Part 1 I took the house of Brentwood on my return from India in eighteen blank for the temporary accommodation of my family until I could find a permanent home for them. It had many advantages which made it peculiarly appropriate. It was within reach of Edinburgh, and my boy Rowland, whose education had been considerably neglected, could go in and out to school, which was thought to be better for him than either leaving home altogether or staying there always with a tutor. The first of these expedience would have seemed preferable to me. The second commended itself to his mother. The doctor, like a judicious man, took the midway between, put him on his pony and let him rile into the high school every morning. It will do him all the good in the world. Dr. Simpson said, and when it is bad weather there is the train. His mother accepted this solution of the difficulty more easily than I could have hoped, and our pale-faced boy, who had never known anything more invigorating than Simla, began to encounter the brisk breezes of the North in the subdued severity of the month of May. Before the time of the vacation in July we had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to acquire something of the brown and ruddy complexion of his school fellows. The English system did not commend itself to Scotland in these days. There was no little eaten at Fetz, nor do I think, if there had been, that a gentile exotic of that class would have tempted either my wife or me. The lad was doubly precious to us, being the only one left us of many, and he was fragile in body we believed and deeply sensitive in mind. To keep him at home and yet to send him to school, to combine the advantages of the two systems, seemed to be everything that could be desired. The two girls also found at Brentwood everything they wanted. They were near enough to Edinburgh to have masters and lessons as many as they required for completing that never-ending education which the young people seem to require nowadays. Their mother married me when she was younger than Agatha, and I should like to see them improve upon their mother. I myself was then no more than twenty-five, an age at which I see the young fellows now groping about them with no notion what they are going to do with their lives. However, I suppose every generation has a conceit of itself which elevates it, in its own opinion, above that which comes after it. Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy slope of country, one of the richest in Scotland, which lies between Pentland Hills and the Firth. In clear weather you could see the blue gleam like a bent bow embracing the wealthy fields and scattered houses of the great estuary on one side of you and on the other the blue heights, not gigantic like those we had been used to, but just high enough for all the glories of the atmosphere, the play of the clouds, and sweet reflections which give to a hilly country an interest and a charm which nothing else can emulate. Edinburgh, with its two lesser heights, the castle and the Calton Hill, it spires in towers piercing through the smoke and Arthur's seat-line crouched behind like a guardian no longer very needful, taking his repose beside the well-beloved charge, which is now, so to speak, able to take care of itself without him, lay at our right hand. From the lawn and drawing-room windows we could see all these varieties of landscape. The colour was sometimes a little chilly but sometimes also as animated and full of vicissitude as a drama. I was never tired of it. Its colour and freshness revived the eyes which had grown weary of arid plains and blazing skies. It was always cheery and fresh and full of repose. The village of Brentwood lay almost under the house, on the other side of the deep little ravine, down which a stream, which ought to have been a lovely wild and frolicsome little river, flowed between its rocks and trees. The river, like so many in that district, had, however, in its earlier life been sacrificed to trade, and was grimy with paper-making. But this did not affect our pleasure in it so much as I have known it to affect other streams. Perhaps our water was more rapid, perhaps less clogged with dirt and refuse. Our side of the dell was charmingly accidente and clothed with fine trees through which various paths wound down to the riverside and to the village bridge which crossed the stream. The village lay in the hollow and climbed, with very prosaic houses, the other side. Village architecture does not flourish in Scotland. The blue slates and the grey stone are sworn foes to the picturesque, and though I do not, for my own part, dislike the interior of an old-fashioned, hewed and galleried church, with its little family settlements on all sides, the square box outside, with its bit of a spire like a handle to lift it by, is not an improvement to the landscape. Still a cluster of houses on different elevations, with scraps of garden coming in between, a hedgerow with clothes laid out to dry, the opening of a street with its rural sociability, the women at their doors, the slow wagon lumbering along, gives a centre to the landscape. It was cheerful to look at and convenient in a hundred ways. Within ourselves we had walks in plenty, the glen being always beautiful in all its phases, whether the woods were green in the spring or ruddy in the autumn. In the park which surrounded the house were the ruins of the former mansion of Brentwood, a much smaller and less important house than the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins were picturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who were but temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them as if they somehow reflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had the remains of a tower, an indistinguishable mass of mason work overgrown with ivy, and the shells of walls attached to this were half filled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed to say. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with the lower part of the windows still existing on the principal floor and underneath other windows which were perfect though half filled up with fallen soil and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growths of all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance were some very common place and disjointed fragments of building, one of them suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of grey wall, all encrusted with lichens, in which was a common doorway. Probably it had been a servants entrance, a back door, or opening into what are called the offices in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered, pantry and kitchen had all been swept out of being, but there stood the doorway open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits and every wild creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Bretwood, like a melancholy comment upon a life that was over, a door that led to nothing, closed once perhaps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded, now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first, so perhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it an importance which nothing justified. The summer was a very happy period of repose for us all. The warmth of Indian suns was still in our veins. It seemed to us that we could never have enough of the greenness, the dewiness, the freshness of the northern landscape. Even its mists were pleasant to us, taking all the fever out of us and pouring in vigor and refreshment. In autumn we followed the fashion of the time and went away for change which we did not in the least require. It was when the family had settled down for the winter, when the days were short and dark and the rigorous rain of frost upon us, that the incidents occurred which alone could justify me in intruding upon the world my private affairs. These incidents were, however, of so curious a nature that I hope my inevitable references to my own family and pressing personal interests will meet with a general pardon. I was absent in London when these events began. In London an old Indian plunges back into the interests with which all his previous life has been associated and meets old friends at every step. I had been circulating among some half dozen of these, enjoying the return to my former life in shadow, though I had been so thankful in substance to throw it aside, and had missed some of my home-letters, what with going down from Friday to Monday to Old Benbo's place in the country and stopping on the way back to Dine and sleep at cellars, and to take a look into Cross's stables which occupied another day. It is never safe to miss one's letters. In this transitory life, as the prayer-book says, how can one ever be certain what is going to happen? All was well at home. I knew exactly, I thought, what they would have to say to me. The weather has been so fine that Roland has not once gone by train and he enjoys the ride beyond anything. Dear Papa, be sure that you don't forget anything, but bring us so and so and so and so, a list as long as my arm. Dear girls and dear mother, I would not for the world have forgotten their commissions or lost their little letters for all the Benbo's and Cross's in the world. But I was confident in my home-comfort and peacefulness. When I got back to my club, however, three or four letters were lying for one, upon some of which I noticed the immediate, urgent, which old-fashioned people and anxious people still believe will influence the post office and quicken the speed of the mails. I was about to open one of these when the club porter brought me two new telegrams, one of which, he said, had arrived the night before. I opened, as was to be expected, the last first, and this was what I read.  For God's sake, come, he is much worse. This was a thunderbolt to fall upon a man's head, who had one only sun, and lie the light of his eyes. The other telegram, which I opened with hands trembling so much that I lost time by my haste, was too much the same purport.  The first thing I did was to look up the timetables to see if there was any way of getting off sooner than by the night train, though I knew well enough there was not, and then I read the letters, which furnished, alas, too clearly all the details. They told me that the boy had been pale for some time with a scared look. His mother had noticed it before I left home, but would not say anything to alarm me. This look had increased day by day, and soon it was observed that Roland came home at a wild gallop through the park, his pony panting and in foam, himself as white as a sheet, but with the perspiration streaming from his forehead. For a long time he had resisted all questioning, but at length had developed such strange changes of mood, showing a reluctance to go to school, a desire to be fetched in the carriage at night which was a ridiculous piece of luxury, an unwillingness to go out into the grounds and nervous start at every sound that his mother had insisted upon an explanation. When the boy, our boy Roland, who had never known what fear was, began to talk to her of voices he had heard in the park and shadows that had appeared to him among the ruins, my wife promptly put him to bed and sent for Dr. Simpson, which of course was the only thing to do. I hurried off that evening, as may be supposed, with an anxious heart, how I got through the hours before the starting of the train I cannot tell. We must all be thankful for the quickness of the railway when in anxiety, but to have thrown myself into a post-chase as soon as horses could be put to would have been a relief. I got to Edinburgh very early in the blackness of the winter morning and scarcely dared look the man in the face at whom I gasped. What news? My wife had sent the brome for me, which I concluded before the man spoke was a bad sign. His answer was that stereotyped answer which leaves the imagination so wildly free. Just the same. Just the same! What might that mean? The horses seemed to me to creep along the long, dark country road. As we dashed through the park I thought I heard someone moaning amongst the trees and clenched my fist at him, whoever he might be, with fury. Why had the fool of a woman at the gate allowed anyone to come in to disturb the quiet of the place? If I had not been in such hot haste to get home I think I should have stopped the carriage and got out to see what Trampot was that had made an entrance and chosen my grounds of all places in the world when my boy was ill to grumble and groan in. But I had no reason to complain of our slow pace here. The horses flew like lightning along the intervening path and drew up at the door all panting as if they had run a race. My wife stood waiting to receive me with a pale face and a candle in her hand which made her look pale or still as the wind blew the flame about. He is sleeping, she said in a whisper, as if her voice might wake him, and I replied, when I could find my voice, also in a whisper, as though the jingling of the horses' furniture and the sound of their hoofs must not have been more dangerous. I stood on the steps with her a moment, almost afraid to go in, now that I was here, and it seemed to me that I saw without observing, if I may say so, that the horses were unwilling to turn round, though their stables lay that way, or that the men were unwilling. These things occurred to me afterwards, though at the moment I was not capable of anything but to ask questions and to hear of the condition of the boy. I looked at him from the door of his room, for we were afraid to go near, lest we should disturb that blessed sleep. It looked like actual sleep, not the lethargy into which my wife told me he would sometimes fall. She told me everything in the next room, which communicated with his, rising now and then, and going to the door of communication, and in this there was much that was very startling and confusing to the mind. It appeared that ever since the winter began, since it was early dark, and night had fallen before his return from school, he had been hearing voices among the ruins. At first only a groaning, he said, at which his pony was as much alarmed as he was. But by degrees a voice. The tears ran down my wife's cheeks as she described to me how he would start up in the night and cry out, O mother let me in, O mother let me in, with a pathos which rent her heart. And she sitting there all the time, only longing to do everything his heart could desire. But though she would try to soothe him, crying, You are at home my darling, I am here, don't you know me, your mother is here? He would only stare at her, and after a while spring up again with the same cry. At other times he would be quite reasonable, she said, asking eagerly when I was coming, but declaring that he must go with me as soon as I did so, to let them in. The doctor thinks his nervous system must have received a shock. My wife said, O Henry, can it be that we have pushed him on too much with his work, a delicate boy like Rowland, and what is his work in comparison with his health? Even you would think little of honors or prizes if it hurt the boy's health. Even I, as if I were an inhuman father sacrificing my child to my ambition. But I would not increase her trouble by taking any notice. After a while they persuaded me to lie down, to rest, and to eat, none of which things had been possible since I received their letters. The mere fact of being on the spot, of course, in itself was a great thing, and when I knew that I could be called in a moment as soon as he was awake and wanted me, I felt capable, even in the dark chill morning twilight, to snatch an hour or two sleep. As it happened, I was so worn out with a strain of anxiety, and he so quieted and consoled by knowing I had come, that I was not disturbed till the afternoon when the twilight had again settled down. There was just daylight enough to see his face when I went to him. And what a change in a fortnight. He was paler and more worn, I thought, than even in those dreadful days in the plains before we left India. His hair seemed to me to have grown long and blank.  He got hold of my hand in a cold and tremulous clutch and waved to everybody to go away.  This went to her heart, for she did not like that even I should have more of the boy's confidence than herself. But my wife has never been a woman to think of herself, and she left us alone. Are they all gone, he said eagerly? They would not let me speak.  You know I am not a fool, papa. Yes, yes, my boy, I know. But you are ill and quiet is so necessary. You are not only not a fool, Roland, but you are reasonable and understand. When you are ill you must deny yourself. You must not do everything that you might do being well. He waved his thin hand in a sort of indignation. Then, father, I am not ill, he cried. Oh, I thought when you came you would not stop me. You would see the sense of it. What do you think is the matter with me, all of you? Simpson is well enough, but he is only a doctor. What do you think is the matter with me? I am no more ill than you are. A doctor, of course. He thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you. That's what he's there for, and claps you into bed. Which is the best place for you at present, my dear boy?   But now, father, he cried, half jumping out of bed. It's not illness, it's a secret. His eyes shone so wildly. His face was so swept with strong feeling, that my heart sank within me. It could be nothing but fever that did it, and fever had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to put him back into bed. Roland, I said, humoring the poor child, which I knew was the only way. If you are going to tell me this secret to do any good, you know you must be quite, quiet, and not excite yourself. If you excite yourself, I must not let you speak. Yes, father, said the boy. He was quiet directly, like a man, as if he quite understood. When I had laid him back on his pillow, he looked up at me with that grateful, sweet look with which children, when they are ill, break one's heart, the water coming into his eyes in his weakness. I was sure as soon as you were here you would know what to do, he said. To be sure, my boy, now keep quiet, and tell it all out like a man.  Yes, father, father, there is someone in the park, someone that has been badly used. Hush, my dear, you remember there is to be no excitement. Well, who is this somebody, and who has been ill-using him? We will soon put a stop to that. All, cried Rowland. But it is not so easy as you think. I don't know who it is. It is just a cry. Oh, if you could hear it, it gets into my head in my sleep. I heard it as clear, as clear, and they think that I am dreaming or raving, perhaps, the boy said, with a sort of disdainful smile. This look of his perplexed me. It was less like fever than I thought. Are you quite sure you have not dreamed it, Rowland, I said? Dreamed? That? He was springing up again when he suddenly bethought himself, and lay down flat, with the same sort of smile on his face. The pony heard it too, he said. She jumped as if she had been shot, if I had not grasped at the reins, for I was frightened, father. No shame to you, my boy, said I, though I scarcely knew why.  Did the pony dream it, he said, with a soft disdain, yet indulgence for my foolishness? Then he added slowly. It was only a cry the first time, and all the time before you went away. I wouldn't tell you, for it was so wretched to be frightened. I thought it might be a hair or a rabbit snared, and I went in the morning and looked, but there was nothing. It was after you went I heard it really first, and this is what he says. He raised himself on his elbow close to me, and looked me in the face. Oh, mother, let me in! Oh, mother, let me in! As he said the words amiss came over his face, the mouth quivered, the soft features all melted and changed, and when he had ended these pitiful words, dissolved in a shower of heavy tears. Was it a hallucination? Was it the fever of the brain? Was it the disordered fancy caused by great bodily weakness? How could I tell? I thought it wisest to accept it as if it were all true. This is very touching, Roland, I said. Oh, if you had just heard it, father! I said to myself, if father heard it he would do something, but mama, you know, she's given over to Simpson, and that fellow's a doctor, and never thinks of anything but clapping you into bed. We must not blame Simpson for being a doctor, Roland. Oh, no, said my boy, with delightful toleration and indulgence. Oh, no, that's the good of him. That's what he's for. I know that.  You are just father, and you'll do something, directly, papa, directly, this very night.  He gave me a sudden swift look, investigating my face as though to see weather. After all, this was everything my eminence as father came to, no more than that. Then he got hold of my shoulder, clutching it with his thin hand. Look here, he said, with a quiver in his voice. Suppose it wasn't living at all. My dear boy, how then could you have heard it, I said. He turned away from me with a petish exclamation, as if you didn't know better than that. Do you want to tell me it is a ghost, I said? Roland withdrew his hand. His countenance assumed an aspect of great dignity and gravity. A slight quiver remained about his lips. Whatever it was, you always said we were not to call names. It was something, in trouble—oh, father, in terrible trouble. But my boy, I said, I was at my wit's end. If it was a child that was lost, or any poor human creature, but Roland, what do you want me to do? I should know if I was you, said the child eagerly. That is what I always said to myself. Father will know. Oh, papa, papa, to have to face it night after night, in such terrible, terrible trouble, and never to be able to do it any good. I don't want to cry. It's like a baby. I know, but what can I do else? Out there all by itself in the ruin, and nobody to help it. I can't bear it. I can't bear it! cried my generous boy, and in his weakness he burst out, after many attempts to restrain it, into a great childish fit of sobbing and tears. I do not know that I ever was in greater perplexity in my life, and afterwards, when I thought of it, there was something comic in it, too. It is bad enough to find your child's mind possessed with the conviction that he has seen or heard a ghost, but that he should require you to go instantly and help that ghost was the most bewildering experience that had ever come my way. I am a sober man myself, and not superstitious, at least any more than everybody is superstitious. Of course I do not believe in ghosts, but I don't deny, any more than other people, that there are stories which I cannot pretend to understand. My blood got a sort of chill in my veins at the idea that Roland should be a ghost seer, for that generally means a hysterical temperament and weak health and all that men most hate and fear for their children. But that I should take up his ghost and right its wrongs, and save it from its trouble with such a mission as was enough to confuse any man. I did my best to console my boy without giving any promise of this astonishing kind. But he was too sharp for me, he would have none of my caresses, with sobs breaking in at intervals upon his voice, and the raindrops hanging on his eyelids, he yet returned to the charge. It will be there now, it will be there all night. Oh, think, Papa, think if it was me. I can't rest for thinking of it. Don't, he cried, putting away my hand, don't, you go and help it, and mother can take care of me. 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.  While little Jeannie, 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 Simpson, 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 entrusted to mortal man. It was then I remembered suddenly the looks of the men when they turned to take the broom 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 lines 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 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 was a sensation which most people have felt. I have seen it when it has been strong enough to awake me out of sleep, the sense of someone 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 anyone to answer, but the impression had been made.  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. The Open Door and the Portrait Stories of the Seen and the Unseen by Margaret O. Oliphant The Open Door, Part II Noises O. I. There'll be noises. The wind in the trees, and the water sowing down the glen. As for Tramp's Colonel, no. There's little of that kind of cattle about here, and Marin 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. O. I think you are trifling with me, Jarvis, I said. I'm trifling, Colonel. Know me. What would I trifle for? If the devil himself was in the old hoose, I have no interest in it one way or another. Sandy, hold your peace, cried his wife, imperatively. And what am I to hold my peace for with the Colonel's stand in there ask and all the questions? I'm saying, if the devil himself— And I'm telling you, hold your peace, cried the woman, in great excitement. Dark November weather and long nights, and us that can and we can. How dare you name, a name that shouldn't be spoken. She threw down her stocking and got up, also in great agitation. I tell you you never could keep it. It's no a thing that will hide, and the whole town can's as wheel as you or me. Tell the Colonel straight out, or see I'll do it. I didn't hold with your secrets, and a secret that the whole town can's. She snapped her fingers with an air of large disdain, as for Jarvis, ready and big as he was, he shrank to nothing before this decided woman. He repeated to her two or three times her own adoration. Hold your peace. Then suddenly changing his tone, cried out, tell him then, confound ya, I'll wash my hands of it. If all the ghosts in Scotland were in the old hoose, is that any concern of mine? After this I elicited without much difficulty the whole story, in the opinion of the Jarvis's, 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 poachman 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 in articulate 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 Jarvis's 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 December's. And nobody had taken the trouble to make a very close examination into the facts. No, no, Jarvis said, shaking his head. No, no, Colonel. What would set themselves up for a laugh in stock to all the countryside, making a work about a ghost? Nobody believes in ghosts. It bid to be the wind in the trees, the last gentleman said, or some effect of the water rastlin' among the rocks. He said it was a quite easy explained, but he gave up the hoose. And when you came, Colonel, we were awful anxious you should never hear. What for should I have spoiled the bargain and harmed the property for nothing? 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 judgment 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 the 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. Colonel, 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 give you my word for that. In the first place he's no allowed that invite you to talk. There are some that are, and some that aren't, some will draw you on till you've tilt them all the clatter of the tune, and I, you can, and while's mayor.  He's eye civil and kind, and a fine lad, but not that sort. And you see it's for all our interests, Colonel, that you should stay at Brentwood. I took it upon me myself to pass the word. No assillable to Master Roland, nor to the young ladies, not assillable. The women's servants that have little reason to be out at night can little learn nothing about it, and some think it grand to have a ghost so long as there no in the way of coming across it. If you had been tilt the story to begin with, maybe you 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. Hey, Colonel, said the coachman's wife. What would investigate, as you call it, a thing that nobody believes in? You would be the laugh and stock of all the countryside, 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, Colonel, how you frightened a body! Me! There's awful strange things in this world. An unlearned person doesn't again want to think.  Inquire into the thing that is not. Nah, nah, we just let it be. Come with me, Jarvis, I said hastily, and we'll make an attempt at least. Say nothing to the man 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 that I shall never rest till I make it out. Be ready for me about ten o'clock. Me, Colonel, Jarvis said, in a faint voice. I had not been looking at him in my own preoccupation.  Me, Colonel, 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 wouldn't do to pleasure you, Colonel. Taking a step further back. I'm sure she can. I've I said I never had to do with a mare-fade, will-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 you'll reflect that I am no use to my feet, with a horse between my legs or the reins in my hand, I may be nay worse than other men. But on fit, Colonel, it's no the boggles, but I've been cavalry, you see, with the little horse laugh all my life, to face a thing you didn't understand on your feet, Colonel. Well, sir, if I do it, said I tartly, why shouldn't you? Eh, Colonel, there's an awful difference. In the first place, you tramp about the whole countryside and think nothing of it. But a walk tires me mare than a hundred miles drive.  And it's for your own baron, you see, Colonel, and then— He believes in it, Colonel, and you didn't believe in it, the woman said. Will you come with me, I said, turning to her?  I wouldn't say but what I would go, but what would the folks say to hear of Colonel Mortimer with an old 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 someone else, I suppose. Jarvis, touched by this, began to rummage straight, 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 Jarvis's 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 roll in 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 the way home. My curiosity was intense, and yet it was all my mind could do to pull my body along. I dare say 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 sledgehammers, beating against my ears in 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 seers, 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. Again? 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 refuse 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 skepticism 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.  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 my 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 neck-cloth, 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 unlikeliness 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 Rowland, 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 great coat 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 a little 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.  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.  Bagley followed, it seemed to me, exactly in my footsteps as I made my way, as I supposed, toward 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 as 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. Yes, 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 moments of surprise and horror, and in doing so came sharply against the same rough masonry and brambles that it 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 a 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 doorway 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 touched 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.  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. I went myself to the other side of the wall, keeping close to it. The light shook in Bagley's hand, but, tremulous though it was, shone out through the vacant door, one oblong block of light marking all the crumbling corners and hanging masses of foliage. Was that something dark huddled in a heap by the side of it? I pushed forward across the light in the doorway and fell upon it with my hands, but it was only a juniper bush growing close against the wall. Meanwhile the sight of my figure crossing the doorway had brought Bagley's nervous excitement to a height. He flew at me, gripping my shoulder. I've got him, Colonel. I've got him, he cried, with a voice of sudden exultation. He thought it was a man, and was it once relieved. But at that moment the voice burst forth again between us, at our feet, more close to us than any separate being could be. He dropped off from me and fell against the wall, his jaw dropping as if he were dying. I suppose, at the same moment, he saw that it was me whom he had clutched. I, for my part, had scarcely more command of myself. I snatched the light out of his hand and flashed it all about me wildly. Nothing. The juniper bush which I thought I had never seen before. The heavy growth of the glistening ivy, the brambles waving. It was close to my ears now, crying, crying, pleading as if for life. Either I heard the same words Roland had heard, or else. In my excitement his imagination got possession of mine. The voice went on, growing into distinct articulation, but wavering about, now from one point, now from another, as if the owner of it were moving slowly back and forward. Mother, mother! and then an outburst of wailing, as my mind steadied, getting accustomed, as one's mind gets accustomed to anything, it seemed to me as if some uneasy, miserable creature was pacing up and down before a closed door. Sometimes, but that must have been excitement, I thought I heard a sound like knocking, and then another burst. Oh, mother, mother! All this close, close to the space where I was standing with my lantern, now before me, now behind me, a creature restless, unhappy, moaning, crying, before the vacant doorway, which no one could either shut or open more. Do you hear it, Bagley? Do you hear what it is saying I cried, stepping in through the doorway?  He made a motion of his lips as if to answer me, but no sounds came, then lifted his hand with a curious, imperative movement as if ordering me to be silent and listen. And how long I did so I cannot tell. It began to have an interest, an exciting hold upon me, which I could not describe. It seemed to call up visibly a scene anyone could understand. A something shut out, restlessly wandering to and fro. Sometimes the voice dropped, as if throwing itself down, sometimes wandered off a few paces, growing sharp and clear. Oh, mother, let me in! Oh, mother, mother, let me in! Oh, let me in! Every word was clear to me. No wonder the boy had gone wild with pity. I tried to steady my mind upon Roland, upon his conviction that I could do something, but my head swam with the excitement, even when I partially overcame the terror. At last the words died away, and there was a sound of sobs and moaning. I cried out. In the name of God, who are you? With a kind of feeling in my mind that to use the name of God was profane, seeing that I did not believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, but I did it all the same, and waited, my heart giving a leap of terror lest there should be a reply. Why, this should have been, I cannot tell, but I had a feeling that if there was an answer it would be more than I could bear. But there was no answer. The moaning went on, and then, as if it had been real, the voice rose a little higher again. The words recommenced. Oh, mother, let me in! Oh, mother, let me in! With an expression that was heartbreaking to hear. As if it had been real. What do I mean by that? I suppose I got less alarmed as the thing went on. I began to recover the use of my senses. I seemed to explain it all to myself by saying that this had once happened, that it was a recollection of a real scene. Why there should have seemed something quite satisfactory and composing in this explanation I cannot tell, but so it was.  I was startled out of this strange spectatorship that had fallen upon me by the sudden rush of something which made my heart jump once more, a large black figure in the doorway waving its arms. Come in! Come in! Come in! It shouted out hoarsely at the top of a deep base voice, and then poor baggley fell down senseless across the threshold. He was less sophisticated than I. He had not been able to bear it any longer. I took him for something supernatural, as he took me, and it was some time before I awoke to the necessities of the moment. I remembered only after, that from the time I began to give my attention to the man, I heard the other voice no more. It was some time before I brought him to.  When at last I succeeded in pouring a little brandy down his throat, he sat up and looked about him wildly. What's up, he said, then recognizing me, tried to struggle to his feet with a faint, beg your pardon, Colonel. I got him home as best I could, making him lean upon my arm. The great fellow was as weak as a child. Fortunately, he did not for some time remember what had happened. From the time baggley fell the voice had stopped, and all was still. Part three of The Open Door. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katie Gibbany, Arkansas. February 2008. The Open Door and the Portrait. Stories of the Scene and the Unseen by Margaret O. Oliphant. The Open Door. Part three. You've got an epidemic in your house, Colonel, Simpson said to me next morning. What's the meaning of it all? Here's your butler raving about a voice. This will never do you know. And so far as I can make out, you are in it, too. Yes, I am in it, doctor. I thought I had better speak to you. Of course you are treating Roland all right, but the boy is not raving. He is as sane as you or me. It's all true. As sane as I or you, I never thought the boy insane. He's got cerebral excitement, fever. I don't know what you've got.  Come, said I, you can't put us all to bed, you know. You had better listen and hear the symptoms in full. The doctor shrugged his shoulders, but he listened to me patiently. He did not believe a word of the story. That was clear. But he heard it all from beginning to end. My dear fellow, he said. The boy told me just the same. It's an epidemic. When one person falls a victim to this sort of thing, it's as safe as can be. There's always two or three. Then how do you account for it, I said? Oh, account for it. That's a different matter. There's no accounting for the freaks our brains are subject to. If it's delusion, if it's some trick of the echoes or the winds, some phonetic disturbance or other. Come with me tonight and judge for yourself, I said. Upon this he laughed aloud, then said, That's not such a bad idea. But it would ruin me forever if it were known that John Simpson was ghost-hunting. There it is, said I. You dart down on us who are unlearned with your phonetic disturbances, but you daren't examine what the thing really is for fear of being laughed at. That's science. It's not science. It's common sense, said the doctor. The thing has delusion on the front of it. It is encouraging and unwholesome tendency even to examine. What good could come of it, even if I am convinced I shouldn't believe? I should have said so yesterday, and I don't want you to be convinced or to believe, said I. If you prove it to be a delusion, I shall be very much obliged to you for one. Come, somebody must go with me. You are cool, said the doctor. You've disabled this poor fellow of yours, and made him, on that point, a lunatic for life, and now you want to disable me. But, for once, I'll do it. To save appearances, if you'll give me a bed, I'll come over after my last rounds. It was agreed that I should meet him at the gate, and that we should visit the scene of last night's occurrences before we came to the house, so that nobody might be the wiser. It was scarcely possible to hope that the cause of Bagley's sudden illness should not somehow steal into the knowledge of the servants at least, and it was better that all should be done as quietly as possible. The day seemed to me a very long one. I had to spend a certain part of it with Rowland, which was a terrible ordeal for me, for what could I say to the boy?  Father, he said quietly, Yes, my boy, I am giving my best attention to it, all is being done that I can do. I have not come to any conclusion, yet. I am neglecting nothing you said, I cried. What I could not do was to give his active mind any encouragement to dwell upon the mystery. It was a hard predicament, for some satisfaction had to be given him. He looked at me very wistfully, with the great blue eyes which shone so large and brilliant out of his white and worn face. You must trust me, I said. Yes, Father, Father understands, he said to himself, As if to soothe some inward doubt. I left him as soon as I could. He was about the most precious thing I had on earth, and his health my first thought. But yet somehow, in the excitement of this other subject, I put that aside and preferred not to dwell upon Roland, which was the most curious part of it all. That night at eleven I met Simpson at the gate. He had come by train, and I let him in gently myself. I had been so much absorbed in the coming experiment that I passed the ruins in going to meet him, almost without thought, if you can understand that. I had my lantern, and he showed me a coil of taper which he had ready for use. There is nothing like light, he said, in his scoffing tone. It was a very still night, scarcely a sound, but not so dark. We could keep the path without difficulty as we went along. As we approached the spot we could hear a low moaning, broken occasionally by a bitter cry. Perhaps that is your voice, said the doctor. I thought it must be something of the kind. That's a poor brute caught in some of these infernal traps of yours. You'll find it among the bushes somewhere. I said nothing. I felt no particular fear, but a triumphant satisfaction in what was to follow. I led him to the spot where Bagley and I had stood on the previous night. All was silent as a winter night could be, so silent that we heard far off the sound of the horses in the stables, the shutting of a window at the house. Simpson lighted his taper and went peering about, poking into all the corners. We looked like two conspirators lying in wait for some unfortunate traveller. But not a sound broke the quiet. The moaning had stopped before we came up. A star or two shone over us in the sky, looking down as if surprised at our strange proceedings. Dr. Simpson did nothing but utter, subdued laughs under his breath. I thought as much, he said. It is just the same with tables and all other kinds of ghostly apparatus. A skeptic's presence stops everything. When I am present nothing ever comes off. How long do you think it will be necessary to stay here? Oh, I don't complain. Only when you are satisfied I am quite. I will not deny that I was disappointed beyond measure by this result.  It gave the doctor such a pull over me as nothing else could. I should point all his morals for years to come. And his materialism, his skepticism, would be increased beyond endurance. It seems, indeed, I said, that there is to be no— Manifestation, he said, laughing. That is what all the mediums say. No manifestations, in consequence of the presence of an unbeliever. His laugh sounded very uncomfortable to me in the silence, and it was now near midnight. But that laugh seemed the signal. Before it died away the moaning we had heard before was resumed. It started from some distance off, and came toward us, nearer and nearer, like someone walking along and moaning to himself. There could be no idea now that it was a hair caught in a trap. The approach was slow, like that of a weak person, with little halts and pauses. We heard it coming along the grass straight toward the vacant doorway. Simpson had been a little startled by the first sound. He said hastily, That child has no business to be out so late. But he felt, as well as I, that this was no child's voice. As it came nearer he grew silent, and, going to the doorway with his taper, stood looking out toward the sound. The taper, being unprotected, blew about in the night air, though there was scarcely any wind. I threw the light of my lantern steady and white across the same space. It was in a blaze of light in the midst of the blackness. A little icy thrill had gone over me at the first sound, but as it came close I confessed that my only feeling was satisfaction. The scoffer could scoff no more. The light touched his own face and showed a very perplexed countenance. If he was afraid he concealed it with great success, but he was perplexed. And then all that had happened on the previous night was enacted once more. It fell strangely upon me with a sense of repetition. Every cry, every sob, seemed the same as before. I listened almost without any emotion at all in my own person, thinking of its effect upon Simpson. He maintained a very bold front on the whole. All that coming and going of the voice was, if our ears could be trusted, exactly in front of the vacant, blank doorway, blazing full of light, which caught and shone in the glistening leaves of the great hollies at a little distance. Not a rabbit could have crossed the turf without being seen, but there was nothing. After a time, Simpson, with a certain caution and bodily reluctance, as it seemed to me, went out with his roll of taper into this space. His figure showed against the holly in full outline. Just at this moment the voice sank, as was its custom, and seemed to fling itself down at the door. Simpson recoiled violently, as if someone had come up against him, then turned and held his taper low, as if examining something. Do you see anybody? I cried in a whisper, feeling the chill of nervous panic steal over me at this action. It's nothing but a confounded juniper bush, he said. This I knew very well to be nonsense, for the juniper bush was on the other side. He went about after this round and round, poking his taper everywhere, then returned to me on the inner side of the wall. He scoffed no longer, his face was contracted in pale. How long does this go on, he whispered to me, like a man who does not wish to interrupt someone who is speaking. I had become too much perturbed myself to remark whether the successions and changes of the voice were the same as last night. It suddenly went out in the air almost as he was speaking, with a soft, reiterated sob dying away. If there had been any anything to be seen, I should have said that the person was at that moment crouching on the ground, close to the door. We walked home very silent afterward. It was only when we were inside of the house that I said, what do you think of it? I can't tell what to think of it, he said quickly. He took, though he was a very temperate man, not the clarit I was going to offer him, but some brandy from the tray, and swallowed it almost undiluted.  But I can't tell what to think, he turned round to add, when he was half way upstairs. All of this, however, did me no good with the solution of my problem. I was to help this weeping, sobbing thing which was already to me as distinct a personality as anything I knew, or what should I say to Roland? It was on my heart that my boy would die if I could not find some way of helping this creature. You may be surprised that I should speak of it in this way. I did not know if it was man or woman, but I no more doubted that it was a soul in pain than I doubted my own being, and it was my business to soothe this pain, to deliver it if that was possible. Was ever such a task given to an anxious father, trembling for his only boy? I felt in my heart, fantastic as it may appear, that I must fulfill this somehow, or part with my child. And you may conceive that rather than do that I was ready to die. But even my dying would not have advanced me, unless by bringing me into the same world with that seeker at the door. Next morning Simpson was out before breakfast, and came in with evident signs of the damp grass on his boots, and a look of worry and weariness which did not say much for the night he had passed. He improved a little after breakfast, and visited his two patients, for Bagley was still an invalid. I went out with him on his way to the train to hear what he had to say about the boy. "'He is going on very well,' he said. "'There are no complications as yet. But mind you, that's not a boy to be trifled with, Mortimer. Not a word to him about last night. I had to tell him then of my last interview with Rowland, and of the impossible demand he had made upon me, by which, though he tried to laugh, he was much discomposed as I could see. We must just perjure ourselves all round,' he said, and swear you exercised it. But the man was too kind-hearted to be satisfied with that. "'It's frightfully serious for you, Mortimer. I can't laugh as I should like to. I wish I saw a way out of it, for your sake.' "'By the way,' he added shortly. "'Didn't you notice that Juniper Bush on the left-hand side? There was one on the right hand of the door. I noticed you made that mistake last night. Mistake,' he cried, with a curious low laugh, pulling up the collar of his coat as though he felt the cold. There's no Juniper there this morning, left or right. Just go and see.' As he stepped into the train a few minutes after, he looked back upon me and beckoned me for a parting word. "'I'm coming back to-night,' he said. I don't think I had any feeling about this as I turned away from that common bustle of the railway which made my private preoccupations feel so strangely out of date. There had been a distinct satisfaction in my mind before that his skepticism had been so entirely defeated. But the more serious part of the matter pressed upon me now. I went straight from the railway to the manse which stood on a little plateau on the side of the river opposite to the woods of Brentwood. The minister was one of a class which is not so common in Scotland as it used to be. He was a man of good family, well educated in the Scotch way, strong in philosophy, not so strong in Greek, strongest of all in experience. A man who had come across, in the course of his life, most people of note that had ever been in Scotland, and who was said to be very sound in doctrine without infringing the toleration with which old men, who are good men, are generally endowed. He was old-fashioned. Perhaps he did not think so much about the troublous problems of theology as many of the young men, nor ask himself any hard questions about the confession of faith. But he understood human nature which is perhaps better. He received me with a cordial welcome. Come away, Colonel Mortimer, he said. I'm all the more glad to see you, that I feel it's a good sign for the boy. He's doing well. God be praised, and the Lord bless him and keep him. He has many a poor body's prayers, and that can do nobody harm. He will need them all, Dr. Moncrief, I said, and your counsel, too. And I told him the story more than I had told Simpson. The old clergyman listened to me with many suppressed exclamations, and at the end the water stood in his eyes. That's just beautiful, he said. I do not mind to have heard anything like it. It's as fine as burns when he wished deliverance to one that is prayed for in no Kirk. Aye, aye, so he would have you console the poor-loss spirit. God bless the boy. There's something more than common in that, Colonel Mortimer. And also the faith of him and his father. I would like to put that into a sermon. Then the old gentleman gave me an alarmed look and said, No, no, I was not meaning a sermon, but I must write it down for the children's record. I saw the thought that passed through his mind. Either he thought, or he feared I would think, of a funeral sermon. You may believe this did not make me more cheerful. I can scarcely say that Dr. Moncrief gave me any advice. How could anyone advise on such a subject? But he said, I think I'll come too. I'm an old man. I'm less liable to be frightened than those that are further off the world unseen. It behooves me to think of my own journey there. I've no cut-and-dry beliefs on the subject. I'll come too, and maybe at the moment the Lord will put into our heads what to do. This gave me a little comfort, more than Simpson had given me. To be clear about the cause of it was not my grand desire. It was another thing that was in my mind, my boy. As for the poor soul at the open door, I had no more doubt, as I have said, of its existence than I had of my own. It was no ghost to me. I knew the creature, and it was in trouble. That was my feeling about it, as it was Roland's. To hear it first was a great shock to my nerves. But not now. A man will get a custom to anything. But to do something for it was the great problem.  Maybe at the moment the Lord will put it into our heads. This is very old-fashioned phraseology, and a week before, most likely, I should have smiled. Though always with kindness, at Dr. Moncreith's credulity. But there was a great comfort, whether rational or otherwise I cannot say, in the mere sound of the words. The road to the station and the village lay through the Glen, not by the ruins. But though the sunshine and the fresh air and the beauty of the trees and the sound of the water were all very soothing to the spirits, my mind was so full of my own subject that I could not refrain from turning to the right hand as I got to the top of the Glen, and going straight to the place which I may call the scene of all my thoughts. It was lying full in the sunshine, like all the rest of the world. The ruined gable looked due east, and in the present aspect of the sun the light streamed down through the doorway as our lantern had done, throwing a flood of light upon the damp grass beyond. There was a strange suggestion in the open door, so futile, a kind of emblem of vanity, all free around, so that you could go where you pleased, and yet that semblance of an enclosure, that way of entrance unnecessary leading to nothing. And why any creature should pray and weep to get in, to nothing, or be kept out, by nothing, you could not dwell upon it, or it made your brain go round. I remembered, however, what Simpson said about the juniper, with a little smile on my own mind as to the inaccuracy of recollection which even a scientific man will be guilty of. I could see now the light of my lantern gleaming upon the wet, glistening surface of the spiky leaves at the right hand, and he ready to go to the stake for it that it was the left. I went round to make sure, and then I saw what he had said. Right or left there was no juniper at all. I was confounded by this, though it was entirely a matter of detail nothing at all. A bush of brambles waving, the grass growing up to the very walls. But after all, though it gave me a shock for a moment, what did that matter? There were marks as if a number of footsteps had been up and down in front of the door, but these might have been our steps, and all was bright and peaceful and still. I poked about the other ruin, the larger ruins of the old house, for some time as I had done before. There were marks upon the grass here and there.  I had examined the ruined rooms closely the first day. They were half filled up with soil and debris, withered brackens and bramble, no refuge for anyone there. It vexed me that Jarvis should see me coming from that spot when he came up to me for his orders. I don't know whether my nocturnal expedition had got wind among the servants, but there was a significant look in his face. Everything in it I felt was like my own sensation when Simpson, in the midst of his skepticism, was struck dumb. Jarvis felt satisfied that his ferocity had been put beyond question. I never spoke to a servant of mine in such a peremptory tone before. I sent him away with a flee in his lug, as the man described it afterward. Interference of any kind was intolerable to me at such a moment. But what was strangest of all was that I could not face Roland. I did not go up to his room as I would have naturally done at once. This the girls could not understand. They saw there was some mystery in it. Mother has gone to lie down, Agatha said. He has had such a good night. But he wants you so, Papa, cried little Jeannie, always with her two arms embracing mine in a pretty way she had. I was obliged to go at last, but what could I say? I could only kiss him and tell him to keep still, that I was doing all I could. There is something mystical about the patience of a child. It will come all right, won't it, Father? he said. God granted me. I hope so, Roland. Oh yes, it will come all right. Perhaps he understood that in the midst of my anxiety I could not stay with him as I should have done otherwise. But the girls were more surprised than it is possible to describe. They looked at me with wondering eyes. If I were ill, Papa, and you only stayed with me a moment, I should break my heart, said Agatha. But the boy had a sympathetic feeling. He knew that of my own will I would not have done it. I shut myself up in the library, where I could not rest, but kept pacing up and down like a caged beast. What could I do? And if I could do nothing, what would become of my boy? These were the questions that, without ceasing, pursued each other through my mind. Simpson came out to dinner, and when the house was all still, and most of the servants in bed, we went out and met Dr. Moncrief, as we had appointed, at the head of the Glen. Simpson, for his part, was disposed to scoff at the doctor. If there are to be any spells, you know, I'll cut the whole concern, he said. I did not make him any reply. I had not invited him. He could go or come as he pleased. He was very talkative, far more so than suited my humour, as we went on. One thing is certain, you know, there must be some human agency, he said. It is all bosh about apparitions. I never have investigated the laws of sound to any great extent, and there's a great deal in ventriloquism that we don't know much about. If it's the same to you, I said, I wish you'd keep all that to yourself, Simpson. It doesn't suit my state of mind. Oh, I hope I know how to respect idiosyncrasy, he said. The very tone of his voice irritated me beyond measure.  Dr. Moncrief met us about eleven o'clock, the same time as on the previous night. He was a large man, with a venerable countenance and white hair, old but in full vigor, and thinking less of a cold-night walk than many a younger man. He had as lantern as I had. We were fully provided with means of lighting the place, and we were all of us resolute men. We had a rapid consultation as we went up, and the result was that we divided to different posts. Dr. Moncrief remained inside the wall, if you can call that inside, where there was no wall but one. Simpson placed himself on the side next to the ruins, so as to intercept any communication with the old house, which was what his mind was fixed upon. I was posted on the other side. To say that nothing could come near without being seen was self-evident. It had been so also on the previous night. Now, with our three lights in the midst of the darkness, the whole place seemed illuminated. Dr. Moncrief's lantern, which was a large one, without any means of shutting up, an old-fashioned lantern with a pierced and ornamental top, shone steadily, the rays shooting out of it upward into the gloom. He placed it on the grass, where the middle of the room, if this had been a room, would have been. The usual effect of the light streaming out of the doorway was prevented by the illumination which Simpson and I on either side supplied. With these differences everything seemed as on the previous night. And what occurred was exactly the same, with the same era of repetition, point for point, as I had formerly remarked. I declared that it seemed to me as if I were pushed against, put aside, by the owner of the voice as he paced up and down in his trouble, though these are perfectly futile words, seeing that the stream of light from my lantern, and that from Simpson's taper lay broad and clear, without a shadow, without the smallest break, across the entire breadth of the grass. I had ceased even to be alarmed for my part. My heart was rent with pity and trouble, pity for the poor suffering human creature that moaned and pleaded so, and trouble for myself and my boy. God, if I could not find any help, and what help could I find, Roland would die. We were all perfectly still till the first outburst was exhausted, as I knew by experience it would be. Dr. Moncrief, to whom it was new, was quite motionless on the other side of the wall, as we were in our places. My heart had remained almost at its usual beating during the voice. I was used to it. It did not rouse all my pulses as it did at first. But just as it threw itself sobbing at the door, I cannot use other words, there suddenly came something which sent the blood coursing through my veins and my heart into my mouth. It was a voice inside the wall, the minister's well-known voice. I would have been prepared for it in any kind of adoration, but I was not prepared for what I heard. It came out with a sort of stammering, as if too much moved for utterance.   I thought the old man, whom I had brought into this danger, had gone mad with terror. I made a dash round to the other side of the wall, half-crazed myself with the thought. He was standing where I had left him, his shadow thrown vague and large upon the grass by the lantern which stood at his feet. I lifted my own light to see his face as I rushed forward.  He neither saw nor heard me. We that had gone through this experience before had crouched toward each other to get a little strength to bear it. But he was not even aware that I was there. His whole being seemed absorbed in anxiety and tenderness. He held out his hands, which trembled, but it seemed to me with eagerness, not fear. He went on speaking all the time. Willie, if it is you, and it's you, if it is not a delusion of Satan. Willie, lad, why come you here, frighting them that know you not? Why came you not to me? He seemed to wait for an answer. When his voice ceased, his countenance, every line moving, continued to speak. Simpson gave me another terrible shock, stealing into the open doorway with his light, as much ostracan as wildly curious as I. But the minister resumed, without seeing Simpson, speaking to someone else. His voice took a tone of expostulation. Is this right to come here?  Do you think she would ever close her door on her own lad? Do you think the Lord will close the door, you faint-hearted creature? No, I forbid ye, I forbid ye, cried the old man. The sobbing voice had begun to resume its cries. He made a step forward, calling out the last words in a voice of command. I forbid ye, cry out no more to man. Go home, ye wandering spirit. Go home. Do you hear me? Me that christen ye, that have struggled with ye, that have wrestled for you with the Lord. Here the loud tones of his voice sank into tenderness. And her, too, poor woman, poor woman, her you are calling upon. She's not here. You'll find her with the Lord. Go there and seek her, not here. Do you hear me, lad? Go after her there. He'll let you in, though it's late. Man, take heart. If you will lie and sob and greet, let it be at Heaven's gate, and not your poor mother's ruined door. He stopped to get his breath, and the voice had stopped, not as it had done before, when its time was exhausted, and all its repetition said, but with the sobbing catch in the breath as if overruled. Then the minister spoke again. Are you hearing me, Will? Oh, laddie, you'd like the beggarly elements all your days. Be done with them now. Go home to the Father, the Father. Are you hearing me? Here the old man sank down upon his knees, his face raised upwards, his hands held with a tremble in them, all white in the light in the midst of the darkness. I resisted as long as I could, though I cannot tell why. Then I, too, dropped upon my knees. Simpson all the time stood in the doorway, with an expression in his face such as words could not tell, his underlip dropped, his eyes wild, staring. It seemed to be, to him, that image of blank ignorance and wonder that we were praying, all the time the voice, with a low-arrested sobbing, lay just where he was standing, as I thought. Lord, the minister said, Lord, take him into thy everlasting habitations. The mother he cries to is with thee. Who can open to him but thee? Lord, when is it too late for thee? Or what is too hard for thee? Lord, let that woman there draw him in our. Let her draw him in our. I sprang forward to catch something in my arms that flung itself wildly within the door. The illusion was so strong that I never paused till I felt my forehead graze against the wall and my hands clutched the ground, for there was nobody there to say from falling as in my foolishness I thought. Simpson held out his hand to me to help me up. He was trembling and cold, his lower lip hanging, his speech almost inarticulate. It's gone, he said, stammering. It's gone. We leaned upon each other for a moment, trembling so much, both of us, that the whole scene trembled as if it were going to dissolve and disappear. And yet as long as I live I will never forget it. The shining of the strange lights, the blackness all round, the kneeling figure with all the whiteness of the light concentrated on its white venerable head and uplifted hands. A strange, solemn stillness seemed to close all round us. By intervals a single syllable, Lord, Lord, came from the old minister's lips. He saw none of us, nor thought of us. I never knew how long we stood, like sentinels guarding him at his prayers, holding our lights in a confused, dazed way, not knowing what we did. But at last he rose from his knees, and standing up at his full height, raised his arms, as the scotch manner is at the end of a religious service, and solemnly gave the apostolical benediction. To what? To the silent earth, the dark woods, the wide-breathing atmosphere? For we were but spectators gasping and amen. It seemed to me that it must be the middle of the night, as we all walked back. It was in reality very late. Dr. Moncrief put his arm into mine. He walked slowly, with an air of exhaustion. It was as if we were coming from a death bed. Something hushed and solemnized the very air. There was that sense of relief in it which there always is at the end of a death struggle. And nature, persistent, never daunted, came back in all of us as we returned into the ways of life. We said nothing to each other, indeed, for a time. But when we got clear of the trees and reached the opening near the house, where we could see the sky, Dr. Moncrief himself was the first to speak. I must be going, he said. It's very late, I'm afraid. I will go down the Glen, as I came. But not alone, I am going with you, Doctor. Well, I will not oppose it. I am an old man, and agitation worries more than work. Yes, I'll be thankful of your arm. Tonight, Colonel, you've done me more good turns than one. I pressed his hand on my arm, not feeling able to speak. But Simpson, who turned with us, and who had gone along all this time with his taper flaring, in entire unconsciousness, came to himself, apparently at the sound of our voices, and put out that wild little torch with a quick movement, as if of shame. Let me carry your lantern, he said. It is heavy. He recovered with a spring, and in a moment, from the awestruck and spectator he had been, became himself, skeptical and cynical. I should like to ask you a question, he said. Do you believe in purgatory, Doctor? It's not in the tenets of the Church, so far as I know. Sir, said Dr. Moncrief, an old man like me is sometimes not very sure what he believes. There is just one thing I am certain of, and that is the loving kindness of God. But I thought that was in this life. I am no theologian. Sir, said the old man again, with a tremor in him which I could feel going over all his frame. If I saw a friend of mine within the gates of hell, I would not despair but his father would take him by the hand still, if he cried like you. I allow it is very strange, very strange. I cannot see through it, that there must be human agency, I feel sure. Doctor, what made you decide upon the person and the name? The minister put out his hand with the impatience which a man might show if he were asked how he recognized his brother. Tuts, he said, in familiar speech, then more solemnly. How should I not recognize a person that I know better, far better, than I know you? Then you saw the man? Dr. Moncrief made no reply. He moved his hand again with a little impatient movement and walked on, leaning heavily on my arm. And we went on for a long time without another word, threading the dark paths which were steep and slippery with the damp of the winter. The air was very still, not more than enough to make a faint sighing in the branches which mingled with the sound of the water to which we were descending. When we spoke again it was about indifferent matters, about the height of the river and the recent rains. We parted with the minister at his own door, where his old housekeeper appeared in great perturbation, waiting for him. Eh, me minister! The young gentleman will be worse, she cried. Far from that, better, God bless him, Dr. Moncrief said. I think if Simpson had begun again to me with his questions I should have pitched him over the rocks as we returned up the glen. But he was silent, by a good inspiration, and the sky was clearer than it had been for many nights, shining high over the trees, with here and there a star faintly gleaming through the wilderness of dark and bare branches. The air, as I have said, was very soft in them, with the subdued and peaceful cadence. It was real, like every natural sound, and came to us like a hush of peace and relief. I thought there was a sound in it as of the breath of a sleeper. And it seemed clear to me that Roland must be sleeping, satisfied and calm. We went up to his room when we went in. There we found the complete hush of rest. My wife looked up out of a dose and gave me a smile. I think he is a great deal better, but you are very late, she said in a whisper, shading the light with her hand that the doctor might see his patient. The boy had got back something like his own color. He woke as we stood all round his bed. His eyes had the happy, half awakened look of childhood, glad to shut again, yet pleased with the interruption and glimmer of the light. I stooped over him and kissed his forehead, which was moist and cool. All is well, Roland, I said. He looked up at me with a glance of pleasure, and took my hand and laid his cheek upon it, and so went to sleep. For some nights after I watched among the ruins, spending all the dark hours up to midnight patrolling about the bit of wall which was associated with so many emotions. But I heard nothing and saw nothing beyond the quiet course of nature. Nor, so far as I am aware, has anything been heard again. Dr. Moncrief gave me the history of the youth, whom he never hesitated to name. I did not ask, as Simpson did, how he recognized him. He had been a prodigal, weak, foolish, easily imposed upon, and let away, as people say. All that we had heard had passed actually in life, the doctor said. The young man had come home thus a day or two after his mother died, who was no more than the housekeeper in the old house, and distracted with the news had thrown himself down at the door and called upon her to let him in. The old man could scarcely speak of it for tears. To me it seemed as if, Heaven help us, how little do we know about anything. A scene like that might impress itself somehow upon the hidden heart of nature. I do not pretend to know how, but the repetition had struck me at the time as, in its terrible strangeness and incomprehensibility, almost mechanical, as if the unseen actor could not exceed or vary, but was bound to re-enact the whole. One thing that struck me, however, greatly, was the likeness between the old minister and my boy in the manner of regarding these strange phenomena. Dr. Moncrief was not terrified, as I had been myself, and all the rest of us. It was no ghost, as I fear we all vulgarly considered it, to him, but a poor creature whom he knew under these conditions, just as he had known him in the flesh, having no doubt of his identity. And to Roland it was the same. This spirit in pain, if it was a spirit, this voice out of the unseen, was a poor fellow creature in misery to be suckered and helped out of his trouble, to my boy. He spoke to me quite frankly about it when he got better. I knew Father would find out some way, he said, and this was when he was strong and well, and all idea that he would turn hysterical or become a seer of visions had happily passed away. I must add one curious fact, which does not seem to me to have any relation to the above, but which Simpson made great use of as the human agency which he was determined to find somehow. We had examined the ruins very closely at the time of these occurrences, but afterwards, when all was over, as we went casually about them one Sunday afternoon in the idleness of that unemployed day, Simpson with his stick penetrated an old window which had been entirely blocked up with fallen soil. He jumped down into it in great excitement and called me to follow. There we found a little hole, for it was more a hole than a room, entirely hidden under the ivy and ruins in which there was a quantity of straw laid in a corner as if someone had made a bed there, and some remains of crusts about the floor. Someone had lodged there and not very long before he made out, and that this unknown being was the author of all the mysterious sounds we heard he has convinced. I told you it was human agency, he said triumphantly. He forgets, I suppose, how he and I stood with our lights, seeing nothing while the space between us was audibly traversed by something that could speak and sob and suffer. There is no argument with men of this kind. He is ready to get up a laugh against me on this slender ground. I was puzzled myself, I could not make it out, but I always felt convinced human agency was at the bottom of it, and here it is, and a clever fellow he must have been, the doctor says. Bagley left my service as soon as he got well. He assured me it was no want of respect, but he could not stand, them kind of things. And the man was so shaken and ghastly that I was glad to give him a present and let him go. For my own part I made a point of staying out the time, two years, for which I had taken Brentwood, but I did not renew my tenancy, by that time we had settled and found for ourselves a pleasant home of our own. I must add that when the doctor defies me I can always bring back gravity to his countenance and a pause in his railing when I remind him of the juniper bush. To me that was a matter of little importance. I could believe I was mistaken, I did not care about it one way or another, but on his mind the effect was different. The miserable voice, the spirit in pain he could think of as a result of ventriloquism or reverberation or anything you please, an elaborate prolonged hoax executed somehow by the tramp that had found a lodging in the old tower. But the juniper bush staggered him. Things have effect so different on the minds of different men. End of Part Three of Three of The Open Door