All this enhanced the power of his words immensely. Then there was the strange fact to be borne in mind that no one had informed him that the house was haunted. No one could say that his imagination had been unduly excited by any story concerning the house previous to his going to sleep. He had retired to rest calmly, without any fear of a spiritual visitation. And how could it all be a dream? For the landlord now distinctly remembered that all our artist had related was exactly what had been told him by his grandfather.
Various were the exclamations of wonderment from the guests at the breakfast-table. They gazed with awe on the narrator, then at each other, then at the narrator again. Our artist had won the esteem of the whole club.
Breakfast being finished, our friends drew round the fire, and the landlord left the room, looking grave and shaking his head. McGuilp's strange adventure had furnished food for comment for two or three hours afterwards. The whole forenoon nothing was talked of but the ghost.
At length a lull occurred in the conversation, and someone recollected that it was Professor Cyanite's turn to tell a story. At that moment our host's pretty daughter, Helen, a blooming girl of sixteen, entered with the lunch.
Our artist was enraptured with the golden hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks of the maiden, after the swarthy beauties of Italy; but, above all, with her innocent, modest, and half-bashful manner.
"Well, Helen," said Mr. Oldstone, "has your father told you about the ghost?"
"Oh, yes, sir," replied the girl, her merry expression changing suddenly to a look of awe; "he did frighten me so; I am sure I shall never be able to sleep again in this house."
"This is the gentleman who saw the ghost, Helen," cried one of the other members, pointing to our artist.
The maiden turned and saw a fresh face in the club. Our artist was the youngest, by many years, of any of the other gentlemen present, besides which he was decidedly good looking. He gazed into the eyes of the girl till the poor child blushed crimson and looked down abashed.
"Ho! ho! Helen, my girl," said Mr. Crucible, one of the oldest members of the club, "you don't blush like that when you look at us old fogies--what is the matter, eh?"