The Mist in the Mirror by Susan Hill

enthusiasm. I was entertained, andinterested, amused, and informed, but, above all, I was taken out of myself by this energetic little man.
    At last we crossed a further playing field, went through a wicket gate and so out onto the towpath beside the River Thames. Dancer gestured to right and left. ‘Boathouse. The weir. Are you an oarsman?’
    ‘No, no.’
    ‘Sportsman at all?’
    ‘No. I played cricket and football of sorts at my mission school, many years ago. Nothing since.’
    We were standing looking up river towards a graceful wooden bridge that curved across it to the opposite bank.
    ‘If it gets much colder the river will freeze,’ he said excitedly, ‘and we shall have skating for Christmas.’
    The bare branches of the willow trees, and the blades of tall grass and rushes, were iced white and stiff with frost. There was no wind, no sound at all save the rushing of the weir, and the cheeping, chattering sound made by a small party of coots and moorhens circling close to the bank.
    ‘It is,’ I said quietly, ‘the most beautiful spot. It is perfect, it cannot be faulted.’ I, who had travelled and seen such exotic sights, the glories of the world indeed, spoke the truth as I saw and felt it, most fervently.
    ‘The bridge is particularly beautiful – the curve of it, the gentleness of the arch …’
    ‘Ah – the haunted bridge!’
    ‘The …’
    He chuckled and seemed to do a little jig at my side.
    ‘We have two ghosts at Alton – perfectly friendly and harmless, the pair of them. The shadowy man in grey who crosses this bridge at dusk, and the servant laying places at table in Scholars’ Hall. Though neither, I think, have been sighted lately. Perhaps you will be lucky!’
    We walked on, and mounted the bridge. The wooden boards were slippery with frost, so that I almost fell and Dancer had to grab my arm. Then, leaning on the rail andlooking at the glittering surface of the water, I said lightly, ‘And are there really no other ghosts, in such an ancient place?’
    ‘None. Odd, you will agree. But none. It is a good, a happy place. It has always been so – for the most part.’
    I said nothing.
    ‘It quite disappoints the boys. They’d love some good midnight groaning and clanking of chains. Bloodthirsty creatures, boys.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So you have nothing to worry about, Mr Monmouth.’
    I saw that he was looking very closely at me, and that, for the first time, he was also standing absolutely still.
    I wanted to tell him, I had a tremendous urge to unburden myself, beginning not with the events of the previous night, but going back to the evening I had arrived in England. And I might indeed have spoken, but, at that moment, there was an eerie noise from up river, and looking in that direction we saw a flock of wild geese bearing down upon us, honking as they went, and the sound grew louder and mingled with the leathery clapping of their great wings. Dancer and I watched entranced, turning to follow them as they disappeared round the bend in the river. ‘What a sight that is!’ He was on the move again, bobbing up and down with excitement.
    It was cold and we began to move off the bridge.
    ‘We’ll walk up river. We can see the line of the buildings to such good effect from here. The chapel looks best of all,’ Dancer said, as proudly as if he were master of the place.
    I went along beside him, looking where I was bid, listening again.
    I did not speak of anything, after all.
    He ended our tour outside a row of houses set behind neat front gardens, behind Scholars’ House.
    ‘Bachelor masters live in the boarding houses, or roomsin the High Street, some senior masters in the cloisters. But …’ he flung open the front gate with a grand gesture, ‘we married men live here!’
    A door stood open, and in the doorway a little huddle of solemn children, all with the red-cheeked, gnome-like face of Dr Dancer. Behind them was a tall young woman carrying an infant. We went up the