“Oh, they come when Alan is away,” she answered; “but they seem to annoy him so much that George thinks it is better to keep them out of sight when he is here.  It is very tiresome.  I know that it is the fashion to say that George has got the temper of the family; but I assure you that Alan’s nervous moods and fancies are much more difficult to live with.”

That was on the morning—­a Friday it was—­of the last day which we were to spend alone.  The guests were to arrive soon after tea; and I think that with the knowledge of their approach Alan and I prolonged our ride that afternoon beyond its usual limits.  We were on our way home, and it was already dusk, when a turn of the path brought us face to face with the old ruined tower, of which I have already spoken as standing at the head of the valley.  I had not been close up to it yet during this visit at Mervyn.  It had been a very favorite haunt of ours as children, and partly on that account, partly perhaps in order to defer the dreaded close of our ride to the last possible moment, I proposed an inspection of it.  The only portion of the old building left standing in any kind of entirety was two rooms, one above the other.  The tower room, level with the bottom of the moat, was dark and damp, and it was the upper one, reached by a little outside staircase, which had been our rendezvous of old.  Alan showed no disposition to enter, and said that he would stay outside and hold my horse, so I dismounted and ran up alone.

The room seemed in no way changed.  A mere stone shell, littered with fragments of wood and mortar.  There was the rough wooden block on which Alan used to sit while he first frightened us with bogey-stories, and then calmed our excited nerves by rapid sallies of wild nonsense.  There was the plank from behind which, erected as a barrier across the doorway, he would defend the castle against our united assault, pelting us with fir-cones and sods of earth.  This and many a bygone scene thronged on me as I stood there, and the room filled again with the memories of childish mirth.  And following close came those of childish terrors.  Horrors which had oppressed me then, wholly imagined or dimly apprehended from half-heard traditions, and never thought of since, flitted around me in the gathering dusk.  And with them it seemed to me as if there came other memories too,—­memories which had never been my own, of scenes whose actors had long been with the dead, but which, immortal as the spirit before whose eyes they had dwelt, still lingered in the spot where their victim had first learnt to shudder at their presence.  Once the ghastly notion came to me, it seized on my imagination with irresistible force.  It seemed as if from the darkened corners of the room vague, ill-defined shapes were actually peering out at me.  When night came they would show themselves in that form, livid and terrible, in which they had been burnt into the brain and heart of the long ago dead.