Chapter 30 lamp

It was an old house, no doubt, and the whole square was old, and in the parish one often meets something so out of place, majestic and old.But number 19 comes across as the oldest of the old, with that true patriarchal grandeur, towering, the grayest of grays, the haughtiest of haughty, the coldest of icy.Serious, grim, and with that stamp of desolation that is characteristic of all houses left unoccupied for a long period of time, it stood above all other buildings. In other parishes it has certainly been freely defined as a "haunted house", but Westminster is an unwelcoming place where ghosts are seldom regarded as reverent unless they are In the territory of the "nobles of the county".So, No. 19 was never considered a haunted house, but it still sits there, year after year, either abandoned or sold.

Mrs. Lancaster eyed the house approvingly as she walked up behind the chattering estate agent.The agent was trying to get No. 19 off his hands with an amused attitude.He inserted the key and continued his admiring introduction. "How long has this house been lying idle?" asked Mrs. Lancaster, interrupting the agent's eloquent flow very abruptly. Mr. Ladis (Ladis Fuplo) becomes a little panicked. "Er—er—for a while," he said gently. "I think so, too," said Mrs. Lancaster coldly. There was a gloomy atmosphere in the hazy hall. Seeing this, an imaginative woman would definitely tremble. However, this woman happened to be an outstanding and practical person. She was tall and had a pair of cold eyes. Blue eyes, and a streak or two of white in jet-black hair.

She walked from the attic to the cellar of the house, asking a pertinent question or two now and then.When the review was over, she returned to the front room, looking down at the plaza, and looked straight at the agent with determination. "What's wrong with this house?" Mr. Ladis was taken aback. "Of course, an undecorated house is always somewhat dark." He prevaricated feebly. "Nonsense," said Mrs. Lancaster, "such a low rent for a house like this—purely in name, and there must be a reason for it. I wonder if this house is a haunted house?"

Mr. Radiss was startled and flustered, but he said nothing. Mrs. Lancaster's eyes were piercingly fixed on him.After a few minutes she said again: "Of course, that's all nonsense, and I don't believe in ghosts or anything like that, and, personally, that wouldn't stop me from buying the house. But unfortunately, the servants, they're very gullible." , and so easily intimidated by it, you better tell me the real reason—what made this place deserted." "I—er—I really don't know," stammered the estate agent. "I'm sure you know," said the lady quietly, "that if, you don't tell me the real reason, I won't buy this house. What? Because there's a murderer?"

"Oh! no," exclaimed Mr. Ladis, startled by the idea that it was so incompatible with the dignity of the square. "It's just—it's just because of a child." "a child?" "yes." "I don't know the exact circumstances of the story," he continued reluctantly, "of course there are various versions of it, but, I believe, about thirty years ago, a man named William bought 19. Nothing is known about him. He had no servants, no friends, he seldom went out during the day, and he had a child, a little boy. About two months after moving there, he came to London He went, after that, he was rarely seen in this parish until he was identified, he was involved in some case, a fugitive 'hunted' by the police - exactly, I don't know, but, It must be very serious, because, compared with being arrested and imprisoned, he chose to commit suicide. And the child still lives there, alone in that house. He has some food and can last for a while. Waiting for his father to come back. Unfortunately, he always remembers what his father told him, and he never leaves the house and never tells anyone. He is a weak, sick little fellow, and, never He would defy orders. At night, the neighbors, unaware that his father had left, often heard him crying alone in the eerie emptiness of the room."

Mr. Ladis paused for a moment. "And—er—in the end, the kid died of starvation." He ended the story with the tone of announcing that it was going to rain. "Then it is the ghost of the child who haunts the house?" asked Mrs. Lancaster. "Really, it doesn't matter at all," Mr. Ladis assured her hastily. "Nothing has been seen, no one has seen it, it's just been said. It's absurd, of course, but , they said they actually heard — the kid — crying, you know.” Mrs. Lancaster walked forward. "I like this house very much," she said. "The price is so good that I spend almost nothing. I'll think about it and get back to you."

"It looks really bright, doesn't it, Dad?" Mrs. Lancaster surveyed her new estate with approving eyes.Gorgeous carpets, furniture polished to a new shine, and various decorative knick-knacks swept away the gloom of No. 19. She was talking to a thin old man.The old man's waist is a little bent, his shoulders are slightly slanted, and he has an elegant and mysterious face.Mr. Wimborne was not like his daughter.In fact, there is no greater contrast between a daughter who is brilliant and practical and a father who is dreamy. "Yes," he replied, smiling, "no one would imagine that this house is a haunted house."

"Dad, stop talking nonsense! Besides, it's our first day moving in." Mr. Wimborne laughed. "Well then, my dear, we agree that there are no such things as ghosts." "And please," continued Mrs. Lancaster, "don't say this in front of Geoffrey, because he's such a fancier." Geoffrey is Mrs. Lancaster's little boy.The family consisted of Mr. Wimborne, his widow daughter, and Geoffrey. It began to rain, and the rain beat on the windows—crack, crack. "Listen," said Mr. Wimborne, "does that sound like light footsteps?"

"It was more like rain," said Mrs. Lancaster, smiling. "But, that... that's really footsteps," her father cried, bending down to listen. Mrs. Lancaster laughed heartily. Mr. Wimborne had to laugh too.They were drinking tea in the living room, and he sat with his back to the stairs, and now, turning his chair around, he looked towards the stairs. Little Geoffrey was coming down, very slowly and quietly, with that child's apprehension of unfamiliar surroundings.The oak staircase had just been painted, not yet carpeted.He came over and stood beside his mother.Mr. Wimborne started slightly, for as the boy crossed the floor he distinctly heard another set of steps on the stairs, which seemed to be followed by Geoffrey.It was a shuffling, very slight sound of footsteps.However, he shrugged suspiciously. "Rain, no doubt," he thought.

"I'm looking at sponge cake," said Geoffrey, as wonderfully detached as he was pointing out an interesting fact. His mother quickly picked up the topic. "Well, dear boy, what do you think of your new house?" she asked. "A lot," Jeffrey babbled back, mouth full, "pound cake pound cake pound cake." The last sentence clearly expressed his deep satisfaction, after which he fell into silence , as if someone was looking at it for the last time possible, only concerned that the sponge cake was removed. After swallowing the last full mouthful, he suddenly began to speak loudly.

"Oh! Mother, there's an attic here, Jane said. May I explore it right away? There must be a secret room, and Jane says there isn't one, but I think there must be, and, anyway, I know, There must be pipes, water pipes (fascinated face), and, I can play with them, and, oh! Can I go and see the pot--boiler?" He draws out the last word , his face was full of obvious ecstasy, so much so that his grandfather felt ashamed of his incomparable joy in childhood. Such a picture appeared in his mind. In the picture, the hot water was no longer hot, and there was a There was a heavy pile of bills to pay the plumber. "We'll see the attic again tomorrow, my dear," said Mrs. Lancaster. "Imagine you build a very nice building out of your bricks, or an engine." "I don't want to make 'plates.'" "It's a house." "House, I don't want to build 'excavator' either." "Then, build a boiler," suggested his grandfather. Jeffrey was delighted. "Is it made of pipes?" "Yes, with a whole bunch of tubes." Jeffrey happily ran out to carry his bricks. The rain continued, and Mr. Wimborne listened.Yes, it must have been rain, but it really sounded like footsteps. That night, he had a strange dream. He dreamed that he was walking through a parish, which seemed to him a large city, but it was a city of children, and there were no adults there, nothing but children, only children, a crowd Another group of kids.In the dream, the children rushed up to the stranger and cried, "Did you bring him?" It seemed that he understood what they wanted, and he shook his head sadly. They turned and ran away, and they began to cry, sobbing very miserably. The city and the children gradually blurred, and he woke up to find himself lying on the bed, but the cries still echoed in his ears, and although he was fully awake, he could still hear them clearly .He remembered that Geoffrey slept on the floor below, but the cries of the children came from above.He sat up, struck a match, and the crying stopped immediately. Mr. Wimborne did not tell his daughter about his dream and its ending.It wasn't his fantasy kidding, he was convinced.In fact, not long after that, he heard that cry again in the daytime, as if the wind had blown into the chimney, but it wasn't the wind—it was a clear cry, unmistakable, it was That sympathetic and heartbreaking cry. At the same time, he also discovered that he was not the only one who heard this cry.He overheard the maid telling the servant in the living room that she thought those nannies must have treated the little master badly. That morning, she heard him crying softly.But Geoffrey came down to breakfast and lunch with a healthy and happy look on his face.Mr. Wimborne knew that it was not Geoffrey who was weeping, but the weeping of the child who had more than once startled him by his shuffling footsteps. Mrs. Lancaster was alone, hearing nothing, her ears perhaps unfit for sounds from another world. However, one day she was also taken aback. "Mum," said Geoffrey sadly, "I hope you'll let me play with that little boy." Mrs. Lancaster looked up from her desk and smiled at him. "Honey, what little boy?" "I don't know his name, he lived in the attic, sat on the floor and cried, but, when he saw me, he ran away, I think he was shy (with a little bit of pride and satisfaction), he Not like a strong kid. Then, when I was in the baby room doing my building, I saw him standing in the doorway staring at me playing, he looked so lonely, it seemed, he wanted to be with me I said, 'Come on, let's build a digging machine.' But he didn't say anything, he just watched, and it was like—like staring at a bunch of dads who wouldn't let him It's like touching chocolate." Jeffrey sighed, obviously, he had begun to be full of human compassion for the little boy. "But when I asked Jane who the little boy was, and told her I wanted to play with him, she said there were no other little boys in the house, and she told me to stop talking naughty things. Don't like Jane." Mrs. Lancaster stood up. "Jane is right. There are no other little boys here." "But, I saw him. Oh! Mom, let me play with him. He looks really lonely and unhappy. I really wish I could do something to make him happy." Mrs. Lancaster was about to speak, but her father stopped her by shaking his head. "Jeffrey," he said very gently, "that poor little boy is very lonely, and perhaps you can do something to comfort him; but you must figure out how—it's like trying to solve a riddle --do you understand?" "Is that because I'm strong? Can I just do it by myself?" "Yes, because you are strong." When the child had left the room, Mrs. Lancaster turned impatiently to her father. "Father, this is ridiculous, you encourage a child to believe the gossip of those servants!" "The servants never said anything to the boy," said the old man gently. "He's seen it - but, I've heard it, and if I were his age, I'd hear it and see it too." "But, this is all nonsense! Why can't I see or hear?" Mr. Wimborne smiled, strangely and wearily, but he did not answer his daughter's question. "Why?" continued his daughter, "and why did you tell him that he could help this--this--little thing. This--this is simply impossible." The old man looked at her thoughtfully. "Why can't it be?" said he. "Do you remember the words of those? In the dark, what kind of lamp was given to guide the groping children, 'The gift of the blind.'" God answered road." "Jeffrey has this -- the gift of the blind. All kids have it, and we only lose it when we grow up, we sweep it out of us. Sometimes, when we Being very old, some faint light will reignite us too, but this light burns brightest in childhood. That's why I thought, Geoffrey might help it." "I don't understand," murmured Mrs. Lancaster feebly. "I don't understand either. The—that kid was in trouble, and he wished—hoped to be relieved. But how? I don't know, but—it's horrible to think about it—it cried out Out came—the boy." A month after this conversation, Jeffrey had a very serious illness.The east wind was blowing very hard then, and besides, he was not a very strong boy.The doctor shook his head and said that the boy was very ill, and he was more frank with Mr. Wimborne, admitting plainly that there was no hope. "This kid won't live long, no matter how hard he tries." He added: "He has been suffering from severe lung disease for a long time." While nursing Geoffrey, Mrs. Lancaster slowly began to feel the presence of that—the other children.At the beginning, the cries and the wind were not quite distinguishable, but gradually, they became clearer and more unmistakable.At last Mrs. Lancaster heard it in the dead silence: the cry of a child--dark, hopeless, heart-rending. Geoffrey's condition was getting worse and worse, and while he was comatose, he couldn't stop.Talk to the kid again and again: "I really hope I can help you get away, I really do!" he exclaimed. After the coma passed, Jeffrey fell into a deep sleep. He lay very peacefully, breathing heavily, and seemed unconscious.Nothing more to do but wait patiently and watch closely.Then came a calm night, the air was clean and quiet, not a breath of wind. Suddenly, the child woke up with a start. He opened his eyes and looked around his mother towards the door.He tried to say something, and his mother bent down to hear him murmur: "Okay, I'll come." He whispered, and then fell asleep again. The mother felt suddenly so frightened that she ran across the room to her father.Somewhere beside them, a child was laughing loudly, very happy and content, the silvery triumphant laughter echoing around the room. "I'm scared, I'm scared," she moaned. He put his arms around her, protecting her.A sudden gust of wind blew them both by surprise, but after the gust passed, what was left was the deathly tranquility just now. The laughter stopped, and a faint sound crept towards them, so faint it was almost inaudible, but it grew louder until they could distinguish it clearly as footsteps - slight , The sound of footsteps leaving slowly. Crack, crack, they go - those familiar, dragging, thin footsteps.But—certainly—suddenly, another footstep joined in, moving swiftly and briskly. Then, they walked towards the door together at the same pace. Down, down, down, past the door, close the door, clack, clack, the footsteps of the unseen children go together. Mrs. Lancaster listened wildly and desperately. "They're two—yes two!" Her face turned gray with fear, and she flung herself towards the crib in the corner, but her father stopped her gently, pointing away. "There." He said simply. Crackling, crackling—the sound was getting weaker and fainter. In the end, it was—the boundless silence.