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The Three Sisters

Estimated reading time โ€” 10 minutes



Thirty years ago on a wet autumn evening the household of Mallett’s
Lodge was gathered round the death-bed of Ursula Mallow, the eldest of
the three sisters who inhabited it. The dingy moth-eaten curtains of
the old wooden bedstead were drawn apart, the light of a smoking oil-
lamp falling upon the hopeless countenance of the dying woman as she
turned her dull eyes upon her sisters. The room was in silence except
for an occasional sob from the youngest sister, Eunice. Outside the
rain fell steadily over the steaming marshes.


“Nothing is to be changed, Tabitha,” gasped Ursula to the other sister,
who bore a striking likeness to her although her expression was harder
and colder; “this room is to be locked up and never opened.”

“Very well,” said Tabitha brusquely, “though I don’t see how it can
matter to you then.”

“It does matter,” said her sister with startling energy. “How do you
know, how do I know that I may not sometimes visit it? I have lived in
this house so long I am certain that I shall see it again. I will come
back. Come back to watch over you both and see that no harm befalls

“You are talking wildly,” said Tabitha, by no means moved at her
sister’s solicitude for her welfare. “Your mind is wandering; you know
that I have no faith in such things.”

Ursula sighed, and beckoning to Eunice, who was weeping silently at the
bedside, placed her feeble arms around her neck and kissed her.

“Do not weep, dear,” she said feebly. “Perhaps it is best so. A lonely
woman’s life is scarce worth living. We have no hopes, no aspirations;
other women have had happy husbands and children, but we in this
forgotten place have grown old together. I go first, but you must soon


Tabitha, comfortably conscious of only forty years and an iron frame,
shrugged her shoulders and smiled grimly.

“I go first,” repeated Ursula in a new and strange voice as her heavy
eyes slowly closed, “but I will come for each of you in turn, when your
lease of life runs out. At that moment I will be with you to lead your
steps whither I now go.”

As she spoke the flickering lamp went out suddenly as though
extinguished by a rapid hand, and the room was left in utter darkness.
A strange suffocating noise issued from the bed, and when the trembling
women had relighted the lamp, all that was left of Ursula Mallow was
ready for the grave.

That night the survivors passed together. The dead woman had been a
firm believer in the existence of that shadowy borderland which is said
to form an unhallowed link between the living and the dead, and even the
stolid Tabitha, slightly unnerved by the events of the night, was not
free from certain apprehensions that she might have been right.

With the bright morning their fears disappeared. The sun stole in at
the window, and seeing the poor earth-worn face on the pillow so touched
it and glorified it that only its goodness and weakness were seen, and
the beholders came to wonder how they could ever have felt any dread of
aught so calm and peaceful. A day or two passed, and the body was
transferred to a massive coffin long regarded as the finest piece of
work of its kind ever turned out of the village carpenter’s workshop.
Then a slow and melancholy cortege headed by four bearers wound its
solemn way across the marshes to the family vault in the grey old
church, and all that was left of Ursula was placed by the father and
mother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.

To Eunice as they toiled slowly home the day seemed strange and Sabbath-
like, the flat prospect of marsh wilder and more forlorn than usual, the
roar of the sea more depressing. Tabitha had no such fancies. The bulk
of the dead woman’s property had been left to Eunice, and her avaricious
soul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings of regret for
the deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.

“What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?” she asked as
they sat at their quiet tea.

“I shall leave it as it stands,” said Eunice slowly. “We have both got
sufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it to
supporting some beds in a children’s hospital.”

“If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital,” said Tabitha in her deep
tones, “she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you do
not respect her wishes more.”

“What else can I do with it then?” inquired Eunice.

“Save it,” said the other with gleaming eyes, “save it.”

Eunice shook her head.

“No,” said she, “it shall go to the sick children, but the principal I
will not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and you
can do what you like with it.”

“Very well,” said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; “I
don’t believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don’t
believe she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the money
she stored so carefully.”

“What do you mean?” asked Eunice with pale lips. “You are trying to
frighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things.”

Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of her
sister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composed
herself for a nap.

For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of the
dead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked,
its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness of
the others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn than
ever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like an
unquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive of
much thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark
evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of
mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms
and dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strange
noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held
accountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strange
sounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied that
she saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequent
search with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunice
was disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from a
complaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabitha
admitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and
virtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another

Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, and
she yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced by
avarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidly
separate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsest
dishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far the
better dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featured
creature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of the
candle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did this
passion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, and
lay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking of
the coins at her unholy vigils.

One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. “Why don’t you bank your money,
Tabitha?” she said; “it is surely not safe to keep such large sums in
such a lonely house.”

“Large sums!” repeated the exasperated Tabitha, “large sums! what
nonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keep

“It’s a great temptation to housebreakers,” said her sister, not
pressing the point. “I made sure last night that I heard somebody in
the house.”

“Did you?” said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face.
“So did I. I thought they went to Ursula’s room, and I got out of bed
and went on the stairs to listen.”

“Well?” said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister’s

“There was something there,” said Tabitha slowly. “I’ll swear it, for I
stood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling on
the floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat,
but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and the
cat was in the kitchen.”

“Oh, let us leave this dreadful house,” moaned Eunice.

“What!” said her sister grimly; “afraid of poor Ursula? Why should you
be? Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who
perhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers.”


“Oh!” said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, “if I saw her I should
die. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. O
God! have mercy on me, I am dying.”

She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sank
senseless to the floor.

“Get some water,” cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up the
stairs, “Eunice has fainted.”

The old woman, with a timid glance at her, retired, reappearing shortly
afterwards with the water, with which she proceeded to restore her much-
loved mistress to her senses. Tabitha, as soon as this was
accomplished, stalked off to her room, leaving her sister and Martha
sitting drearily enough in the small parlour, watching the fire and
conversing in whispers.

It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not last
much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so
lonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at length
consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere
idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small but
comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a
speedy change.

It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of the
marshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for one
supreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals,
the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with
the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then
the wind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce
gusts which, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their
full fury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air
shrieked in its chimneys windows rattled, doors slammed, and even, the
very curtains seemed to live and move.

Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed a
sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most
innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost
deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay
listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs,
bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her.
But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor,
crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her
dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on
the stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with a
quickly beating heart she regained her bed.

The sounds ceased and a deep silence followed, which she herself was
unable to break although she strove hard to do so. A wild gust of wind
shook the windows and nearly extinguished the light, and when its flame
had regained its accustomed steadiness she saw that the door was slowly
opening, while the huge shadow of a hand blotted the papered wall.
Still her tongue refused its office. The door flew open with a crash, a
cloaked figure entered and, throwing aside its coverings, she saw with a
horror past all expression the napkin-bound face of the dead Ursula
smiling terribly at her. In her last extremity she raised her faded
eyes above for succour, and then as the figure noiselessly advanced and
laid its cold hand upon her brow, the soul of Eunice Mallow left its
body with a wild shriek and made its way to the Eternal.

Martha, roused by the cry, and shivering with dread, rushed to the door
and gazed in terror at the figure which stood leaning over the bedside.
As she watched, it slowly removed the cowl and the napkin and exposed
the fell face of Tabitha, so strangely contorted between fear and
triumph that she hardly recognized it.

“Who’s there?” cried Tabitha in a terrible voice as she saw the old
woman’s shadow on the wall.

“I thought I heard a cry,” said Martha, entering. “Did anybody call?”

“Yes, Eunice,” said the other, regarding her closely. “I, too, heard
the cry, and hurried to her. What makes her so strange? Is she in a

“Ay,” said the old woman, falling on her knees by the bed and sobbing
bitterly, “the trance of death. Ah, my dear, my poor lonely girl, that
this should be the end of it! She has died of fright,” said the old
woman, pointing to the eyes, which even yet retained their horror. “She
has seen something devilish.”

Tabitha’s gaze fell. “She has always suffered with her heart,” she
muttered; “the night has frightened her; it frightened me.”

She stood upright by the foot of the bed as Martha drew the sheet over
the face of the dead woman.

“First Ursula, then Eunice,” said Tabitha, drawing a deep breath. “I
can’t stay here. I’ll dress and wait for the morning.”

She left the room as she spoke, and with bent head proceeded to her own.
Martha remained by the bedside, and gently closing the staring eyes,
fell on her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for the departed soul.
Overcome with grief and fear she remained with bowed head until a sudden
sharp cry from Tabitha brought her to her feet.


“Well,” said the old woman, going to the door.

“Where are you?” cried Tabitha, somewhat reassured by her voice.

“In Miss Eunice’s bedroom. Do you want anything?”

“Come down at once. Quick! I am unwell.”

Her voice rose suddenly to a scream. “Quick! For God’s sake! Quick,
or I shall go mad. There is some strange woman in the house.”

The old woman stumbled hastily down the dark stairs. “What is the
matter?” she cried, entering the room. “Who is it? What do you mean?”

“I saw it,” said Tabitha, grasping her convulsively by the shoulder. “I
was coming to you when I saw the figure of a woman in front of me going
up the stairs. Is it–can it be Ursula come for the soul of Eunice, as
she said she would?”

“Or for yours?” said Martha, the words coming from her in some odd
fashion, despite herself.

Tabitha, with a ghastly look, fell cowering by her side, clutching
tremulously at her clothes. “Light the lamps,” she cried hysterically.
“Light a fire, make a noise; oh, this dreadful darkness! Will it never
be day!”

“Soon, soon,” said Martha, overcoming her repugnance and trying to
pacify her. “When the day comes you will laugh at these fears.”

“I murdered her,” screamed the miserable woman, “I killed her with
fright. Why did she not give me the money? ‘Twas no use to her. Ah!
Look there!”

Martha, with a horrible fear, followed her glance to the door, but saw

“It’s Ursula,” said Tabitha from between her teeth. “Keep her off!
Keep her off!”

The old woman, who by some unknown sense seemed to feel the presence of
a third person in the room, moved a step forward and stood before her.
As she did so Tabitha waved her arms as though to free herself from the
touch of a detaining hand, half rose to her feet, and without a word
fell dead before her.

At this the old woman’s courage forsook her, and with a great cry she
rushed from the room, eager to escape from this house of death and
mystery. The bolts of the great door were stiff with age, and strange
voices seemed to ring in her ears as she strove wildly to unfasten them.
Her brain whirled. She thought that the dead in their distant rooms
called to her, and that a devil stood on the step outside laughing and
holding the door against her. Then with a supreme effort she flung it
open, and heedless of her night-clothes passed into the bitter night.
The path across the marshes was lost in the darkness, but she found it;
the planks over the ditches slippery and narrow, but she crossed them in
safety, until at last, her feet bleeding and her breath coming in great
gasps, she entered the village and sank down more dead than alive on a
cottage doorstep.



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