" they said in a breath, coming round me, laying
hold of me. "Not half so ill as I expected," I said; "not very bad at
all." "Oh, papa, you are a darling!" cried Agatha, kissing me, and crying
upon my shoulder; while little Jeanie, who was as pale as Roland, clasped
both her arms round mine, and could not speak at all. I knew nothing
about it, not half so much as Simson; but they believed in me: they had a
feeling that all would go right now. God is very good to you when your
children look to you like that. It makes one humble, not proud. I was not
worthy of it; and then I recollected that I had to act the part of a
father to Roland's ghost,--which made me almost laugh, though I might
just as well have cried. It was the strangest mission that ever was
intrusted to mortal man.
It was then I remembered suddenly the looks of the men when they turned
to take the brougham to the stables in the dark that morning. They had
not liked it, and the horses had not liked it. I remembered that even in
my anxiety about Roland I had heard them tearing along the avenue back to
the stables, and had made a memorandum mentally that I must speak of it.
It seemed to me that the best thing I could do was to go to the stables
now and make a few inquiries. It is impossible to fathom the minds of
rustics; there might be some devilry of practical joking, for anything I
knew; or they might have some interest in getting up a bad reputation for
the Brentwood avenue. It was getting dark by the time I went out, and
nobody who knows the country will need to be told how black is the
darkness of a November night under high laurel-bushes and yew-trees. I
walked into the heart of the shrubberies two or three times, not seeing a
step before me, till I came out upon the broader carriage-road, where the
trees opened a little, and there was a faint gray glimmer of sky visible,
under which the great limes and elms stood darkling like ghosts; but it
grew black again as I approached the corner where the ruins lay. Both
eyes and ears were on the alert, as may be supposed; but I could see
nothing in the absolute gloom, and, so far as I can recollect, I heard
nothing. Nevertheless there came a strong impression upon me that
somebody was there. It is a sensation which most people have felt. I have
seen when it has been strong enough to awake me out of sleep, the sense
of some one looking at me. I suppose my imagination had been affected by
Roland's story; and the mystery of the darkness is always full of
suggestions. I stamped my feet violently on the gravel to rouse myself,
and called out sharply, "Who's there?" Nobody answered, nor did I expect
any one to answer, but the impression had been made. I was so foolish
that I did not like to look back, but went sideways, keeping an eye on
the gloom behind. It was with great relief that I spied the light in the
stables, making a sort of oasis in the darkness. I walked very quickly
into the midst of that lighted and cheerful place, and thought the clank
of the groom's pail one of the pleasantest sounds I had ever heard. The
coachman was the head of this little colony, and it was to his house I
went to pursue my investigations. He was a native of the district, and
had taken care of the place in the absence of the family for years; it
was impossible but that he must know everything that was going on, and
all the traditions of the place. The men, I could see, eyed me anxiously
when I thus appeared at such an hour among them, and followed me with
their eyes to Jarvis's house, where he lived alone with his old wife,
their children being all married and out in the world. Mrs. Jarvis met me
with anxious questions. How was the poor young gentleman? But the others
knew, I could see by their faces, that not even this was the foremost
thing in my mind.
* * * * *
"Noises?--ou ay, there'll be noises,--the wind in the trees, and the
water soughing down the glen. As for tramps, Cornel, no, there's little
o' that kind o' cattle about here; and Merran at the gate's a careful
body." Jarvis moved about with some embarrassment from one leg to
another as he spoke. He kept in the shade, and did not look at me more
than he could help. Evidently his mind was perturbed, and he had
reasons for keeping his own counsel. His wife sat by, giving him a quick
look now and then, but saying nothing. The kitchen was very snug and
warm and bright,--as different as could be from the chill and mystery of
the night outside.
"I think you are trifling with me, Jarvis," I said.
"Triflin', Cornel? No me. What would I trifle for? If the deevil himsel
was in the auld hoose, I have no interest in 't one way or another--"
"Sandy, hold your peace!" cried his wife imperatively.
"And what am I to hold my peace for, wi' the Cornel standing there asking
a' thae questions? I'm saying, if the deevil himsel--"
"And I'm telling ye hold your peace!" cried the woman, in great
excitement. "Dark November weather and lang nichts, and us that ken a' we
ken. How daur ye name--a name that shouldna be spoken?" She threw down
her stocking and got up, also in great agitation. "I tellt ye you never
could keep it. It's no a thing that will hide, and the haill toun kens as
weel as you or me. Tell the Cornel straight out--or see, I'll do it. I
dinna hold wi' your secrets, and a secret that the haill toun kens!" She
snapped her fingers with an air of large disdain. As for Jarvis, ruddy
and big as he was, he shrank to nothing before this decided woman. He
repeated to her two or three times her own adjuration, "Hold your peace!"
then, suddenly changing his tone, cried out, "Tell him then, confound
ye! I'll wash my hands o't. If a' the ghosts in Scotland were in the auld
hoose, is that ony concern o' mine?"
After this I elicited without much difficulty the whole story. In the
opinion of the Jarvises, and of everybody about, the certainty that the
place was haunted was beyond all doubt. As Sandy and his wife warmed to
the tale, one tripping up another in their eagerness to tell everything,
it gradually developed as distinct a superstition as I ever heard, and
not without poetry and pathos. How long it was since the voice had been
heard first, nobody could tell with certainty. Jarvis's opinion was that
his father, who had been coachman at Brentwood before him, had never
heard anything about it, and that the whole thing had arisen within the
last ten years, since the complete dismantling of the old house; which
was a wonderfully modern date for a tale so well authenticated. According
to these witnesses, and to several whom I questioned afterwards, and who
were all in perfect agreement, it was only in the months of November and
December that "the visitation" occurred. During these months, the darkest
of the year, scarcely a night passed without the recurrence of these
inexplicable cries. Nothing, it was said, had ever been seen,--at least,
nothing that could be identified. Some people, bolder or more imaginative
than the others, had seen the darkness moving, Mrs. Jarvis said, with
unconscious poetry. It began when night fell, and continued, at
intervals, till day broke. Very often it was only all inarticulate cry
and moaning, but sometimes the words which had taken possession of my
poor boy's fancy had been distinctly audible,--"Oh, mother, let me in!"
The Jarvises were not aware that there had ever been any investigation
into it. The estate of Brentwood had lapsed into the hands of a distant
branch of the family, who had lived but little there; and of the many
people who had taken it, as I had done, few had remained through two
Decembers. And nobody had taken the trouble to make a very close
examination into the facts. "No, no," Jarvis said, shaking his head,
"No, no, Cornel. Wha wad set themsels up for a laughin'-stock to a' the
country-side, making a wark about a ghost? Naebody believes in ghosts. It
bid to be the wind in the trees, the last gentleman said, or some effec'
o' the water wrastlin' among the rocks. He said it was a' quite easy
explained; but he gave up the hoose. And when you cam, Cornel, we were
awfu' anxious you should never hear. What for should I have spoiled the
bargain and hairmed the property for no-thing?"
"Do you call my child's life nothing?" I said in the trouble of the
moment, unable to restrain myself. "And instead of telling this all to
me, you have told it to him,--to a delicate boy, a child unable to sift
evidence or judge for himself, a tender-hearted young creature--"
I was walking about the room with an anger all the hotter that I felt it
to be most likely quite unjust. My heart was full of bitterness against
the stolid retainers of a family who were content to risk other people's
children and comfort rather than let a house be empty. If I had been
warned I might have taken precautions, or left the place, or sent Roland
away, a hundred things which now I could not do; and here I was with my
boy in a brain-fever, and his life, the most precious life on earth,
hanging in the balance, dependent on whether or not I could get to the
reason of a commonplace ghost-story! I paced about in high wrath, not
seeing what I was to do; for to take Roland away, even if he were able to
travel, would not settle his agitated mind; and I feared even that a
scientific explanation of refracted sound or reverberation, or any other
of the easy certainties with which we elder men are silenced, would have
very little effect upon the boy.
"Cornel," said Jarvis solemnly, "and _she'll_ bear me witness,--the young
gentleman never heard a word from me--no, nor from either groom or
gardener; I'll gie ye my word for that. In the first place, he's no a lad
that invites ye to talk. There are some that are, and some that arena.
Some will draw ye on, till ye've tellt them a' the clatter of the toun,
and a' ye ken, and whiles mair. But Maister Roland, his mind's fu' of his
books. He's aye civil and kind, and a fine lad; but no that sort. And ye
see it's for a' our interest, Cornel, that you should stay at Brentwood.
I took it upon me mysel to pass the word,--'No a syllable to Maister
Roland, nor to the young leddies--no a syllable.' The women-servants,
that have little reason to be out at night, ken little or nothing about
it. And some think it grand to have a ghost so long as they're no in the
way of coming across it. If you had been tellt the story to begin with,
maybe ye would have thought so yourself."
This was true enough, though it did not throw any light upon my
perplexity. If we had heard of it to start with, it is possible that all
the family would have considered the possession of a ghost a distinct
advantage. It is the fashion of the times. We never think what a risk it
is to play with young imaginations, but cry out, in the fashionable
jargon, "A ghost!--nothing else was wanted to make it perfect." I should
not have been above this myself. I should have smiled, of course, at the
idea of the ghost at all, but then to feel that it was mine would have
pleased my vanity. Oh, yes, I claim no exemption. The girls would have
been delighted. I could fancy their eagerness, their interest, and
excitement. No; if we had been told, it would have done no good,--we
should have made the bargain all the more eagerly, the fools that we are.
"And there has been no attempt to investigate it," I said, "to see what
it really is?"
"Eh, Cornel," said the coachman's wife, "wha would investigate, as ye
call it, a thing that nobody believes in? Ye would be the laughin'-stock
of a' the country-side, as my man says."
"But you believe in it," I said, turning upon her hastily. The woman was
taken by surprise. She made a step backward out of my way.
"Lord, Cornel, how ye frichten a body! Me!--there's awfu' strange things
in this world. An unlearned person doesna ken what to think. But the
minister and the gentry they just laugh in your face. Inquire into the
thing that is not! Na, na, we just let it be."
"Come with me, Jarvis," I said hastily, "and we'll make an attempt at
least. Say nothing to the men or to anybody. I'll come back after dinner,
and we'll make a serious attempt to see what it is, if it is anything. If
I hear it,--which I doubt,--you may be sure I shall never rest till I
make it out. Be ready for me about ten o'clock."
"Me, Cornel!" Jarvis said, in a faint voice. I had not been looking at
him in my own preoccupation, but when I did so, I found that the greatest
change had come over the fat and ruddy coachman. "Me, Cornel!" he
repeated, wiping the perspiration from his brow. His ruddy face hung in
flabby folds, his knees knocked together, his voice seemed half
extinguished in his throat. Then he began to rub his hands and smile upon
me in a deprecating, imbecile way. "There's nothing I wouldna do to
pleasure ye, Cornel," taking a step further back. "I'm sure _she_ kens
I've aye said I never had to do with a mair fair, weel-spoken
gentleman--" Here Jarvis came to a pause, again looking at me, rubbing
his hands.
"Well?" I said.
"But eh, sir!" he went on, with the same imbecile yet insinuating smile,
"if ye'll reflect that I am no used to my feet. With a horse atween my
legs, or the reins in my hand, I'm maybe nae worse than other men; but on
fit, Cornel--It's no the--bogles--but I've been cavalry, ye see," with a
little hoarse laugh, "a' my life. To face a thing ye dinna understan'--on
your feet, Cornel."
"Well, sir, if _I_ do it," said I tartly, "why shouldn't you?"
"Eh, Cornel, there's an awfu' difference. In the first place, ye tramp
about the haill countryside, and think naething of it; but a walk tires
me mair than a hunard miles' drive; and then ye're a gentleman, and do
your ain pleasure; and you're no so auld as me; and it's for your ain
bairn, ye see, Cornel; and then--"
"He believes in it, Cornel, and you dinna believe in it," the woman said.
"Will you come with me?" I said, turning to her.
She jumped back, upsetting her chair in her bewilderment. "Me!" with a
scream, and then fell into a sort of hysterical laugh. "I wouldna say but
what I would go; but what would the folk say to hear of Cornel Mortimer
with an auld silly woman at his heels?"
The suggestion made me laugh too, though I had little inclination for it.
"I'm sorry you have so little spirit, Jarvis," I said. "I must find some
one else, I suppose."
Jarvis, touched by this, began to remonstrate, but I cut him short. My
butler was a soldier who had been with me in India, and was not supposed
to fear anything,--man or devil,--certainly not the former; and I felt
that I was losing time. The Jarvises were too thankful to get rid of me.
They attended me to the door with the most anxious courtesies. Outside,
the two grooms stood close by, a little confused by my sudden exit. I
don't know if perhaps they had been listening,--as least standing as near
as possible, to catch any scrap of the conversation. I waved my hand to
them as I went past, in answer to their salutations, and it was very
apparent to me that they also were glad to see me go.
And it will be thought very strange, but it would be weak not to add,
that I myself, though bent on the investigation I have spoken of, pledged
to Roland to carry it out, and feeling that my boy's health, perhaps his
life, depended on the result of my inquiry,--I felt the most
unaccountable reluctance to pass these ruins on my way home. My curiosity
was intense; and yet it was all my mind could do to pull my body along. I
daresay the scientific people would describe it the other way, and
attribute my cowardice to the state of my stomach. I went on; but if I
had followed my impulse, I should have turned and bolted. Everything in
me seemed to cry out against it: my heart thumped, my pulses all began,
like sledge-hammers, beating against my ears and every sensitive part. It
was very dark, as I have said; the old house, with its shapeless tower,
loomed a heavy mass through the darkness, which was only not entirely so
solid as itself. On the other hand, the great dark cedars of which we
were so proud seemed to fill up the night. My foot strayed out of the
path in my confusion and the gloom together, and I brought myself up with
a cry as I felt myself knock against something solid. What was it? The
contact with hard stone and lime and prickly bramble-bushes restored me a
little to myself. "Oh, it's only the old gable," I said aloud, with a
little laugh to reassure myself. The rough feeling of the stones
reconciled me. As I groped about thus, I shook off my visionary folly.
What so easily explained as that I should have strayed from the path in
the darkness? This brought me back to common existence, as if I had been
shaken by a wise hand out of all the silliness of superstition. How silly
it was, after all! What did it matter which path I took? I laughed again,
this time with better heart, when suddenly, in a moment, the blood was
chilled in my veins, a shiver stole along my spine, my faculties seemed
to forsake me. Close by me, at my side, at my feet, there was a sigh. No,
not a groan, not a moaning, not anything so tangible,--a perfectly soft,
faint, inarticulate sigh. I sprang back, and my heart stopped beating.
Mistaken! no, mistake was impossible. I heard it as clearly as I hear
myself speak; a long, soft, weary sigh, as if drawn to the utmost, and
emptying out a load of sadness that filled the breast. To hear this in
the solitude, in the dark, in the night (though it was still early), had
an effect which I cannot describe. I feel it now,--something cold
creeping over me, up into my hair, and down to my feet, which refused to
move. I cried out, with a trembling voice, "Who is there?" as I had done
before; but there was no reply.
I got home I don't quite know how; but in my mind there was no longer
any indifference as to the thing, whatever it was, that haunted these
ruins. My scepticism disappeared like a mist. I was as firmly determined
that there was something as Roland was. I did not for a moment pretend
to myself that it was possible I could be deceived; there were movements
and noises which I understood all about,--cracklings of small branches
in the frost, and little rolls of gravel on the path, such as have a
very eerie sound sometimes, and perplex you with wonder as to who has
done it, _when there is no real mystery_; but I assure you all these
little movements of nature don't affect you one bit _when there is
something_. I understood _them_. I did not understand the sigh. That was
not simple nature; there was meaning in it, feeling, the soul of a
creature invisible. This is the thing that human nature trembles at,--a
creature invisible, yet with sensations, feelings, a power somehow of
expressing itself. I had not the same sense of unwillingness to turn my
back upon the scene of the mystery which I had experienced in going to
the stables; but I almost ran home, impelled by eagerness to get
everything done that had to be done, in order to apply myself to finding
it out. Bagley was in the hall as usual when I went in. He was always
there in the afternoon, always with the appearance of perfect
occupation, yet, so far as I know, never doing anything. The door was
open, so that I hurried in without any pause, breathless; but the sight
of his calm regard, as he came to help me off with my overcoat, subdued
me in a moment. Anything out of the way, anything incomprehensible,
faded to nothing in the presence of Bagley. You saw and wondered how
_he_ was made: the parting of his hair, the tie of his white neckcloth,
the fit of his trousers, all perfect as works of art; but you could see
how they were done, which makes all the difference. I flung myself upon
him, so to speak, without waiting to note the extreme unlikeness of the
man to anything of the kind I meant. "Bagley," I said, "I want you to
come out with me to-night to watch for--"
"Poachers, Colonel?" he said, a gleam of pleasure running all over him.
"No, Bagley; a great deal worse," I cried.
"Yes, Colonel; at what hour, sir?" the man said; but then I had not told
him what it was.
It was ten o'clock when we set out. All was perfectly quiet indoors. My
wife was with Roland, who had been quite calm, she said, and who (though,
no doubt, the fever must run its course) had been better ever since I
came. I told Bagley to put on a thick greatcoat over his evening coat,
and did the same myself, with strong boots; for the soil was like a
sponge, or worse. Talking to him, I almost forgot what we were going to
do. It was darker even than it had been before, and Bagley kept very
close to me as we went along. I had a small lantern in my hand, which
gave us a partial guidance. We had come to the corner where the path
turns. On one side was the bowling-green, which the girls had taken
possession of for their croquet-ground,--a wonderful enclosure surrounded
by high hedges of holly, three hundred years old and more; on the other,
the ruins. Both were black as night; but before we got so far, there was
a little opening in which we could just discern the trees and the lighter
line of the road. I thought it best to pause there and take breath.
"Bagley," I said, "there is something about these ruins I don't
understand. It is there I am going. Keep your eyes open and your wits
about you. Be ready to pounce upon any stranger you see,--anything, man
or woman. Don't hurt, but seize anything you see." "Colonel," said
Bagley, with a little tremor in his breath, "they do say there's things
there--as is neither man nor woman." There was no time for words. "Are
you game to follow me, my man? that's the question," I said. Bagley fell
in without a word, and saluted. I knew then I had nothing to fear.
We went, so far as I could guess, exactly as I had come; when I heard
that sigh. The darkness, however, was so complete that all marks, as of
trees or paths, disappeared. One moment we felt our feet on the gravel,
another sinking noiselessly into the slippery grass, that was all. I had
shut up my lantern, not wishing to scare any one, whoever it might be.
Bagley followed, it seemed to me, exactly in my footsteps as I made my
way, as I supposed, towards the mass of the ruined house. We seemed to
take a long time groping along seeking this; the squash of the wet soil
under our feet was the only thing that marked our progress. After a while
I stood still to see, or rather feel, where we were. The darkness was
very still, but no stiller than is usual in a winter's night. The sounds
I have mentioned--the crackling of twigs, the roll of a pebble, the sound
of some rustle in the dead leaves, or creeping creature on the
grass--were audible when you listened, all mysterious enough when your
mind is disengaged, but to me cheering now as signs of the livingness of
nature, even in the death of the frost. As we stood still there came up
from the trees in the glen the prolonged hoot of an owl. Bagley started
with alarm, being in a state of general nervousness, and not knowing what
he was afraid of. But to me the sound was encouraging and pleasant, being
so comprehensible.
"An owl," I said, under my breath. "Y--es, Colonel," said Bagley, his
teeth chattering. We stood still about five minutes, while it broke into
the still brooding of the air, the sound widening out in circles, dying
upon the darkness. This sound, which is not a cheerful one, made me
almost gay. It was natural, and relieved the tension of the mind. I moved
on with new courage, my nervous excitement calming down.
When all at once, quite suddenly, close to us, at our feet, there broke
out a cry. I made a spring backwards in the first moment of surprise and
horror, and in doing so came sharply against the same rough masonry and
brambles that had struck me before. This new sound came upwards from the
ground,--a low, moaning, wailing voice, full of suffering and pain. The
contrast between it and the hoot of the owl was indescribable,--the one
with a wholesome wildness and naturalness that hurt nobody; the other, a
sound that made one's blood curdle, full of human misery. With a great
deal of fumbling,--for in spite of everything I could do to keep up my
courage my hands shook,--I managed to remove the slide of my lantern. The
light leaped out like something living, and made the place visible in a
moment. We were what would have been inside the ruined building had
anything remained but the gable-wall which I have described. It was close
to us, the vacant door-way in it going out straight into the blackness
outside. The light showed the bit of wall, the ivy glistening upon it in
clouds of dark green, the bramble-branches waving, and below, the open
door,--a door that led to nothing. It was from this the voice came which
died out just as the light flashed upon this strange scene. There was a
moment's silence, and then it broke forth again. The sound was so near,
so penetrating, so pitiful, that, in the nervous start I gave, the light
fell out of my hand. As I groped for it in the dark my hand was clutched
by Bagley, who, I think, must have dropped upon his knees; but I was too
much perturbed myself to think much of this. He clutched at me in the
confusion of his terror, forgetting all his usual decorum. "For God's
sake, what is it, sir?" he gasped. If I yielded, there was evidently an
end of both of us. "I can't tell," I said, "any more than you; that's
what we've got to find out. Up, man, up!" I pulled him to his feet. "Will
you go round and examine the other side, or will you stay here with the
lantern?" Bagley gasped at me with a face of horror. "Can't we stay
together, Colonel?" he said; his knees were trembling under him. I pushed
him against the corner of the wall, and put the light into his hands.
"Stand fast till I come back; shake yourself together, man; let nothing
pass you," I said. The voice was within two or three feet of us; of that
there could be no doubt.