ER OF THE DOOR

"If you don't believe it, you can read it for yourself," said Allen
Clinton, climbing up the steps and searching among the volumes on the
top shelf.

I lay back in my chair. The beams from the sinking sun shone through the
stained glass of the windows of the old library, and dyed the rows of
black leather volumes with bands of red and yellow.

"Here, Bell!"

I took a musty volume from Allen Clinton, which he had unearthed from
its resting-place.

"It is about the middle of the book," he continued eagerly. "You will
see it in big, black, old English letters."

I turned over the pages containing the family tree and other archives of
the Clintons till I came to the one I was seeking. It contained the
curse which had rested on the family since 1400. Slowly and with
difficulty I deciphered the words of this terrible denunciation.

"And in this cell its coffin lieth, the coffin which hath not human
shape, for which reason no holy ground receiveth it. Here shall it rest
to curse the family of ye Clyntons from generation to generation. And
for this reason, as soon as the soul shall pass from the body of each
first-born, which is the heir, it shall become the warder of the door by
day and by night. Day and night shall his spirit stand by the door, to
keep the door closed till the son shall release the spirit of the father
from the watch and take his place, till his son in turn shall die. And
whoso entereth into the cell shall be the prisoner of the soul that
guardeth the door till it shall let him go."

"What a ghastly idea!" I said, glancing up at the young man who was
watching me as I read. "But you say this cell has never been found. I
should say its existence was a myth, and, of course, the curse on the
soul of the first-born to keep the door shut as warder is absurd. Matter
does not obey witchcraft."

"The odd part of it is," replied Allen, "that every other detail of the
Abbey referred to in this record has been identified; but this cell with
its horrible contents has never been found."

It certainly was a curious legend, and I allow it made some impression
on me. I fancied, too, that somewhere I had heard something similar, but
my memory failed to trace it.

I had come down to Clinton Abbey three days before for some pheasant
shooting.

It was now Sunday afternoon. The family, with the exception of old Sir
Henry, Allen, and myself, were at church. Sir Henry, now nearly eighty
years of age