The Silent House | Page 2

for No. 13 was supposed to be haunted,
and had been empty for over twenty years. By reason of its legend, its
loneliness and grim appearance, it was known as the Silent House, and
formed quite a feature of the place. Murder had been done long ago in
one of its empty, dusty rooms, and it was since then that the victim
walked. Lights, said the ghost-seers, had been seen flitting from
window to window, groans were sometimes heard, and the apparition
of a little old woman in brocaded silk and high-heeled shoes appeared
on occasions. Hence the Silent House bore an uncanny reputation.
How much truth there was in these stories it is impossible to say; but
sure enough, in spite of a low rental, no tenant would take No. 13 and
face its ghostly terrors. House and apparition and legend had become
quite a tradition, when the whole fantasy was ended in the summer of

'95 by the unexpected occupation of the mansion. Mr. Mark Berwin, a
gentleman of mature age, who came from nobody knew where, rented
No. 13, and established himself therein to lead a strange and lonely life.
At first, the gossips, strong in ghostly tradition, declared that the new
tenant would not remain a week in the house; but as the week extended
into six months, and Mr. Berwin showed no signs of leaving, they left
off speaking of the ghost and took to discussing the man himself. In a
short space of time quite a collection of stories were told about the
newcomer and his strange ways.
Lucian heard many of these tales from his landlady. How Mr. Berwin
lived all alone in the Silent House without servant or companion; how
he spoke to none, and admitted no one into the mansion; how he
appeared to have plenty of money, and was frequently seen coming
home more or less intoxicated; and how Mrs. Kebby, the deaf
charwoman who cleaned out Mr. Berwin's rooms, declined to sleep in
the house because she considered that there was something wrong
about her employer.
To such gossip Denzil paid little attention, until his skein of life
became unexpectedly entangled with that of the strange gentleman. The
manner of their meeting was unforeseen and peculiar.
One foggy November night, Lucian, returning from the theatre, shortly
after eleven o'clock, dismissed his hansom at the entrance to the square
and walked thereinto through the thick mist, trusting to find his way
home by reason of two years' familiarity with the precincts. As it was
impossible to see even the glare of the near gas lamp in the murky air,
Lucian felt his way cautiously along the railings. The square was filled
with fog, dense to the eye and cold to the feel, so that Lucian shivered
with the chill, in spite of the fur coat over his evening clothes.
As he edged gingerly along, and thought longingly of the fire and
supper awaiting him in his comfortable rooms, he was startled by
hearing a deep, rich voice boom out almost at his feet. To make the
phenomenon still more remarkable, the voice shaped itself into certain
well-known words of Shakespeare:

"Oh!" boomed this vox et præterea nihil in rather husky tones, "Oh!
that a man should put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brains!"
And then through the mist and darkness came the unmistakable sound
of sobs.
"God bless me!" cried Lucian, leaping back, with shaken nerves. "Who
is this? Who are you?"
"A lost soul!" wailed the deep voice, "which God will not bless!" And
then came the sobbing again.
It made Denzil's blood run cold to hear this unseen creature weeping in
the gloom. Moving cautiously in the direction of the sound, he
stumbled against a man with his folded arms resting on the railings, and
his face bent down on his arms. He made no attempt to turn when
Lucian touched him, but with downcast head continued to weep and
moan in a very frenzy of self-pity.
"Here!" said the young barrister, shaking the stranger by the shoulder,
"what is the matter with you?"
"Drink!" stuttered the man, suddenly turning with a dramatic gesture. "I
am an object lesson to teetotalers; a warning to topers; a modern helot
made shameful to disgust youth with vice."
"You had better go home, sir," said Lucian sharply.
"I can't find home. It is somewhere hereabout, but where, I don't
know."
"You are in Geneva Square," said Denzil, trying to sharpen the dulled
wits of the man.
"I wish I was in No. 13 of it," sighed the stranger. "Where the deuce is
No. 13? Not in this Cloudcuckooland, anyhow."
"Oh!" cried Lucian, taking the man's arm. "Come with me. I'll lead you
home, Mr. Berwin."

Scarcely had the name passed