The Argosy — page 108: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

In the Dead of Nighi. 93 eight or ten more. All his life the General had been used to be waited upon by a number of people, and he could not quite get out of the way of it even in England. On a certain wintry evening early in the new year, Finch and Miss Piper were sitting in the drawing-room toasting their toes before a seasonable fire. Between them was a small table on which stood a decanter of Madeira and two glasses, together with a dish of apples, nuts, and oranges. The family had gone out to dinner, and would not be home till late; Mr. Pearce had driven into Duxley to pay the tradesmen’s accounts, and for the time being Mr. Finch and his fair companion commanded the situation. Miss Piper wore a dress of rustling plum-coloured silk. At her elbow was a smelling-bottle and a lace-edged handkerchief. Mr. Finch, with one of General St. George’s snuff-boxes by his side, was lounging in his easy chair, with all the graceful nonchalance of an old club-man who has just partaken of an excellent dinner. ‘‘This Madeira is not so bad,” he said condescendingly, as he swallowed his third glass at a gulp with the gusto of a connaisseur. ‘¢ Miss Piper,” refilling his glass, “‘I look towards you. MHere’s your very good health. May you live long and die happy.” ‘Oh, Mr. Finch, deeply gratified, I’m sure.” ‘‘T must have fallen into a doze just now, because I never heard you when you opened the door, and was quite startled when I saw you standing beside me. But then you always do go about the house more quietly than anybody else—except the ghost himself.” Miss Piper glanced round with a shudder, and hitched her chair a little nearer the fire and Mr. Finch. ‘But surely, Mr. Finch,” she said, ‘‘ you are not one of those who believe that Park Newton is haunted? Uncle Pearce says that he never heard of such rubbish in the whole course of his life.”’ : “Can a man doubt the evidence of his own senses, ma’am? I have lived in too many good families to have any imagination: I am matter-of-fact to the back-bone. Such being the case, what then? Why simply this, Miss Piper: that I know for a fact this house is haunted. Haven’t I heard noises myself ?”’ “Gracious goodness! What kind of noises, Mr. Finch?” “¢Why—er—rumblings and grumblings, and—er—moanings and scratchings. And haven’t I woke up in the middle of the night, and sat up in bed, and listened and heard strange noises that couldn’t be made by anything mortal? And then in the dusk of evening, haven’t I seen the curtains move, and heard feet come pitter-pattering down the stairs ; and far-away doors clash in the dark as if shut by ghostly hands? Dreadful, I assure you.” “You make me feel quite nervous!” cried Miss Piper, edging an inch nearer. GOMGoOO <S CO am