vivid realisation of some dreadful nightmare. It was as if something of horror, which had haunted us in sleep, had suddenly taken on itself some tangible shape and form. So irresistible was this impression, so unexpected was the shock of discovering it, that I believe, if Pollie had not caught hold of me with both her hands, and held me up, I should have fallen to the floor. As it was I reeled and staggered, so that I daresay it needed all her strength to keep me perpendicular. It was her voice, addressing me in earnest, half angry, expostulation which reassured me—at least in part.
“You goose! Don’t you see that it’s a picture drawn with phosphorus, or luminous paint, or something, on the wall. It won’t bite you; you’re not afraid of a picture, child.”
It was a picture; and, when you came to look into it, not a particularly well-drawn one either. Though I could not understand how we had missed seeing it so soon as we had entered—unless the explanation was that it had only just been put there. And, if that was the case, by whom? and how? A brief inspection was enough to show that the thing was more like one of those masks which boys wear on Guy Fawkes’ day than anything else. It was just as ridiculous, and just as much like anything in heaven or earth.
“Let’s get out of this; let’s go into the house; why do you stop in this horrid place? Where’s the door?”
“That’s the question—Where is it? Uncle Benjamin’s ideas of the proper way of getting in and out of a house are a little too ingenious for me; we seem to be in a sort of entry with nothing but walls all round us. Haven’t you a match? Didn’t you take a box out with you? For goodness sake don’t say you’ve lost it.”
I had not lost it, fortunately for us. I gave it to her. She struck a light. As she did so, the face and the
