 Mother and Child, from Goblin Tales of Lancaster, by James Boker, F-R-G-S-I. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman Mother and Child By James Boker The tenants of Plimpton Hall had retired to rest somewhat earlier than was their want. For it was the last night of November. The old, low rooms were in darkness, and all was silent as a grave. For though the residents, unfortunately, for themselves, were not asleep, they held their breath, and awaited in fear the first stroke of the hour from the old clock in the kitchen. Suddenly the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. But with sighs of relief the terrified listeners found that the noise was made by a belated wayfarer almost out of his wits with fright, but who was unable to avoid passing the hall, and who, therefore, ran by the haunted building as quickly as his legs would carry him. The sensation of escape, however, was of but short duration, for the hammer commenced to strike, and no sooner had the last stroke of eleven startled the echoes than loud thuds, as of a heavy object bumping upon the stairs were heard. The quaking occupants of the chambers hid their heads beneath the bed-clothes, for they knew that an old-fashioned oak chair was on its way down the noble staircase, and was sliding from step to step as though dragged along by an invisible being who had only one hand at liberty. If any one had dared to follow that chair across the wide passage and into the wainscoted parlor he would have been startled by the sight of a fire blazing in the grate. Whence ere the servants retired even the very embers had been removed, and in the chair the marvellous movement of which had so frightened all the inmates of the hall he would have seen a beautiful woman seated, with an infant at her breast. Year after year, on wild nights when the snow was driven against the diamond panes, and the cry of the spirits of the storm came up from the sea, the weird fire-light shone from the haunted room and through the house sounded a mysterious crooning as the unearthly visitor softly sang a lullaby to her infant. Lads grew into gray-haired men in the old house, and from youth to manhood on the last night of each November they had heard the notes, but none of them ever had caught, even when custom had somewhat deadened the terror which surrounded the events of the much dreaded anniversary, the words of the song the ghostly woman sang. The maids too had always found the grate as it was left before the visit. Not a cinder or a speck of dust remained to tell of the strange fire, and no one had ever heard the chair ascend the stairs. Chair and fire and child and mother, however, were seen by many a weary wayfarer, drawn to the house by the hospitable look of the window, through which a genial glow of the burning logs shone forth into the night. But who, by tapping at the pain and crying for shelter, could not attract the attention of the pale nurse, clad in a quaint old costume, with lace ruff and ruffles, and singing a mournful and melodious lullaby to the child resting upon her beautiful bosom, tradition tells of one of these wanderers, a foot-store and miserable seethering man on the tramp, who, attracted by the welcome glare, crept to the pains, and seeing the cozy looking fire, and the Madonna-faced mother tenderly nursing her infant, wrapped at the glass, and begged for a morsel of food and permission to sleep in the hayloft. And finding his pleadings unanswered, loudly cursed the woman, who could sit and enjoy warmth and comfort, and turn a deaf ear to the prayers of the homeless and hungry, upon which the seated figure turned the weird light of his wild eyes upon him, and almost changed him to stone. A laborer going to his daily toil in the early morn, finding the poor wretch gazing fixedly through the window, against which his terror-stricken face was closely pressed, his hair turned white by fear, and his fingers convulsively clutching the casement. Mother and Child by James Boker A Moth Genus Unknown by H. G. Wells This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by David Brent A Moth Genus Unknown by H. G. Wells Probably you have heard of Hapli, not W. T. Hapli the son, but the celebrated Hapli, the Hapli of Periplaneta Haplia, Hapli the entomologist. If so, you know at least of the great feud between Hapli and Professor Porkins, though certain of its consequences may be new to you. For those of you who have not, a word of two of explanation is necessary, which the idle reader may go over with a glancing eye if his indolence so incline him. It is amazing how very widely diffused is the ignorance of such really important matters as this Hapli-Porkens feud. Those epoch-making controversies, again, that have convulsed the geological society are, I very believe, almost entirely unknown outside the fellowship of that body. I have heard men of fair general education even refer to the great scenes at these meetings as vestri-meeting squabbles. Yet the great hate of the English and Scottish geologists has lasted now half a century and has left deep and abundant marks upon the body of the science. And this Hapli-Porkens business, though perhaps a more personal affair, stirred passions as profound, if not profounder. Your common man has no conception of the zeal that animates a scientific investigator, the fury of contradiction you can arouse in him. It is the odium theologicum in a new form. There are men, for instance, who would gladly burn Professor Ray Lancaster at Smithfield for his treatment of the melusca in Encyclopedia, that fantastic extension of the cephalopods to cover pteropods. But I wonder from Hapli and Porkens. It began years and years ago with a revision of the microlipidoptera, whatever these might be, by Porkens, in which he extinguished a new species created by Hapli. Hapli, who was always quarrelsome, replied by a stinging impeachment of the entire classification of Porkens. Footnote. Remarks on a recent revision of microlipidoptera. Quarterly journal Entomological Society 1863. End footnote. Porkens, in his rejoinder, footnote. Rejoinder to certain remarks, etc. Ibbid 1864. End footnote. Suggested that Hapli's microscope was as defective as his powers of observation and called him an irresponsible meddler. Hapli was not a professor at that time. Hapli, in his retort, footnote. Further remarks, etc. Ibbid. End footnote. Spoke of blundering collectors and described, as if inadvertently, Porkens' revision as a miracle of ineptitude. It was a war to the knife. However, it would scarcely interest the reader to detail how these two great men quarrelled and how the split between them widened until from the microlipidoptera they were at war upon every open question in entomology. There were memorable occasions. At times, the Royal Entomological Society meetings resembled nothing so much as the Chamber of Deputies. On the whole, I fancy Porkens was nearer the truth than Hapli. But Hapli was skillful with his rhetoric, had a turn of ridicule rare in a scientific man, was endowed with vast energy, and had a fine sense of injury in the matter of the extinguished species. While Porkens was a man of dull presence, prosy of speech, in shape not unlike a water barrel, over conscientious with testimonials, and suspected of jobbing museum appointments. So the young men gathered around Hapli and applauded him. It was a long struggle, vicious from the beginning, and growing at last to pitiless antagonism. The success of turns of fortune, now an advantage to one side, and now to another. Now Hapli tormented by some success of Porkens, and now Porkens outshone by Hapli, belong rather to the history of entomology than to the story. But in 1891, Porkens, whose health had been bad for some time, published some work upon the mesoblast of the Death's Head Moth. What the mesoblast of the Death's Head Moth may be, does not matter a wrap in the story. But the work was far below his usual standard. When gave Hapli an opening, he had coveted for years. He must have worked night and day to make the most of his advantage. In an elaborate critique, he rents Porkens to tatters. One can fancy the man's disordered black hair, and his queer, dark eyes flashing as he went for his antagonist. And Porkens made a reply, halting, ineffectual, with painful gasps of silence, and yet malignant. There was no mistaking his will to wound Hapli, nor his incapacity to do so. But few of those who heard him, I was absent from that meeting, realized how ill the man was. Hapli had got his opponent down, and meant to finish him. He followed with simply brutal attack upon Porkens, in the form of a paper upon the development of moths general, a paper showing evidence of the most extraordinary amount of mental labor, and yet couched in a violently controversial tone, violent as it was, and editorial note witnesses that it was modified. It must have covered Porkens with shame and confusion of face. It left no loophole. It was murderous in argument, and utterly contemptuous in tone, an awful thing for the declining ideas of a man's career. The world of entomologists waited breathlessly for the rejoinder from Porkens. He would try one for Porkens had always been game. But when it came, it surprised them. For the rejoinder of Porkens was to catch influenza, to proceed to pneumonia, and to die. It was perhaps as effectual a reply as he could make under the circumstances, and largely turned the current of feeling happily. The very people who had most gleefully cheered on the gladiators became serious at the consequence. There could be no reasonable doubt the threat of the defeat had contributed to the death of Porkens. There was a limit even to scientific controversy, said serious people. Another crushing attack was already in the press, and appeared on the day before the funeral. I don't think happily exerted himself to stop it. People remembered how happily had hounded down his rival, and forgot that his rival's defects. Scathing satire reads ill over fresh mold. The thing provoked comments in the daily papers. This it was that made me think that you had probably heard of happily and his controversy. But as I have already remarked, scientific workers live very much in a world of their own. Half the people, dare I say, who go along Piccadilly to the academy every year, could not tell you where the learned societies abide. Many even think that research is a kind of happy family cage in which all kinds of men lie down together in peace. In his private thoughts, happily could not forgive Porkens for dying. In the first place, it was a mean dodge to escape the absolute pulverization happily had in mind for him. And in the second, it left happily's mind with a queer gap in it. For twenty years he had worked hard, sometimes far into the night and seven days a week with microscope, scalpel, collecting net and pen and almost entirely with reference to Porkens. The European reputation he had won had come as an incident in that great antipathy. He had gradually worked up to a climax in his last controversy. It had killed Porkens but he had also thrown happily out of gear so to speak and his doctor advised him to give up work for a time and rest. So happily went down into a quiet village in Kent and thought day and night of Porkens and good things it was now impossible to say about him. At last, happily began to realize in what direction the preoccupation tended. He determined to make a fight for it and started by trying to read novels but he could not get his mind off Porkens, white in the face and making his last speech. Every sentence a beautiful opening for happily. He turned to fiction and found it had no grip on him. He read The Island Knight's Entertainment until his sense of causation was shocked beyond endurance by the bottle imp. Then he went to Kipling and found he proved nothing besides being irrelevant and vulgar. These scientific people have their limitations. Then unhappily he tried Besant's in a house and the opening chapter set his mind upon learner societies and Porkens at once. So happily turned to chess and found it a little more soothing. He soon mastered the moves and the chief gambits and the common closing positions and began to beat the vicar. But then the cylindrical contours of the opposite king began to resemble Porkens standing up and gasping ineffectually against checkmate and happily decided to give up chess. Perhaps the study of some new branch of science would after all be better diversion. The best rest is change of occupation. Happily determined to plunge into diatoms and had one of his smaller microscopes and Halibut's monograph sent down from London. He thought that perhaps if he could get up a vigorous quarrel with Halibut he might be able to begin life afresh and forget Porkens. And very soon he was hard at work in his habitual strenuous fashion at these very microscopic denizens of the wayside pool. It was on the third day of the diatoms that Happily became aware of a novel addition to the local fauna. He was working late at the microscope and the only light in the room was a brilliant little lamp with a special form of green lampshade. Like all experienced microscopists he kept both eyes open. It is the only way to avoid excessive fatigue. One eye was over the instrument and bright and distinct before that was the circular field of the microscope, a cross which a brown diatom was slowly moving. With the other eye Happily saw as it were without seeing. Footnote. The reader unaccustomed to microscopes may easily understand this by rolling a newspaper in the form of a tube and looking through it at a book keeping the other eye open. In footnote. He was only dimly conscious of the brass side of the instrument, the illuminated part of the tablecloth, a sheet of note paper the foot of the lamp and the darkened room beyond. Suddenly his attention drifted from one eye to the other. The tablecloth was of the material called tapestry by shopman and rather brightly coloured. The pattern was in gold with a small amount of crimson and pale blue upon a greyish background. At one point the pattern seemed displaced and there was a vibrating movement of colours at this point. Happily suddenly moved his head back and looked with both eyes. His mouth fell open with astonishment. It was a large moth or butterfly. Its wings spread in butterfly fashion. It was strange it should be in the room at all for the windows were closed. Strange that it should not have attracted his attention when it fluttered into its present position. Strange that it should match the tablecloth. Stranger, far to him, happily the great entomologist it was altogether unknown. There was no delusion. It was crawling slowly towards the foot of the lamp. Genus, unknown by heavens and in England said happily staring. Then suddenly he thought of porkens. Nothing would have maddened porkens more and porkens was dead. Something about the head and body of the insect became singularly suggestive of porkens just as the chess king had. Confound porkens said happily but I must catch this and looking around him for some means of capturing the moth he rose slowly out of his chair. Suddenly the insect rose struck the edge of the lampshade happily heard the ping and vanished into the shadow. In a moment happily had whipped off the shade so that the whole room was illuminated. The thing had disappeared and the activist eye detected it upon the wallpaper near the door. He went towards it, poising the lampshade for capture. Before he was within striking distance however it had risen and was fluttering around the room. After the fashion of its kind it flew with sudden start and turns seeming to vanish here and reappear there. Once happily struck and missed then again. The third time he hit his microscope he struck and overturned the lamp and fell noisily on the floor. The lamp turned over on the table and very luckily went out. Happily was left in the dark. With a start he felt the strange moth blunder into his face. It was maddening. He had no lights. If he opened the door of the room the thing would get away. In the darkness he saw porkens quite distinctly laughing at him. Porkens had ever an oily laugh. He swore furiously and stamped his foot on the floor. There was a timid wrapping at the door. Then it opened perhaps a foot and very slowly the alarmed face of the landlady appeared behind a pink candle flame. She wore a nightcap over her grey hair and had some purple garment over her shoulders. What was that fearful smash she said? Has anything the strange moth appeared fluttering about the chink of the door? Shut the door! said Happily and suddenly rushed at her. The door slammed hastily. Happily was left alone in the dark. Then in the pause he heard the landlady scuttle upstairs lock her door and drag something heavy across the room and put against it. It became evident to Happily that his conduct and appearance had been strange and alarming. Confound the moth and porkens. However it was a pity to lose the moth now. He felt his way into the hall and found the matches after sending his head down upon the floor with a noise like a drum. With a lighted candle he returned to the sitting room. No moth was to be seen. He had once for a moment it seemed that the thing was fluttering around his head. Happily very suddenly decided to give up the moth and go to bed. But he was excited. One night long his sleep was broken by dreams of the moth, porkens and the landlady. Twice in the night he turned out and sauced his head in cold water. One thing was very clear to him. The landlady could not possibly understand about the strange moth. Especially as he had failed to catch it. No one but an entomologist would understand quite how he felt. She was probably frightened at his behaviour and yet he failed to see how he could explain it. He decided to say nothing further about the events of last night. After breakfast he saw her in the garden and decided to go out and talk to her to reassure her. He talked to her about beans and potatoes, bees, caterpillars and the price of fruit. She replied in her usual manner but she looked at him a little suspiciously and kept walking as he walked so that there was always a bed of flowers or a row of beans or something of that sort between them. After a while he began to feel singularly irritated at this and to conceal his vexation he went indoors and presently went out for a walk. The moth or butterfly trailing an odd flavour of porkins with it kept coming into that walk though he did his best to keep his mind off it. Once he saw it quite distinctly with its wings flattened out upon the old stone wall that runs along the west edge of the park but going up to it he found there was only two lumps of grey and yellow lichen. This, said Happily, is the reverse of mimicry. Instead of a butterfly looking like a stone here is a stone looking like a butterfly. Once something hovered and fluttered around his head but by an effort of will he drove that impression out of his mind again. In the afternoon Happily called upon the vicar and argued with him upon theological questions they sat in the little arbor covered with briar and smoked as they wrangled. Look at that moth, said Happily suddenly pointing to the edge of the wooden table. Where? said the vicar. You don't see a moth on the edge of the table there? said Happily. Certainly not said the vicar. Happily was thunderstrucked. He gasped. The vicar was staring at him. Clearly the man saw nothing. The eye of the faith is no better than the eye of science. Said Happily awkwardly. I don't see your point. Said the vicar, thinking it was part of the argument. That night Happily found the moth crawling over his counterplane. He sat on the edge of the bed in his shirt sleeves and reasoned with himself. Was it pure hallucination? He knew he was slipping and he battled for his sanity with the same silent energy he had formally displayed against porcans. So persistent his mental habit that he felt as if it were a struggle with porcans. He was well versed in psychology. He knew that such visual illusions do not come as a result of mental strain. But the point was he did not see the moth. He had heard it when it touched the edge of the lampshade and afterwards when it hit against the wall. And he had felt it strike his face in the dark. He looked at it. It was not at all dreamlike but perfectly clear and solid looking in the dark. He looked at it. It was not at all dreamlike but perfectly clear and solid looking in the candlelight. He saw the hairy body and the short feathery antennae the jointed legs even a place where the down was rubbed from the wing. He suddenly felt angry with himself for being afraid of a little insect. His landlady had got the servant to sleep with her that night because she was afraid to be alone. In addition she had locked the door and put the chest of drawers against it. They listened and talked in whispers after they had gone to bed but nothing occurred to alarm them. About eleven they had ventured to put the candle out and had both dozed off to sleep. Then they woke up with a start and sat up in bed listening in the darkness. Then they heard the slippet feet going to and fro in Haplie's room. A chair was overturned there was a violent dab at the wall. Then a china mantel ornament smashed upon the fender. Suddenly the door of the room opened and they heard him upon the landing. They clung to one another listening. He seemed to be dancing upon the staircase. Now he would go down three or four steps quickly then up again then hurried down into the hall. They heard the umbrella stand go over and the fan-like break. Then the bolt shot and the chain rattled. He was opening the door. They hurried to the window. It was a dim grey night and almost unbroken sheet of watery cloud was sweeping across the moon and the trees in front of the house were black against the pale roadway. They saw Haplie looking like a ghost in his shirt and white trousers. Running to and fro in the road and beating the air. Now he would stop. Now he would dart very rapidly at something invisible. Now he would move upon it with stealthy strides and last he went out of sight up the road towards the down. Then while they argued who should go down and lock the door he was walking very fast and he came straight into the house closed the door carefully and went quietly up to his bedroom. Everything was silent. Mrs. Colville said happily calling down the staircase next morning I hope I did not alarm you last night. You may well ask that said Mrs. Colville. The fact is I'm a sleepwalker and the last two nights I have been without my sleeping mixture. There's nothing to be alarmed about really. I'm sorry I made such an ass of myself. I will go over the down to show him and get some stuff to make me sleep soundly. I ought to have done it yesterday. But half way over the down by the chalk bits the moth came upon Haplie again. He went on trying to keep his mind upon chest problems but it was no good. The thing fluttered into his face and he struck at it with his hat in self defense. Then rage, the old rage the rage he had so often felt against pork and returned once more. He went on leaping and striking at the eddying insect. Suddenly he trod on nothing and fell headlong. There was a gap in his sensations and Haplie found himself sitting on the heap of flints in front of the opening on the chalk bits with a leg twisted back underneath him. The strange moth was still fluttering around his head. He struck at it with his hand and turning his head before two men approaching him. One was the village doctor. It occurred to Haplie that this was lucky. Then it came into his mind with extraordinary vividness that no one would ever be able to see the strange moth except himself and that it behooved him to keep silent about it. Late that night however after his broken leg was set he was feverish and forgot his self restraint. He was lying flat on his bed and he began to run his eyes around the room to see if the moth was still about. He tried not to do this but it was no good. He soon caught sight of the thing resting close to his hand by the night light on the green tablecloth. The wings quivered with a sudden wave of anger he smote at it with his fist and the nurse woke up with a shriek. He had missed it. That moth he said and then it was fancy, nothing. All the time he could see quite clearly and darting across the room and he could also see that the nurse saw nothing of it and looked at him strangely. He must keep himself in hand. He knew he was a lost man if he did not keep himself in hand but as the night waned the fever grew upon him and the very dread he had of seeing the moth made him see it. About five just as the dawn was grey he tried to get out of bed and catch it though his leg was a fire with pain the nurse had to struggle with him. On account of this they tied him down to the bed. At this the moth grew bolder and once he felt it settled in his hair then because he struck out violently with his arms they tied these also. At this the moth came and crawled over his face and happily wept, swore, screamed prayed for them to take it off him unavailingly. The doctor was a blockhead a half qualified general practitioner and quite ignorant of mental science he simply said there's no moth. Had he possessed the wit he might still perhaps have saved happily from his fate by entering into his delusion and covering his face with gauze as he prayed might be done but as I say the doctor was a blockhead and until the leg was healed happily was kept tied to his bed with the imaginary moth crawling over him it never left him while he was awake and it grew to a monster in his dreams while he was awake and after sleep and from sleep he awoke screaming so now happily is spending the remainder of his days in a padded room worried by a moth that no one else can see the asylum doctor calls it hallucination but happily when he is in his easier mood and can talk says it is the ghost of porkins and consequently a unique specimen and well worth the trouble of catching end of a moth unknown The Phantom Hag from 25 ghost stories compiled and edited by W. Bob Holland this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org read for LibriVox by Dale Grossman The Phantom Hag The other evening in an old castle the conversation turned to apparitions each one of the party telling a story as the accounts grew more horrible the young ladies drew closer together Have you ever had an adventure with a ghost? said they to me Do you know a story to make a shiver? Come tell us something I am quite willing to do so I replied I will tell you of an incident that happened to myself toward the close of the autumn of 1858 I visited one of my friends sub-prefect of a little city in the center of France Albert was an old companion of my youth and I had been present at his wedding his charming wife was full of goodness and grace my friend wished to show me his happy home and to introduce me to his two little daughters I was fetid and taken great care of three days after my arrival I knew the entire city curiosities, old castles ruins, etc every day about five o'clock Albert would order a Phaeton and we would take a long ride returning home in the evening one evening my friend said to me tomorrow we will go further than usual I want to take you to Black Rocks they are curious old druid stones on the wild and desolate plain they will interest you my wife has not seen them yet so we will take her the following day we drove out at the usual hour Albert's wife sat by his side I occupied the back seat alone the weather was grey and somber that afternoon and the journey was not very pleasant when we arrived at the Black Rocks the sun was setting we got out of the Phaeton and Albert took care of the horses we walked some little distance through the fields before reaching the giant remains of the old druid religion Albert's wife wished to climb to the summit of the altar and I assisted her I can still see her graceful figure as she stood draped in a red shawl her veil floating around her how beautiful it is but does it not make you feel a little melancholy? said she extending her hand toward the dark horizon which was lighted a little by the last rays of the sun the afternoon wind blew violently and sighed through the stunted trees around the stone carmelics not a dwelling nor a human being was in sight we hastened to get down and silently retraced our steps to the carriage we must hurry said Albert the sky is threatening and we shall have scarcely time to reach home before night we carefully wrapped the robes around his wife she tied the veil around her face and the horses started into a rapid trot it was growing dark the scenery around us was bare and desolate clumps of fir trees here and there and fursy bushes formed the only vegetation we began to feel the cold for the wind blew with fury the only sound we heard was a steady trot of the horses and the sharp clear tinkle of their bells suddenly I felt a heavy grasp of a hand upon my shoulder I turned my head quickly a horrible apparition presented itself before my eyes in the empty place at my side sat a hideous woman I tried to cry out the phantom placed her fingers upon her lips to impose silence upon me I could not utter a sound the woman was clothed in white linen her head was cowled her face overspread with a corpse-like pallor and in place of eyes were ghastly black cavities I sat motionless overcome by terror the ghost suddenly stood up and leaned over the young wife she encircled her with her arms and lowered her hideous head as if to kiss her forehead what a wind cried Madame Albert turning precipitantly toward me my veil is torn as she turned I felt the same infernal pressure on my shoulder and the place occupied by the phantom was empty I looked out to the right and left the road was deserted not an object in sight what a dreadful gale said Madame Albert did you feel it I cannot explain the terror that seized me my veil was torn by the wind by an invisible hand I am trembling still never mind said Albert smiling wrap yourself up my dear we will soon be warming ourselves by the good fire at home I am starving a cold perspiration covered my forehead a shiver ran through me my tongue clothed to the roof of my mouth I could not articulate a sound a sharp pain in my shoulder only sensible evidence that I was not the victim of an hallucination putting a hand upon my aching shoulder I felt a rent in the cloak that was wrapped around me I looked at it five perfectly distinct holes visible traces of the grip of the horrible phantom I thought for a moment that I should die or that my reason should leave me it was I think a dreadful moment of my life finally I became more calm this nameless agony had lasted for some minutes I do not think it is possible for a human being to suffer more than I did during that time as soon as I recovered my senses I thought at first I would tell my friends all that had passed but hesitated and finally did not fearing that my story might frighten feeling sure my friend would not believe me the lights of the little city revived me and gradually the oppression of terror that overwhelmed me became lighter so soon as we reached home Madame Albert untied her veil it was literally in shreds I hoped to find my close whole and prove to myself that it was all imagination but no the cloth was torn in five places just where the fingers had seized my shoulder there was no mark however upon my flesh only a dull pain I returned to Paris the next day where I endeavored to forget the strange adventure or at least when I thought of it I could force myself to think it and hallucination the day after my return I received a letter from my friend Albert it was edged with black I opened it with a vague fear his wife had died the day of my return the end of The Phantom Hag edited by W. Bob Holland Stanley Fleming's hallucination by Ambrose Beers this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org read for LibriVox by Dale Grossman Stanley Fleming's hallucination by Ambrose Beers of the two men talking one was a physician I said for you doctor said the other but I don't think you can do me any good maybe you can recommend a specialist in psychopathy I fancy I'm a bit of a loon you look all right the physician said you shall judge I have hallucinations I wake every night and see in my room intently watching me a big black Newfoundland dog with a white front foot you say you wake are you sure about that hallucinations are sometimes only dreams oh I wake all right sometimes I lie still a long time looking at the dog as earnestly as the dog looks at me I always leave the light going when I can't endure it any longer I sit up in bed and nothing is there hmm what is the beast's expression it seems to me sinister of course I know that except in art an animal's face in repose is always the same expression but this is not a real animal Newfoundland dogs are pretty mild-looking you know what's the matter with this one really my diagnosis would have no value I am not going to treat the dog the physician laughed at his own pleasantry but narrowly watched his patient from the corner of his eye presently he said Fleming your description of the late Atwell Barton Fleming half rose from his chair sat again and made a visible attempt at indifference I remember Barton he said I believe he was it was reported that wasn't there something suspicious in his death looking squarely now into the eyes of his patient the physician said three years ago the body of your old enemy Atwell Barton was found in the woods near his house and yours he had been stabbed to death there have been no arrests there was no clue some of us have theories I had one have you I why bless your soul what would I know about it you remember that I left for Europe almost immediately afterward a considerable time afterward in a few weeks since my return you could not expect me to construct a theory in fact I have not given the matter a thought what about his dog it was the first to find the body he died of starvation on his grave we do not know the inexorable laws underlying coincidences Stanley Fleming did not or he would perhaps not run to his feet as the night when brought in through the open window the long quailing howl of a distant dog he strode several times across the room in the steadfast gaze of the physician then abruptly confronted him almost shouted what has all of this got to do with my trouble Dr. Haldeman you forget why you were set for rising the physician and upon his patient's arm and said gently pardon me I cannot diagnose your disorder offhand tomorrow perhaps please go to bed leave your door unlocked I will pass the night here with your books can you call me without rising yes there's an electric bell good if anything disturbs you push the button without sitting up good night countably installed in an arm chair the man of medicine stared into the glowing coals and thought deeply and long but apparently to little purpose for he frequently rose and opened a door leading to the staircase listening intently then resumed his seat presently however he fell asleep and when he woke it was past midnight he stirred the failing fire lifted a book from the table at his side and looked at the title it was Denecher's meditations he opened it at random and began to read for as much as it was ordained of God that all flesh hath spirit and thereby take on spiritual powers so also the spirit hath powers of the flesh even when it has gone out of the flesh and liveth as a thing apart as many of violence performed by Wraith and Lemmere Sleuth and there be who say that man is not single in this but the beasts have the like evil inducement and the reading was interrupted by a shaking of the house as by the falling of a heavy object the reader flung down the book rushed from the room and mounted the stairs to Fleming's bed chamber he tried the door but contrary to his instructions it was locked he set his shoulder against it with such force that it gave way on the floor near the disordered bed in his nightclothes lay Fleming gasping away his life the physician raised the dying man's head from the floor and observed a wound in the throat I should have thought of this he said believing it suicide when the man was dead and examination disclosed the unmistakable marks of an animal's fangs deeply sunk into the jugular vein but there was no animal the end of Stanley Fleming's solutionation by Ambrose Beers The Tarn by Hugh Walpole this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rafe Ball The Tarn by Hugh Walpole as Foster moved unconsciously across the room in a bookcase and stood leaning forward little choosing now one book now another with his eye his host seeing the muscles of the back of his thin scraggy neck stand out above his low flannel collar thought of the ease with which he could squeeze that throat and the pleasure the triumphant lustful pleasure that such an action would give him The low white walled white ceilinged room flooded with the mellow kindly lakeland sun October is a wonderful month in the English lakes golden, rich and perfumed slow suns moving through apricot-tinted skies to ruby evening glories the shadows lie then thick about that beautiful country in dark purple patches in long web-like patterns of silver gauze in thick splotches of amber and grey the clouds pass in galleons across the mountains now veiling now revealing now descending with ghost-like armies to the very breast of the plains suddenly rising to the softest of blue skies and lying thin in lazy, languorous colour Phoenix Cottage looked across to low fells on his right seen through the side windows sprawled the hills above derwent water Phoenix looked at Foster's back and felt suddenly sick so that he sat down veiling his eyes for a moment with his hand Foster had come up there come all the way from London to explain it was so like Foster to want to explain to want to put things right for how many years had he known Foster? why, for twenty at least and during all those years Foster had been forever determined to put things right with everybody he could not bear to be disliked he hated that anyone should think ill of him he wanted everyone to be his friend that was one reason perhaps why Foster had got on so well had prospered so in his career one reason too why Fennec had not for Fennec was the opposite of Foster in this he did not want friends he certainly did not care that people should like him that is, people for whom for one reason or another he had contempt and he had contempt for quite a number of people Fennec looked at that long thin bending back and felt his knees tremble soon Foster would turn round and that high-reedy voice would pipe out something about the books what jolly books you have Fennec how many many times in the long watches of the night when Fennec could not sleep had he heard that pipe sounding close there yes, in the very shadows of his bed and how many times had Fennec replied to it I hate you you are the cause of my failure in life you have been in my way always always always always patronising and pretending and in truth showing others what a poor thing you thought me how great a failure how conceited a fool I know you can hide nothing from me I can hear you for twenty years now Foster had been persistently in Fennec's way there had been that affair so long ago now when Robbins had wanted a sub-editor for his wonderful review The Parthenon and Fennec had gone to see him and they had had a splendid talk how magnificently Fennec had talked that day with enthusiasm he had shown Robbins who was blinded by his own conceit anyway the kind of paper the Parthenon might be how Robbins had caught his own enthusiasm how he had pushed his fat body about the room crying yes, yes Fennec that's fine, that's fine indeed and then how after all Foster had got that job the paper had only lived for a year or so it is true the fiction with it had brought Foster into prominence just as it might have brought Fennec then five years later there was Fennec's novel The Bitter Allow the novel upon which he had spent three years of blood and tears endeavour and then in the very same week of publication Foster brings out The Circus the novel that made his name although heaven knows the thing was poor enough sentimental trash you may say that one novel cannot kill another but can it not? had not The Circus appeared would not that group of London nobles that conceited limited ignorant self-satisfied crowd who nevertheless can do by their talk so much to effect a book's good or evil fortunes have talked about The Bitter Allow and so forced it into prominence as it was the book was stillborn and The Circus went on its prancing triumphant way after that there had been many occasions some small, some big and always in one way or another that thin, scraggie body of Foster's was interfering with Fennec's happiness the thing had become of course an obsession with Fennec hiding up there in the heart of the lakes with no friends almost no company with little money he was given too much to brooding over his failure he was a failure and it was not his own fault how could it be his own fault with his talents and his brilliance it was the fault of modern life and its lack of culture the fault of the stupid material mess that made up the intelligences of human beings and the fault of Foster always Fennec hoped that Foster would keep away from him he did not know what he would not do did he see the man and then one day to his amazement he received a telegram passing through this way may I stop with you Monday and Tuesday Giles Foster Fennec could scarcely believe his eyes and then from curiosity from cynical contempt from some deeper, more mysterious motive that he dared not analyze he had telegraphed come and here the man was and he had come, would you believe it to put things right he had heard from Hamelin Eddis that Fennec was hurt with him had some kind of a grievance I didn't like to feel that old man and so I thought I'd just stop by and have it out with you see what the matter was and put it right last night after supper Foster had tried to put it right eagerly his eyes like a good dogs who is asking for a bone that he knows that he thoroughly deserves he had held out his hand and asked Fennec to say what was up Fennec simply had said that nothing was up Hamelin Eddis was a damned fool oh, I'm glad to hear that Foster had cried, springing out of his chair and putting his hand on Fennec's shoulder I'm glad of that old man I couldn't bear for us not to be friends we've been friends so long Lord how Fennec hated him at that moment what a jolly lot of books you have Foster turned round and looked at Fennec with eager gratified eyes every book here is interesting I like your arrangement of them too and those open bookshelves it always seems to me ashamed of the books behind glass Foster came forward and sat down quite close to his host he even reached forward and laid his hand on his host's knee look here I'm mentioning it for the last time positively but I do want to make quite certain there is nothing wrong between us is there old man I know you assured me last night but I just want surveying him felt suddenly an exquisite pleasure of hatred he liked the touch of the man's hand on his knee he himself bent forward a little and thinking how agreeable it would be to push Foster's eyes in deep, deep into his head crunching them smashing them to purple leaving the empty, staring bloody sockets said why? no of course not what did you do last night? what could there be? the hand gripped the knee a little more tightly I am so glad that's splendid splendid I hope you won't think me ridiculous but I've always had an affection for you ever since I can remember I've always wanted to know you better I've admired your talent so greatly that novel of yours the one about the aloe the bitter aloe ah yes that was it that was a splendid book pessimistic of course but still fine it ought to have done better I remember thinking so at the time yes, it ought to have done better your time will come though what I say is that good work always tells in the end yes my time will come the thin piping voice went on I've had more success than I deserved oh yes I have you can't deny it I'm not being falsely modest I mean it I've got some talent of course but not so much as people say and you why you've got so much more than their knowledge you have old man you have indeed only I do hopefully forgive my saying this perhaps you haven't advanced quite as you might have done living up here, shut away here closed in by all these mountains in this wet climate always raining why, you're out of things you don't see people, don't talk and discover what's really going on why, look at me Fenwick turned round and looked at him now I have half the year in London where one gets the best of everything best talk, best music and then I'm three months abroad Italy or Greece or somewhere and then three months in the country now that's an ideal arrangement you have everything that way Italy or Greece or somewhere something turned in Fenwick's breast grinding, grinding grinding how he had longed oh how passionately for just one week in Greece since Sicily sometimes he had thought that he might run to it but when it had come to the actual counting of the pennies and how this fool, this fat head this self-satisfied conceited patronising he got up, looked out at the golden sun what do you say to a walk he suggested the sun will last for a good hour yet as soon as the words were out of his lips he felt as though someone else had said them for him he even turned half round to see whether anyone else were there ever since Foster's arrival and the evening before he had been conscious of this sensation a walk why should he take Foster for a walk show him his beloved country point out those curves and lines and hollows, the broad silver shield of Durantwater, the cloudy purple hills hunched like blankets about the knees of some recumbent giant why? it was as though he had turned round to someone behind him and had said you have some further design in this they started out the road sank abruptly to the lake then the path ran between trees at the water's edge across the lake tones of bright yellow light crocus-hued rode upon the blue the hills were dark the very way that Foster walked bespoke the man he was always a little ahead of you pushing his long thin body along with little eager jerks as though he did not hurry he would miss something that would be immensely to his advantage he talked throwing words over his shoulder to Fennec as you throw crumbs of bread to a robin of course I was pleased who would not be after all it's a new prize they've only been awarding it for a year or two but it's gratifying really gratifying to secure it when I opened the envelope and found the check there well you could have knocked me down with a feather you could indeed of course a hundred pounds isn't much but it's the honour wither were they going their destiny was as certain as though they had no free will free will? there is no free will all is fate Fennec suddenly laughed aloud Foster stopped why what is it what's what he laughed something amused me Foster slipped his arm through Fennec's it is jolly to be walking along together like this arm in arm friends I'm a sentimental man I won't deny it what I say is that life is short and one must love one's fellow beings or where is one you live too much alone old man he squeezed Fennec's arm that's the truth of it it was torture exquisite heavenly torture it was wonderful to feel that thin bony arm pressing against his almost you could hear the beating of that other heart wonderful to feel that arm and the temptation to take it in your two hands and to end it and twist it and then to hear the bones crack crack crack wonderful to feel that temptation rise through one's body like boiling water and yet not to yield to it for a moment Fennec's hand touched Foster's then he drew himself apart we're at the village this is the hotel where they all come in the summer turn off at the right here I'll show you my tan your tan asked Foster forgive my ignorance but what is a tan exactly a tan is a miniature lake a pool of water lying in the lap of the hill very quiet lovely silent some of them are immensely deep I should like to see that it is some little distance up a rough road do you mind? not a bit I have long legs some of them are immensely deep unfathomable nobody touched the bottom but quiet like glass with shadows only do you know Fennec but I've always been afraid of water I've never learnt to swim afraid to go out of my depth isn't that ridiculous but it is all because at my private school years ago when I was a small boy some big fellows took me and held me with my head under the water and nearly drowned me they did indeed they went farther than they meant to I can see their faces Fennec considered this the picture leapt to his mind he could see the boys large strong fellows probably and this little skinny thing like a frog their thick hands about his throat his legs like grey sticks kicking out of the water their laughter their sudden sense that something was wrong a skinny body all flaccid and still he drew a deep breath Foster was walking beside him now not ahead of him as though he were a little afraid needed reassurance the scene had changed before and behind them stretched the uphill path loose with shale and stones on their right, on a ridge at the foot of the hill, were some quarries almost deserted but the more melancholy in the fading afternoon because a little work still continued there faint sounds came from the gaunt listening chimneys a stream of water ran and tumbled angrily into a pool below once and again a black silhouette like a question mark appeared against the darkening hill it was a little steep here and Foster puffed and blew Fenwick hated him the more for that so thin and spare and still he could not keep in condition they stumbled keeping below the quarry on the edge of the running water now green, now a dirty white grey pushing their way along the side of the hill their faces were set now towards Hellvellen it rounded the cups of hills closing in the base and then sprawling to the right there's the taan Fenwick exclaimed and then added the sun's not lasting as long as I had expected it's growing dark already Foster stumbled and caught Fenwick's arm this twilight makes the hills look strange like living men I can scarcely see my way we're alone here Fenwick answered don't you feel the stillness the men will have left the quarry now and gone home there is no one in all this place but ourselves if you watch you will see a strange green light steel down over the hills it lasts but for a moment and then it is dark ah, here is my taan do you know how I love this place Foster it seems to belong especially to me just as much as all your work and your glory and fame and success seem to belong to you I have this and you have that perhaps in the end we are even after all yes but I feel as though that piece of water belong to me and I to it and as though we should never be separated yes isn't it black it is one of the deep ones no one has ever sounded it only hell well in those and one day I fancy that it will take me to into its confidence will whisper its secrets Foster sneezed very nice very beautiful Fennec I like your taan charming and now let's turn back that is a difficult walk beneath the quarry its chilly too do you see that little jetty there Fennec led Foster by the arm someone built that out into the water he had a boat there I suppose come and look down from the end of the little jetty it looked so deep and the mountains seemed to close round Fennec took Foster's arm and led him to the end of the jetty indeed the water looked deep here deep and very black Foster peered down then he looked up at the hills that did indeed seem to have gathered close around him he sneezed again I've caught a cold I'm afraid let's turn homeward Fennec or we shall never find our way home then said Fennec and his hands closed about the thin scraggie neck for the instant the head half turned and two startled strangely childish eyes stared then with a push that was ludicrously simple the body was impelled forward and there was a sharp cry a splash a stir of something white against the swiftly gathering dusk again and then again then father spreading ripples then silence the silence extended having enwrapped the tarn it spread as though with finger on a lip to the already quiescent hills Fennec shared in the silence he luxuriated in it he did not move at all he stood there looking upon the inky water of the tarn his arms folded a man lost in intensest thought but he was not thinking he was only conscious of a warm luxurious relief a sensuous feeling that was not thought at all Foster was gone that tiresome prating conceited self-satisfied fall gone, never to return the tarn assured him of that it stared back into Fennec's face approvingly as though it said you have done well a clean and necessary job we have done it together you and I I am proud of you he was proud of himself at last he had done something definite with his life thought, eager, active thought was beginning now to flood his brain for all these years he had hung around in this place doing nothing but cherish grievances, weak, backboneless now at last there was action he drew himself up and looked at the hills he was proud and he was cold he was shivering he turned up the collar of his coat yes, there was the faint green light always lingered in the shadows of the hills for a brief moment before darkness came it was growing late he had better return shivering now so that his teeth chattered he started off down the path and then was aware that he did not wish to leave the tarn the tarn was friendly the only friend he had in all the world as he stumbled along in the dark this sense of loneliness grew he was going home to an empty house there had been a guest in it last night was it? why, Foster of course Foster with his silly laugh and amiable mediocre eyes well, Foster would not be there now no, he would never be there again and suddenly Fennec started to run he did not know why except that now that he had left the tarn he was lonely he wished that he could have stayed there all night but because he was cold he could not and so now he was running so that he might be at home with the lights and the familiar furniture and all the things that he knew to reassure him as he ran the shale and stone scattered beneath his feet they made a tit-tattering noise under him and someone else seemed to be running too he stopped and the other runner also stopped he breathed in the silence he was hot now the perspiration was trickling down his cheeks he could feel a dribble of it down his back inside his shirt his knees were pounding his heart was thumping and all around him the hills were so amazingly silent now like India rubber clouds that you could push in or pull out as you do those India rubber faces gray against the night sky of a crystal purple upon whose surface like the twinkling eyes of boats at sea stars were now appearing his knees steadied his heart beat less fiercely and he began to run again suddenly he had turned the corner and was out at the hotel its lamps were kindly and reassuring he walked then quietly along the lakeside path and had it not been for the certainty that someone was treading behind him he would have been comfortable and at his ease he stopped once or twice and looked back and once he stopped and called out who's there? only the rustling trees answered he had the strangest fancy but his brain was throbbing so fiercely that he could not think that it was the tarn that was following him the tarn slipping sliding along the road so that he should not be lonely he could almost hear the tarn whisper in his ear we did that together and so I do not wish you to bear all the responsibility yourself I will stay with you so that you are not lonely he climbed the road towards home and there were the lights of his house he heard the gate click behind him as though it was shutting him in he went into the sitting room lighted and ready there were the books that Foster had admired the old woman who looked after him appeared will you be having some tea sir? no thank you Annie will the other gentleman be wanting any? no the other gentleman is away for the night then there will only be one for supper? yes only one for supper he sat in the corner of the sofa and fell instantly into a deep slumber he woke when the old woman tapped him on the shoulder and told him that supper was served the room was dark safe for the jumping light of two uncertain candles those two red candlesticks how he hated them up there on the mantelpiece he had always hated them and now they seem to him to have something of the quality of Foster's voice that thin, reedy piping tone he was expecting at every moment that Foster would enter and yet he knew that he would not he continued to turn his head towards the door but it was so dark there that you could not see the whole room was dark except just there by the fireplace where the two candlesticks went whining with their miserable twinkling plate he went into the dining-room and sat down to his meal but he could not eat anything it was odd that place by the table where Foster's chair should be odd, naked and made a man feel lonely he got up once from the table and went to the window opened it and looked out he listened for something a trickle as of running water through the silence as though some deep pool were filling to the brim a rustle in the trees, perhaps an owl hooted sharply as though someone had spoken to him unexpectedly behind his shoulder he closed the window and looked back peering under his dark eyebrows into the room later on he went up to bed had he been sleeping or had he been lying lazily as one does using half-luxuriously not thinking he was wide awake now utterly awake and his heart was beating with apprehension it was as though someone had called him by name he slept always with his window a little open and the blind up tonight the moonlight shadowed in sickly fashion the objects in his room it was not a flood of light nor yet a sharp splash there a circle throwing the rest into ebony blackness the light was dim a little green perhaps like the shadow that comes over the hills just before dark he stared the window and it seemed to him that something moved there within or rather against the green-gray light something silver tinted glistened fennec stared exactly of slipping water slipping water he listened his head up and it seemed to him that from beyond the window he caught the stir of water not running but rather welling up and up gurgling with satisfaction as it filled and filled he sat up higher in bed and then saw that down the wallpaper beneath the window water was undoubtedly trickling he could see it lurch to the projecting wood of the sill pause and then slip slither down the incline the odd thing was that it fell so silently beyond the window there was that odd gurgle but in the room itself absolute silence whence could it come? he saw the line of silver rise and fall as the stream on the window-edge ebbed and flowed he must get up and close the window he drew his legs above the sheets and blankets and looked down he shrieked the floor was covered with a shining film of water it was rising as he looked it had covered half the short stumpy legs of the bed it rose without a wink a bubble a break over the sill it poured now in a steady flow but soundless Fenwick sat back in the bed the clothes gathered to his chin his eyes blinking the Adam's apple throbbing like a throttle in his throat but he must do something he must stop this the water was now level with the seats of the chairs but still was soundless could he but reach the door he put down his naked foot then cried again the water was icy cold suddenly leaning staring at its dark unbroken sheen something seemed to push him forward he fell his head, his face was under the icy liquid it seemed adhesive and in the heart of its ice hot like melting wax he struggled his feet the water was breast high he screamed again and again he could see the looking glass the row of books, the picture of Durer's horse, aloof, impervious he beat at the water and flakes of it seemed to cling to him like scales of fish clammy to his touch he struggled plowing his way towards the door the water was now at his neck then something had caught him by the ankle something held him he struggled crying let me go, let me go I tell you to let me go I hate you I hate you I will not come down to you I will not the water covered his mouth he felt that someone pushed in his eyeballs with bare knuckles a cold hand reached up and caught his naked thigh in the morning the little maid knocked and receiving no answer came in as was her want with his shaving water what she saw made her scream she ran for the gardener they took the body with its staring protruding eyes its tongue sticking out between the clenched teeth and laid it on the bed the only sign of disorder was an overturned water jug a small pool of water stained the carpet it was a lovely morning a twig of ivy idly in the little breeze tapped the pain end of the tarn Recording by Rafe Ball In a village of Musashi province they lived two woodcutters Mosaku and Minokichi at the time of which I'm speaking Mosaku was an old man and Minokichi, his apprentice was a lad of 18 years every day they went together to a forest situated about 5 miles from their village on the way to that forest there is a wide river to cross and there is a ferry boat several times a bridge was built where the ferry is but the bridge was each time carried away by a flood no common bridge can resist the current there when the river rises Mosaku and Minokichi were on their way home one very cold evening when a great snowstorm overtook them they reached the ferry and they found that the boatman had gone away leaving his boat on the other side of the river it was no day for swimming and the woodcutters took shelter the ferryman's hut thinking themselves lucky to find any shelter at all there was no brazier in the hut nor any place in which to make a fire it was only a two mat hut with a single door but no window Mosaku and Minokichi fastened the door and lay down to rest with their straw raincoats over them at first they did not feel very cold and they thought that the storm would soon be over the old man almost immediately fell asleep but the boy Minokichi lay awake a long time listening to the awful wind and the continual slashing of the snow against the door the river was roaring and the hut swayed and creaked like a junk at sea it was a terrible storm and the air was every moment becoming colder and Minokichi shivered under his raincoat but at last in spite of the cold he too fell asleep he was awakened by a showering of snow in his face the hut of the door had been forced open and by the snow light Yuki Akari he saw a woman in the room a woman all in white she was bending above Mosaku and blowing her breath upon him and her breath was like a bright white smoke almost in the same moment she turned to Minokichi and stooped over him he tried to cry out but found that he could not utter any sound the white woman bent down over him lower and lower until her face almost touched him and he saw that she was very beautiful though her eyes made him afraid for a little while she continued to look at him then she smiled and she whispered I intended to treat you like the other man but I cannot help feeling some pity for you because you are so young you are a pretty boy you are a pretty boy Minokichi and I will not hurt you now but if you ever tell anybody even your own mother about what you have seen this night I shall know it and then I will kill you remember what I say with these words she turned from him and passed through the doorway then he found himself able to move and he sprang up and looked out but the woman was nowhere to be seen and the snow was driving furiously into the hut Minokichi closed the door and secured it by fixing several billets of wood against it he wondered if the wind had blown it open he thought that he might have been only dreaming and might have mistaken the gleam of the snow light in the doorway for the figure of a white woman but he could not be sure he called to Mosaku and was frightened because the old man touched his hand in the dark and touched Mosaku's face and found that it was ice Mosaku was stark and dead by dawn the storm was over and when the ferryman returned to his station a little after sunrise he found Minokichi lying senseless beside the frozen body of Mosaku Minokichi was promptly cared for and soon came to himself and remained a long time ill from the effects of the cold of that terrible night he had been greatly frightened also by the old man's death but he said nothing about the vision of the woman in white as soon as he got well again he returned to his calling going alone every morning to the forest and coming back at nightfall with his bundles of wood which his mother helped him to sell one evening in the winter of the following year as he was on his way home traveling by the same road she was a tall slim girl very good looking and she answered Minokichi's greeting in a voice as pleasant to the ear as the voice of a songbird then he walked beside her and they began to talk the girl said that her name was O-Yuki that she had lately lost both of her parents and that she was going to Yedo where she happened to have some poor relations who might help her to find a situation as a servant and he soon felt charmed by this strange girl and the more that he looked at her the handsomer she appeared to be he asked her whether she was yet betrothed and she answered laughingly that she was free then in her turn she asked Minokichi whether he was married or pledged to marry and he told her that although he had only a widowed mother to support the question of an honourable daughter-in-law had not yet been considered as he was very young after these confidences they walked on for a long time without speaking but as the proverb declares when the wish is there the eyes can say as much as the mouth by the time they reached the village they had become very much pleased with each other and then Minokichi asked O-Yuki to rest a while at his house after some shy hesitation she went there with him and his mother made her welcome and prepared a warm meal for her O-Yuki behaved so nicely that Minokichi's mother took a sudden fancy to her and persuaded her to delay her journey to Yedo and the natural end of the matter was that Yuki never went to Yedo at all she remained in the house as an honourable daughter-in-law O-Yuki proved a very good daughter-in-law when Minokichi's mother came to die some five years later her last words were words of affection and praise for the wife of her son and O-Yuki bore Minokichi ten children boys and girls handsome children all of them and very fair of skin the country folk thought O-Yuki a wonderful person by nature different from themselves most of the peasant women age early but O-Yuki, even after having become the mother of ten children young and fresh as on the day when she had first come to the village one night after the children had gone to sleep O-Yuki was sewing by the light of a paper lamp and Minokichi, watching her said to see you sewing there with the light on your face makes me think of a strange thing that happened when I was a lad of eighteen I then saw somebody as beautiful and white as you are now indeed without lifting her eyes from her work O-Yuki responded tell me about her where did you see her then Minokichi told her about the terrible night in the Ferryman's hut and about the white woman that had stooped above him smiling and whispering and about the silent death of old Mosaku and he said asleep or awake that was the only time that I saw a being as beautiful as you of course she was not a human being and I was afraid of her very much afraid but she was so white indeed I have never been sure whether it was a dream that I saw or the woman of the snow O-Yuki flung down her sewing and arose and bowed above Minokichi where he sat and shrieked into his face it was I I Yuki it was and I told you then that I would kill you if you ever said one word about it but for those children asleep there I would kill you this moment and now you had better take very very good care of them for if ever they have reason to complain of you I will treat you as you deserve even as she screamed her voice became thin like a crying of wind then she melted into a bright white mist that spired to the roof beams and shut it away through the smoke hole never again was she seen end of Yuki Ona