The house was a genuine old house of a very quaint deion,teeming with old carvings,and beams,and panels,and having an excellent old staircase,with a gallery or upper staircase,cut off from it by a curious fence-work of old oak,or of the old Honduras Mahogany wood.It was,and is,and will be,for many a long year to come,a remarkably picturesque house;and a certain grave mystery lurking in the depth of the old mahogany panels,as if they were so many deep pools of dark water -such,indeed,as they had been much among when they were trees -gave it a very mysterious character after nightfall.
When Mr.Goodchild and Mr.Idle had first alighted at the door,and stepped into the sombre,handsome old hall,they had been received by half-a-dozen noiseless old men in black,all dressed exactly alike,who glided up the stairs with the obliging landlord and waiter -but without appearing to get into their way,or to mind whether they did or no -and who had filed off to the right and left on the old staircase,as the guests entered their sitting-room.It was then broad,bright day.But,Mr.Goodchild had said,when their door was shut,'Who on earth are those old men?'And afterwards,both on going out and coming in,he had noticed that there were no old men to be seen.
Neither,had the old men,or any one of the old men,reappeared since.The two friends had passed a night in the house,but had seen nothing more of the old men.Mr.Goodchild,in rambling about it,had looked along passages,and glanced in at doorways,but had encountered no old men;neither did it appear that any old men were,by any member of the establishment,missed or expected.
Another odd circumstance impressed itself on their attention.It was,that the door of their sitting-room was never left untouched for a quarter of an hour.It was opened with hesitation,opened with confidence,opened a little way,opened a good way,-always clapped-to again without a word of explanation.They were reading,they were writing,they were eating,they were drinking,they were talking,they were dozing;the door was always opened at an unexpected moment,and they looked towards it,and it was clapped-to again,and nobody was to be seen.When this had happened fifty times or so,Mr.Goodchild had said to his companion,jestingly:
'I begin to think,Tom,there was something wrong with those six old men.'
Night had come again,and they had been writing for two or three hours:writing,in short,a portion of the lazy notes from which these lazy sheets are taken.They had left off writing,and glasses were on the table between them.The house was closed and quiet.Around the head of Thomas Idle,as he lay upon his sofa,hovered light wreaths of fragrant smoke.The temples of Francis Goodchild,as he leaned back in his chair,with his two hands clasped behind his head,and his legs crossed,were similarly decorated.
They had been discussing several idle subjects of speculation,not omitting the strange old men,and were still so occupied,when Mr.
Goodchild abruptly changed his attitude to wind up his watch.They were just becoming drowsy enough to be stopped in their talk by any such slight check.Thomas Idle,who was speaking at the moment,paused and said,'How goes it?'
'One,'said Goodchild.
As if he had ordered One old man,and the order were promptly executed (truly,all orders were so,in that excellent hotel),the door opened,and One old man stood there.
He did not come in,but stood with the door in his hand.
'One of the six,Tom,at last!'said Mr.Goodchild,in a surprised whisper.-'Sir,your pleasure?'
'Sir,YOUR pleasure?'said the One old man.
'I didn't ring.'
'The bell did,'said the One old man.
He said BELL,in a deep,strong way,that would have expressed the church Bell.
'I had the pleasure,I believe,of seeing you,yesterday?'said Goodchild.
'I cannot undertake to say for certain,'was the grim reply of the One old man.
'I think you saw me?Did you not?'
'Saw YOU?'said the old man.'O yes,I saw you.But,I see many who never see me.'
A chilled,slow,earthy,fixed old man.A cadaverous old man of measured speech.An old man who seemed as unable to wink,as if his eyelids had been nailed to his forehead.An old man whose eyes -two spots of fire -had no more motion than if they had been connected with the back of his skull by screws driven through it,and rivetted and bolted outside,among his grey hair.
The night had turned so cold,to Mr.Goodchild's sensations,that he shivered.He remarked lightly,and half apologetically,'Ithink somebody is walking over my grave.'
'No,'said the weird old man,'there is no one there.'
Mr.Goodchild looked at Idle,but Idle lay with his head enwreathed in smoke.
'No one there?'said Goodchild.
'There is no one at your grave,I assure you,'said the old man.
He had come in and shut the door,and he now sat down.He did not bend himself to sit,as other people do,but seemed to sink bolt upright,as if in water,until the chair stopped him.
'My friend,Mr.Idle,'said Goodchild,extremely anxious to introduce a third person into the conversation.
'I am,'said the old man,without looking at him,'at Mr.Idle's service.'
'If you are an old inhabitant of this place,'Francis Goodchild resumed.
'Yes.'
'Perhaps you can decide a point my friend and I were in doubt upon,this morning.They hang condemned criminals at the Castle,Ibelieve?'
'I believe so,'said the old man.
'Are their faces turned towards that noble prospect?'
'Your face is turned,'replied the old man,'to the Castle wall.
When you are tied up,you see its stones expanding and contracting violently,and a similar expansion and contraction seem to take place in your own head and breast.Then,there is a rush of fire and an earthquake,and the Castle springs into the air,and you tumble down a precipice.'
