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  Uncanny Tales

  BY MRS MOLESWORTH

  LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO
  Paternoster Row

  FRED HYLAND




  TO
  AN OTHERWISE UNACKNOWLEDGED "COLLABORATEUR"
  IN THESE STORIES,
  J. C. P.

  19 SUMNER PLACE, S.W.,

  _October, 1896._




CONTENTS.


                                     PAGE

  THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT           1

  "THE MAN WITH THE COUGH"             82

  "HALF-WAY BETWEEN THE STILES"       112

  AT THE DIP OF THE ROAD              141

  "---- WILL NOT TAKE PLACE"          153

  THE CLOCK THAT STRUCK THIRTEEN      183




UNCANNY TALES.




THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT.

PART I.


We never thought of Finster St. Mabyn's being haunted. We really never
did.

This may seem strange, but it is absolutely true. It was such an
extremely interesting and curious place in many ways that it required
nothing extraneous to add to its attractions. Perhaps this was the
reason.

Now-a-days, immediately that you hear of a house being "very old," the
next remark is sure to be "I hope it is"--or "is not"--that depends on
the taste of the speaker--"haunted".

But Finster was more than very old; it was _ancient_ and, in a modest
way, historical. I will not take up time by relating its history,
however, or by referring my readers to the chronicles in which mention
of it may be found. Nor shall I yield to the temptation of describing
the room in which a certain royalty spent one night, if not two or three
nights, four centuries ago, or the tower, now in ruins, where an even
more renowned personage was imprisoned for several months. All these
facts--or legends--have nothing to do with what I have to tell. Nor,
strictly speaking, has Finster itself, except as a sort of prologue to
my narrative.

We heard of the house through friends living in the same county, though
some distance farther inland. They--Mr. and Miss Miles, it is convenient
to give their name at once--knew that we had been ordered to leave our
own home for some months, to get over the effects of a very trying
visitation of influenza, and that sea-air was specially desirable.

We grumbled at this. Seaside places are often so dull and commonplace.
But when we heard of Finster we grumbled no longer.

"Dull" in a sense it might be, but assuredly not "commonplace". Janet
Miles's description of it, though she was not particularly clever at
description, read like a fairy tale, or one of Longfellow's poems.

"A castle by the sea--how perfect!" we all exclaimed. "Do, oh, do fix
for it, mother!"

The objections were quickly over-ruled. It was rather isolated, said
Miss Miles, standing, as was not difficult to trace in its name, on a
point of land--a corner rather--with sea on two sides. It had not been
lived in, save spasmodically, for some years, for the late owner was one
of those happy, or unhappy people, who have more houses than they can
use, and the present one was a minor. Eventually it was to be overhauled
and some additions and alterations made, but the trustees would be glad
to let it at a moderate rent for some months, and had intended putting
it into some agents' hands when Mr. Miles happened to meet one of them,
who mentioned it to him. There was nothing against it; it was absolutely
healthy. But the furniture was old and shabby, and there was none too
much of it. If we wanted to have visitors we should certainly require to
add to it. This, however, could easily be done, our informant went on to
say. There was a very good upholsterer and furniture dealer at Raxtrew,
the nearest town, who was in the habit of hiring out things to the
officers at the fort. "Indeed," she added, "we often pick up charming
old pieces of furniture from him for next to nothing, so you could both
hire and buy."

Of course, we should have visitors--and our own house would not be the
worse for some additional chairs and tables here and there, in place of
some excellent monstrosities Phil and Nugent and I had persuaded mother
to get rid of.

"If I go down to spy the land with father," I said, "I shall certainly
go to the furniture dealer's and have a good look about me."

I did go with father. I was nineteen--it is four years ago--and a
capable sort of girl. Then I was the only one who had not been ill,
and mother had been the worst of all, mother and Dormy--poor little
chap--for _he_ nearly died.

He is the youngest of us--we are four boys and two girls. Sophy was then
fifteen. My own name is Leila.

If I attempted to give any idea of the impression Finster St. Mabyn's
made upon us, I should go on for hours. It simply took our breath away.
It really felt like going back a few centuries merely to enter within
the walls and gaze round you. And yet we did not see it to any advantage,
so at least said the two Miles's who were our guides. It was a gloomy
day, with the feeling of rain not far off, early in April. It might have
been November, though it was not cold.

"You can scarcely imagine what it is on a bright day," said Janet,
eager, as people always are in such circumstances, to show off her
_trouvaille_. "The lights and shadows are so exquisite."

"I love it as it is," I said. "I don't think I shall ever regret having
seen it first on