Seaton's Aunt
Walter de la Mare


I had heard rumours of Seaton's Aunt long before I actually encountered her. 
Seaton, in the hush of confidence, or at any little show of toleration on our 
part, would remark, "My aunt," or "My old aunt, you know," as if his relative 
might be a kind of cement to an entente cordiale. 
He had an unusual quantity of pocket-money; or, at any rate, it was bestowed on 
him in unusually large amounts; and he spent it freely, though none of us would 
have described him as an "awfully generous chap." "Hullo, Seaton," we would say, 
"the old Begum?" At the beginning of term, too, he used to bring back surprising 
and exotic dainties in a box with a trick padlock that accompanied him from his 
first appearance at Gummidge's in a billy-cock hat to the rather abrupt 
conclusion of his schooldays. 
From a boy's point of view he looked distastefully foreign, with his yellow 
skin, and slow chocolate-coloured eyes, and lean weak figure. Merely for his 
looks he was treated by most of us true-blue Englishmen with condescension, 
hostility, or contempt. We used to call him "Pongo," 
but without any much better excuse for the nickname than his skin. He was, that 
is, in one sense of the term what he assuredly was not in the other sense—a 
sport. 
Seaton and I, as I may say, were never in any sense intimate at school; our 
orbits only intersected in class. I kept deliberately aloof from him. I felt 
vaguely he was a sneak, and remained quite unmollified by advances on his side, 
which, in a boy's barbarous fashion, unless it suited me to be magnanimous, I 
haughtily ignored. 
We were both of us quick-footed, and at Prisoner's Base used occasionally to 
hide together. 
And so I best remember Seaton—his narrow watchful face in the dusk of a summer 
evening; his peculiar crouch, and his inarticulate whisperings and mumblings. 
Otherwise he played all games slackly and limply; used to stand and feed at his 
locker with a crony or two until his "tuck" gave out; or waste his money on some 
outlandish fancy or other. He bought, for instance, a silver bangle, which he 
wore above his left elbow, until some of the fellows showed their masterly 
contempt of the practice by dropping it nearly red-hot down his back. 
It needed, therefore, a rather peculiar taste, a rather rare kind of schoolboy 
courage and indifference to criticism, to be much associated with him. And I had 
neither the taste nor, perhaps, the courage. None the less, he did make 
advances, and on one memorable occasion went to the length of bestowing on me a 
whole pot of some outlandish mulberry-coloured jelly that had been duplicated in 
his term's supplies. In the exuberance of my gratitude I promised to spend the 
next half-term holiday with him at his aunt's house. 
I had clean forgotten my promise when, two or three days before the holiday, he 
came up and triumphantly reminded me of it. 
"Well, to tell you the honest truth, Seaton, old chap——" I began graciously; but 
he cut me short. 
"My aunt expects you," he said; "she is very glad you are coming. She's sure to 
be quite decent to you, Withers." 
I looked at him in sheer astonishment; the emphasis was so uncalled for. It 
seemed to suggest an aunt not hitherto hinted at, and a friendly feeling on 
Seaton's side that was far more disconcerting than welcome. 
We reached his home partly by train, partly by a lift in an empty farm-cart, and 
partly by walking. It was a whole-day holiday, and we were to sleep the night; 
he lent me extraordinary nightgear, I remember. The village street was unusually 
wide, and was fed from a green by two converging roads, with an inn, and a high 
green sign at the corner. About a hundred yards down the street was a chemist's 
shop—a Mr. Tanner's. We descended the two steps into his dusky and odorous 
interior to buy, I remember, some rat poison. A little beyond the chemist's was 
the forge. You then walked along a very narrow path, under a fairly high wall, 
nodding here and there with weeds and tufts of grass, and so came to the iron 
garden-gates, and saw the high, flat house behind its huge sycamore. A 
coach-house stood on the left of the house, and on the right a gate led into a 
kind of rambling orchard. The lawn lay away over to the left again, and at the 
bottom (for the whole garden sloped gently to a sluggish and rushy pond-like 
stream) was a meadow. 
We arrived at noon, and entered the gates out of the hot dust beneath the 
glitter of the dark-curtained windows. Seaton led me at once through the little 
garden-gate to show me his tadpole pond, swarming with what (being myself not in 
the least interested in low life) I considered the most horrible creatures—of 
all shapes, consistencies and sizes, but with whom Seaton seemed to be on the 
most intimate of terms. I can see his absorbed face now as he sat on his heels 
and fished the slimy things out in his sallow palms. Wearying at last of these 
pets, we loitered about awhile in an aimless fashion. Seaton seemed to be 
listening, or at any rate waiting, for something to happen or for someone to 
come. But nothing did happen and no one came. 
That was just like Seaton. Anyhow, the first view I got of his aunt was when, at 
the summons of a distant gong, we turned from the garden, very hungry and 
thirsty, to go in to luncheon. We were approaching the house when Seaton 
suddenly came to a standstill. Indeed, I have always had the impression that he 
plucked at my sleeve. Something, at least, seemed to catch me back, as it were, 
as he cried, "Look out, there she is!" 
She was standing at an upper window which opened wide on a hinge, and at first 
sight she looked an excessively tall and overwhelming figure. This, however, was 
mainly because the window reached all but to the floor of the bedroom. She was 
in reality rather an under-sized woman, in spite of her long face and big head. 
She must have stood, I think, unusually still, with eyes fixed on us, though 
this impression may be due to Seaton's sudden warning and to my consciousness of 
the cautious and subdued air that had fallen on him at sight of her. I know 
that, without the least reason in the world, I felt a kind of guiltiness, as if 
I had been "caught." There was a silvery star pattern sprinkled on her black 
silk dress, and even from the ground I could see the immense coils of her hair 
and the rings on her left hand which was held fingering the small jet buttons of 
her bodice. She watched our united advance without stirring, until, 
imperceptibly, her eyes raised and lost themselves in the distance, so that it 
was out of an assumed reverie that she appeared suddenly to awaken to our 
presence beneath her when we drew close to the house. 
"So this is your friend Mr. Smithers, I suppose?" she said, bobbing to me. 
"Withers, aunt," said Seaton. 
"It's much the same," she said, with eyes fixed on me. "Come in, Mr. Withers, 
and bring him along with you." 
She continued to gaze at me—at least, I think she did so. I know that the fixity 
of her scrutiny and her ironical "Mr." made me feel peculiarly uncomfortable. 
None the less she was extremely kind and attentive to me, though, no doubt, her 
kindness and attention showed up more vividly against her complete neglect of 
Seaton. Only one remark that I have any recollection of she made.to him: "When I 
look on my nephew, Mr. Smithers, I realise that dust we are, and dust shall 
become. You are hot, dirty, and incorrigible, Arthur." 
She sat at the head of the table, Seaton at the foot, and I, before a wide waste 
of damask tablecloth, between them. It was an old and rather close dining-room, 
with windows thrown wide to the green garden and a wonderful cascade of fading 
roses. Miss Seaton's great chair faced this window, so that its rose-reflected 
light shone full on her yellowish face, and on just such chocolate eyes as my 
schoolfellow's, except that hers were more than half-covered by unusually long 
and heavy lids. 
There she sat, steadily eating, with those sluggish eyes fixed for the most part 
on my face; above them stood the deep-lined fork between her eyebrows; and above 
that the wide expanse of a remarkable brow beneath its strange steep bank of 
hair. The lunch was copious, and consisted, I remember, of all such dishes as 
are generally considered too rich and too good for the schoolboy 
digestion—lobster mayonnaise, cold game sausages, an immense veal and ham pie 
farced with eggs, truffles, and numberless delicious flavours; besides 
kickshaws, creams, and sweetmeats. We even had wine, a half-glass of old darkish 
sherry each. 
Miss Seaton enjoyed and indulged an enormous appetite. Her example and a natural 
schoolboy voracity soon overcame my nervousness of her, even to the extent of 
allowing me to enjoy to the best of my bent so rare a spread. Seaton was 
singularly modest; the greater part of his meal consisted of almonds and 
raisins, which he nibbled surreptitiously and as if he found difficulty in 
swallowing them. 
I don't mean that Miss Seaton "conversed" with me. She merely scattered 
trenchant remarks and now and then twinkled a baited question over my head. But 
her face was like a dense and involved accompaniment to her talk. She presently 
dropped the "Mr.," to my intense relief, and called me now Withers, or Wither, 
now Smithers, and even once towards the close of the meal distinctly Johnson, 
though how on earth my name suggested it, or whose face mine had reanimated in 
memory, I cannot conceive. 
"And is Arthur a good boy at school, Mr. Wither?" was one of her many questions. 
"Does he please his masters? Is he first in his class? What does the reverend 
Dr. Gummidge think of him, eh?" 
I knew she was jeering at him, but her face was adamant against the least 
flicker of sarcasm or facetiousness. I gazed fixedly at a blushing crescent of 
lobster. 
"I think you're eighth, aren't you, Seaton?" 
Seaton moved his small pupils towards his aunt. But she continued to gaze with a 
kind of concentrated detachment at me. 
"Arthur will never make a brilliant scholar, I fear," she said, lifting a 
dextrously-burdened fork to her wide mouth. . . ." 
After luncheon she proceeded me up to my bedroom. It was a jolly little bedroom, 
with a brass fender and rugs and a polished floor, on which it was possible, I 
afterwards found, to play "snowshoes." Over the washstand was a little 
black-framed water-colour drawing, depicting a large eye with an extremely 
fishlike intensity in the spark of light on the dark pupil; and in "illuminated" 
lettering beneath was printed very minutely, "Thou God, Seest ME," followed by a 
long looped monogram, "S.S.," in the corner. The other pictures were all of the 
sea: brigs on blue water; a schooner overtopping chalk cliffs; a rocky island of 
prodigious steepness, with two tiny sailors dragging a monstrous boat up a shelf 
of beach. 
"This is the room, Withers, my brother William died in when a boy. Admire the 
view!".I looked out of the window across the tree-tops. It was a day hot with 
sunshine over the green fields, and the cattle were standing swishing their 
tails in the shallow water. But the view at the moment was only exaggeratedly 
vivid because I was horribly dreading that she would presently enquire after my 
luggage, and I had not brought even a toothbrush. I need have had no fear. Hers 
was not that highly-civilised type of mind that is stuffed with sharp, material 
details. Nor could her ample presence be described as in the least motherly. 
"I would never consent to question a schoolfellow behind my nephew's back," she 
said, standing in the middle of the room, "but tell me, Smithers, why is Arthur 
so unpopular? You, I understand, are his only close friend." She stood in a 
dazzle of sun, and out of it her eyes regarded me with such leaden penetration 
beneath their thick lids that I doubt if my face concealed the least thought 
from her. "But there, there," she added very suavely, stooping her head a 
little, "don't trouble to answer me. I never extort an answer. Boys are queer 
fish. Brains might perhaps have suggested his washing his hands before luncheon; 
but—not my choice, Smithers. God forbid! And now, perhaps, you would like to go 
into the garden again. I cannot actually see from here, but I should not be 
surprised if Arthur is now skulking behind that hedge." 
He was. I saw his head come out and take a rapid glance at the windows. 
"Join him, Mr. Smithers; we shall meet again, I hope, at the tea-table. The 
afternoon I spend in retirement." 
Whether or not, Seaton and I had not been long engaged with the aid of two green 
switches in riding round and round a lumbering old grey horse we found in the 
meadow, before a rather bunched-up figure appeared, walking along the field-path 
on the other side of the water, with a magenta parasol studiously lowered in our 
direction throughout our slow progress, as if that were the magnetic needle and 
we the fixed Pole. Seaton at once lost all nerve in his riding. At the next 
lurch of the old mare's heels he toppled over in the grass, and I slid off the 
sleek broad back to join him where he stood, rubbing his shoulder and sourly 
watching the rather pompous figure till it was out of sight. 
"Was that your aunt, Seaton?" I enquired; but not till then. He nodded. 
"Why didn't she take any notice of us, then?" 
"She never does." 
"Why not?" 
"Oh, she knows all right, without; that's the dam awful part of it." Seaton was 
about the only fellow at Gummidge's who ever had the ostentation to use bad 
language. He had suffered for it too. But it wasn't, I think, bravado. I believe 
he really felt certain things more intensely than most of the other fellows, and 
they were generally things that fortunate and average people do not feel at 
all—the peculiar quality, for instance, of the British schoolboy's imagination. 
"I tell you, Withers," he went on moodily, slinking across the meadow with his 
hands covered up in his pockets, "she sees everything. And what she doesn't see 
she knows without." 
"But how?" I said, not because I was much interested, but because the afternoon 
was so hot and tiresome and purposeless, and it seemed more of a bore to remain 
silent. Seaton turned gloomily and spoke in a very low voice. 
"Don't appear to be talking of her, if you wouldn't mind. It's—because she's in 
league with the devil." He nodded his head and stooped to pick up a round flat 
pebble. "I tell you," he said, still stooping, "you fellows don't realise what 
it is. I know I'm a bit close and all that. But so would you be if you had that 
old hag listening to every thought you think." 
I looked at him, then turned and surveyed one by one the windows of the 
house.."Where's your pater?" I said awkwardly. 
"Dead, ages and ages ago, and my mother too. She's not my aunt by right." 
"What is she, then?" 
"I mean she's not my mother's sister, because my grandmother married twice; and 
she's one of the first lot. I don't know what you call her, anyhow she's not my 
real aunt." 
"She gives you plenty of pocket-money." 
Seaton looked steadfastly at me out of his flat eyes. "She can't give me what's 
mine. When I come of age half the whole lot will be mine; and what's more"—he 
turned his back on the house—"I'll make her hand over every blessed shilling of 
it." 
I put my hands in my pockets and stared at Seaton; "Is it much?" 
He nodded. 
"Who told you?" He got suddenly very angry; a darkish red came into his cheeks, 
his eyes glistened, but he made no answer, and we loitered listlessly about the 
garden until it was time for tea. . . . 
Seaton's aunt was wearing an extraordinary kind of lace jacket when we sidled 
sheepishly into the drawing-room together. She greeted me with a heavy and 
protracted smile, and bade me bring a chair close to the little table. 
"I hope Arthur has made you fed at home," she said, as she handed me my cup in 
her crooked hand. "He don't talk much to me; but then I'm an old woman. You must 
come again, Wither, and draw him out of his shell. You old snail!" She wagged 
her head at Seaton, who sat munching cake and watching her intently. 
"And we must correspond, perhaps." She nearly shut her eyes at me. "You must 
write and tell me everything behind the creature's back." I confess I found her 
rather disquieting company. The evening drew on. Lamps were brought in by a man 
with a nondescript face and very quiet footsteps. Seaton was told to bring out 
the chess-men. And we played a game, she and I, with her big chin thrust over 
the board at every move as she gloated over the pieces and occasionally croaked 
"Check!"—after which she would sit back inscrutably staring at me. But the game 
was never finished. She simply hemmed me defencelessly in with a cloud of men 
that held me impotent, and yet one and all refused to administer to my poor 
flustered old king a merciful coup de grâce. 
'There," she said as the clock struck ten—"a drawn game, Withers. We are very 
evenly matched. A very creditable defence, Withers. You know your room. There's 
supper on a tray in the dining-room. Don't let the creature over-eat himself. 
The gong will sound three-quarters of an hour before a punctual breakfast." She 
held out her cheek to Seaton, and he kissed it with obvious perfunctoriness. 
With me she shook hands. 
"An excellent game," she said cordially, "but my memory is poor, and"—she swept 
the pieces helterskelter into the box—"the result will never be known." She 
raised her great head far back. 
"Eh?" 
It was a kind of challenge, and I could only murmur: "Oh, I was absolutely in a 
hole, you know!" when she burst out laughing and waved us both out of the room. 
Seaton and I stood and ate our supper, with one candlestick to light us, in a 
corner of the dining-room. "Well, and how would you like it?" he said very 
softly, after cautiously poking his head round the doorway. 
"Like what?" 
"Being spied on—every blessed thing you do and think?" 
"I shouldn't like it at all," I said, "if she does." 
"And yet you let her smash you up at chess!" 
"I didn't let her!" I said, indignantly. 
"Well, you funked it, then." 
"And I didn't funk it either," I said; "she's so jolly clever with her knights." 
Seaton stared fixedly at the candle. "You wait, that's all," he said slowly. And 
we went upstairs to bed. 
I had not been long in bed, I think, when I was cautiously awakened by a touch 
on my shoulder. And there was Seaton's face in the candlelight—and his eyes 
looking into mine. 
"What's up?" I said, rising quickly to my elbow. 
"Don't scurry," he whispered, "or she'll hear. I'm sorry for waking you, but I 
didn't think you'd be asleep so soon." 
"Why, what's the time, then?" Seaton wore, what was then rather unusual, a 
night-suit, and he hauled his big silver watch out of the pocket in his jacket. 
"It's a quarter to twelve. I never get to sleep before twelve—not here." 
"What do you do, then?" 
"Oh, I read and listen." 
"Listen?" 
Seaton stared into his candle-flame as if he were listening even then. "You 
can't guess what it is. All you read in ghost stories, that's all rot. You can't 
see much, Withers, but you know all the same." 
"Know what?" 
"Why, that they're there." 
"Who's there?" I asked fretfully, glancing at the door. 
"Why, in the house. It swarms with 'em. Just you stand still and listen outside 
my bedroom door in the middle of the night. I have, dozens of times; they're all 
over the place." 
"Look here, Seaton," I said, "you asked me to come here, and I didn't mind 
chucking up a leave just to oblige you, and because I'd promised; but don't get 
talking a lot of rot, that's all, or you'll know the difference when we get 
back." 
"Don't fret," he said coldly, turning away. "I shan't be at school long. And 
what's more, you're here now, and there isn't anybody else to talk to. I'll 
chance the other." 
"Look here, Seaton," I said, "you may think you're going to scare me with a lot 
of stuff about voices and all that. But I'll just thank you to clear out; and 
you may please yourself about pottering about all night." 
He made no answer; he was standing by the dressing-table looking across his 
candle into the looking-glass; he turned and stared slowly round the walls. 
"Even this room's nothing more than a coffin. I suppose she told you—'It's 
exactly the same as when my brother William died'—trust her for that! And good 
luck to him, say I. Look at that." He raised his candle close to the little 
watercolour I have mentioned. "There's hundreds of eyes like that in this house; 
and even if God does see you, He takes precious good care you don't see Him. And 
it's just the same with them. I tell you what, Withers, I'm getting sick of all 
this. I shan't stand it much longer." 
The house was silent within and without, and even in the yellowish radiance of 
the candle a faint silver showed through the open window on my blind. I slipped 
off the bedclothes, wide awake, and sat irresolutely on the bedside. 
"I know you're only guying me," I said angrily, "but why is the house full 
of—what you say? Why do you hear—what you do hear? Tell me that, you silly 
fool!" Seaton sat down on a chair and rested his candlestick on his knee. He 
blinked at me calmly. 
"She brings them," he said, with lifted eyebrows. 
"Who? Your aunt?" 
He nodded. 
"How?" 
"I told you," he answered pettishly. "She's in league. You don't know. She as 
good as killed my mother; I know that. But it's not only her by a long chalk. 
She just sucks you dry. I know. 
And that's what she'll do for me; because I'm like her—like my mother, I mean. 
She simply hates to see me alive. I wouldn't be like that old she-wolf for a 
million pounds. And so"—he broke off, with a comprehensive wave of his 
candlestick—"they're always here. Ah, my boy, wait till she's dead! She'll hear 
something then, I can tell you. It's all very well now, but wait till then! I 
wouldn't be in her shoes when she has to clear out—for something. Don't you go 
and believe I care for ghosts, or whatever you like to call them. We're all in 
the same box. We're all under her thumb." 
He was looking almost nonchalantly at the ceiling at the moment, when I saw his 
face change, saw his eyes suddenly drop like shot birds and fix themselves on 
the cranny of the door he had just left ajar. Even from where I sat I could see 
his colour change; he went greenish. He crouched without stirring, simply fixed. 

And I, scarcely daring to breathe, sat with creeping skin, simply watching him. 
His hands relaxed, and he gave a kind of sigh. 
"Was that one?" I whispered, with a timid show of jauntiness. He looked round, 
opened his mouth, and nodded. "What?" I said. He jerked his thumb with 
meaningful eyes, and I knew that he meant that his aunt had been there listening 
at our door cranny. 
"Look here, Seaton," I said once more, wriggling to my feet. "You may think I'm 
a jolly noodle; just as you please. But your aunt has been civil to me and all 
that, and I don't believe a word you say about her, that's all, and never did. 
Every fellow's a bit off his pluck at night, and you may think it a fine sport 
to try your rubbish on me. I heard your aunt come upstairs before I fell asleep. 
And I'll bet you a level tanner she's in bed now. What's more, you can keep your 
blessed ghosts to yourself. It's a guilty conscience, I should think." 
Seaton looked at me curiously, without answering for a moment. "I'm not a liar, 
Withers; but I'm not going to quarrel either. You're the only chap I care a 
button for; or, at any rate, you're the only chap that's ever come here; and 
it's something to tell a fellow what you feel. I don't care a fig for fifty 
thousand ghosts, although I swear on my solemn oath that I know they're here. 
But she"— he turned deliberately—"you laid a tanner she's in bed, Withers; well, 
I know different. 
She's never in bed much of the night, and I'll prove it, too, just to show you 
I'm not such a nolly as you think I am. Come on!" 
"Come on where?" 
"Why, to see." 
I hesitated. He opened a large cupboard and took out a small dark dressing-gown 
and a kind of shawl-jacket. He threw the jacket on the bed and put on the gown. 
His dusky face was colourless, and I could see by the way he fumbled at the 
sleeves he was shivering. But it was no good showing the white feather now. So I 
threw the tasselled shawl over my shoulders and, leaving our candle brightly 
burning on the chair, we went out together and stood in the corridor. 
"Now then, listen!" Seaton whispered. 
We stood leaning over the staircase. It was like leaning over a well, so still 
and chill the air was all around us. But presently, as I suppose happens in most 
old houses, began to echo and answer.in my ears a medley of infinite small 
stirrings and whisperings. Now out of the distance an old timber would relax its 
fibres, or a scurry die away behind the perishing wainscoat. But amid and behind 
such sounds as these I seemed to begin to be conscious, as it were, of the 
lightest of footfalls, sounds as faint as the vanishing remembrance of voices in 
a dream. Seaton was all in obscurity except his face; out of that his eyes 
gleamed darkly, watching me. "You'd hear, too, in time, my fine soldier," he 
muttered. "Come on!" 
He descended the stairs, slipping his lean fingers lightly along the balusters. 
He turned to the right at the loop, and I followed him barefooted along a 
thickly-carpeted corridor. At the end stood a door ajar. And from here we very 
stealthily and in complete blackness ascended five narrow stairs. Seaton, with 
immense caution, slowly pushed open a door, and we stood together looking into a 
great pool of duskiness, out of which, lit by the feeble clearness of a 
night-light, rose a vast bed. A heap of clothes lay on the floor; beside them 
two slippers dozed, with noses each to each, two yards apart. Somewhere a little 
clock ticked huskily. There was a rather close smell of lavender and eau de 
cologne, mingled with the fragrance of ancient sachets, soap, and drugs. Yet it 
was a scent even more peculiarly commingled than that. 
And the bed! I stared warily in; it was mounded gigantically, and it was empty. 
Seaton turned a vague pale face, all shadows: "What did I say?" he muttered. 
"Who's—who's the fool now, I say? How are we going to get back without meeting 
her, I say? Answer me that! 
Oh, I wish to goodness you hadn't come here, Withers." 
He stood visibly shivering in his skimpy gown, and could hardly speak for his 
teeth chattering. 
And very distinctly, in the hush that followed his whisper, I heard approaching 
a faint unhurried voluminous rustle. Seaton clutched my arm, dragged me to the 
right across the room to a large cupboard, and drew the door close to on us. And 
presently, as with bursting lungs I peeped out into the long, low, curtained 
bedroom, waddled in that wonderful great head and body. I can see her now, all 
patched and lined with shadow, her tied-up hair (she must have had enormous 
quantities of it for so old a woman), her heavy lids above those flat, slow, 
vigilant eyes. She just passed across my ken in the vague dusk; but the bed was 
out of sight. 
We waited on and on, listening to the clock's muffled ticking. Not the ghost of 
a sound rose up from the great bed. Either she lay archly listening or slept a 
sleep serener than an infant's. And when, it seemed, we had been hours in hiding 
and were cramped, chilled, and half suffocated, we crept out on all fours, with 
terror knocking at our ribs, and so down the five narrow stairs and back to the 
little candle-lit blue-and-gold bedroom. 
Once there, Seaton gave in. He sat livid on a chair with closed eyes. 
"Here," I said shaking his arm, "I'm going to bed; I've had enough of this 
foolery; I'm going to bed." His lips quivered, but he made no answer. I poured 
out some water into my basin and, with that cold pictured azure eye fixed on us, 
bespattered Seaton's sallow face and forehead and dabbled his hair. He presently 
sighed and opened fish-like eyes. 
"Come on!" I said. "Don't get shamming, there's a good chap. Get on my back if 
you like, and I'll carry you into your bedroom." 
He waved me away and stood up. So, with my candle in one hand, I took him under 
the arm and walked him along according to his direction down the corridor. His 
was a much dingier room than mine, and littered with boxes, paper, cages, and 
clothes. I huddled him into bed and turned to go. And suddenly—I can hardly 
explain it now—a kind of cold and deadly terror swept over me. I almost ran out 
of the room, with eyes fixed rigidly in front of me, blew out my candle, and 
buried my head under the bedclothes. 
When I awoke, roused not by a gong, but by a long-continued tapping at my door, 
sunlight was raying in on cornice and bedpost, and birds were singing in the 
garden. I got up, ashamed of the night's folly, dressed quickly, and went 
downstairs. The breakfast-room was sweet with flowers and fruit and honey. 
Seaton's aunt was standing in the garden beside the open French windows, feeding 
a great flutter of birds. I watched her for a moment, unseen. Her face was set 
in a deep reverie beneath the shadow of a big loose sun-hat. It was deeply 
lined, crooked, and, in a way I can't describe, fixedly vacant and strange. I 
coughed, and she turned at once with a prodigious smile to enquire how I had 
slept. And in that mysterious way by which we learn each other's secret thoughts 
without a sentence spoken I knew that she had followed every word and movement 
of the night before, and was triumphing over my affected innocence and 
ridiculing my friendly and too easy advances. 
We returned to school, Seaton and I, lavishly laden, and by rail all the way. I 
made no reference to the obscure talk we had had, and resolutely refused to meet 
his eyes or to take up the hints he let fall. I was relieved—and yet I was 
sorry—to be going back, and strode on as fast as I could from the station, with 
Seaton almost trotting at my heels. But he insisted on buying more fruit and 
sweets—my share of which I accepted with a very bad grace. It was uncomfortably 
like a bribe; and, after all, I had no quarrel with his rum old aunt, and hadn't 
really believed half the stuff he had told me. 
I saw as little of him as I could after that. He never referred to our visit or 
resumed his confidences, though in class I would sometimes catch his eyes fixed 
on mine, full of a mute understanding, which I easily affected not to 
understand. He left Gummidge's, as I have said, rather abruptly, though I never 
heard of anything to his discredit. And I did not see him or have any news of 
him again till by chance we met one summer afternoon in the Strand. 
He was dressed rather oddly in a coat too large for him and a bright silky tie. 
But we instantly recognised one another under the awning of a cheap jeweller's 
shop. He immediately attached himself to me and dragged me off, not too 
cheerfully, to lunch with him at an Italian restaurant near by. He chattered 
about our old school, which he remembered only with dislike and disgust; told me 
cold-bloodedly of the disastrous fate of one or two of the old fellows who had 
been among his chief tormentors; insisted on an expensive wine and the whole 
gamut of the foreign menu; and finally informed me, with a good deal of 
niggling, that he had come up to town to buy an engagement-ring. 
And of course: "How is your aunt?" I enquired at last. 
He seemed to have been awaiting the question. It fell like a stone into a deep 
pool, so many expressions flitted across his long un-English face. 
"She's aged a good deal," he said softly, and broke off. 
"She's been very decent," he continued presently after, and paused again. "In a 
way." He eyed me fleetingly. "I dare say you heard that—she—that is, that we—had 
lost a good deal of money." 
"No," I said. 
"Oh, yes!" said Seaton, and paused again. 
And somehow, poor fellow, I knew in the clink and clatter of glass and voices 
that he had lied to me; that he did not possess, and never had possessed, a 
penny beyond what his aunt had squandered on his too ample allowance of 
pocket-money. 
"And the ghosts?" I enquired quizzically. He grew instantly solemn, and, though 
it may have been my fancy, slightly yellowed. But "You are making game of me, 
Withers," was all he said. 
He asked for my address, and I rather reluctantly gave him my card. 
"Look here, Withers," he said, as we stood together in the sunlight on the kerb, 
saying good-bye, "here I am, and—and it's all very well. I'm not perhaps as 
fanciful as I was. But you are practically the only friend I have on 
earth—except Alice. . . . And there—to make a clean breast of it, I'm not sure 
that my aunt cares much about my getting married. She doesn't say so, of course. 
You know her well enough for that." He looked sidelong at the rattling gaudy 
traffic. 
"What I was going to say is this: Would you mind coming down? You needn't stay 
the night unless you please, though, of course, you know you would be awfully 
welcome. But I should like you to meet my—to meet Alice; and then, perhaps, you 
might tell me your honest opinion of—of the other too." 
I vaguely demurred. He pressed me. And we parted with a half promise that I 
would come. He waved his ball-topped cane at me and ran off in his long jacket 
after a 'bus. 
A letter arrived soon after, in his small weak handwriting, giving me full 
particulars regarding route and trains. And without the least curiosity, even, 
perhaps, with some little annoyance that chance should have thrown us together 
again, I accepted his invitation and arrived one hazy midday at his 
out-of-the-way station to find him sitting on a low seat under a clump of double 
hollyhocks, awaiting me. 
His face looked absent and singularly listless; but he seemed, none the less, 
pleased to see me. 
We walked up the village street, past the little dingy apothecary's and the 
empty forge, and, as on my first visit, skirted the house together, and, instead 
of entering by the front door, made our way down the green path into the garden 
at the back. A pale haze of cloud muffled the sun; the garden lay in a grey 
shimmer—its old trees, its snap-dragoned faintly glittering walls. But now there 
was an air of slovenliness where before all had been neat and methodical. In a 
patch of shallowly-dug soil stood a worn-down spade leaning against a tree. 
There was an old broken wheelbarrow. The roses had run to leaf and briar; the 
fruit-trees were unpruned. The goddess of neglect brooded in secret. 
"You ain't much of a gardener, Seaton," I said, with a sigh of ease. 
"I think, do you know, I like it best like this," said Seaton. "We haven't any 
man now, of course. Can't afford it." He stood staring at his little dark square 
of freshly-turned earth. "And it always seems to me," he went on ruminatingly, 
"that, after all we are nothing better than interlopers on the earth, 
disfiguring and staining wherever we go. I know it's shocking blasphemy to say 
so, but then it's different here, you see. We are further away." 
"To tell you the truth, Seaton, I don't quite see," I said; "but it isn't a new 
philosophy, is it? Anyhow, it's a precious beastly one." 
"It's only what I think," he replied, with all his odd old stubborn meekness. We 
wandered on together, talking little, and still with that expression of uneasy 
vigilance on Seaton's face. He pulled out his watch as we stood gazing idly over 
the green meadows and the dark motionless bulrushes. 
"I think, perhaps, it's nearly time for lunch," he said. "Would you like to come 
in?" 
We turned and walked slowly towards the house, across whose windows I confess my 
own eyes, too, went restlessly wandering in search of its rather disconcerting 
inmate. There was a pathetic look of draggledness, of want of means and care, 
rust and overgrowth and faded paint. 
Seaton's aunt, a little to my relief, did not share our meal. Seaton carved the 
cold meat, and dispatched a heaped-up plate by an dderly servant for his aunt's 
private consumption. We talked.little and in half-suppressed tones, and sipped a 
bottle of Madeira which Seaton had rather heedfully fetched out of the great 
mahogany sideboard. 
I played him a dull and effortless game of chess, yawning between the moves he 
himself made almost at haphazard, and with attention elsewhere engaged. About 
five o'clock came the sound of a distant ring, and Seaton jumped up, overturning 
the board, and so ending a game that else might have fatuously continued to this 
day. He effusively excused himself, and after some little while returned with a 
slim, dark, rather sallow girl of about nineteen, in a white gown and hat, to 
whom I was presented with some little nervousness as his "dear old friend and 
schoolfellow." 
We talked on in the pale afternoon light, still, as it seemed to me, and even in 
spite of a real effort to be clear and gay, in a half-suppressed, lack-lustre 
fashion. We all seemed, if it were not my fancy, to me expectant, to be rather 
anxiously awaiting an arrival, the appearance of someone who all but filled our 
collective consciousness. Seaton talked least of all, and in a restless 
interjectory way, as he continually fidgeted from chair to chair. At last he 
proposed a stroll in the garden before the sun should have quite gone down. 
Alice walked between us. Her hair and eyes were conspicuously dark against the 
whiteness of her gown. She carried herself not ungracefully, and yet without the 
least movement of her arms and body, and answered us both without turning her 
head. There was a curious provocative reserve in that impassive and rather long 
face, a half-unconscious strength of character. 
And yet somehow I knew—I believe we all knew—that this walk, this discussion of 
their future plans was a futility. I had nothing to base such a cynicism on, 
except only a vague sense of oppression, the foreboding remembrance of the inert 
invincible power in the background, to whom optimistic plans and lovemaking and 
youth are as chaff and thistle-down. We came back silent, in the last light. 
Seaton's aunt was there—under an old brass lamp. Her hair was as barba-rously 
massed and curled as ever. Her eyelids, I think, hung even a little heavier in 
age over their slow-moving inscrutable pupils. We filed in softly out of the 
evening, and I made my bow. 
"In this short interval, Mr. Withers," she remarked amiably, "you have put off 
youth, put on the man. Dear me, how sad it is to see the young days vanishing! 
Sit down. My nephew tells me you met by chance—or act of Providence, shall we 
call it?—and in my beloved Strand! You, I understand, are to be best man—yes, 
best man, or am I divulging secrets?" She surveyed Arthur and Alice with 
overwhelming graciousness. They sat apart on two low chairs and smiled in 
return. 
"And Arthur—how do you think Arthur is looking?" 
"I think he looks very much in need of a change," I said deliberately. 
"A change! Indeed?" She all but shut her eyes at me and with an exaggerated 
sentimentality shook her head. "My dear Mr. Withers! Are we not all in need of a 
change in this fleeting, fleeting world?" She mused over the remark like a 
connoisseur. "And you," she continued, turning abruptly to Alice, "I hope you 
pointed out to Mr. Withers all my pretty bits?" 
"We walked round the garden," said Alice, looking out of the window. "It's a 
very beautiful evening." 
"Is it?" said the old lady, starting up violently. "Then on this very beautiful 
evening we will go in to supper. Mr. Withers, your arm; Arthur, bring your 
bride." 
I can scarcely describe with what curious ruminations I led the way into the 
faded, heavy-aired dining-room, with this indefinable old creature leaning 
weightily on my arm—the large flat bracelet on the yellow-laced wrist. She fumed 
a little, breathed rather heavily, as if with an effort of mind rather than of 
body; for she had grown much stouter and yet little more proportionate. 
And to talk into that great white face, so close to mine, was a queer experience 
in the dim light of.the corridor, and even in the twinkling crystal of the 
candles. She was naïve —appallingly naïve; she was sudden and superficial; she 
was even arch; and all these in the brief, rather puffy passage from one room to 
the other, with these two tongue-tied children bringing up the rear. The meal 
was tremendous. I have never seen such a monstrous salad. But the dishes were 
greasy and over-spiced, and were indifferently cooked. One thing only was quite 
unchanged—my hostess's appetite was as Gargantuan as ever. The old solid 
candelabra that lighted us stood before her high-back chair. Seaton sat a little 
removed, with his plate almost in darkness. 
And throughout this prodigious meal his aunt talked, mainly to me, mainly at 
Seaton, with an occasional satirical courtesy to Alice and muttered explosions 
of directions to the servant. She had aged, and yet, if it be not nonsense to 
say so, seemed no older. I suppose to the Pyramids a decade is but as the 
rustling down of a handful of dust. And she reminded me of some such unshakable 
prehistoricism. She certainly was an amazing talker—racy, extravagant, with a 
delivery that was perfectly overwhelming. As for Seaton—her flashes of silence 
were for him. 
On her enormous volubility would suddenly fall a hush: acid sarcasm would be 
left implied; and she would sit softly moving her great head, with eyes fixed 
full in a dreamy smile; but with her whole attention, one could see, slowly, 
joyously absorbing his mute discomfiture. 
She confided in us her views on a theme vaguely occupying at the moment, I 
suppose, all our minds. "We have barbarous institutions, and so must put up, I 
suppose, with a never-ending procession of fools—of fools ad infinitum. 
Marriage, Mr. Withers, was instituted in the privacy of a garden; sub rosa, as 
it were. Civilization flaunts it in the glare of day. The dull marry the poor; 
the rich the effete; and so our New Jerusalem is peopled with naturals, plain 
and coloured, at either end. I detest folly; I detest still more (if I must be 
frank, dear Arthur), mere cleverness. 
Mankind has simply become a tailless host of uninstinctive animals. We should 
never have taken to Evolution, Mr. Withers. 'Natural Selection!'—little gods and 
fishes!—the deaf for the dumb. 
We should have used our brains—intellectual pride, the ecclesiastics call it. 
And by brains I mean—what do I mean, Alice?—I mean, my dear child"—and she laid 
two gross fingers on Alice's narrow sleeve—"I mean courage. Consider it, Arthur. 
I read that the scientific world is once more beginning to be afraid of 
spiritual agencies. Spiritual agencies that tap, and actually float, bless their 
hearts! I think just one more of those mulberries—thank you. 
"They talk about 'blind Love,' " she ran inconsequently on as she helped 
herself, with eyes roving on the dish, "but why blind? I think, do you know, 
from weeping over its rickets. After all, it is we plain women that triumph, Mr. 
Withers, beyond the mockery of time. Alice, now! 
Fleeting, fleeting is youth, my child. What's that you were confiding to your 
plate, Arthur? Satirical boy. He laughs at his old aunt: nay, but thou didst 
laugh. He detests all sentiment. He whispers the most acid asides. Come, my 
love, we will leave these cynics; we will go and commiserate with each other on 
our sex. The choice of two evils, Mr. Smithers!" I opened the door, and she 
swept out as if borne on a torrent of unintelligible indignation; and Arthur and 
I were left in the clear four-flamed light alone. 
For a while we sat in silence. He shook his head at my cigarette-case, and I lit 
a cigarette. 
Presently he fidgeted in his chair and poked his head forward into the light. He 
paused to rise and shut again the shut door. 
"How long will you be?" he said, standing by the table. 
I laughed. 
"Oh, it's not that!" he said, in some confusion. "Of course, I like to be with 
her. But it's not that. The truth is, Withers, I don't care about leaving her 
too long with my aunt." 
I hesitated. He looked at me questioningly. 
"Look here, Seaton," I said, "you know well enough that I don't want to 
interfere in your affairs, or to offer advice where it is not wanted. But don't 
you think perhaps you may not treat your aunt quite in the right way? As one 
gets old, you know, a little give and take. I have an old godmother, or 
something. She talks, too. . . . A little allowance: it does no harm. But hang 
it all, I'm no talker." 
He sat down with his hands in his pockets and still with his eyes fixed almost 
incredulously on mine. "How?" he said. 
"Well, my dear fellow, if I'm any judge—mind, I don't say that I am—but I can't 
help thinking she thinks you don't care for her; and perhaps takes your silence 
for—for bad temper. She has been very decent to you, hasn't she?" 
" 'Decent?' My God!" said Seaton. 
I smoked on in silence; but he continued to look at me with that peculiar 
concentration I remembered of old. 
"I don't think, perhaps, Withers," he began presently, "I don't think you quite 
understand. 
Perhaps you are not quite our kind. You always did, just like the other fellows, 
guy me at school. 
You laughed at me that night you came to stay here—about the voices and all 
that. But I don't mind being laughed at— because I know." 
"Know what?" It was the same old system of dull question and evasive answer. 
"I mean I know that what we see and hear is only the smallest fraction of what 
is. I know she lives quite out of this. She talks to you; but it's all 
make-believe. It's all a 'parlour game.' She's not really with you; only pitting 
her outside wits against yours and enjoying the fooling. She's living on inside 
on what you're rotten without. That's what it is—a cannibal feast. She's a 
spider. 
It doesn't much matter what you call it. It means the same kind of thing. I tell 
you, Withers, she hates me; and you can scarcely dream what that hatred means. I 
used to think I had an inkling of the reason. It's oceans deeper than that. It 
just lies behind: herself against myself. 'Why, after all, how much do we really 
understand of anything? We don't even know our own histories, and not a tenth, 
not a tenth of the reasons. What has life been to me?—nothing but a trap. And 
when one is set free, it only begins again. I thought you might understand; but 
you are on a different level: 
that's all." 
"What on earth are you talking about?" I said contemptuously, in spite of 
myself. 
"I mean what I say," he said gutturally. "All this outside's only 
make-believe—but there! 
what's the good of talking? So far as this is concerned I'm as good as done. You 
wait." 
Seaton blew out three of the candles, and, leaving the vacant room in 
semidarkness, we groped our way along the corridor to the drawing-room. There a 
full moon stood shining in at the long garden windows. Alice sat stooping at the 
door, with her hands clasped, looking out, alone. 
" 'Where is she?" Seaton asked in a low tone. 
Alice looked up; their eyes met in a kind of instantaneous understanding, and 
the door immediately afterwards opened behind us. 
"Such a moon!" said a voice that, once heard, remained unforgettably on the ear. 
"A night for lovers, Mr. Withers, if ever there was one. Get a shawl, my dear 
Arthur, and take Alice for a little promenade. I dare say we old cronies will 
manage to keep awake. Hasten, hasten, Romeo! 
My poor, poor Alice, how laggard a lover!" 
Seaton returned with a shawl. They drifted out into the moonlight. My companion 
gazed after them till they were out of hearing, turned to me gravely, and 
suddenly twisted her white face into such a convulsion of contemptuous amusement 
that I could only stare blankly in reply. 
"Dear innocent children!" she said, with inimitable unctuousness. "Well, well, 
Mr. Withers, we poor seasoned old creatures must move with the times. Do you 
sing?" 
I scouted the idea. 
"Then you must listen to my playing. Chess"—she clasped her forehead with both 
cramped hands—"chess is now completely beyond my poor wits." 
She sat down at the piano and ran her fingers in a flourish over the keys. "What 
shall it be? How shall we capture them, those passionate hearts? That first fine 
careless rapture? Poetry itself." She gazed softly into the garden a moment, and 
presently, with a shake of her body, began to play the opening bars of 
Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." The piano was old and woolly. She played without 
music. The lamplight was rather dim. The moonbeams from the window lay across 
the keys. Her head was in shadow. And whether it was simply due to her 
personality or to some really occult skill in her playing I cannot say: I only 
know that she gravely and deliberately set herself to satirise the beautiful 
music. It brooded on the air, disillusioned, charged with mockery and 
bitterness. I stood at the window; far down the path I could see the white 
figure glimmering in that pool of colourless light. A few faint stars shone, and 
still that amazing woman behind me dragged out of the unwilling keys her 
wonderful grotesquerie of youth, and love, and beauty. It came to an end. I knew 
the player was watching me. "Please, please, go on!" I murmured, without 
turning. "Please go on playing, Miss Seaton." 
No answer was returned to my rather fluttering sarcasm, but I knew in some 
indefinite way that I was being acutely scrutinised, when suddenly there 
followed a procession of quiet, plaintive chords which broke at last softly into 
the hymn, "A Few More Years Shall Roll." 
I confess it held me spellbound. There is a wistful, strained, plangent pathos 
in the tune; but beneath those masterly old hands it cried softly and bitterly 
the solitude and desperate estrangement of the world. Arthur and his lady-love 
vanished from my thoughts. No one could put into a rather hackneyed old 
hymn-tune such an appeal who had never known the meaning of the words. Their 
meaning, anyhow, isn't commonplace. 
I turned very cautiously and glanced at the musician. She was leaning forward a 
little over the keys, so that at the approach of my cautious glance she had but 
to turn her face into the thin flood of moonlight for every feature to become 
distinctly visible. And so, with the tune abruptly terminated, we steadfastly 
regarded one another, and she broke into a chuckle of laughter. 
"Not quite so seasoned as I supposed, Mr. Withers. I see you are a real lover of 
music. To me it is too painful. It evokes too much thought. . ." 
I could scarcely see her little glittering eyes under their penthouse lids. 
"And now," she broke off crisply, "tell me, as a man of the world, what do you 
think of my new niece?" 
I was not a man of the world, nor was I much flattered in my stiff and dullish 
way of looking at things by being called one; and I could answer her without the 
least hesitation. 
"I don't think, Miss Seaton, I'm much of a judge of character. She's very 
charming." 
"A brunette?" 
"I think I prefer dark women." 
"And why? Consider, Mr. Withers; dark hair, dark eyes, dark cloud, dark night, 
dark vision, dark death, dark grave, dark DARK!" 
Perhaps the climax would have rather thrilled Seaton, but I was too 
thick-skinned. "I don't know much about all that," I answered rather pompously. 
"Broad daylight's difficult enough for most of us." 
"Ah," she said, with a sly inward burst of satirical laughter. 
"And I suppose," I went on, perhaps a little nettled, "it isn't the actual 
darkness one admires, it's the contrast of the skin, and the colour of the eyes, 
and—and their shining. Just as," I went blundering on, too late to turn back, 
"just as you only see the stars in the dark. It would be a long day without any 
evening. As for death and the grave, I don't suppose we shall much notice that." 

Arthur and his sweetheart were slowly returning along the dewy path. "I believe 
in making the best of things." 
"How very interesting!" came the smooth answer. "I see you are a philosopher, 
Mr. Withers. 
H'm! 'As for death and the grave, I don't suppose we shall much notice that.' 
Very interesting. . 
. And I'm sure," she added in a particularly suave voice, "I profoundly hope 
so." She rose slowly from her stool. "You will take pity on me again, I hope. 
You and I would get on famously— kindred spirits—elective affinities. And, of 
course, now that my nephew's going to leave us, now that his affections are 
centred on another, I shall be a very lonely old woman. . . Shall I not, 
Arthur?" 
Seaton blinked stupidly. "I didn't hear what you said, aunt." 
"I was telling our old friend, Arthur, that when you are gone I shall be a very 
lonely old woman." 
"Oh, I don't think so," he said in a strange voice. 
"He means, Mr. Withers, he means, my dear child," she said, sweeping her eyes 
over Alice, "he means that I shall have memory for company—heavenly memory—the 
ghosts of other days. 
Sentimental boy! And did you enjoy our music, Alice? Did I really stir that 
youthful heart? . . . 
O, O, O," continued the horrible old creature, "you billers and cooers, I have 
been listening to such flatteries, such confessions! Beware, beware, Arthur, 
there's many a slip." She rolled her liffle eyes at me, she shrugged her 
shoulders at Alice, and gazed an instant stonily into her nephew's face. 
I held out my hand. "Good night, good night!" she cried. "He that fights and 
runs away. Ah, good night, Mr. Withers; come again soon!" She thrust out her 
cheek at Alice, and we all three filed slowly out of the room. 
Black shadow darkened the porch and half the spreading sycamore. We walked 
without speaking up the dusty village street. Here and there a crimson window 
glowed. At the fork of the highroad I said good-bye. But I had taken hardly more 
than a dozen paces when a sudden impulse seized me. 
"Seaton!" I called. 
He turned in the moonlight. 
"You have my address; if by any chance, you know, you should care to spend a 
week or two in town between this and the—the Day, we should be delighted to see 
you. 
"Thank you, Withers, thank you," he said in a low voice. 
"I dare say"—I waved my stick gallantly to Alice—"I dare say you will be doing 
some shopping; we could all meet," I added laughing. 
"Thank you, thank you, Withers—immensely," he repeated. 
And so we parted. 
But they were out of the jog-trot of my prosaic life. And being of a stolid and 
incurious nature, I left Seaton and his marriage, and even his aunt, to 
themselves in my memory, and scarcely gave a thought to them until one day I was 
walking up the Strand again, and passed the flashing gloaming of the covered-in 
jeweller's shop where I had accidentally encountered my old schoolfellow in the 
summer. It was one of those still close autumnal days after a rainy night. 
I.cannot say why, but a vivid recollection returned to my mind of our meeting 
and of how suppressed Seaton had seemed, and of how vainly he had endeavoured to 
appear assured and eager. He must be married by now, and had doubtless returned 
from his honeymoon. And I had clean forgotten my manners, had sent not a word of 
congratulation, nor—as I might very well have done, and as I knew he would have 
been immensely pleased at my doing—the ghost of a wedding-present. 
On the other hand, I pleaded with myself, I had had no invitation. I paused at 
the corner of Trafalgar Square, and at the bidding of one of those caprices that 
seize occasionally on even an unimaginative mind, I suddenly ran after a green 
'bus that was passing, and found myself bound on a visit I had not in the least 
foreseen. 
The colours of autumn were over the village when I arrived. A beautiful late 
afternoon sunlight bathed thatch and meadow. But it was close and hot. A child, 
two dogs, a very old woman with a heavy basket I encountered. One or two 
incurious tradesmen looked idly up as I passed by. It was all so rural and so 
still, my whimsical impulse had so much flagged, that for a while I hesitated to 
venture under the shadow of the sycamore-tree to enquire after the happy pair. I 
deliberately passed by the faint-blue gates and continued my walk under the high 
green and tufted wall. Hollyhocks had attained their topmost bud and seeded in 
the little cottage gardens beyond; the Michaelmas daisies were in flower; a 
sweet warm aromatic smell of fading leaves was in the air. Beyond the cottages 
lay a field where cattle were grazing, and beyond that I came to a little 
churchyard. Then the road wound on, pathless and houseless, among gorse and 
bracken. I turned impatiently and walked quickly back to the house and rang the 
bell. 
The rather colourless elderly woman who answered my enquiry informed me that 
Miss Seaton was at home, as if only taciturnity forbade her adding, "But she 
doesn't want to see you." 
"Might I, do you think, have Mr. Arthur's address?" I said. 
She looked at me with quiet astonishment, as if waiting for an explanation. 
Not the faintest of smiles came into her thin face. 
"I will tell Miss Seaton," she said after a pause. "Please walk in." 
She showed me into the dingy undusted drawing-room, filled with evening sunshine 
and with the green-dyed light that penetrated the leaves overhanging the long 
French windows. I sat down and waited on and on, occasionally aware of a 
creaking footfall overhead. At last the door opened a little, and the great face 
I had once known peered round at me. For it was enormously changed; mainly, I 
think, because the old eyes had rather suddenly failed, and so a kind of 
stillness and darkness lay over its calm and wrinkled pallor. 
"Who is it?" she asked. 
I explained myself and told her the occasion of my visit. 
She came in and shut the door carefully after her and, though the fumbling was 
scarcely perceptible, groped her way to a chair. She had on an old 
dressing-gown, like a cassock, of a patterned cinnamon colour. 
"What is it you want?" she said, seating herself and lifting her blank face to 
mine. 
"Might I just have Arthur's address?" I said deferentially. "I am so sorry to 
have disturbed you. 
"H'm. You have come to see my nephew?" 
"Not necessarily to see him, only to hear how he is, and, of course, Mrs. 
Seaton, too. I am afraid my silence must have appeared . . ." 
"He hasn't noticed your silence," croaked the old voice out of the great mask; 
"besides, there isn't any Mrs. Seaton." 
"Ah, then," I answered, after a momentary pause, "I have not seemed so black as 
I painted myself! And how is Miss Outram?" 
"She's gone into Yorkshire," answered Seaton's aunt. 
"And Arthur too?" 
She did not reply, but simply sat blinking at me with lifted chin, as if 
listening, but certainly not for what I might have to say. I began to feel 
rather at a loss. 
"You were no close friend of my nephew's, Mr. Smithers?" she said presently. 
"No," I answered, welcoming the cue, "and yet, do you know, Miss Seaton, he is 
one of the very few of my old schoolfellows I have come across in the last few 
years, and I suppose as one gets older one begins to value old associations . . 
." My voice seemed to trail off into a vacuum. 
"I thought Miss Outram," I hastily began again, "a particularly charming girl. I 
hope they are both quite well." 
Still the old face solemnly blinked at me in silence. 
"You must find it very lonely, Miss Seaton, with Arthur away?" 
"I was never lonely in my life," she said sourly. "I don't look to flesh and 
blood for my company. When you've got to be my age, Mr. Smithers (which God 
forbid), you'll find life a very different affair from what you seem to think it 
is now. You won't seek company then, I'll be bound. It's thrust on you." Her 
face edged round into the clear green light, and her eyes groped, as it were, 
over my vacant, disconcerted face. "I dare say, now," she said, composing her 
mouth, "I dare say my nephew told you a good many tarradiddles in his time. Oh, 
yes, a good many, eh? He was always a liar. What, now, did he say of me? Tell 
me, now." She leant forward as far as she could, trembling, with an ingratiating 
smile. 
"I think he is rather superstitious," I said coldly, "but, honestly, I have a 
very poor memory, Miss Seaton." 
" 'Why?" she said. "I haven't." 
"The engagement hasn't been broken off, I hope." 
"Well, between you and me," she said, shrinking up and with an immensely 
confidential grimace, "it has." 
"I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear it. And where is Arthur?" 
"Eh?" 
"Where is Arthur?" 
We faced each other mutely among the dead old bygone furniture. Past all my 
scrutiny was that large, flat, grey, cryptic countenance. And then, suddenly, 
our eyes for the first time really met. In some indescribable way out of that 
thick-lidded obscurity a far small something stooped and looked out at me for a 
mere instant of time that seemed of almost intolerable protraction. 
Involuntarily I blinked and shook my head. She muttered something with great 
rapidity, but quite inarticulately; rose and hobbled to the door. I thought I 
heard, mingled in broken mutterings, something about tea. 
"Please, please, don't trouble," I began, but could say no more, for the door 
was already shut between us. I stood and looked out on the long-neglected 
garden. I could just see the bright greenness of Seaton's old tadpole pond. I 
wandered about the room. Dusk began to gather, the last birds in that dense 
shadowiness of trees had ceased to sing. And not a sound was to be heard in the 
house. I waited on and on, vainly speculating. I even attempted to ring the 
bell; but the wire was broken, and only jangled loosely at my efforts. 
I hesitated, unwilling to call or to venture out, and yet more unwilling to 
linger on, waiting for a tea that promised to be an exceedingly comfortless 
supper. And as darkness drew down, a.feeling of the utmost unease and 
disquietude came over me. All my talks with Seaton returned on me with a 
suddenly enriched meaning. I recalled again his face as we had stood hanging 
over the staircase, listening in the small hours to the inexplicable stirrings 
of the night. There were no candles in the room; every minute the autumnal 
darkness deepened. I cautiously opened the door and listened, and with some 
little dismay withdrew, for I was uncertain of my way out. I even tried the 
garden, but was confronted under a veritable thicket of foliage by a padlocked 
gate. It would be a little too ignominious to be caught scaling a friend's 
garden fence! 
Cautiously returning into the still and musty drawing-room, I took out my watch, 
and gave the incredible old woman ten minutes in which to reappear. And when 
that tedious ten minutes had ticked by I could scarcely distinguish its hands. I 
determined to wait no longer, drew open the door, and, trusting to my sense of 
direction, groped my way through the corridor that I vaguely remembered led to 
the front of the house. 
I mounted three or four stairs, and, lifting a heavy curtain, found myself 
facing the starry fanlight of the porch. From here I glanced into the gloom of 
the dining-room. My fingers were on the latch of the outer door when I heard a 
faint stirring in the darkness above the hall. I looked up and became conscious 
of, rather than saw, the huddled old figure looking down on me. 
There was an immense hushed pause. Then, "Arthur, Arthur," whispered an 
inexpressibly peevish, rasping voice, "is that you? Is that you, Arthur?" 
I can scarcely say why, but the question horribly startled me. No conceivable 
answer occurred to me. With head craned back, hand clenched on my umbrella, I 
continued to stare up into the gloom, in this fatuous confrontation. 
"Oh, oh"; the voice croaked. "It is you, is it? That disgusting man! . . . Go 
away out. Go away out." 
Hesitating no longer, I caught open the door and, slamming it behind me, ran out 
into the garden, under the gigantic old sycamore, and so out at the open gate. 
I found myself half up the village street before I stopped running. The local 
butcher was sitting in his shop reading a piece of newspaper by the light of a 
small oil-lamp. I crossed the road and enquired the way to the station. And 
after he had with minute and needless care directed me, I asked casually if Mr. 
Arthur Seaton still lived with his aunt at the big house just beyond the 
village. He poked his head in at the little parlour door. 
"Here's a gentleman enquiring after young Mr. Seaton, Millie," he said. "He's 
dead, ain't he?" 
"Why, yes, bless you," replied a cheerful voice from within. "Dead and buried 
these three months or more—young Mr. Seaton. And just before he was to be 
married, don't you remember, Bob?" 
I saw a fair young woman's face peer over the muslin of the little door at me. 
"Thank you," I replied, "then I go straight on?" 
"That's it, sir; past the pond, bear up the hill a bit to the left, and then 
there's the station lights before your eyes. 
We looked intelligently into each other's faces in the beam of the smoky lamp. 
But not one of the many questions in my mind could I put into words. 
And again I paused irresolutely a few paces further on. It was not fancy, merely 
a foolish apprehension of what the raw-boned butcher might "think" that 
prevented my going back to see if I could find Seaton's grave in the benighted 
churchyard. There was precious little use in pottering about in the muddy dark, 
merely to discover where he was buried. And yet I felt a little uneasy. My 
rather horrible thought was that, so far as I was concerned—one of his extremely 
few friends—he had never been much better than "buried" in my mind.