I.

I WENT to Alderthwaite for rest and change of scene. Perhaps the place was ill chosen, for I knew it to have been a favourite haunt of Wilfrid Gale's. This very knowledge attracted me to the spot, when it ought to have driven me away; for if I wanted a real mental change I should have gone to some retreat wholly unconnected with the memory of my friend.

Wilfrid Gale had died young; weary, heart-sick, and disappointed. His ambition had brought to him only humiliation, his talent had led him on to despair. He was a literary genius, undeveloped, but full of promise, and his hopes of early success had been withered by neglect, or nipped by cruel criticism. If he had been a strong man he might have faced the world's indifference until it had changed to applause; but his health was delicate and his organisation sensitive; and he may be said to have died of his last failure, a failure which a little waiting might have turned to success.

The story of his life was a sad one, and it seemed to his sister Alison a real tragedy. In her eyes his genius seemed immense, his difficulties unprecedented. He had been her hero, his talents had been her glory, and his defeat brought to her the keenest disappointment. He was one of the immortals, and she the favoured being destined to minister at his side, and shine in the reflected brightness of his success. So she had dreamed in happier days, before she knew that her lot would be darker than this; that she was fated only to soothe his sorrows and to watch by him in the weary days of his passing away.

I had always believed in Wilfrid's talent and ultimate success, and I

admired his sister a great deal. When he died I readily undertook the task of editing his works; this was proposed to me by his publishers, and I carried it out with zeal and enjoyment. His writing was good, though somewhat immature, and the last of his books was full of an irregular but highly original power. He had accepted its defeat too soon. The literary world was still hesitating whether to forget it and let it pass by, to be stranded on a lonely shore for ever; or to take it up with enthusiasm and to waft it down the tide of the generations in a whirlwind of applause. The death of the author turned the scale; the work received immediate and general attention; my little introductory Life of Wilfrid Gale was read with interest; there was a demand for a complete edition of his writings. He was declared to be among the immortals who had died young, leaving the world only a faint indication of their undoubted powers. His neglected productions were neatly bound in volumes suitable for a library of classical literature; some of his characters were declared to be creations of such power that they could never be forgotten; they must secure to their author a permanent niche in the great temple of fame.

Nothing else could have consoled Alison Gale so much for the death of her brother. His most earnest desire had been realised-though he might not know it-and his life had not been thrown away. She chose to believe that it was mainly through my instrumentality that "justice" had at last been done to him.

"They would not listen," she said. "I knew if he could only get their attention once, all difficulty would be over. You have made them hear

against their will, and now they can never forget, never be indifferent again."

Her gratitude was very pleasant to me, though I thought it overstrained. I had certainly spoken from a vantage ground which her brother had never reached. I was not a clever man myself, but I had the reputation of one, which was a more profitable thing. I belonged to a literary family. I had run in the grooves of publication all my life. I wrote for critical papers, my name carried weight, and I was credited with more judgment than I possessed. Perhaps I had given my poor friend's little bark the final shove that was wanted to get it off the shallows into the current of popularity; I stood at a good spot for making such pushes, and I was sometimes inclined to regret that I had no large venture of my own to embark. On this occasion I had put more strength than usual into the effort of launching; I had been moved by my friend's death, interested in his works, and excited by his sister's appeal to me to do my best. My nerves were overstrained, my identity seemed lost in that of Wilfrid Gale; I lived in the world of his creations and could not get back into a wholesome atmosphere of cynical selfishness; his enthusiasm possessed me; I was in one of those moods in which-if the exponents of fashionable modern Buddhism are right-the wandering earthly shell, the discarded mortal will of my dead friend, might easily have taken hold of me, and bent me to its service. My poor friend's will had never been a very strong one, however, never so strong as his genius, and something happened to me wholly different from this.

I went down to Alderthwaite to have a quiet time, boating on the lake and wandering on the moors. Alison Gale bade me good-bye with tears in her eyes; and I felt, as I pressed her hand and looked into her sad face, that she who had been the inspiration of my recent task might be willing

soon to become its reward. The devotion she had lavished on her brother might be transferred at last to his best friend, as she persisted in calling

me.

This thought was a pleasant one, and I hoped to fill up idle moments at Alderthwaite with happy day-dreams of my own. I intended to think of Alison and of my own future, and to have done for the present with Wilfrid and his melancholy fate.

When I got down to the place I found that the inn at which my friend had usually stayed was closed for repairs. I was obliged to take lodgings at a farmhouse on the shore of the lake. It was a tumble-down, picturesque place, which had once been the manor-house, and still held the proud name of Alderthwaite Hall. Two half ruined towers rose at its corners, smothered in ivy, and one window only looked out on the lonely waters of the lake, with the unpeopled fells rising from its further shore. The farm people occupied some buildings at the back, with a cheerful view into their own stable-yards and pigstyes. The east side of the house was reserved for lodgers, artists, fishermen, and such eccentric creatures, who preferred scenery to comfort. It had a separate entrance, and was tolerably furnished. The great attractions of the place were the vicinity of the water and the use of the shabby boat.

I fancied that I could be very comfortable there for a couple of weeks; so I engaged rooms, sent for my traps, and established myself in the place.

Before proceeding further I must explain that I did not believe in ghosts, and had no connection with any psychical society. I was not on the look-out for spiritual experiences, and I believed that a healthy mind in a healthy body would enable any man to laugh at suggestions of the supernatural.

Perhaps at this time my mind was not in a healthy condition, and I became subject to delusions, like some other unfortunate persons. In that

case I have done a grievous wrong to a friend whom I loved, and wrecked my own life without any reason whatever. I am impelled to tell my story in the hope that, if it does not justify my conduct, it will at least explain the terrible temptation in which I was unexpectedly placed. It may be also that some persons will take my own view of the case, and believe that I was impelled to put an end to much unmerited and useless suffering, at the cost of trouble to myself and disappointment to the woman I loved.

My first evening at Alderthwaite Hall was a pleasant one; the weather was fine, and I strolled out along the shore of the lake. Afterwards I returned to my room, and wrote a few letters. The room was comfortable and cheerful in the lamp-light; the only thing that troubled me about it was a perplexing sense of familiarity, as if I had been in the place before, and had some sad association with it. This, of course, was impossible.

The quietness of the place was agreeable to me in the irritated state of my nerves. The farmyard sounds. had ceased; the farm people were out of hearing at the other side of the building. There was a glimmer of moonlight on the lake, and I had not drawn down the blind of my window, so that I could see the still shining water whenever I lifted my head from my paper.

It was strange that this deep silence did not produce an impression of solitude. On the contrary I continually felt as if some one were sitting in the room watching me. More than once I looked over my shoulder with a start to see who it was. Then I smiled at my own imagination, which peopled this solitude with personages.

Nevertheless, the impression returned as soon as I had become absorbed in my work: I felt that a woman-a woman whom I knew quite well-sat in a chair behind me, watching with folded hands. The impression always grew upon me in an indirect sort of manner as my attention

became more and more diverted to my work; when it had become sufficiently intense to be disturbing, and so to rouse me to think of it seriously, it vanished.

There was nothing in the nature of terror in this unusual sensation of a familiar presence when nobody was there. I had something of the same feeling in the passages of the house, and when I went up to my bedroom, just as if the place were occupied by persons whom I knew quite well, and might expect to meet without any surprise on the landings or the stairs. The closed doors which I passed on my way did not seem to me to be shut on empty rooms-persons who were not strangers lived behind them, and might come out and speak to me at any

moment.

This impression was not unpleasant, though I smiled at its unreality. I supposed that living in a crowd had made it impossible for me to realise all at once the fact of solitude, and the complete stillness of deserted rooms. My imagination peopled them with beings full of life and business, going about in a silent manner something like my own. Once I had a fancy that I met a young girl on the stairs, who smiled at me as she passed. I found myself smiling in return before I had time to consider the folly of it. Another time I thought a child's laugh disturbed the air outside, but no child was near when I went to the door to look round.

On the second evening I went for a row on the lake by moonlight. I kept near the shore, and I was coasting a promontory, where a great tree hid from me the tiny bay on the other side, when I was startled by a faint cry beyond the darkness of the foliage. There seemed to be a shiver of the water, a shining of ripples in the moonlight, and then all was still again. When I rowed round the point, the little bay was quiet enough; there was no sign of any movement or any presence there.

Nevertheless, as I made my way

home again I was oppressed by the consciousness of something in the atmosphere more tragic and intense than usual; my mental feelings were analogous to those physical ones described by many when there is "thunder in the air." Something remarkable was going to happen, nay, was happening, just outside the range of my perceptions; I groped in the darkness, and had not the sense necessary to discover what was going on around me. To all outward appearance the world was quiet, and at rest; to my uneasy consciousness it was full of a painful life which depressed without revealing itself to me.

When my landlady brought my supper that night I took occasion to ask if the place had ever been haunted, but she repelled the idea with indignation. Nothing had ever happened there to make it haunted, she said. It had always been a well-to-do place, with well-to-do and well-behaved folks living there. I came to the conclusion that my own nerves were at fault, and that a period of rest and quiet would dissipate all unpleasant fancies.

But the next night as I sat at the table writing a hand seemed to be laid on my shoulder. I turned quickly, and seemed to see a woman's eyes fixed on me in the dimness behind. There was something commanding in the look, and the hand held me as if to compel attention. I roused myself to an attitude of repellent observation, and as I looked defiantly into the shadow the sensations faded away; there was no hand on my shoulder, there were no eyes in the dimness: yet, before they went, their look had seemed to change from passionate insisting to entreaty, reproach, despair.

I got up and walked about the room impatiently, determined to shake off my nervous weakness; something stopped me once, like a sob of disappointment, but when I listened, again there was silence.

I moved the furniture; I looked into the cupboards; finally, I took my hat and went out. But from that

time forward I was haunted not only by the consciousness of a life which moved unseen around me, but also by that of a reproachful personality, which followed me sadly from hour to hour, and vainly strove to open some communication with me.

I did not want the communication,

for my part. I avoided it, and repelled it.

It seemed to me the beginning of madness, or of some knowledge too sad to be borne. When in my idler moments the consciousness grew upon me, and the look and the touch took more definite form, until it seemed as if they would blend at last into a voice which I must hear, then I roused myself defiantly, and said to the unknown presence, are not there; I do not believe in you; I will not see you," and stared hard into the daylight or the darkness.

66 You

With the sound of a little sigh, the breath of a hope gone out, the presence would cease to be, and I stood free for a time.

In all these strange visitations, which grew more frequent and more defined, I could not say that I ever heard, or saw, or felt any distinct thing; I was only conscious through my brain, through my intelligence, as distinguished from my senses at the moment, that they were there to be heard, or felt, or seen.

I knew that some one spoke, I felt certain that some one looked at me, but it was with the consciousness with which we realise things told in clever books that I knew it. My senses had little to do with this experience; as soon as I roused myself to have full command over them, I became convinced that my impressions had no foundation in fact; they were woven out of my own vivid imagination and seemed real because my nerves were weak.

This feeling of being continually followed by a presence which was sometimes reproachful and sometimes beseeching was, however, very unpleasant. The vague curiosity which I occasionally felt concerning the other