Angels and ministers of grace, defend us; Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd. Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape.

       In publishing the following experience in the form of a Christmas story, I have for very obvious reasons suppressed localities, names, and dates, but in every other respect I have told a plain, unvarnished tale, embodying a simple record of facts to which many can testify, but for which none can explain.
 

IN the spring of 188— I was suddenly called to the North of England on a mission which was neither of a religious, social, nor scientific character. I was quartered at Ravenshill, a small but interesting country town, bordering on the sea coast, and possessing many interesting features to the student of history or geology.

       It was necessary that I should take up my residence without delay, so after a hurried consultation with the partner of my woes, I decided to start at once. I arrived at my destination late one evening in the early part of April, after a long and wearisome journey, relieved, I must confess, during its latter half by the genial companionship and brilliant conversational power of one of the most charming and accomplished fellows I have ever met, and whom a cruel fate has prevented my ever meeting again. I drove to the Freemasons' Arms, which I learnt was the leading hotel of the town, and where I subsequently found a very comfortable resting place for a frame much fatigued by the exigencies of an exceedingly active life.

       The first two or three days were occupied in making preliminary arrangements for the fulfilment of the objects of my mission, and in pursuing those many inquiries which are embraced in the words "house hunting," I could find nothing in dwellings of a character likely to suit me, and should probably have given up the search in despair or disgust — for I am not endowed with a parochial brain — and should have been very well content to remain at the Freemasons' Arms but for the fact, trifling though it may appear, that I discovered that living at an hotel, even in a country town, was not quite so economical as residing in one's own home. Besides, I had my domestic circle to think of, to say nothing of a limited income.

       It so happened, however, in conversation with a gentleman whom I chanced to meet at dinner some ten days after my arrival, and to whom I had confided my troubles, I heard of a very good house to let in one of the most fashionable quarters of Ravenshill, and on very reasonable terms. So after gathering all the information I could respecting it, I made up my mind to personally inspect "Hardgate," for such was the name of the house in question.

       On the following morning I proceeded to the office of the owner, who I found to be a splendid type of the old-fashioned highly respectable country solicitor.

       My interview with the man of law was brief but business like. Calling one of his clerks, he handed him a rusty key (large enough to fit a church door) from amongst a number of others, with instructions to show me over, observing in quite a fatherly manner to me when leaving:

       "You'll find it a nice old house. It has just been put in thorough repair, and I think you would be very comfortable there," to which I replied in studied terms of diplomatic politeness.

       I accompanied my guide to Hardgate, which I soon recognised as a house that had seen better days. It was, as I had been led to understand, old fashioned, and in tolerably good repair, situated, as already implied, in the best part of Ravenshill, and commanding on a clear day a magnificent view of the Lincolnshire coast. It also possessed what many would deem the dual advantage of being in close proximity to one of the most symmetrical ecclesiastical edifices in the country on the one hand and the residence in early boyhood of the Poet Laureate on the other.

       Hardgate had only one objection of a serious character in my mind. It was too large. A fifteen-roomed house for a man with a small wife and two smaller children is not exactly the kind of residence one would select for comfort, or as likely to afford the greatest freedom from draughts; but the rent, £20 per annum, combined with its situation, was too much for me, and, forgetting the barn-like appearance presented by its upper chambers, I decided to wire down for my wife to come over and give her consent to my taking it. In reality, however, the question of choice pure and simple was almost Hobsonian in its character, so deeply drilled had I become in the vital study of domestic economy.

       After this confession it may appear superfluous to add that no material objection was raised, and I forthwith became the yearly tenant of Hardgate, and within fourteen days was comfortably ensconced there in the bosom of my family. A domestic had been engaged from an adjoining village, but as she could not enter upon her duties until the second week in May, I so arranged my work as to be generally at home early in order to gradually wean my wife from the strange and weird appearance that the interior of Hardgate certainly presented.

       About a week after our installation a gentleman, for many years resident in Ravenshill, called on us, and after exchanging customary courtesies, he glanced round the room, and said to me in an undertone:

       "So, I see you have taken the haunted house.

       "What?" I exclaimed in tones of derision. "This house haunted?"

       "Oh, yes," he replied, smiling; "and that is the reason the place would never let."

       "Well," I said, "I don't care a peck of refuse wheat about its reputation, but, for Heaven's sake, don't tell my wife about it, for, as you can readily imagine, I am compelled to be a good deal away from home, and the bare suggestion would unnerve her."

       "Oh, no," he said, "I won't do that, and it was very foolish on my part to mention the matter, but I had forgotten for the moment, and perhaps there's nothing in it after all."

       So the subject dropped, and it was not again referred to except by way of a joke when we parted.

       A few days after this conversation I had occasion to visit a neighbouring township, inaccessible by rail, and situated some fifteen miles from Ravenshill, and did not return until close upon midnight.

       On reaching the house I found my better half sitting up for me (a silly habit I invariably discourage). She was in a high state of nervousness, not to say fright, and was not long in explaining the cause, which was that for the past hour or more she had heard someone walking about the empty rooms above her. The walking was accompanied by a repetition of peculiar noises, which she could neither appreciate nor understand.

       I laughed at what I naturally regarded as the vividness of woman's imagination, and, in order to pacify her, invited in from outside two custodians of the peace for the double purpose of making their acquaintance by the channel which my "Glenlivet" afforded (it is always as well to be on friendly terms with these gentlemen), and of perambulating in company with them the chambers in question. We did so, with, of course, the result of finding the rooms in the same state of emptiness I had previously left them.

       This trifling incident was soon forgotten, and, with the advent of our domestic, my absence from home became more general.

       One evening, however, I was reading my paper and smoking my last pipe preparatory to retiring to rest, when my interest was aroused by my wife saying to me in a very confidential manner, and with considerable seriousness —

       "Do you know, there is something about this house I don't like."

       I smiled — a kind of sickly smile — and said —

       "Why, too large, I expect?"

       "No, it is not exactly that, but I hear such queer noises, as though someone was walking about upstairs and groaning, and the doors open and close of their own accord, and most curious sounds are heard."

       "It is the wind," I replied. "You must expect to hear mysterious noise in an old house like this."

       "But it isn't the wind," she asserted with increased emphasis. "I am quite sure, for the servant hears the same thing, and have complained to me about it."

       I grew rather angry, indulged in a series of well worn platitudes about "superstitious nonsense," "nineteenth century intelligence," "old woman's fears," and so on, until, seeing I was disinclined to lend a willing ear to such apparent absurdities, the conversation was changed and no further mention of the subject was made that evening.

       I was convinced that my method of rebutting my wife's statements had tended to increase rather than allay her suspicions, and during that night I frankly confess I recalled more than once the remark made by my friend not many days before about the house being haunted.

       I ought perhaps here to observe that I am both a cynic and a sceptic in all matters appertaining to the so-called supernatural, and notwithstanding what I had heard about the industrious circulation of some idle rumour that the house was haunted, I was not in the least affected thereby, nor did I attach the slightest importance to it. Indeed, I should never have had occasion to recall it to my mind but for the fact that I had studiously to avoid its getting to my wife's ears, and especially after what she had told me. But troubles come not singly but in battalions; at least, so some writer has said. Not that I regard in any way as a trouble that which I have already related, but it so happened that our domestic arranged about this time to seriously scald her foot, which incapacitated her from active service for some days. I placed her under medical care, and sent for her mother, who arrived on the evening following the accident, much fatigued by a long and lonely country walk, and was consequently very glad to get to bed, where it was fair to assume she soon fell fast asleep — but not altogether a sleep of peace, for about half-past one in the morning she was aroused by a loud noise in one corner of the bedroom, as if someone was breaking coal and shovelling it up — a noise peculiar in its regularity and almost fascinating in its power of arresting attention.

       She got up, lighted her candle, and went to the corner of the room whence the noise procseeded. But it had ceased, i.e., it had stopped abruptly and entirely; so, laughing to herself for being so easily disturbed out of what she afterwards described as "a beautiful sleep," she blew out the candle and got into bed again.

       Scarcely had she done so when the noise was repeated, as it seemed, with increased emphasis, and continued for some two or three minutes, when it terminated with a sound such as is sometimes under peculiar circumstances produced by the wind, and which may be said to resemble in some feeble degree the last dying groan of the rhinoceros.

       To say that the old woman was frightened would be assuming a fact which I am unable to vouch for; but that she had a feeling akin to superstitious antipathy to Hardgate was evidenced by the fact that after breakfast that morning she suddenly discovered that her daughter was not so incapacitated as to require her further attendance. So, after incidentally detailing her experience of the night, she returned home, and it was only from a distant source some months afterwards I learnt that the old woman, to whom fear was a stranger, and to whom Hardgate was unknown, and Ravenshill almost an unexplored country previous to her visit, had religiously declared that "not for all the gold of the Hindies" would the sleep in that house again, which she ever after declared had something wrong about it, but whether it was its architecture, size, situation, or inmates, I could never accurately understand.

       The above incident may appear too trivial for such lengthy portrayal. It so appeared to me, but it was a link in a chain of evidence, and from an unprejudiced and disinterested channel; and, as I stated at the outset, this is a simple record of facts, and not an ordinary, vamped-up, orthodox ghost story, where, at the solemn hour of twelve every night in the year, may be heard the measured walk of the midnight goblin, the very sound of whose martial stride reverberates through the dim corridors of his ancestral home.

       There was no nonsense about the old chappie who inhabited Hardgate. He meant business, as we shall subsequently see.

       About a fortnight after the incident above recorded, I was sitting up with some friends "yarning," as seafaring men would say, when my attention was directed to a remarkable commotion going on in the room directly above — a room which I knew to be locked up and empty.

       The noise was as of someone moving furniture and hammering.

       I was well aware that the only occupants upstairs were the servant and my two little children, who slept in rooms adjoining one another. The hour — 12.45 a.m. — rendered the cause more inexplicable.

       Quick as thought — the noise had caused all conversation to immediately cease — I turned to my wife and said:

       "Isn't it about time that girl was in bed? What in the world is she doing about at this unreasonable hour?"

       "It isn't the girl, my dear," she replied, with much earnestness; "these are the noises I am constantly hearing, and of which I have told you, but you take no notice, and now you can judge for yourself."

       "Nonsense," I rudely exclaimed, rising from my chair. "There is someone walking about now."

       "There is certainly someone moving about," exclaimed one or two simultaneously.

       "Well, if you won't believe me, go up and see for yourself, and I'll bet you a pair of gloves the girl is fast asleep in her room."

       I couldn't refuse to accept such a challenge from my wife, so upstairs I flew, only to find I had lost the gloves.

       I was a trifle crestfallen on rejoining my friends, who had a good laugh at my expense, hinted that in some cases the grey mare was the better horse, and suggested a pair of Dent's best 6¼ six-buttoned and tan as the only means of reinstating my authority at Hardgate.

       The laughter having subsided, the conversation took a serious turn.

       "It certainly is very curious," said one.

       "There's no doubt as to somebody being about," said another; and a third politely expressed it as his opinion that the servant girl was either playing us a trick, or else she walked in her sleep.

       For myself, while professing to treat the affair lightly and as capable of innumerable explanations, I began to regard the whole matter from a scientifically interesting point of view, and to fathom the thing to the bottom if possible was my firm determination for while I knew full well "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy," so if I could be persuaded of the existence of a supernatural power, in proportion thereto would one's views on religion be shaken to their very foundations. The subject interested me — it fascinated me.

       "Here," thought I, is an opportunity of exposing on the spot the hollowness of the ghost theory, and its twin sister, the Haunted House;" and so, with that self-assurance which all conceited men who think they are clever exhibit, I began to lay the flattering unction to my soul that fame and a five-pound note were both well within my grasp, by enlightening the Psychological Society of my researches in the regions of the mysterious. But how often the cup has been dashed from the lips of the most confident is no part of my task to relate.

       The next day I examined all the rooms of the house in company with one of my friends of the previous evening. There was nothing that called for any particular notice. They were the ordinary rooms of an old-fashioned, well-built house, Every room that was not in use — and there were many — we securely locked and took out the key. There were no cellars, the kitchens being on the ground floor. There were two flights of stairs, the one leading from the second or back kitchen into some empty rooms, and as they were not in use the entrance and exit from that staircase were closed, thus shutting off, as it were, one wing of the house. With this exception there was nothing to suggest anything of an uncanny character about the place.

       We made an external examination, only to find that the walls dividing it from the houses on either side were some two feet thick, thus effectually preventing the noise in one house being heard in the next. We searched the roof, thinking to discover a resting-place for either bats or owls, or other wanderers of the night, but without effect, and similar success attended our efforts to discover the existence of rats. In short, the house, its condition, and situation, entirely negatived the several theories we entertained as to the possible causes for the mysterious noises heard.

       Having thus satisfied myself by the fulfilment of those primary conditions to an unbiassed intelligent inquiry, I settled down with a calm and unruffled spirit to pursue my investigations. It was, therefore, with a sense of grim humour that I found myself that evening smoking and watching and waiting for the hour of midnight, for I had always understood that that was the hour "when churchyards yawn and hell itself breaths forth contagion to this world." As there was no hot blood about except, perhaps, that coursing within my own veins, I contented myself with cold ale, and looking very much like that old fool Micawber, who was always waiting for something to turn up.

       I had not long to wait, although for eight days, or rather nights, I had patiently waited and watched in vain for a repetition of the manifestations, and I had almost begun to look upon the unknown inhabitant of Hardgate as a mockery, a delusion, and a snare, whose fits and starts were wholly unreasonable, and quite out of place in the daily routine of any ordinary, matter-of-fact, commonplace ghost. While thus musing someone knocked at the door of my room.

       "Come in!" I shouted, and the handle of the door was turned and the door opened wide, and before I had time to realise it the door was closed again and latched.

       I rushed out, but found no one there or near, and no sooner had I returned to my room than a loud crash, as though a tray full of tea things had been violently dashed to the ground, and, apparently, within a yard of my room door, was heard — a crash sufficiently loud to wake every inmate of the house.

       At this I laughed heartily, and thought if that was my ghost's best performance it was a very poor one, and certainly not worth sitting up so long for. Do what I would, however, I could not steel my mind from the fact that the latch on the door was one of those old-fashioned ones — by which I mean to convey that it was not an ordinary mortice lock, which may have all the appearance of being latched when it is not. It was of the kind that latched inside, so that when it was latched you could see it was so; and I confess that to see that latch lift, the handle turn, the door open and close without motive power, with the absolute knowledge I had that no one was near, was a revelation I had never before experienced. Deep into the silent watches of the night did I ponder on what I had heard and seen; for since I had taken the trouble to pursue my inquiries scientifically I had learnt much of the previous history of Hardgate, which I would fain have been left untold — at least, whilst resident there.

       The following night was what was known as one of my "pipe nights." In a country town, where the avenues for ordinary relaxation are necessarily limited, the few who are not mere machines, but only human beings, are thrown upon one another's resources for the greater part of the enjoyment of life, intellectual or otherwise, and so it came to pass that a very jolly circle of good fellows threw their places open to each other one night a week in that free and open manner characteristic of the true Bohemian.

       There were three unwritten rules which were always loyally abided by. No one was asked to come or go. Guests had always to help themselves (if they did not, no one else would), and when the host wanted to get rid of them, his dropping off to sleep was accepted as a polite intimation that it was time to go.

       The conversation on these occasions varied, from a criticism of the revolutionary rhymes of Agrikla to the manufacture of Cheddar cheese, and not infrequently it would take a scientific turn, evidently with a view of poking fun at me, on the belief in the supernatural in the nineteenth century and its effect upon the mind of man.

       It was on such an evening that three or four of us were chatting together. Time was on the wing, and the fun had been fast and furious, when the conversation turned upon what I humorously called my ghost, and which with equal humour had been christened "Binns," after that well-known song of Slade Murray's, "I'm the Ghost of John James Christopher Benjamin Binns."^*

* Gaslight note: cf. Folksongs and music hall

       "It's a very strange thing, Bridcut, that 'Binns' never turns up when we are here," said one of my friends. "I shall begin to think he's all a sham. Why don't you arrange for him to give us an exhibition of his powers? It is no good having a ghost without you can amuse your friends with his antics," and I became the subject of much good-natured banter, but I had comforted myself with the reflection that there are occasions when men "who come to scoff remain to pray."

       Scarcely had the laugh subsided which my sceptical friend's last sally had provoked, when a cold shudder was felt by everyone in the room, a feeling as though cold water was running down your back, a consciousness of a great draught somewhere, with an inability to fix the locality; a general uneasiness which was unexplainable pervaded all present. It only lasted a few seconds, when from one corner of the room above came a loud succession of hard knocks, precise, regular, and pronounced.

       "Great Scott," exclaimed one of my friends, "here's 'Binns' come at at last," but his humour was checked by the sound of heavy footsteps above, walking slowly and deliberately to the opposite corner of the room, where it seemed to throw down with a loud thud a burden of some kind, the fall of which literally shook the entire house, and this was followed by agonising and piteous groans as of a woman in distress, which were truly horrible — most horrible — to listen to; and then it returned, stopping in the centre of the room, and, as though possessed with a blacksmith's hammer enveloped in three or four thicknesses of blanket, struck the floor half a dozen times with a force that no human agency could produce — with such force, indeed, that it smashed to atoms the globes on the chandelier beneath, and then it abruptly ceased its ungodly wanderings, and all was quiet.

       My friends ceased to scoff, and anxiously inquired if I did not think someone was playing me a trick.

       I replied by inviting them to inspect the room from whence the noises had proceeded, which they did, only to be farther puzzled to find an explanation for what they had heard, and when they left shortly after they comforted me by saying they were glad I was not frightened, as they would not sleep in the place for a pension.

       Night after night I sat up and heard the same march across the room, the same groans, the same burden thrown down with a loud thud, accompanied, as it seemed, with a sigh of relief, and the same heavy strokes of the hammer, with the same effect upon the globes underneath, until after several experiences we were compelled to abandon globes altogether, and, strange as it may appear to the casual reader, I listened to this weird sound without a particle of fear, so interested had I become in the attempt to solve the mystery. Three things struck me as extraordinary in connection with this bedroom walk.

       1. Why did it not come every night, and at the same time.

       2. What force was it that was used to smash the globes on the chandelier underneath?

       3. Why, preparatory to these manifestations, did a cold shudder seize everybody in the room on every occasion?

       With regard to the first, I have known it come at all hours at from eight p.m. to 2.30 a.m. I have known it every day for a fortnight, and cease altogether for an entire month.

       I have, with others, tried by means of a coal hammer to produce the same noise or volume of sound, but without effect.

       On every occasion. a few seconds before its appearance, an indication of its uncanny presence was afforded by a feeling akin to horror, which even strangers who had never heard of it would experience and comment upon, and it was highly amusing to hear people complaining of a sudden chill which did not exist, but which was always the precursor to its appearance.

       This chilling sensation was not confined to human beings. A little terrier dog I had would suddenly commence to whine and howl, and crouch as if asking for protection of any one near him. This was a sure signal for Mr. Binns's evening walk.

       Although I blush to have to relate it, I shut that same dog in one of the top rooms on one occasion, and on my going to release him in the morning I found him, to my astonishment and regret, cold and dead. But the most remarkable feature was that his neck was broken, and, apparently, with considerable force. But familiarity breeds contempt, as the Uncrowned King of Ireland could testify, and it was not at all astonishing that, regarding Binns as one of the household as it were, we grew by continued acquaintance with his various and varied performances a trifle callous, and, although it had another and more serious aspect, it was no novelty to hear my little boys call out at nine or ten o'clock at night —

       "Father! Binns is about; we can hear him upstairs."

       The casual reader will naturally pause and inquire how it was that children so young (they were only five and four respectively when these incidents occurred) should know anything about Mr. Binns; but their knowledge of his existence is explained by the fact that, for reasons that they could never explain, they rigorously refused even to go to bed without a light constantly burning, and when the time came to put it out they were found crouched under the bed clothes at the foot of the bed in a cold, agonising perspiration, bred by an awful dread of something they could not explain. One evening, although all mention of this mysterious existence was studiously avoided in their presence, they rushed downstairs, fear and trembling marking every feature of their little faces. All they could say was that they had seen something. Even whilst playing in their nursery in broad daylight they have experienced a similar fright, and in order to wean them from any sense of fear, I accustomed them to listen on my knee to the antics and popular performances of Mr. Binns.

       "Who is Binns, father?" asked the eldest scion of the house of Bridcut one day.

       "Oh," I replied, "he's an old chappie who lived here before we came, and he will keep messing about the place."

       "Will he hurt us?" asked the second branch of the family.

       "He can't hurt any of us," I said. "He is too frightened of us."

       "Why," I continued, "either of you could frighten him out the house any minute."

       "How?" they both simultaneously asked, and, ere I had time to reply, Mr. John James Christopher Benjamin Binns had commenced his usual ramble — this time about 9.30.

       "He's come again, father," exclaimed the little ones.

       "So he has, the old scamp. Now, watch how we'll settle him," and I picked up a stick from the nearest place, and, armed with this supposed weapon of defence, carried the children upstairs, whence the sounds proceeded, and cried out:

       "Now, Binns, old fellow, shut up that row! What in the world is the matter with you this evening?"

       The only reply I received was a loud and emphatic grunt — I can find no other word to describe it. For two or three minutes, from the foot of the attic stairs, I talked to this imaginary being in the most matter-of-fact way, concluding, I well remember, by saying:—

       "I shan't have anything more to say to you, Binns. You are drunk."

       This observation was met by a succession of grunts, which my youngsters thought awfully funny. This was well, for I was enabled now to carry them to bed in peaceful satisfaction and security.

       The courage I exhibited in holding imaginary converse with the Hardgate Mystery was on a par with that of the schoolboy who whistled when going through a churchyard. I was like a rat in a corner, or like Parnell in Committee-room No. 15. I had nothing else to do but to be brave. It was my only chance. I don't know whether any of the thousand and one readers who will, doubtless, pore over this manuscript have ever considered how relative in its application is the word "courage" when applied to man. We have it on great authority that "Conscience does make cowards of us all," while another great writer has emphasised the opinion, "That there is no such thing as courage in a man." Both are in my humble judgment equally correct and equally incorrect. Few men of high and lofty motive are ever courageous in their own defence. Put a so-called courageous man to walk along an unknown country road at dead of night, with no light, not even the stars of Heaven to guide him, and the simple rustle of the winter's leaves as they play along the hedgerow will urge him to quicken his steps and increase his hearty pulsation; but give to the same man a dog to protect, a child to guard, and, above and before all, the woman he loves to defend, and he knows no fear, except the fear that he may prove unworthy of the honourable task. But I am digressing; the boy is waiting for copy, and I am reminded that it is Christmas Eve, 1890.

       As I have endeavoured to show, Binns was very soon regarded as a member of the household, and his ordinary peregrinations excited little or no comment. Some days he would be busy in one way; other days he would be busy in a diametrically opposite direction. One day he would attempt a hornpipe, with the fire-irons as a musical accompaniment; another day he would have the toothache badly, and groan and grunt in a fearful manner, but one day I am quite certain he came home, if not intoxicated, at least labouring under the influence of alcoholic beverages.

       I arrived home one evening after a long drive, and, oblivious of the fact that I was entertaining guests unawares, looked, bolted, barred, latched, and chained the front door, which was of such strength and thickness as to make its existence felt whenever it was open or closed. I went upstairs, only to be agreeably surprised to find there two old friends, whom my wife had been entertaining for the past hour or so. I immediately threatened proceedings in the court over which Sir James Hannen presides with such success, but was soon appeased by the joint aid of calm consideration and cold Scotch.

       We sat chatting over old times — which embraced blighted hopes and disappointed ambitions — when, at 2.30 (I had commenced to fall asleep), my friends rose to go, with the innocent observation that they thought it was about time. Binns had been away for at least ten days, but while we were in the act of saying good-bye the front door opened and closed with a terrible bang that shook the entire building. This was followed by the sound of a scuffle as of two men engaged, in mortal combat in the hall beneath.

       "Who in the world is that come in?" exclaimed my friends.

       "No one," I said. "I locked the front door when I came in."

       They doubted my statement, so we went downstairs to see. front door was as I had left it, and those on either side the entrance were both locked and bolted.

       So struck were both these gentlemen — men whose names are well known — that they refused to leave until we had gone over every room in the house. This we did, and then sat to talk over the event until daylight did appear.

       To have lights blown out without any apparent cause; to see doors unlatch and open, remain stationary for a few seconds, and then close again; to see chairs move about as though there was an earthquake at Ravenshill, bells ringing, fire-irons dancing about, were every-day experiences at Hardgate; and my wife, my servant, and my children all declare that they had separately and together seen the apparition of a small, diminutive woman in black moving to and fro in the upper rooms of the house. However, as I have previously stated, I attribute a good deal to the vividness of woman's imagination. But I am a sceptic, and, therefore, perhaps a trifle biassed.

       Time and tide wait for no man, and time — good old Time; — flew rapidly at Ravenshill, amid the many hospitalities for which it was so justly renowned, and my tenancy of Hardgate, like all good things, came to an end. But before I gave up possession I held a council of war, and decided upon two things — first, to relate to those in my confidence what information I had obtained respecting the past record of Binns and the character of Hardgate; and, secondly, to hold a committee of inquiry as to the causes that had led to the remarkable manifestations that all had from time to time witnessed.

       And here I will generously take the reader into the innermost recesses of my heart, and frankly avow that, while my address on the previous history of Hardgate was being delivered before the self-appointed committee, I was subject, even at that stage, to rude and ribald suggestions that they had been the willing victims of the greatest fraud of modern times, and it was only by the judicious admixture of spring water with Glenlivet that I succeeded in appeasing the wrath of men who even then averred that they had been sold.

       Hardgate had been vacant for five or six years before my tenancy, and has been vacant ever since, and is likely so to remain. The cause of its vacancy was, and is, that, rightly or wrongly, people said there was something queer about the place, but nothing definite had ever been stated. The house had been offered by the owner rent free on several occasions, but declined with thanks, and until I, fool like, came upon the scene £5 per annum was generally regarded as its market value, ghost included, with the other fixtures.

       The owner himself, who had once lived in the house, was compelled to leave, because his wife refused to live there and the servants declined to sleep there. It had been a ladies' school, with a large and fashionable connection, until one of the pupils sought an early grave by jumping out of the top window on to the pavement below rather than remain alone an unwilling prisoner in her bedroom, which I found out was none other than the blood-stained chamber, where she was ordered to do penance for some trivial offence.

       Hardgate had in days gone by been tenanted by a doctor in extensive practice, and whose family being at the seaside, had invited a young nephew, a lad of some sixteen summers, to keep him company. Called out rather late one night, he told his visitor to amuse himself until his return, which injunction he can scarcely be said to have the literally carried out, for on his uncle's return the lad was found lying insensible on the floor, and on his regaining consciousness, all he knew was that he had seen something.

       The boy lived for three years and, happily, died — for he died a drivelling idiot.

       These facts I heard from the lips of the doctor's widow herself, who also told me that her late husband firmly believed in the mysterious character of the house.

       "Now that you are leaving Hardgate, I don't mind telling you something," said an old charwoman to my wife when helping to pack up. "I dared not speak before, for I promised to be silent on the subject," continued the old woman, who was the wife of the under-gardener of the owner, "but I have always felt so sorry for you and wondered how you could stay in the place."

       "What really is the matter with the house?" queried my wife, anxious to draw the old woman out a little.

       "Well, ma'am, they do say as it's what they call 'haunted.' The master tried living in it himself some years ago, but had to give it up, and no one has lived there since until you came. They do say as how a poor woman, being left to starve with her two children up in one of the top attics, committed suicide, after cutting the throats of her two children and the blood-stained floor is to be seen to this day, and the room you sleep in has been papered and re-papered a score of times, to my knowledge, but the stain of the blood from above still comes through the paper, and nothing will prevent it except, pulling the place down."

       I had this story repeated to me by the old woman herself the same afternoon, who evidently believed what she was telling me, for she insisted upon my inviolable secrecy in the matter, lest it should come to her master's ears.

       And as I listened I thought, "This is something like a proper foundation upon which to build any theory." And ten minutes after the story was finished, I was examining the top attic for blood stains.

       Sure enough from one corner of the room whence the principal noises arose was a dark stain of something running from one corner of the room to the centre.

       The same stain was found on the bedroom paper below, as described by our informant.

       I couldn't, I wouldn't, believe the old woman's story, and so sceptical was I that I cut away a portion of the stained boards and took it to an analyst for examination, for by its colour it might have been pitch or anything else.

       But the result of the analysis was that the stains were found to be those of blood, but whether it was the blood of a bullock or a human being the analyst could not tell, owing largely, I suppose, to the lapse of time.

       It was on this report that I made up my mind to have a committee of inquiry and take the boards of the bloody chamber up. Never shall I forget that inquiry as long as "memory holds a seat in this distracted globe."

       I wisely selected a Saturday, being half-holiday, and I was, moreover, anxious the investigations should take place by daylight, so at three o'clock the committee began to arrive. There were seven in all, including myself. At half-past we commenced operations in solemn silence, only broken by one fellow who exclaimed, "Well, we are a parcel of fools embarking on an idiotic errand like this."

       The first thing was to take the boards up in the corner of the room containing the blood stains.

       The tools were already at work for the purpose, when the very fellow who had sneered at the inquiry — but who was a very smart young lawyer — said, "Wait a moment, boys. What's this mean?"

       He drew our attention for the first time to the significant fact that while one length of board covered every other part of the room, the part whence the blood stains came was covered by two lengths, and for a space of some 6ft. Or about the size of and resembling with hideous vividness a grave, by small boards 2ft. long and differing in colour and growth to the others.

       Orders were at once given to take up one of the larger boards in the corner first, and this done, everyone indulged in a roar of laughter, for underneath was about a bushel and a half of oats.

       "What did I tell you," shouted the legal sceptic.

       "Rats," affirmed another, while, "Wait a moment," requested a third, "I know something about the habits and customs of rats, and there is not a vestige of evidence that a rat has been here, and it would have taken thousands of rats to carry them here. Besides," he continued, these oats are entire oats; they are only withered by age; and it is a well-known fact that oats are commonly used for the absorption of blood."

       And so a change came o'er the spirit of the committee, and great excitement prevailed when orders were given to remove the small two-foot wide boards. This done, we discovered that one joist had been practically cut away, and that for the whole length of six feet there were between two and three inches of mould, of which lime formed a very large concomitant.

       We searched diligently for anything of interest in the mould, and found a piece of human hair, an old-fashioned staylace, a small bone, and a piece of blood-stained paper, on which was scrawled in an illiterate hand the words: "I died for fear of him."

       This finished, we took up every other board in the room, and with the exception of the space 6ft. x 2ft. in the corner, and where the oats were found close by, under every board was as clear as the day the house was built a hundred years ago. What more could we do by way of investigation?

       We didn't take the trouble to re-lay the boards, but locked up the room and came downstairs, and brought in a unanimous verdict, which was also a very open one, and may be summed up in the words, "The whole affair is very strange."

       I am afraid, in the words of Hamlet, I taught them to drink deep ere they departed that night, which was the only night of my residence at Hardgate that I was really frightened.

       The last two of the committee had risen to go. It was half-past twelve o'clock when that cold, icy chill suddenly seized the whole of us.

       We looked at one another, as by instinct, as much as to say, "I feel very queer," when from the locked blood-stained room was heard the sound of voices loudly quarrelling.

       A struggle, a heavy fall, a short silence, and the door of the room opened and banged, and step by step down the staircase leading from the attics came this mysterious thing.

       We had heard it walk that staircase before on many occasions, but now it began to descend the second flight.

       Step by step, with heavy, measured stride, came this awful goblin of another and unexplored world — came within a yard of where we were standing with the door wide open and fear and terror written on every face.

       There was no scoffing then, and, as by intuition, we all placed ourselves in an attitude of defence, so realistic was the dread feeling experienced, until, with a loud grunt of contemptuous defiance, the front door opened and closed, and no more was heard.

       Whether that was the last of the Hardgate mystery I cannot tell, as we left about a week after, and were not troubled with Mr. Binns again.

       Whether Hardgate is still tenanted by that gentleman I cannot say, and I do not care, but our year's experience in a haunted house — if there is such a thing — will never fade from our memory, witnessing as we had repeatedly done manifestations which as intelligent beings we could not account for by ordinary laws.

       To this day, aye, even while I am writing these lines, a constant and never failing source of conversation to my two eldest boys is to be found in the recital of their youthful experiences of the Ghost of John James Christopher Benjamin Binns.

(THE END)