Part 6

For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of the dead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked, its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness of the others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn than ever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like an unquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive of much thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms and dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strange noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held accountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strange sounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied that she saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequent search with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunice was disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from a complaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabitha admitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and virtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another direction.

Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, and she yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced by avarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidly separate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsest dishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far the better dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featured creature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of the candle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did this passion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, and lay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking of the coins at her unholy vigils.

One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. “Why don't you bank your money, Tabitha?” she said; “it is surely not safe to keep such large sums in such a lonely house.”

“Large sums!” repeated the exasperated Tabitha, “large sums! what nonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keep me.”

“It's a great temptation to housebreakers,” said her sister, not pressing the point. “I made sure last night that I heard somebody in the house.”

“Did you?” said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face. “So did I. I thought they went to Ursula's room, and I got out of bed and went on the stairs to listen.”

“Well?” said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister's face.

“There was _something_ there,” said Tabitha slowly. “I'll swear it, for I stood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling on the floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat, but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and the cat was in the kitchen.”

“Oh, let us leave this dreadful house,” moaned Eunice.

“What!” said her sister grimly; “afraid of poor Ursula? Why should you be? Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who perhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers.”

“Oh!” said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, “if I saw her I should die. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. O God! have mercy on me, I am dying.”

She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sank senseless to the floor.

“Get some water,” cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up the stairs, “Eunice has fainted.”

The old woman, with a timid glance at her, retired, reappearing shortly afterwards with the water, with which she proceeded to restore her much-loved mistress to her senses. Tabitha, as soon as this was accomplished, stalked off to her room, leaving her sister and Martha sitting drearily enough in the small parlour, watching the fire and conversing in whispers.

It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not last much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so lonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at length consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small but comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a speedy change.

It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of the marshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for one supreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals, the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then the wind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce gusts which, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their full fury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air shrieked in its chimneys, windows rattled, doors slammed, and even the very curtains seemed to live and move.

Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed a sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs, bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her. But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor, crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on the stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with a quickly beating heart she regained her bed.

The sounds ceased and a deep silence followed, which she herself was unable to break although she strove hard to do so. A wild gust of wind shook the windows and nearly extinguished the light, and when its flame had regained its accustomed steadiness she saw that the door was slowly opening, while the huge shadow of a hand blotted the papered wall. Still her tongue refused its office. The door flew open with a crash, a cloaked figure entered and, throwing aside its coverings, she saw with a horror past all expression the napkin-bound face of the dead Ursula smiling terribly at her. In her last extremity she raised her faded eyes above for succour, and then as the figure noiselessly advanced and laid its cold hand upon her brow, the soul of Eunice Mallow left its body with a wild shriek and made its way to the Eternal.

Martha, roused by the cry, and shivering with dread, rushed to the door and gazed in terror at the figure which stood leaning over the bedside. As she watched, it slowly removed the cowl and the napkin and exposed the fell face of Tabitha, so strangely contorted between fear and triumph that she hardly recognized it.

“Who's there?” cried Tabitha in a terrible voice as she saw the old woman's shadow on the wall.

“I thought I heard a cry,” said Martha, entering. “Did anybody call?”

“Yes, Eunice,” said the other, regarding her closely. “I, too, heard the cry, and hurried to her. What makes her so strange? Is she in a trance?”

“Ay,” said the old woman, falling on her knees by the bed and sobbing bitterly, “the trance of death. Ah, my dear, my poor lonely girl, that this should be the end of it! She has died of fright,” said the old woman, pointing to the eyes, which even yet retained their horror. “She has seen something _devilish_.”

Tabitha's gaze fell. “She has always suffered with her heart,” she muttered; “the night has frightened her; it frightened me.”

She stood upright by the foot of the bed as Martha drew the sheet over the face of the dead woman.

“First Ursula, then Eunice,” said Tabitha, drawing a deep breath. “I can't stay here. I'll dress and wait for the morning.”

She left the room as she spoke, and with bent head proceeded to her own. Martha remained by the bedside, and gently closing the staring eyes, fell on her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for the departed soul. Overcome with grief and fear she remained with bowed head until a sudden sharp cry from Tabitha brought her to her feet.

“Well,” said the old woman, going to the door.

“Where are you?” cried Tabitha, somewhat reassured by her voice.

“In Miss Eunice's bedroom. Do you want anything?”

“Come down at once. Quick! I am unwell.”

Her voice rose suddenly to a scream. “Quick! For God's sake! Quick, or I shall go mad. _There is some strange woman in the house._”

The old woman stumbled hastily down the dark stairs. “What is the matter?” she cried, entering the room. “Who is it? What do you mean?”

“I saw it,” said Tabitha, grasping her convulsively by the shoulder. “I was coming to you when I saw the figure of a woman in front of me going up the stairs. Is it—can it be Ursula come for the soul of Eunice, as she said she would?”

“Or for yours?” said Martha, the words coming from her in some odd fashion, despite herself.

Tabitha, with a ghastly look, fell cowering by her side, clutching tremulously at her clothes. “Light the lamps,” she cried hysterically. “Light a fire, make a noise; oh, this dreadful darkness! Will it never be day!”

“Soon, soon,” said Martha, overcoming her repugnance and trying to pacify her. “When the day comes you will laugh at these fears.”

“I murdered her,” screamed the miserable woman, “I killed her with fright. Why did she not give me the money? 'Twas no use to her. Ah! _Look there!_”

Martha, with a horrible fear, followed her glance to the door, but saw nothing.

“It's Ursula,” said Tabitha from between her teeth. “Keep her off! Keep her off!”

The old woman, who by some unknown sense seemed to feel the presence of a third person in the room, moved a step forward and stood before her. As she did so Tabitha waved her arms as though to free herself from the touch of a detaining hand, half rose to her feet, and without a word fell dead before her.

At this the old woman's courage forsook her, and with a great cry she rushed from the room, eager to escape from this house of death and mystery. The bolts of the great door were stiff with age, and strange voices seemed to ring in her ears as she strove wildly to unfasten them. Her brain whirled. She thought that the dead in their distant rooms called to her, and that a devil stood on the step outside laughing and holding the door against her. Then with a supreme effort she flung it open, and heedless of her night-clothes passed into the bitter night. The path across the marshes was lost in the darkness, but she found it; the planks over the ditches slippery and narrow, but she crossed them in safety, until at last, her feet bleeding and her breath coming in great gasps, she entered the village and sank down more dead than alive on a cottage doorstep.

THE UNKNOWN

Handsome is as 'andsome does,” said the night-watchman. It's an old saying, but it's true. Give a chap good looks, and it's precious little else that is given to 'im. He's lucky when 'is good looks 'ave gorn—or

## partly gorn—to get a berth as night-watchman or some other hard and

bad-paid job.

One drawback to a good-looking man is that he generally marries young; not because 'e wants to, but because somebody else wants 'im to. And that ain't the worst of it: the handsomest chap I ever knew married five times, and got seven years for it. It wasn't his fault, pore chap; he simply couldn't say No.

One o' the best-looking men I ever knew was Cap'n Bill Smithers, wot used to come up here once a week with a schooner called the _Wild Rose_. Funny thing about 'im was he didn't seem to know about 'is good looks, and he was one o' the quietest, best-behaved men that ever came up the London river. Considering that he was mistook for me more than once, it was just as well.

He didn't marry until 'e was close on forty; and then 'e made the mistake of marrying a widder-woman. She was like all the rest of 'em—only worse. Afore she was married butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouth, but as soon as she 'ad got her “lines” safe she began to make up for it.

For the fust month or two 'e didn't mind it, 'e rather liked being fussed arter, but when he found that he couldn't go out for arf an hour without having 'er with 'im he began to get tired of it. Her idea was that 'e was too handsome to be trusted out alone; and every trip he made 'e had to write up in a book, day by day, wot 'e did with himself. Even then she wasn't satisfied, and, arter saying that a wife's place was by the side of 'er husband, she took to sailing with 'im every v'y'ge.

Wot he could ha' seen in 'er I don't know. I asked 'im one evening—in a roundabout way—and he answered in such a long, roundabout way that I didn't know wot to make of it till I see that she was standing just behind me, listening. Arter that I heard 'er asking questions about me, but I didn't 'ave to listen: I could hear 'er twenty yards away, and singing to myself at the same time.

Arter that she treated me as if I was the dirt beneath 'er feet. She never spoke to me, but used to speak against me to other people. She was always talking to them about the “sleeping-sickness” and things o' that kind. She said night-watchmen always made 'er think of it somehow, but she didn't know why, and she couldn't tell you if you was to ask her. The only thing I was thankful for was that I wasn't 'er husband. She stuck to 'im like his shadow, and I began to think at last it was a pity she 'adn't got something to be jealous about and something to occupy her mind with instead o' me.

“She ought to 'ave a lesson,” I ses to the skipper one evening. “Are you going to be follered about like this all your life? If she was made to see the foolishness of 'er ways she might get sick of it.”

My idea was to send her on a wild-goose chase, and while the _Wild Rose_ was away I thought it out. I wrote a love-letter to the skipper signed with the name of “Dorothy,” and asked 'im to meet me at Cleopatra's Needle on the Embankment at eight o'clock on Wednesday. I told 'im to look out for a tall girl (Mrs. Smithers was as short as they make 'em) with mischievous brown eyes, in a blue 'at with red roses on it.

I read it over careful, and arter marking it “Private,” twice in front and once on the back, I stuck it down so that it could be blown open a'most, and waited for the schooner to come back. Then I gave a van-boy twopence to 'and it to Mrs. Smithers, wot was sitting on the deck alone, and tell 'er it was a letter for Captain Smithers.

I was busy with a barge wot happened to be handy at the time, but I 'eard her say that she would take it and give it to 'im. When I peeped round she 'ad got the letter open and was leaning over the side to wind'ard trying to get 'er breath. Every now and then she'd give another look at the letter and open 'er mouth and gasp; but by and by she got calmer, and, arter putting it back in the envelope, she gave it a lick as though she was going to bite it, and stuck it down agin. Then she went off the wharf, and I'm blest if, five minutes arterwards, a young fellow didn't come down to the ship with the same letter and ask for the skipper.

“Who gave it you?” ses the skipper, as soon as 'e could speak.

“A lady,” ses the young fellow.

The skipper waved 'im away, and then 'e walked up and down the deck like a man in a dream.

“Bad news?” I ses, looking up and catching 'is eye.

“No,” he ses, “no. Only a note about a couple o' casks o' soda.”

He stuffed the letter in 'is pocket and sat on the side smoking till his wife came back in five minutes' time, smiling all over with good temper.

“It's a nice evening,” she ses, “and I think I'll just run over to Dalston and see my Cousin Joe.”

The skipper got up like a lamb and said he'd go and clean 'imself.

“You needn't come if you feel tired,” she ses, smiling at 'im.

The skipper could 'ardly believe his ears.

“I do feel tired,” he ses. “I've had a heavy day, and I feel more like bed than anything else.”

“You turn in, then,” she ses. “I'll be all right by myself.”

She went down and tidied herself up—not that it made much difference to 'er—and, arter patting him on the arm and giving me a stare that would ha' made most men blink, she took herself off.

I was pretty busy that evening. Wot with shifting lighters from under the jetty and sweeping up, it was pretty near ha'-past seven afore I 'ad a minute I could call my own. I put down the broom at last, and was just thinking of stepping round to the Bull's Head for a 'arf-pint when I see Cap'n Smithers come off the ship on to the wharf and walk to the gate.

“I thought you was going to turn in?” I ses.

“I did think of it,” he ses, “then I thought p'r'aps I'd better stroll as far as Broad Street and meet my wife.”

It was all I could do to keep a straight face. I'd a pretty good idea where she 'ad gorn; and it wasn't Dalston.

“Come in and 'ave 'arf a pint fust,” I ses.

“No; I shall be late,” he ses, hurrying off.

I went in and 'ad a glass by myself, and stood there so long thinking of Mrs. Smithers walking up and down by Cleopatra's Needle that at last the landlord fust asked me wot I was laughing at, and then offered to make me laugh the other side of my face. And then he wonders why people go to the Albion.

I locked the gate rather earlier than usual that night. Sometimes if I'm up that end I leave it a bit late, but I didn't want Mrs. Smithers to come along and nip in without me seeing her face.

It was ten o'clock afore I heard the bell go, and when I opened the wicket and looked out I was surprised to see that she 'ad got the skipper with 'er. And of all the miserable-looking objects I ever saw in my life he was the worst. She 'ad him tight by the arm, and there was a look on 'er face that a'most scared me.

“Did you go all the way to Dalston for her?” I ses to 'im.

Mrs. Smithers made a gasping sort o' noise, but the skipper didn't answer a word.

She shoved him in in front of 'er and stood ever 'im while he climbed aboard. When he held out 'is hand to help 'er she struck it away.

I didn't get word with 'im till five o'clock next morning, when he came up on deck with his 'air all rough and 'is eyes red for want of sleep.

“Haven't 'ad a wink all night,” he ses, stepping on to the wharf.

I gave a little cough. “Didn't she 'ave a pleasant time at Dalston?” I ses.

He walked a little further off from the ship. “She didn't go there,” he ses, in a whisper.

“You've got something on your mind,” I ses. “Wot is it?”

He wouldn't tell me at fust, but at last he told me all about the letter from Dorothy, and 'is wife reading it unbeknown to 'im and going to meet 'er.

“It was an awful meeting!” he ses. “Awful!”

I couldn't think wot to make of it. “Was the gal there, then?” I ses, staring at 'im.

“No,” ses the skipper; “but I was.”

“_You_?” I ses, starting back. “You! Wot for? I'm surprised at you! I wouldn't ha' believed it of you!”

“I felt a bit curious,” he ses, with a silly sort o' smile. “But wot I can't understand is why the gal didn't turn up.”

“I'm ashamed of you, Bill,” I ses, very severe.

“P'r'aps she did,” he ses, 'arf to 'imself, “and then saw my missis standing there waiting. P'r'aps that was it.”

“Or p'r'aps it was somebody 'aving a game with you,” I ses.

“You're getting old, Bill,” he ses, very short. “You don't understand. It's some pore gal that's took a fancy to me, and it's my dooty to meet 'er and tell her 'ow things are.”

He walked off with his 'ead in the air, and if 'e took that letter out once and looked at it, he did five times.

“Chuck it away,” I ses, going up to him.

“Certainly not,” he ses, folding it up careful and stowing it away in 'is breastpocket. “She's took a fancy to me, and it's my dooty——”

“You said that afore,” I ses.

He stared at me nasty for a moment, and then 'e ses: “You ain't seen any young lady hanging about 'ere, I suppose, Bill? A tall young lady with a blue hat trimmed with red roses?”

I shook my 'ead.

“If you should see 'er,” he ses.

“I'll tell your missis,” I ses. “It 'ud be much easier for her to do her dooty properly than it would you. She'd enjoy doing it, too.”

He went off agin then, and I thought he 'ad done with me, but he 'adn't. He spoke to me that evening as if I was the greatest friend he 'ad in the world. I 'ad two 'arfpints with 'im at the Albion—with his missis walking up and down outside—and arter the second 'arf-pint he said he wanted to meet Dorothy and tell 'er that 'e was married, and that he 'oped she would meet some good man that was worthy of 'er.

I had a week's peace while the ship was away, but she was hardly made fast afore I 'ad it all over agin and agin.

“Are you sure there's been no more letters?” he ses.

“Sartain,” I ses.

“That's right,” he ses; “that's right. And you 'aven't seen her walking up and down?”

“No,” I ses.

“'Ave you been on the look-out?” he ses. “I don't suppose a nice gal like that would come and shove her 'ead in at the gate. Did you look up and down the road?”