Prologue
The story had held us round the fire almost without breathing. Someone made the obvious remark that it was gruesome. A strange tale told on Christmas Eve in an old house should be exactly that. Apart from this, I remember no comment. Then somebody happened to say something else. It was the only case he had met in which such a visit had come to a child.
The case, I should say, was about an apparition in an old house just like ours. A dreadful figure had appeared to a little boy who slept in the room with his mother. In his terror, he woke her up. But she did not manage to calm his fear and send him back to sleep. Before she could do so, she saw the same thing herself, the thing that had frightened him.
It was this remark that drew a reply from Douglas. It did not come at once, but later in the evening, and it led to something interesting. Someone else told a story that was not very good, and I saw that Douglas was not listening. I took this as a sign that he had a story of his own to tell. We would only have to wait. In fact we waited until two nights later. But that same evening, before we went off to bed, he told us what was on his mind.
"I quite agree about Griffin's ghost, or whatever it was. It appeared first to the little boy, at such a young age, and that adds something special. But it's not the first case of this charming kind that I know of with a child in it. If one child gives the effect another turn of the screw, what do you say to two children—?"
"We say, of course," somebody cried, "that they give two turns! Also that we want to hear about them."
I can still see Douglas there in front of the fire. He had stood up and turned his back to it. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked down at the man who had spoken. "Nobody but me has ever heard it, until now. It's really too horrible." Of course, several voices said that this made the story even more valuable. Our friend prepared his triumph quietly and cleverly. He looked round at the rest of us and went on: "It's beyond everything. Nothing at all that I know comes near it."
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"For pure terror?" I remember asking.
He seemed to say that it was not as simple as that. He really did not know how to describe it. He passed his hand over his eyes and made a small, pained face. "For dreadful—dreadfulness!"
"Oh, how delicious!" cried one of the women.
He paid no attention to her. He looked at me, but as if he saw the thing he spoke of instead of me. "For general strange ugliness and horror and pain."
"Well then," I said, "just sit right down and begin."
He turned round to the fire, kicked a log and watched it for a moment. Then he faced us again. "I can't begin. I shall have to send to town." Everyone groaned at this and complained a lot. After that, still lost in his thoughts, he explained. "The story's written down. It's in a locked drawer, and it hasn't been out for years. I could write to my man and send him the key. He could send the packet down just as he finds it."
He seemed to say this to me in particular. He almost seemed to ask for my help, so that he would not hold back. He had broken a long silence, thick like ice that had formed over many winters. He had had his reasons for keeping quiet for so long. The others did not like the delay, but I was charmed by his careful doubts. I begged him to write by the first post and to let us hear the story soon. Then I asked him if the experience had been his own. His answer came quickly. "Oh, thank God, no!"
"And is the written account yours? Did you write the thing down?"
"Nothing but the impression. I took that here"—he tapped his heart. "I've never lost it."
"Then your manuscript—?"
"Is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful handwriting." He stopped again. "A woman's. She has been dead for twenty years. She sent me these pages before she died."
Everyone was listening now. Of course somebody made a teasing joke, or at least drew the obvious conclusion. Douglas put the idea aside without a smile, but also without anger.
"She was a most charming person, but she was ten years older than I was. She was my sister's governess," he said quietly. "She was the most pleasant woman I've ever known in that kind of position. She would have been good enough for any position at all. It was long ago, and this story happened long before that. I was at Trinity. I came home for my second summer, and I found her there. I was at home a lot that year—it was a beautiful one. In her free hours we had some walks and talks in the garden. In those talks she seemed to me terribly clever and nice. Oh yes, don't grin. I liked her very much. And I'm glad to this day to think she liked me too. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have told me. She had never told anyone. It wasn't only that she said so. I knew she hadn't. I was sure; I could see it. You'll easily understand why when you hear."
"Because the thing had been such a fright?"
He kept his eyes on me. "You'll easily understand," he said again. "You will."
I looked hard at him too. "I see. She was in love."
He laughed for the first time. "You are sharp. Yes, she was in love. That is, she had been. It came out—she couldn't tell her story without it coming out. I saw it, and she saw that I saw it. But neither of us spoke of it. I remember the time and the place. It was the corner of the lawn, in the shade of the great beech trees. It was a long, hot summer afternoon. It wasn't a scene for shivering with fear; but oh—!" He left the fire and dropped back into his chair.