Free The Master by Colm Tóibín

ghost story, knowing neither the middle nor the end and unsure even of the contours of the beginning.
    Henry had set it down as soon as he arrived home. He wrote in his notebook:
    Note here the ghost story told me at Addington (evening of Thursday 10th), by the Archbishop of Canterbury: the mere vague, undetailed, faint sketch of it: the story of the young
children (indefinite number and age), left to the care of servants in an old country house, through the death, presumably, of parents. The servants, wicked and depraved, corrupt and deprave the
children: the children are bad, full of evil to a sinister degree. The servants die (the story vague about the way of it) and their apparitions return to haunt the house and children.
    He did not need to look back at his notebook to be reminded of the story; the events remained with him. He thought of setting it in Newport, in a remote house by the rocks, or in one of the
newer mansions in New York, but none of these settings captured him, and gradually he abandoned the idea of an American family. It became an English story set in the past; and in the early and slow
elaboration of the story he reduced the children to merely two – a boy and his younger sister.
    He thought often of the death of his sister Alice, who had died three years earlier. He had read her diaries, so full of indiscretions, for the first time. Now he felt alone, much as she had
throughout her life, and he felt close to her, although he never suffered her symptoms or maladies and lacked her stoicism and her acceptance.
    In his darkest hours, he felt that both of them had somehow been abandoned as their family toured Europe and returned, often for no reason, to America. They had never been fully included in the
passion of events and places, becoming watchers and non-participants. Their brother William, the eldest, and then Wilky and Bob, who came between Henry and Alice, had been ready for the world,
expertly moulded, while Henry and Alice had been left unprotected and unready. He had become a writer and she had taken to her bed.
    He could clearly remember the first time he sensed Alice’s panic. They had been caught in the rain in Newport, having become too distracted by their own talk and laughter to pay attention
to the darkening of the sky. She could have been fourteen or fifteen, but she had developed none of the strange, shy assurance of her cousins when they came to that age; their poised and careful
way of coming into a room, or talking to a stranger, their easy and spontaneous way of being with friends and family, all this confidence Alice lacked.
    It began to rain hard that hot summer’s day and the sky over the sea was a purple-grey mass of cloud. He was wearing a light jacket, but Alice was wearing only a summer dress and a flimsy
straw hat. There was no shelter at hand. A few times they tried to shelter under bushes but the rain, driven by the wind, was insistent. He took off his jacket and held it over both of them and
they moved slowly and silently, huddled close together, towards home. He sensed her happiness as intense, almost shrill. He had never before understood the extent of her need for the full
attention, the full pity and protection, of him or William or their parents. In these minutes, as they walked the wet sandy soil of the lane from the sea walk back to the village, he felt his
sister on fire with satisfaction at being close to him. Watching her radiance and delight as they neared home, he had his first sense of how difficult things were going to be for her.
    He began to watch her. Until now, he had considered the joke that William was going to marry her as a light tease, a way to make her smile and William laugh and all the family join in. It was
also a show put on for visitors. William, the eldest, was six years older than Alice. As soon as Alice began to present herself to visitors, wear colourful dresses and become alert to the effect
she could have on a roomful of