There was nothing cheerful or genial about it.
You felt sorry for it, but it irritated you. It would sit on the
stairs and cry for hours at a stretch; and, whenever we woke up in
the night, one was sure to hear it pottering about the passages and
in and out of the different rooms, moaning and sighing, so that we
could not get to sleep again very easily. And when we had a party
on, it would come and sit outside the drawing-room door, and sob
all the time. It did not do anybody any harm exactly, but it cast
a gloom over the whole affair.
"Oh, I'm getting sick of this old fool," said the Pater, one
evening (the Dad can be very blunt, when he is put out, as you
know), after Johnson had been more of a nuisance than usual, and
had spoiled a good game of whist, by sitting up the chimney and
groaning, till nobody knew what were trumps or what suit had been
led, even. "We shall have to get rid of him, somehow or other. I
wish I knew how to do it."
"Well," said the Mater, "depend upon it, you'll never see the last
of him until he's found Emily's grave. That's what he is after.
You find Emily's grave, and put him on to that, and he'll stop
there. That's the only thing to do. You mark my words."
The idea seemed reasonable, but the difficulty in the way was that
we none of us knew where Emily's grave was any more than the ghost
of Johnson himself did.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38