twenty-five minutes past two, and crept into bed, leaving the light burning. I soon fell asleep, for there was an exhaustion pervading my whole frame, such as I had never felt in all my life before. When I got up next morning the sun was high in the heavens, but my long slumbers had partially restored me to myself, though my first glance at the looking-glass still gave me somewhat of a shock, and when Mrs. Marks saw me, she started back in amazement, exclaiming, “Dear, dear, sir, how ill you look, to be sure!" On one point, however, I had made up my mind, namely, that I would say nothing about my sleeping in the Mysterious Room, as I had now learnt to call it. My reason was, principally, an innate secretiveness of disposition, which always prompts me to conceal any matter of personal interest which may provoke the remarks even of indifferent curiosity. But I was also influenced by a wish to form an unbiassed opinion of the last night's incident. For I now began to suspect for the first time that there was a supernatural element in the mystery of the unoccupied room; but I was unwilling to accept a theory which involved the adoption of what I had always hitherto considered a most irrational belief, to account for an incident which, after all, was capable of a very simple and natural explanation. Now, to take Mrs. Marks into my confidence would probably be to hear some time-worn story of a murder or a suicide entailing a spiritual visitation upon the mysterious room as the scene of its occurrence. I therefore told her merely that I had had a bad fall the night before and had cut my head, and that I thought it must have shaken me a good deal and affected my nerves. When I had encountered her expressions of concern, and had had some stereotyped remedy applied to my wound, I saw the good soul depart with a feeling of satisfaction that she did not press me more for particulars of my fall. When she was gone, I sat down to think over what had happened. Was it not possible, nay probable, I argued with myself, that my fall was due to some unsuspected tendency to somnambulism? Might I not have started up from the chair, and then, from a sudden collapse of the unnatural energy that had placed me upon my feet, might I not have fallen backwards with my head against the woodwork of the chair? A thought struck me. If I had so fallen, would there not be some trace of blood left upon the chair itself? I jumped up and in a moment stood in the room beside the old armchair. A moment more, and I had found upon the sharp edge of the seat the evidence of which I was in search. It was clear then that the agent of my wound was no visitant from the invisible world, but neither more nor less than a very solid and substantial piece of carved mahogany. But was my fall of itself sufficient to account for the symptoms of utter exhaustion which I felt when I came to myself in the first instance, and which were still only too apparent in the sensitiveness of my shattered nerves and the prostration which succeeded the slightest exertion I attempted? The. face of terror, too, which the looking-glass had presented to my gaze just before I crept cowering into bed, was that accounted for by a common fall, such as I should have laughed at any day in the hunting-field? I could only argue that the effect of such a fall upon the unprepared frame of sleep must have been intensified in proportion to the profound repose of the senses from which they had been so rudely startled. Though this was not altogether a satisfactory solution, I was forced to content myself with it; and as I almost immediately afterwards went away to spend a long holiday upon the west coast of Scotland, I should speedily have dismissed the incident from my mind, but for the effects it had left behind it-effects which did not entirely disappear, until two months of healthy out-door life had sent me back with renewed constitutional vigour to my law-books at Leabank. I had not long returned before I was again, in one of my late visits to the Mysterious Room, overtaken by sleep in the old arm-chair; but on this occasion, although, when I awoke and remembered where I was, I did for a moment feel an uncomfortable sensation closely akin to fear, yet I was agreeably surprised to find myself unharmed by the occurrence, nor could I recall to mind any relic even of an unpleasant dream that had haunted my slumbers. Time flew by, and I could scarcely believe the evidence of my diary, that nearly a year had elapsed since the memorable night of the 29th of June, which had for a time proved so fatal to my peace of mind, when one morning I received a letter from home announcing that my youngest brother Arthur, a boy of about five years of age, would have to pass through Leabank the next day on his way to visit an uncle a few miles beyond. He would be put under the charge of the guard, the letter went on, as far as Leabank, and would I let him stay the night with me, and spare a couple of hours the next day to see him to his journey's end? "Of course I will," I said to myself, as I folded up the letter, "and very glad I shall be to have the little fellow with me for a few hours." But where was he to sleep? that was the next question. I rang the bell and Mrs. Marks appeared. I stated the case to her. She looked perplexed. She was afraid there was no furniture in the little room upstairs, or else he might have had that. "Why should he not sleep in the next room here?" I suggested, pointing in the direction of the mysterious room. "I would rather he did not, sir, indeed," was the reply; "but did you say it was only for one night, sir?" "That is all," I said, "surely, whatever is the matter with the room, it could hardly hurt any one to sleep there one night. In fact," I went on, "I have slept there myself the greater part of a night in that old arm-chair which you have there, and very comfortably I slept too." "What day of the month will to-morrow be, sir, if you please?" asked Mrs. Marks with an apparent irrelevancy which was rather unlike her usual business-like habits. "Day of the month? Oh the 28th," I replied thoughtlessly. "The 28th," she repeated meditatively. "Well, sir, I don't know that it could do any harm for one night; I'll air the room to-day and make it as comfortable as I can for him." "I know you will, Mrs. Marks,” I said as she went out. A minute or two later the servant brought my Times up, and as I opened the paper my eye fell upon the date "Wednesday, June 28th." "Why, I told Mrs. Marks the wrong date!" I mentally ejaculated. "To-morrow will be the 29th. However, I dare say it does not matter much." Nor did I ever remember to correct my statement. Little did I guess the significance of my landlady's apparently trivial question. The next day I met my little brother at the station and brought him to my lodgings. In great spirits he was with the prospect of his visit, and he chattered away to me at a great rate after tea, and would not hear of going to bed, although I saw that his eyes were growing heavy with sleep. At length, quite overcome with weariness, he was fair to submit, and I took him to his room, which looked quite homely and cheerful with the blazing fire which Mrs. Marks had thoughtfully lighted. I saw him into bed, where he fell asleep almost before his head rested on the pillow, and then retired to bed myself, resolving to be up betimes in the morning, and do some work before we started on our journey. I had scarcely been asleep an instant, as it seemed to me, though I afterwards found that the time was three hours, when I awoke suddenly and with an impression that I heard some one speaking. (I must premise that I am one of those otherwise sound sleepers who yet wake instantly at the sound of voices). A moment proved that my impression was no dream but a reality. Through the stillness of the night I distinctly heard the sound of a voice, and the sound proceeded from the Mysterious Room. I sprang out of bed, and in a moment had crossed the passage and turned the handle of the opposite door. Another moment, and I saw a sight which I shall never forget to my dying day. To be continued. DESPAIR. O night, thou starlit night, thou art not night. That broodeth o'er my soul? This, this is night. O night, that art not night, thou hast thy hour, T. M. |