The first book I laid hands on was "Fox's Book of Martyrs," with plates
showing the various modes of torture by which the early Christians were
put to death. I passed on to the next. This was a book of Chinese
punishments, with Chinese illustrations. I opened the book at a plate of
a man being skinned alive. Having little taste for these sort of horrors, I closed the book and
passed on to the next. The third book was a description of celebrated
executions, with a plate as frontispiece of a man being hanged, drawn,
and quartered. "The Baron seems fond of the horrible," I thought, and I
took up another. This was on bull-baiting, cock-fighting, and other
cruel sports. Another was a book on poisons. A sixth, on the various
modes of self-defence. A seventh, a book on field sports. I put down the
book for a moment and sat musing, trying to imagine to myself what
manner of man the Baron might be. I gazed round the room, and noticed
that it was hung round by trophies of the chase--stags' antlers, foxes'
brushes, intermingled with guns, powder-flasks, etc. Here and there were
hung half suits of armour, belonging, no doubt, to the Baron's
ancestors. Then, from musing I fell into a dose, and dreamed of the wild hunter and
all sorts of curious and horrible things. On awaking I reflected that I had not been over the house, so I went in
search of the housekeeper, who asked me if I would like to see the
picture gallery. Nothing loth, I followed my guide, who pointed me out
the portraits of the present Baron's ancestors for I know not how many
generations back. The portrait of the present Baron was not amongst them. I noticed a
strong family likeness running through all of the portraits, and I
wondered if the Baron inherited the likeness. I asked the housekeeper,
and she assured me that he did in a very striking degree. On leaving the
gallery, I passed through long oaken corridors, through immense chambers
hung with tapestry, on which were depicted either battles or scenes of
the chase. "The Baron inherits the tastes of his ancestors, it would appear," I
said to the matron. "Ah! sir," said she, with a sigh, and tried to force a smile, but it was
a bitter one. I took little notice of her expression at the time, and soon after left
her, to stroll about in the garden. It was a spacious one, laid out in
good taste. There were terraces, broad velvet lawns, cedars of Lebanon,
avenues of yew trees, glimpses of distant hills, flower beds, luxuriant
with every variety of the choicest flowers. There were broad walks and
serpentine paths, oaks, beeches, elms; a lake with an island in the
middle, which was reached by a rustic bridge; weeping-willows,
summer-houses, and everything that could be desired. I strolled about
the garden, struck with admiration every step I took at the exquisite
taste with which everything was carried out, and wondered how it was
that the same mind which took such delight in the horrible should
possess such exquisite refinement of taste in the planning of his
garden. I doubted the garden being the result of the Baron's own taste, nor was
I mistaken, as I afterwards ascertained from the housekeeper. I strolled
back towards the house, which I examined carefully over for the second
time, then strolled out again into the garden, and so on till supper,
which I took about nine o'clock. Feeling rather lonely, I invited Mrs. Wharton, the housekeeper, to keep
me company during my solitary meal. She sat down opposite to me as I
commenced devouring my cold fowl and tongue, and helped myself to a
glass of the Baron's ale. She was an agreeable old lady, and seemed to
have known better days. "This is a curious old place," I began. "Have you any rats here?" "No, sir, none now," answered the matron. "Nor bugs?" "No." "Nor fleas?" "No, sir,--that is to say, only one," and her face assumed a solemn
expression. "Only _one_!" I exclaimed, laughing. "Yes, sir," said she, gravely--"only the _Phantom_; only the _Baron_." "_Phantom! Baron!_" I exclaimed, bewildered. "Ah, you have a ghost story
in the family, I see; but I don't think you quite understood my
question," I said. "I did not inquire about phantoms, or barons; my
question referred simply to fleas." "Yes, yes; I perfectly understand, sir," replied the matron; "and I
repeat that the _phantom flea_ is the only flea that inhabits this
mansion." "_The Phantom Flea!_" Here I exploded. "Well, of all the odd
superstitions I ever heard of, that beats them all. Really, my good
woman, you should _not_--you should not, indeed, believe in such trash." "Ah, sir," replied the matron, "it is plain to see that you are a
stranger in these parts. Is it possible you have never heard of the
'Baron's flea?'" "Never in all my life before, I assure you, my good woman," I replied;
"but, as it is a thing apparently well known, I should like to hear the
particulars of the case." "Well, sir," began the housekeeper, "you must know that some two hundred
years or so back one of the Baron's ancestors, one Sir Ralph ----
inhabited this mansion. The room that you will sleep in to-night was his
room; the self same bed and furniture that you saw this morning were
there in his time. He was not a man generally liked by those around him;
in fact, it would not be too much to say that he was universally hated. No one could remember any good act or kind word of the Baron's. He was
cruel, bloodthirsty, tyrannical, avaricious, ambitious, and sensual. From early youth he was always allowed to have his own way, and when he
came into power he was the scourge of the neighbourhood. "There was no restraining his cruelty and malignity. Anyone who dared
oppose himself to his will was put to death. He thought no more of
taking the life of a peasant than one would in wringing the neck of a
fowl. Maidens were carried off with impunity, and sometimes murdered;
men were found stabbed or mangled to death by the Baron's hounds;
cottages were set fire to, and their inhabitants driven out to seek
refuge where they could; robberies were committed, churches pillaged,
convents sacked, monks driven out and occasionally burnt alive for
pastime; nuns carried off by ruffians to the Baron's hall; in short,
every species of outrage and plunder conceivable. Such a state of
affairs could not endure for ever. It gave rise to a rebellion. The
long-oppressed people would suffer it no longer, and rose to a man. They
would fain have broken into the Baron's hall, and have torn him limb
from limb; but the Baron's myrmidons were powerful and well armed; and,
cutting their way through the crowd with the Baron at their head, spared
neither man, woman, nor child. "The mob, driven back, were subdued for a time; but the law interfered,
though with little better success; for the first time that constables
were sent to arrest the Baron, he sent them back again to those who sent
them with their noses and ears slit. Such an insult as this against the
servants of the law could not be stood any longer.