Produced by David Widger
NIGHT WATCHES
by W.W. Jacobs
THE THREE SISTERS
Thirty years ago on a wet autumn evening the household of Mallett'sLodge was gathered round the death-bed of Ursula Mallow, the eldest ofthe three sisters who inhabited it. The dingy moth-eaten curtains ofthe old wooden bedstead were drawn apart, the light of a smoking oil-lamp falling upon the hopeless countenance of the dying woman as sheturned her dull eyes upon her sisters. The room was in silence exceptfor an occasional sob from the youngest sister, Eunice. Outside therain fell steadily over the steaming marshes.
"Nothing is to be changed, Tabitha," gasped Ursula to the other sister,who bore a striking likeness to her although her expression was harderand colder; "this room is to be locked up and never opened."
"Very well," said Tabitha brusquely, "though I don't see how it canmatter to you then."
"It does matter," said her sister with startling energy. "How do youknow, how do I know that I may not sometimes visit it? I have lived inthis house so long I am certain that I shall see it again. I will comeback. Come back to watch over you both and see that no harm befallsyou."
"You are talking wildly," said Tabitha, by no means moved at hersister's solicitude for her welfare. "Your mind is wandering; you knowthat I have no faith in such things."
Ursula sighed, and beckoning to Eunice, who was weeping silently at thebedside, placed her feeble arms around her neck and kissed her.
"Do not weep, dear," she said feebly. "Perhaps it is best so. A lonelywoman's life is scarce worth living. We have no hopes, no aspirations;other women have had happy husbands and children, but we in thisforgotten place have grown old together. I go first, but you must soonfollow."
Tabitha, comfortably conscious of only forty years and an iron frame,shrugged her shoulders and smiled grimly.
"I go first," repeated Ursula in a new and strange voice as her heavyeyes slowly closed, "but I will come for each of you in turn, when yourlease of life runs out. At that moment I will be with you to lead yoursteps whither I now go."
As she spoke the flickering lamp went out suddenly as thoughextinguished by a rapid hand, and the room was left in utter darkness.A strange suffocating noise issued from the bed, and when the tremblingwomen had relighted the lamp, all that was left of Ursula Mallow wasready for the grave.
That night the survivors passed together. The dead woman had been afirm believer in the existence of that shadowy borderland which is saidto form an unhallowed link between the living and the dead, and even thestolid Tabitha, slightly unnerved by the events of the night, was notfree from certain apprehensions that she might have been right.
With the bright morning their fears disappeared. The sun stole in atthe window, and seeing the poor earth-worn face on the pillow so touchedit and glorified it that only its goodness and weakness were seen, andthe beholders came to wonder how they could ever have felt any dread ofaught so calm and peaceful. A day or two passed, and the body wastransferred to a massive coffin long regarded as the finest piece ofwork of its kind ever turned out of the village carpenter's workshop.Then a slow and melancholy cortege headed by four bearers wound itssolemn way across the marshes to the family vault in the grey oldchurch, and all that was left of Ursula was placed by the father andmother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.
To Eunice as they toiled slowly home the day seemed strange and Sabbath-like, the flat prospect of marsh wilder and more forlorn than usual, theroar of the sea more depressing. Tabitha had no such fancies. The bulkof the dead woman's property had been left to Eunice, and her avaricioussoul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings of regret forthe deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.
"What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?" she asked asthey sat at their quiet tea.
"I shall leave it as it stands," said Eunice slowly. "We have both gotsufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it tosupporting some beds in a children's hospital."
"If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital," said Tabitha in her deeptones, "she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you donot respect her wishes more."
"What else can I do with it then?" inquired Eunice.
"Save it," said the other with gleaming eyes, "save it."
Eunice shook her head.
"No," said she, "it shall go to the sick children, but the principal Iwill not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and youcan do what you like with it."
"Very well," said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; "Idon't believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don'tbelieve she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the moneyshe stored so carefully."
"What do you mean?" asked Eunice with pale lips. "You are trying tofrighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things."
Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of hersister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composedherself for a nap.
For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of thedead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked,its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness ofthe others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn thanever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like anunquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive ofmuch thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long darkevenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air ofmystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty roomsand dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strangenoises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be heldaccountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strangesounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied thatshe saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequentsearch with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunicewas disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from acomplaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabithaadmitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety andvirtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in anotherdirection.
Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, andshe yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced byavarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidlyseparate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsestdishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far thebetter dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featuredcreature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of thecandle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did thispassion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, andlay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking ofthe coins at her unholy vigils.
One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. "Why don't you bank your money,Tabitha?" she said; "it is surely not safe to keep such large sums insuch a lonely house."
"Large sums!" repeated the exasperated Tabitha, "large sums! whatnonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keepme."
"It's a great temptation to housebreakers," said her sister, notpressing the point. "I made sure last night that I heard somebody inthe house."
"Did you?" said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face."So did I. I thought they went to Ursula's room, and I got out of bedand went on the stairs to listen."
"Well?" said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister'sface.
"There was something there," said Tabitha slowly. "I'll swear it, for Istood on the landing by her door and listened; someth
ing scuffling onthe floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat,but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and thecat was in the kitchen."
"Oh, let us leave this dreadful house," moaned Eunice.
"What!" said her sister grimly; "afraid of poor Ursula? Why should yoube? Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and whoperhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers."
"Oh!" said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, "if I saw her I shoulddie. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. OGod! have mercy on me, I am dying."
She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sanksenseless to the