The Mystery of Cloomber | Page 3

many a weary mile and never see a living thing except the white,
heavy- flapping kittiwakes, which screamed and cried to each other
with their shrill, sad voices.
Very lonely and very bleak! Once out of sight of Branksome and there
was no sign of the works of man save only where the high, white tower
of Cloomber Hall shot up, like a headstone of some giant grave, from
amid the firs and larches which girt it round.
This great house, a mile or more from our dwelling, had been built by a
wealthy Glasgow merchant of strange tastes and lonely habits, but at
the time of our arrival it had been untenanted for many years, and stood
with weather-blotched walls and vacant, staring windows looking
blankly out over the hill side.
Empty and mildewed, it served only as a landmark to the fishermen, for
they had found by experience that by keeping the laird's chimney and
the white tower of Cloomber in a line they could steer their way
through the ugly reef which raises its jagged back, like that of some
sleeping monster, above the troubled waters of the wind-swept bay.
To this wild spot it was that Fate had brought my father, my sister, and
myself. For us its loneliness had no terrors. After the hubbub and bustle
of a great city, and the weary task of upholding appearances upon a
slender income, there was a grand, soul-soothing serenity in the long
sky-line and the eager air. Here at least there was no neighbour to pry
and chatter.
The laird had left his phaeton and two ponies behind him, with the aid
of which my father and I would go the round of the estate doing such

light duties as fall to an agent, or "factor" as it was there called, while
our gentle Esther looked to our household needs, and brightened the
dark old building.
Such was our simple, uneventful existence, until the summer night
when an unlooked-for incident occurred which proved to be the herald
of those strange doings which I have taken up my pen to describe.
It had been my habit to pull out of an evening in the laird's skiff and to
catch a few whiting which might serve for our supper. On this
well-remembered occasion my sister came with me, sitting with her
book in the stern-sheets of the boat, while I hung my lines over the
bows.
The sun had sunk down behind the rugged Irish coast, but a long bank
of flushed cloud still marked the spot, and cast a glory upon the waters.
The whole broad ocean was seamed and scarred with crimson streaks. I
had risen in the boat, and was gazing round in delight at the broad
panorama of shore and sea and sky, when my sister plucked at my
sleeve with a little, sharp cry of surprise.
"See, John," she cried, "there is a light in Cloomber Tower!".
I turned my head and stared back at the tall, white turret which peeped
out above the belt of trees. As I gazed I distinctly saw at one of the
windows the glint of a light, which suddenly vanished, and then shone
out once more from another higher up. There it flickered for some time,
and finally flashed past two successive windows underneath before the
trees obscured our view of it. It was clear that some one bearing a lamp
or a candle had climbed up the tower stairs and had then returned into
the body of the house.
"Who in the world can it be?" I exclaimed, speaking rather to myself
than to Esther, for I could see by the surprise upon her face that she had
no solution to offer. "Maybe some of the folk from Branksome-Bere
have wanted to look over the place."
My sister shook her head.

"There is not one of them would dare to set foot within the avenue
gates," she said. "Besides, John, the keys are kept by the house-agent at
Wigtown. Were they ever so curious, none of our people could find
their way in"
When I reflected upon the massive door and ponderous shutters which
guarded the lower storey of Cloomber, I could not but admit the force
of my sister's objection. The untimely visitor must either have used
considerable violence in order to force his way in, or he must have
obtained possession of the keys.
Piqued by the little mystery, I pulled for the beach, with the
determination to see for myself who the intruder might be, and what
were his intentions. Leaving my sister at Branksome, and summoning
Seth Jamieson, an old man-o'-war's-man and one of the stoutest of the
fishermen, I set off across the moor with him through the gathering
darkness.
"It hasna a guid