WHEN THE GHOST SPOKE

Gisborne Times, Volume LXIV, Issue 10285, 20 December 1926, Page 6 (Supplement)

WHEN THE GHOST SPOKE

1 (By VINCENT CORNIER.) j (All Rights Reserved.) To Sir Giles Ayreton the Master of Ayreton, it seemed that his great j house was waiting—waiting for someI thing or for someone, j Why. he did not know; only the j impression was profoundly with him. A sense of expectant stillness seemed to brood above that beautiful' structure of stode and oak, founded o:v the rocks tin t hound the -marshes from the moaning sea. It was Christmas Eve, and the marshlands were gripped by frost, and under the blue-white moon a skating party from Cliff House mingled its laughter with that of the villagers. The hiss and clang of steels and the hollow rumble of the ice ; came clearly up to the study in which Giles Ayreton sat—and feared. ; His dog, late companion of his ! lonely watch, was restless. A few ■ branches of waxen honesty which j stalked up from a blue Venetian vase, i set on a bureau beneath a plaeque ot ! Dante, were trembling; yet, no air moved. The fire of logs had ceased from spluttering and burned in blueHamcd stillness. Yes, all was brooding . . boding . . waiting. Ayreton shivered and got up from his deep chair. Moving to the window he flung apart its heavy curtains and looked down on the moonlit majesty of the marsh. A beautiful sight —lie caught his breath in his threat before the wonder of it all. Ayreton Marsh, on that Christmas Eve was . like a mighty opal fire across which strange shadows moved. Under the chill moon glow, bright ruby braziers of coke glowed. Torches flung orange mats of brilliance before the flying feet of the skaters; music trembled. and somewhere, far ’neath, the winging wild fowls, a choir of unaccompanied voices, carolled of the glory of the dawn. ; Then a moan grew over the waters and Ayreton sighed and thought he* understood. A storm was threatening. That deep tongue growling over the sea was a sinister herald*—snow, [ with all the speed of a black nor’ easier behind it, was driving it to land. * Ami now long wedges of driven geese split aero.-f the glaring face of the moon and all the .light was sound. Lemon-edged the storming vanguard of the snow clouds came. Under 'them and across them ran the bit—- , terlv flickering flames of their fnneri most lightnings and from them fell a sea-hail which became on land a whining snow. And then the moon went

dim. Where had been silence was , now' the tiiunder of the hammering surf and the devilish howi of the wind !above the dunes and round the harj bor, wailing. I Giles Ayreton let the curtains close ! together and turned away from the window, smiling complacently. He ! would have a cigar now; his strange i mood engendered by such simple phenomena, was starkly explained . . . what a fool he had been 1 Yes, he would have a cigar—perhaps a glass of wine beforehand; what a fool! Then ... he stopped ! For his dog was r.o linger the quietly lovesome companion of his solitude. It was rigid there, in the centre of the wide study, a snarling bristj ling embodiment ' of rippling muscles and quivering flesh. Its fangs wrnre bared and its jowls showed, blue-grey and dripping wet with froth. Its eyes were like, great illumined cornelians, split by vitric almonds of green light. It growled in its throat . . . and, behind it, the shaking sprigs of honesty dropped their Hat dry discs, with j slithering sqund, one by one, down I the polished bevel of the old bureau, j Ayreton felt his heart contract as [though taken in the grip of icy Anglers. Sweat was under his scanty hair [ and hie cpjs twitched back like those of a cat in angry fear. He in turn snarled; and he felt his mouth also ! growing wet. The knuckles cl his fingers°hurt like hot things pressed upon his flesh and all his sinews ached with long thin pains ... he could net speak. And when, at last, his brain functioned sufficiently to allow him coherent thought: “the cVnned thing’s gore mad,” he told himself. “It’s—it"s going to spring 1” But the dog did not spring. On the contrary, it backed away . . and moved its blazing eyes from viewing its master’s face to follow the movements of something, invisible, at his side! Whatever the thing was that moved, Ayrton could not divine, but the hound was watching it steadily—watching it! Back, ever backwards; the dog retreated until at length it was brought up hard by the collision of its haunches with the bureau drawers. Like a mad thing it slewed round at the impact, and snapped—at wood. That was sufficient. The terrible bondage under which it had lain was loosed. No longer did it gaze across the room at that which was invisible. The glare in its pupils died low, and, as near as it was possible for it to portray—it affected shame; the shame o£.cowardice. .... Then came the whisper. Sir Giles Ayreton heard it—a tinct and very clear whisper: “Cmilain—Ouhlain, good dog thenl” . . .• there was spoken an endearment of the hound! And it P It grovelled low and went across the floor, showing pleasure and adoration and wild fear a-minglcd. Then it rolled over—feigning death. V\ ltli one ear cocked for applause, one eye flightly opened, it lay there—regarding the effect its trick was making . on the one for who lit it was performsd. 7 .' Then Ayreton knew his wile was in the room.' And she had lain in death :or three long years. , . For none other would.Cumain cxlibit that, trick, which chanced to he ;hc only oho it knew. Lady- Ayreton: iad spent patient- weeks of the woulound’s gawky puppyhood in teachit ic fcj-r* rt

On reaching maturity its serene dignity vetoed any other attempts . . only one trick. “Myrtle—Myrtle I” Ayreton called her name hoarsely, fearfully. "I hear.” Soft as a rush of fainting music, into his brain fell answer: “Giles—l hear.” Then came interruption. With an unceremonious sweep, followed by a belated and apologetic knock, Sir Giles’ married son, Antony, and his daughter-in-law, Maud, with a handful of other young people, clattered into the room. Amongst them was Marion.-Shepheard, .who should have married Basil Ayreton, liis eldest son and heir, had not that youth found it incumbent on himself, for his family’s sake, to efface all traces of liis existence 3J years ago. With a choked - off howl of protesting fear, Cuhlain the wolfhound took opportunity of the open door, and fled. “I say—l say—i say,” Antony’s breezy voice ejaculated, “what's up with the old dog? Been socking it, dad ?” “No!” That monosyllabic reply was made in such 3 manner as to focus instant and surprised attention. The returned skating party saw in old Ayreton’s fa.ee an ashy cheeked, wild-eyed and gauntly drawn- man before them—instead of tlie tall and ruddy faced Master, whom always they had regarded as the soul of bluff geniality, and good humor. Ayreton looked as though he was recovering from a long illness. His hands trembled and his hair was dank. “I say—anything wrong, dad?’’ that was Anthony’s swift concern. Sir Giles took a. grip on himself. “No—cr—ro ; that is—the dog has —lias been acting strangely t y’know ! Rather alarmed me; getting very old —must have him destroyed, T think . . . . a bad five minutes, I assure you I” A gasp sounded very clearly in the room. It came from Marion Shej>heard. Swaying as though about to faint she steadied herself by outstretching one hand to ward herself from the wall. She looked across at Sir Giles Ayreton and ignored the clustering about her of her friends. Ayreton smiled, cynically—lazily. “Yes, Marion—you see . . ?” A chill of horror descended on that lately rovstering group as the Master of Ayreton drawled those challenging words, to the girl who should have jeigne<i mistress of Ayreton, someday—had Brsil Ayreton r.ot forged his father’s name to a cheque to pay hi.s gambling debts, at the expense of his inheritance. . . . “Tell me, Marion,” Ayreton was very calm, “what is it—you see?”

An uncomfortable shuffling of feet; _ a sibilance of expectant breaths, of fear—then: “I—l saw nothing; Sir Giles,” Marion Shepheard made stead}- answer, “but I thought that. I heard —< a voice 1” “She—?” Anthony Ayreton butted in with the Questioning word. His father rounded on him angrily. “Be quiet, sir—if you please 1 I l—am asking Marion a question.” He lifted his head, pugnacious in defiance of covenants and circumstances and addressed the girl. “Yes—go on Marior. 1 , you heard a voice . . . what did she say?” “The sea, Marion—oh, Marion, the seal” Miss Shepheard quoted the words as though they were enigmatic things, hardly learned. She offered no comment on them. She only looked at the Master of Ayrcton—and in her eyes was a wisaom that had not been there before. A twitch of mingled anger and prido distorted Ay reton’s features. For one baffling moment the evil in his face made him look like a fiend. Then, remembering himself, and glad for the dim illumination of the room, his expresseion masked down to its habitual geniality. Ho laughed—at first stridently, then with all the notes of inward, deep amusement caught in the sound. “Good lor'—we’ll be having • Cliff House with the reputation of being haunted yet—eh?” He .vas mock* ing. “Voices in the air—frightened dog—Christmas Eve • . . most appropriate items —what?” 1 “Why did Cuhlain leave the study ! the way it did. dad?” Anthony was j blunt and, unconsciously; stretched out rn arm as though to shield his wife from something intangible thatthreatened: he drew her closer to him. His father noted both the unsatisfied challenge of the question and the significance of the gesture. . - . ‘‘What had happened—before ?’’ Sir Giles Ayroton pointed to the polished floor beneath the skaters heavily booted feet; ho ignored Ins son. So tense was each of the guests that all drew back in sudden, vague alarm, and followed the direction of the monitorial finger as if, assuredly, it indicated the presence of some eerie thing. At their consternation, Ayreton laughed once more . . • . • laughed at the success of a plan, m-o-emously and accurately conceived. “ “Yes you have need to bo startled,” he chuckled. ‘‘You young peopie are making dreadful havoc or that floor,” he drawled his words, ' ice, j you may observe, melts I I woman t ; like to be held responsible to the servants when they see those puddlesl Be off now. you nocturnal revellers —see you when you’ve changed .. . I say what a storm—what a stomi. Deliberately he turned to the window again; deliberately he had dismissed thorn to their rooms. Ho heard them shuffling out of the stud J, I crestfallen, disturbed—he heard the heavy old door sink softly in its Since. Then his daughter-in-law ( laughed . . - his son answered by a ■ deep toned snatch of a carol . . . • someone said something about a midnight ghost hunt;. • chattel liie, voices took it up—then came moie laughter and a silence.. sir Giles . Ayreton turned from the . window and looked across at the clos-j ed door. . . i

“Marion,” he expostulated, ; ‘my dear girl, whatever, do you—. . Then he saw that it was not Maritm who remained in the study he looked instead on the woman whom Jihad loved for many years . - - nis wife! And then she was not: a spinning twist of lambent vapour, light in darkness, a breath in heavy air, a sound in stillness . . she was n °“Myrtle—Myrtle—Myrtle 1” he almost screamed the words as, in an agony of fear he staggered irom tile window to claw at the back or a chair. “In God’s name, what do—you want ? . . . Speak, speak. Once more came words from out the shadows sinking like dim thoughts | irJto his brain : j “You hear me—Giles? 1 „ “Yes—yes—oh, yes ! I hear you! What—what is it. Myrtle—what do vou want?” , ■ „ f “For you to heed what I tell jou j and rest.” ' j . “Rest—'is —is there no rest then., j beyond death?” 1 “None, for such as I. j “Why, Myrtle, my dearest —why do ycu say—?” i “Rather ask me what l want: my time with you is short and I must— , The thin voice was fading, swiftly. ' Ayreton heard it, drifting back into the silences of all shadowed things, then, very calmly :• “What —do—you want —Myrtle?” he called. j The voice returned to his thoughts. • “Peace and forgetfulness, Giles and—forgiveness.” , “Forgiveness—'forgiveness • - what have you—what did you do, Myrtle, that calls for my forgiveness? No man ever had so true and dear a wife r.s you 1 Oh, Myrtle, what — 7 “Stop—stop!” Tlie voice commanded. “I told you—my time with you is measured out by seconds .... listen!” And as a story, soundless, came her message. A mundane, miserable little story it was that came to him from out that vast and shadowy _region of the supernal that mankind holds to enshrine the travailing souls of outermost darkness from their rest ... a simple story. .... Tlieii eldest son Basil had not been to blame—so she who had been his mother averred in voiceless thoughts within Giles Ayreton’s brain—Basil Ayreton had not been blameworthy. The simple shook the man with its tremendous purport until be wept. The voice told him that it was the ( mother who had been guilty of wrong. ( It was she who had gambled and lost , —not the son. She who had lest up- j wards of five hundred pounds . . - and Basil, her eldest son, had found her lying in a state of semi-coma with

; a bottle of veronal tablets in her i : tightening gra.*>. | So that Sir Giles should not know, - he silently brought her back from the , j verge of self-murder, and destroyed 1 * her deadly capsules before her eyes. { Then he demanded the reason—she 1! confessed to him. = j In the early morning, he came to j his mother and pressed in her hands - | five hundred pounds in notes. She 2 j could hold her County place— where 3 disgrace would have been. 1 j Then the inevitable happened. Sir l j Giles discovered that Ins eldest son t had forged his name to a cheque for a matter of two hundred pounds . . . , The hank had passed the pitiful am--1 atcurish attempt, only to communicate their suspicion to the Master ? of Ayreton within a few hours. 2 Basil Ayreton admitted the forgery. > He had not uttered one word in exl planation or defence. All that he had asked of his father, before, he was 1 shown the door, was that Sir Giles . should shake hands . . . the baronet i refused. Basil had not seen his moth- . er, in life, again. She died from the l horror of it all. , But there was a story told, among ; the servants, of the imprints of i muddy boots in _my lady’s death 5 chamber on the night before her bur- : ial. . . and a locket that was about her nock, containing a portrait of her first horn, was open, dampened as by ‘ tears —>all awry. And a withering l sprig of rosemary lay on those still : I white hands—and the window of that 1 chamber, open, had clattered to the night from which her son had come; to which he had returned “And now—what would cou have ’; me do, Myrtle?” ; j “Forgive me—do you forgive me?” I I “As I—l would have done in life, 1 ’ Myrtle—had you told me. Had only | you—told me—” I He heard a sound like a sigh—a ' broken sigh, after sobbing. I “Go—to—to the sea .. . the seal” She seemed very far away; her voice was fainting in* the distance. “Danger for—Basil —bring him—home. . .” ( “The sea? Whac do you mean—; stay—tell me! Myrtle—stoy—.” i But she was gone. Be waited, listened—celled and prayed. But she did not answer. | A-sprawl in his chair, he was ob- ' livious of the sounding,, snapping rocI kets over the bowling sea. He did I not hear the thunder of the impact ! when the tramp steamer “Seaith'olmo” piled herself on the rocks 1 where they went down to the snarling ! deeps. Bfo did not hear the hellish | grind of steel plates on basalt, nor yet the hideous tearing of great girders by the clamorous waters. How was he. unconscious, to know that, under the bitter magnesium flares lit from the harbour walls, and the flaring pitch-rafts flung from the tilted deck of the craft, the life-boatmen j succeeded in rescuing all the “Seart- . holme’s” frozen crew? But they brought those shipwrecked men to*the kitchens of his huge house and warmed them back ‘to life for his awakoning. And when they roused him to go down to his eldest son, saved from, the sea, he forgot his English conservatism and kissed the lad 1 ... So did one Marion Sheplveard, hut hers was only the 1 natural instinct of a woman, welcoming back io her arms her long lost [ mate. "' ‘ “ • • .

Re-union— peace—the . hells cF.Christnms unc ruing rang M splendour beneath the roseate sky, across the grey, cold marshlands and the gleaming wreckage, w here toe wild fowl called to a world that was white under snow.