Night Watches

by W. W. Jacobs

  Thirty years ago on a wet autumn evening the household of Mallett'sLodge was gathered round the death-bed of Ursula Mallow, the eldest ofthe three sisters who inhabited it. The dingy moth-eaten curtains of theold wooden bedstead were drawn apart, the light of a smoking oil-lampfalling upon the hopeless countenance of the dying woman as she turnedher dull eyes upon her sisters. The room was in silence except for anoccasional sob from the youngest sister, Eunice. Outside the rain fellsteadily over the steaming marshes.

  "Nothing is to be changed, Tabitha," gasped Ursula to the other sister,who bore a striking likeness to her although her expression was harderand colder; "this room is to be locked up and never opened."

  "Very well," said Tabitha brusquely, "though I don't see how it canmatter to you then."

  "It does matter," said her sister with startling energy. "How do youknow, how do I know that I may not sometimes visit it? I have lived inthis house so long I am certain that I shall see it again. I will comeback. Come back to watch over you both and see that no harm befallsyou."

  "You are talking wildly," said Tabitha, by no means moved at hersister's solicitude for her welfare. "Your mind is wandering; you knowthat I have no faith in such things."

  Ursula sighed, and beckoning to Eunice, who was weeping silently at thebedside, placed her feeble arms around her neck and kissed her.

  "Do not weep, dear," she said feebly. "Perhaps it is best so. A lonelywoman's life is scarce worth living. We have no hopes, no aspirations;other women have had happy husbands and children, but we in thisforgotten place have grown old together. I go first, but you must soonfollow."

  Tabitha, comfortably conscious of only forty years and an iron frame,shrugged her shoulders and smiled grimly.

  "I go first," repeated Ursula in a new and strange voice as her heavyeyes slowly closed, "but I will come for each of you in turn, when yourlease of life runs out. At that moment I will be with you to lead yoursteps whither I now go."

  As she spoke the flickering lamp went out suddenly as thoughextinguished by a rapid hand, and the room was left in utter darkness. Astrange suffocating noise issued from the bed, and when the tremblingwomen had relighted the lamp, all that was left of Ursula Mallow wasready for the grave.

  That night the survivors passed together. The dead woman had been a firmbeliever in the existence of that shadowy borderland which is said toform an unhallowed link between the living and the dead, and even thestolid Tabitha, slightly unnerved by the events of the night, was notfree from certain apprehensions that she might have been right.

  With the bright morning their fears disappeared. The sun stole in at thewindow, and seeing the poor earth-worn face on the pillow so touched itand glorified it that only its goodness and weakness were seen, and thebeholders came to wonder how they could ever have felt any dread ofaught so calm and peaceful. A day or two passed, and the body wastransferred to a massive coffin long regarded as the finest piece ofwork of its kind ever turned out of the village carpenter's workshop.Then a slow and melancholy cortege headed by four bearers wound itssolemn way across the marshes to the family vault in the grey oldchurch, and all that was left of Ursula was placed by the father andmother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.

  To Eunice as they toiled slowly home the day seemed strange andSabbath-like, the flat prospect of marsh wilder and more forlorn thanusual, the roar of the sea more depressing. Tabitha had no such fancies.The bulk of the dead woman's property had been left to Eunice, and heravaricious soul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings ofregret for the deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.

  "What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?" she asked asthey sat at their quiet tea.

  "I shall leave it as it stands," said Eunice slowly. "We have both gotsufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it tosupporting some beds in a children's hospital."

  "If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital," said Tabitha in her deeptones, "she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you do notrespect her wishes more."

  "What else can I do with it then?" inquired Eunice.

  "Save it," said the other with gleaming eyes, "save it."

  Eunice shook her head.

  "No," said she, "it shall go to the sick children, but the principal Iwill not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and youcan do what you like with it."

  "Very well," said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; "Idon't believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don'tbelieve she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the moneyshe stored so carefully."

  "What do you mean?" asked Eunice with pale lips. "You are trying tofrighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things."

  Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of hersister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composedherself for a nap.

  For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of thedead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked,its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness ofthe others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn thanever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like anunquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive ofmuch thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long darkevenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air ofmystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty roomsand dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strangenoises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be heldaccountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strangesounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied thatshe saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequentsearch with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunicewas disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from acomplaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabitha admitteda strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and virtue,took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another direction.

  Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, andshe yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced byavarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidlyseparate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsestdishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far thebetter dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featuredcreature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of thecandle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did thispassion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, andlay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking ofthe coins at her unholy vigils.

  One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. "Why don't you bank your money,Tabitha?" she said; "it is surely not safe to keep such large sums insuch a lonely house."

  "Large sums!" repeated the exasperated Tabitha, "large sums! whatnonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keepme."

  "It's a great temptation to housebreakers," said her sister, notpressing the point. "I made sure last night that I heard somebody in thehouse."

  "Did you?" said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face."So did I. I thought they went to Ursula's room, and I got out of bedand went on the stairs to listen."

  "Well?" said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister'sface.

  "There was something there," said Tabitha slowly. "I'll swear it, for Istood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling onthe floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat,but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and thecat was in the kitchen."

  "Oh, let us leave this dreadful house," moaned Eunice.

  "What!" said her sister grimly; "afraid of poor Ursula? Why should yoube? Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who perhapseven now comes and watches over your s
lumbers."

  "Oh!" said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, "if I saw her I shoulddie. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. OGod! have mercy on me, I am dying."

  She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sanksenseless to the floor.

  "Get some water," cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up thestairs, "Eunice has fainted."

  The old woman, with a timid glance at her, retired, reappearing shortlyafterwards with the water, with which she proceeded to restore hermuch-loved mistress to her senses. Tabitha, as soon as this wasaccomplished, stalked off to her room, leaving her sister and Marthasitting drearily enough in the small parlour, watching the fire andconversing in whispers.

  It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not lastmuch longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house solonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at lengthconsented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mereidea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small butcomfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for aspeedy change.

  It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of themarshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for onesupreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals, thesea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with thedesolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then thewind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce gustswhich, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their fullfury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air shriekedin its chimneys windows rattled, doors slammed, and even, the verycurtains seemed to live and move.

  Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed asickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the mostinnocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almostdeprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she laylistening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs,bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her. Butit was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor, crossedto the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking herdressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard onthe stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with aquickly beating heart she regained her bed.

  The sounds ceased and a deep silence followed, which she herself wasunable to break although she strove hard to do so. A wild gust of windshook the windows and nearly extinguished the light, and when its flamehad regained its accustomed steadiness she saw that the door was slowlyopening, while the huge shadow of a hand blotted the papered wall. Stillher tongue refused its office. The door flew open with a crash, acloaked figure entered and, throwing aside its coverings, she saw with ahorror past all expression the napkin-bound face of the dead Ursulasmiling terribly at her. In her last extremity she raised her faded eyesabove for succour, and then as the figure noiselessly advanced and laidits cold hand upon her brow, the soul of Eunice Mallow left its bodywith a wild shriek and made its way to the Eternal.

  Martha, roused by the cry, and shivering with dread, rushed to the doorand gazed in terror at the figure which stood leaning over the bedside.As she watched, it slowly removed the cowl and the napkin and exposedthe fell face of Tabitha, so strangely contorted between fear andtriumph that she hardly recognized it.

  "Who's there?" cried Tabitha in a terrible voice as she saw the oldwoman's shadow on the wall.

  "I thought I heard a cry," said Martha, entering. "Did anybody call?"

  "Yes, Eunice," said the other, regarding her closely. "I, too, heard thecry, and hurried to her. What makes her so strange? Is she in a trance?"

  "Ay," said the old woman, falling on her knees by the bed and sobbingbitterly, "the trance of death. Ah, my dear, my poor lonely girl, thatthis should be the end of it! She has died of fright," said the oldwoman, pointing to the eyes, which even yet retained their horror. "Shehas seen something devilish."

  Tabitha's gaze fell. "She has always suffered with her heart," shemuttered; "the night has frightened her; it frightened me."

  She stood upright by the foot of the bed as Martha drew the sheet overthe face of the dead woman.

  "First Ursula, then Eunice," said Tabitha, drawing a deep breath. "Ican't stay here. I'll dress and wait for the morning."

  She left the room as she spoke, and with bent head proceeded to her own.Martha remained by the bedside, and gently closing the staring eyes,fell on her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for the departed soul.Overcome with grief and fear she remained with bowed head until a suddensharp cry from Tabitha brought her to her feet.

  "Well," said the old woman, going to the door.

  "Where are you?" cried Tabitha, somewhat reassured by her voice.

  "In Miss Eunice's bedroom. Do you want anything?"

  "Come down at once. Quick! I am unwell."

  Her voice rose suddenly to a scream. "Quick! For God's sake! Quick, or Ishall go mad. There is some strange woman in the house."

  The old woman stumbled hastily down the dark stairs. "What is thematter?" she cried, entering the room. "Who is it? What do you mean?"

  "I saw it," said Tabitha, grasping her convulsively by the shoulder. "Iwas coming to you when I saw the figure of a woman in front of me goingup the stairs. Is it--can it be Ursula come for the soul of Eunice, asshe said she would?"

  "Or for yours?" said Martha, the words coming from her in some oddfashion, despite herself.

  Tabitha, with a ghastly look, fell cowering by her side, clutchingtremulously at her clothes. "Light the lamps," she cried hysterically."Light a fire, make a noise; oh, this dreadful darkness! Will it neverbe day!"

  "Soon, soon," said Martha, overcoming her repugnance and trying topacify her. "When the day comes you will laugh at these fears."

  "I murdered her," screamed the miserable woman, "I killed her withfright. Why did she not give me the money? 'Twas no use to her. Ah! Lookthere!"

  Martha, with a horrible fear, followed her glance to the door, but sawnothing.

  "It's Ursula," said Tabitha from between her teeth. "Keep her off! Keepher off!"

  The old woman, who by some unknown sense seemed to feel the presence ofa third person in the room, moved a step forward and stood before her.As she did so Tabitha waved her arms as though to free herself from thetouch of a detaining hand, half rose to her feet, and without a wordfell dead before her.

  At this the old woman's courage forsook her, and with a great cry sherushed from the room, eager to escape from this house of death andmystery. The bolts of the great door were stiff with age, and strangevoices seemed to ring in her ears as she strove wildly to unfasten them.Her brain whirled. She thought that the dead in their distant roomscalled to her, and that a devil stood on the step outside laughing andholding the door against her. Then with a supreme effort she flung itopen, and heedless of her night-clothes passed into the bitter night.The path across the marshes was lost in the darkness, but she found it;the planks over the ditches slippery and narrow, but she crossed them insafety, until at last, her feet bleeding and her breath coming in greatgasps, she entered the village and sank down more dead than alive on acottage doorstep.

  THE UNKNOWN