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Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and
when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his
forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so
inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were,
darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer,
asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts. Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts
immediately slipped out of his mind. But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the
gate into the street, had said good-bye to Emilie, shouted to her for
the last time, _"Adieu, Zuckerpüppchen! "_ a short man darted by
him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight
but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face
with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose. The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma
Vassilyevitch that he recognised--not his face, for he had never seen
it before--but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed
distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in
the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light
as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance
with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company
would alone have induced his agitation. X
Whatever Kuzma Vassilyevitch's apprehensions may have been, they were
quickly dissipated and left no trace. He took to visiting the two
ladies from Riga frequently. The susceptible lieutenant was soon on
friendly terms with Emilie. At first he was ashamed of the
acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being
ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more
eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and
greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own
four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant
impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and
ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche
particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and
Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most
part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... Only once he let
himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French
material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a
candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat's
tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was
forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win
the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their
confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary
scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away
without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal
something from him they would converse in German in his presence. Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions
in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all,
some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche's house, which was a fairly large
one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened
to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits;
on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing
living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie's continuing
to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and
declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, "_wie die Augen
eines Paradiesvogels!_"
XI
One day in the very height of summer, Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who had
spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors and workmen,
dragged himself tired and exhausted to the little gate that had become
so familiar to him. He knocked and was admitted. He shambled into the
so-called drawing-room and immediately lay down on the sofa. Emilie
went up to him and mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief. "How tired he is, poor pet! How hot he is!" she said commiseratingly. "Good gracious! You might at least unbutton your collar. My goodness,
how your throat is pulsing!" "I am done up, my dear," groaned Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "I've been on my
feet all the morning, in the baking sun. It's awful! I meant to go
home. But there those vipers, the contractors, would find me! While
here with you it is cool.... I believe I could have a nap." "Well, why not? Go to sleep, my little chick; no one will disturb you
here." ...
"But I am really ashamed." "What next! Why ashamed? Go to sleep. And I'll sing you ... what do you
call it? ... I'll sing you to bye-bye, _'Schlaf, mein Kindchen,
Schlafe! '_" She began singing. "I should like a drink of water first." "Here is a glass of water for you. Fresh as crystal! Wait, I'll put a
pillow under your head.... And here is this to keep the flies off." She covered his face with a handkerchief. "Thank you, my little cupid.... I'll just have a tiny doze ... that's
all." Kuzma Vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. "_Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe_," sang Emilie, swaying from
side to side and softly laughing at her song and her movements. "What a big baby I have got!" she thought. "A boy!" XII
An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. He fancied in his sleep
that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. He
fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her knees close
beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. She jumped
up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her
pocket. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched. "I've had a good long snooze, it seems!" he observed, yawning. "Come
here, _meine züsse Fräulein_!" Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her
pocket and took out a small pair of scissors. "_Ach, Herr Je_!" Emilie could not help exclaiming. "It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny
you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing
up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are
puffy.... Oh!" Emilie went off into a giggle. "Come, that's enough," muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up
from the sofa. "That's enough giggling about nothing. If you can't
think of anything more sensible, I'll go home.... I'll go home," he
repeated, seeing that she was still laughing. Emilie subsided. "Come, stay; I won't.... Only you must brush your hair." "No, never mind.... Don't trouble. I'd better go," said Kuzma
Vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap. Emilie pouted. "Fie, how cross he is! A regular Russian! All Russians are cross. Now
he is going. Fie! Yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he
gives me nothing and goes away." | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
"I haven't any money on me," Kuzma Vassilyevitch muttered grumpily in
the doorway. "Good-bye." Emilie looked after him and shook her finger. "No money! Do you hear, do you hear what he says? Oh, what deceivers
these Russians are! But wait a bit, you pug.... Auntie, come here, I
have something to tell you." That evening as Kuzma Vassilyevitch was undressing to go to bed, he
noticed that the upper edge of his leather belt had come unsewn for
about three inches. Like a careful man he at once procured a needle
and thread, waxed the thread and stitched up the hole himself. He
paid, however, no attention to this apparently trivial circumstance. XIII
The whole of the next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch devoted to his official
duties; he did not leave the house even after dinner and right into
the night was scribbling and copying out his report to his superior
officer, mercilessly disregarding the rules of spelling, always
putting an exclamation mark after the word _but_ and a semi-colon
after _however_. Next morning a barefoot Jewish boy in a tattered
gown brought him a letter from Emilie--the first letter that Kuzma
Vassilyevitch had received from her. "Mein allerliebstep Florestan," she wrote to him, "can you really so
cross with your Zuckerpüppchen be that you came not yesterday? Please
be not cross if you wish not your merry Emilie to weep very bitterly
and come, be sure, at 5 o'clock to-day." (The figure 5 was surrounded
with two wreaths.) "I will be very, very glad. Your amiable Emilie." Kuzma Vassilyevitch was inwardly surprised at the accomplishments of
his charmer, gave the Jew boy a copper coin and told him to say, "Very
well, I will come." XIV
Kuzma Vassilyevitch kept his word: five o'clock had not struck when he
was standing before Madame Fritsche's gate. But to his surprise he did
not find Emilie at home; he was met by the lady of the house herself
who--wonder of wonders!--dropping a preliminary curtsey, informed him
that Emilie had been obliged by unforeseen circumstances to go out but
she would soon be back and begged him to wait. Madame Fritsche had on
a neat white cap; she smiled, spoke in an ingratiating voice and
evidently tried to give an affable expression to her morose
countenance, which was, however, none the more prepossessing for that,
but on the contrary acquired a positively sinister aspect. "Sit down, sit down, sir," she said, putting an easy chair for him,
"and we will offer you some refreshment if you will permit it." Madame Fritsche made another curtsey, went out of the room and
returned shortly afterwards with a cup of chocolate on a small iron
tray. The chocolate turned out to be of dubious quality; Kuzma
Vassilyevitch drank the whole cup with relish, however, though he was
at a loss to explain why Madame Fritsche was suddenly so affable and
what it all meant. For all that Emilie did not come back and he was
beginning to lose patience and feel bored when all at once he heard
through the wall the sounds of a guitar. First there was the sound of
one chord, then a second and a third and a fourth--the sound
continually growing louder and fuller. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was
surprised: Emilie certainly had a guitar but it only had three
strings: he had not yet bought her any new ones; besides, Emilie was
not at home. Who could it be? Again a chord was struck and so loudly
that it seemed as though it were in the room.... Kuzma Vassilyevitch
turned round and almost cried out in a fright. Before him, in a low
doorway which he had not till then noticed--a big cupboard screened
it--stood a strange figure ... neither a child nor a grown-up girl. She was wearing a white dress with a bright-coloured pattern on it and
red shoes with high heels; her thick black hair, held together by a
gold fillet, fell like a cloak from her little head over her slender
body. Her big eyes shone with sombre brilliance under the soft mass of
hair; her bare, dark-skinned arms were loaded with bracelets and her
hands covered with rings, held a guitar. Her face was scarcely
visible, it looked so small and dark; all that was seen was the
crimson of her lips and the outline of a straight and narrow nose. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stood for some time petrified and stared at the
strange creature without blinking; and she, too, gazed at him without
stirring an eyelid. At last he recovered himself and moved with small
steps towards her. The dark face began gradually smiling. There was a sudden gleam of
white teeth, the little head was raised, and lightly flinging back the
curls, displayed itself in all its startling and delicate beauty. "What little imp is this?" thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and, advancing
still closer, he brought out in a low voice:
"Hey, little image! Who are you?" "Come here, come here," the "little image" responded in a rather husky
voice, with a halting un-Russian intonation and incorrect accent, and
she stepped back two paces. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her through the doorway and found himself
in a tiny room without windows, the walls and floor of which were
covered with thick camel's-hair rugs. He was overwhelmed by a strong
smell of musk. Two yellow wax candles were burning on a round table in
front of a low sofa. In the corner stood a bedstead under a muslin
canopy with silk stripes and a long amber rosary with a red tassle at
the end hung by the pillow. "But excuse me, who are you?" repeated Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Sister ... sister of Emilie." "You are her sister? And you live here?" "Yes ... yes." Kuzma Vassilyevitch wanted to touch "the image." She drew back. "How is it she has never spoken of you?" "Could not ... could not." "You are in concealment then ... in hiding?" "Yes." "Are there reasons?" "Reasons ... reasons." "Hm!" Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch would have touched the figure, again
she stepped back. "So that's why I never saw you. I must own I never
suspected your existence. And the old lady, Madame Fritsche, is your
aunt, too?" "Yes ... aunt." "Hm! You don't seem to understand Russian very well. What's your name,
allow me to ask?" "Colibri." "What?" "Colibri." "Colibri! That's an out-of-the-way name! There are insects like that
in Africa, if I remember right?" XV
Colibri gave a short, queer laugh ... like a clink of glass in her
throat. She shook her head, looked round, laid her guitar on the table
and going quickly to the door, abruptly shut it. She moved briskly and
nimbly with a rapid, hardly audible sound like a lizard; at the back
her hair fell below her knees. "Why have you shut the door?" asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch. Colibri put her fingers to her lips. "Emilie ... not want ... not want her." Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned. "I say, you are not jealous, are you?" Colibri raised her eyebrows. "What?" "Jealous ... angry," Kuzma Vassilyevitch explained. "Oh, yes!" "Really! Much obliged.... I say, how old are you?" "Seventen." "Seventeen, you mean?" "Yes." Kuzma Vassilyevitch scrutinised his fantastic companion closely. "What a beautiful creature you are!" | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
he said, emphatically. "Marvellous! Really marvellous! What hair! What eyes! And your
eyebrows ... ough!" Colibri laughed again and again looked round with her magnificent
eyes. "Yes, I am a beauty! Sit down, and I'll sit down ... beside." "By all means! But say what you like, you are a strange sister for
Emilie! You are not in the least like her." "Yes, I am sister ... cousin. Here ... take ... a flower. A nice
flower. It smells." She took out of her girdle a sprig of white lilac,
sniffed it, bit off a petal and gave him the whole sprig. "Will you
have jam? Nice jam ... from Constantinople ... sorbet?" Colibri took
from the small chest of drawers a gilt jar wrapped in a piece of
crimson silk with steel spangles on it, a silver spoon, a cut glass
decanter and a tumbler like it. "Eat some sorbet, sir; it is fine. I
will sing to you.... Will you?" She took up the guitar. "You sing, then?" asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch, putting a spoonful of
really excellent sorbet into his mouth. "Oh, yes!" She flung back her mane of hair, put her head on one side
and struck several chords, looking carefully at the tips of her
fingers and at the top of the guitar ... then suddenly began singing
in a voice unexpectedly strong and agreeable, but guttural and to the
ears of Kuzma Vassilyevitch rather savage. "Oh, you pretty kitten," he
thought. She sang a mournful song, utterly un-Russian and in a
language quite unknown to Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He used to declare that
the sounds "Kha, gha" kept recurring in it and at the end she repeated
a long drawn-out "sintamar" or "sintsimar," or something of the sort,
leaned her head on her hand, heaved a sigh and let the guitar drop on
her knee. "Good?" she asked, "want more?" "I should be delighted," answered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "But why do you
look like that, as though you were grieving? You'd better have some
sorbet." "No ... you. And I will again.... It will be more merry." She sang
another song, that sounded like a dance, in the same unknown language. Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch distinguished the same guttural sounds. Her
swarthy fingers fairly raced over the strings, "like little spiders,"
and she ended up this time with a jaunty shout of "Ganda" or "Gassa,"
and with flashing eyes banged on the table with her little fist. XVI
Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat as though he were in a dream. His head was
going round. It was all so unexpected.... And the scent, the
singing ... the candles in the daytime ... the sorbet flavoured with
vanilla. And Colibri kept coming closer to him, too; her hair shone and
rustled, and there was a glow of warmth from her--and that melancholy
face.... "A russalka!" thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He felt somewhat
awkward. "Tell me, my pretty, what put it into your head to invite me to-day?" "You are young, pretty ... such I like." "So that's it! But what will Emilie say? She wrote me a letter: she is
sure to be back directly." "You not tell her ... nothing! Trouble! She will kill!" Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed. "As though she were so fierce!" Colibri gravely shook her head several times. "And to Madame Fritsche, too, nothing. No, no, no!" She tapped herself
lightly on the forehead. "Do you understand, officer?" Kuzma Vassilyevitch frowned. "It's a secret, then?" "Yes ... yes." "Very well.... I won't say a word. Only you ought to give me a kiss
for that." "No, afterwards ... when you are gone." "That's a fine idea!" Kuzma Vassilyevitch was bending down to her but
she slowly drew herself back and stood stiffly erect like a snake
startled in the grass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stared at her. "Well!" he
said at last, "you are a spiteful thing! All right, then." Colibri pondered and turned to the lieutenant.... All at once there
was the muffled sound of tapping repeated three times at even
intervals somewhere in the house. Colibri laughed, almost snorted. "To-day--no, to-morrow--yes. Come to-morrow." "At what time?" "Seven ... in the evening." "And what about Emilie?" "Emilie ... no; will not be here." "You think so? Very well. Only, to-morrow you will tell me?" "What?" (Colibri's face assumed a childish expression every time she
asked a question.) "Why you have been hiding away from me all this time?" "Yes ... yes; everything shall be to-morrow; the end shall be." "Mind now! And I'll bring you a present." "No ... no need." "Why not? I see you like fine clothes." "No need. This ... this ... this ..." she pointed to her dress, her
rings, her bracelets, and everything about her, "it is all my own. Not
a present. I do not take." "As you like. And now must I go?" "Oh, yes." Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up. Colibri got up, too. "Good-bye, pretty little doll! And when will you give me a kiss?" Colibri suddenly gave a little jump and swiftly flinging both arms
round his neck, gave him not precisely a kiss but a peck at his lips. He tried in his turn to kiss her but she instantly darted back and
stood behind the sofa. "To-morrow at seven o'clock, then?" he said with some confusion. She nodded and taking a tress of her long hair with her two fingers,
bit it with her sharp teeth. Kuzma Vassilyevitch kissed his hand to her, went out and shut the door
after him. He heard Colibri run up to it at once.... The key clicked
in the lock. XVII
There was no one in Madame Fritsche's drawing-room. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch made his way to the passage at once. He did not want to
meet Emilie. Madame Fritsche met him on the steps. "Ah, you are going, Mr. Lieutenant?" she said, with the same affected
and sinister smile. "You won't wait for Emilie?" Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on his cap. "I haven't time to wait any longer, madam. I may not come to-morrow,
either. Please tell her so." "Very good, I'll tell her. But I hope you haven't been dull, Mr. Lieutenant?" "No, I have not been dull." "I thought not. Good-bye." "Good-bye." Kuzma Vassilyevitch returned home and stretching himself on his bed
sank into meditation. He was unutterably perplexed. "What marvel is
this?" he cried more than once. And why did Emilie write to him? She
had made an appointment and not come! He took out her letter, turned
it over in his hands, sniffed it: it smelt of tobacco and in one place
he noticed a correction. But what could he deduce from that? And was
it possible that Madame Fritsche knew nothing about it? And
_she_.... Who was she? Yes, who was she? The fascinating Colibri,
that "pretty doll," that "little image," was always before him and he
looked forward with impatience to the following evening, though
secretly he was almost afraid of this "pretty doll" and "little
image." XVIII
Next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch went shopping before dinner, and, after
persistent haggling, bought a tiny gold cross on a little velvet
ribbon. "Though she declares," he thought, "that she never takes
presents, we all know what such sayings mean; and if she really is so
disinterested, Emilie won't be so squeamish." | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
So argued this Don Juan
of Nikolaev, who had probably never heard of the original Don Juan and
knew nothing about him. At six o'clock in the evening Kuzma
Vassilyevitch shaved carefully and sending for a hairdresser he knew,
told him to pomade and curl his topknot, which the latter did with
peculiar zeal, not sparing the government note paper for curlpapers;
then Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on a smart new uniform, took into his
right hand a pair of new wash-leather gloves, and, sprinkling himself
with lavender water, set off. Kuzma Vassilyevitch took a great deal
more trouble over his personal appearance on this occasion than when
he went to see his "Zuckerpüppchen", not because he liked Colibri
better than Emilie but in the "pretty little doll" there was something
enigmatic, something which stirred even the sluggish imagination of
the young lieutenant. XIX
Madame Fritsche greeted him as she had done the day before and as
though she had conspired with him in a plan of deception, informed him
again that Emilie had gone out for a short time and asked him to wait. Kuzma Vassilyevitch nodded in token of assent and sat down on a chair. Madame Fritsche smiled again, that is, showed her yellow tusks and
withdrew without offering him any chocolate. Kuzma Vassilyevitch instantly fixed his eyes on the mysterious door. It remained closed. He coughed loudly once or twice so as to make
known his presence.... The door did not stir. He held his breath,
strained his ears.... He heard not the faintest sound or rustle;
everything was still as death. Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up, approached
the door on tiptoe and, fumbling in vain with his fingers, pressed his
knee against it. It was no use. Then he bent down and once or twice
articulated in a loud whisper, "Colibri! Colibri! Little doll!" No one
responded. Kuzma Vassilyevitch drew himself up, straightened his
uniform--and, after standing still a little while, walked with more
resolute steps to the window and began drumming on the pane. He began
to feel vexed, indignant; his dignity as an officer began to assert
itself. "What nonsense is this?" he thought at last; "whom do they
take me for? If they go on like this, I'll knock with my fists. She
will be forced to answer! The old woman will hear.... What of it? That's not my fault." He turned swiftly on his heel ... the door stood
half open. XX
Kuzma Vassilyevitch immediately hastened into the secret room again on
tiptoe. Colibri was lying on the sofa in a white dress with a broad
red sash. Covering the lower part of her face with a handkerchief, she
was laughing, a noiseless but genuine laugh. She had done up her hair,
this time plaiting it into two long, thick plaits intertwined with red
ribbon; the same slippers adorned her tiny, crossed feet but the feet
themselves were bare and looking at them one might fancy that she had
on dark, silky stockings. The sofa stood in a different position,
nearer the wall; and on the table he saw on a Chinese tray a
bright-coloured, round-bellied coffee pot beside a cut glass sugar bowl
and two blue China cups. The guitar was lying there, too, and blue-grey
smoke rose in a thin coil from a big, aromatic candle. Kuzma Vassilyevitch went up to the sofa and bent over Colibri, but
before he had time to utter a word she held out her hand and, still
laughing in her handkerchief, put her little, rough fingers into his
hair and instantly ruffled the well-arranged curls on the top of his
head. "What next?" exclaimed Kuzma Vassilyevitch, not altogether pleased by
such unceremoniousness. "Oh, you naughty girl!" Colibri took the handkerchief from her face. "Not nice so; better now." She moved away
to the further end of the sofa and drew her feet
up under her. "Sit down ... there." Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat down on the spot indicated. "Why do you move away?" he said, after a brief silence. "Surely you
are not afraid of me?" Colibri curled herself up and looked at him sideways. "I am not afraid ... no." "You must not be shy with me," Kuzma Vassilyevitch said in an
admonishing tone. "Do you remember your promise yesterday to give me a
kiss?" Colibri put her arms round her knees, laid her head on them and looked
at him again. "I remember." "I should hope so. And you must keep your word." "Yes ... I must." "In that case," Kuzma Vassilyevitch was beginning, and he moved
nearer. Colibri freed her plaits which she was holding tight with her knees
and with one of them gave him a flick on his hand. "Not so fast, sir!" Kuzma Vassilyevitch was embarrassed. "What eyes she has, the rogue!" he muttered, as though to himself. "But," he went on, raising his voice, "why did you call me ... if that
is how it is?" Colibri craned her neck like a bird ... she listened. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch was alarmed. "Emilie?" he asked. "No." "Someone else?" Colibri shrugged her shoulder. "Do you hear something?" "Nothing." With a birdlike movement, again Colibri drew back her
little oval-shaped head with its pretty parting and the short growth
of tiny curls on the nape of her neck where her plaits began, and
again curled herself up into a ball. "Nothing." "Nothing! Then now I'll ..." Kuzma Vassilyevitch craned forward
towards Colibri but at once pulled back his hand. There was a drop of
blood on his finger. "What foolishness is this!" he cried, shaking his
finger. "Your everlasting pins! And the devil of a pin it is!" he
added, looking at the long, golden pin which Colibri slowly thrust
into her sash. "It's a regular dagger, it's a sting.... Yes, yes, it's
your sting, and you are a wasp, that's what you are, a wasp, do you
hear?" Apparently Colibri was much pleased at Kuzma Vasselyevitch's
comparison; she went off into a thin laugh and repeated several times
over:
"Yes, I will sting ... I will sting." Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at her and thought: "She is laughing but
her face is melancholy. "Look what I am going to show you," he said aloud. "_Tso?_"
"Why do you say _tso?_ Are you a Pole?" "_Nee_." "Now you say _nee!_ But there, it's no matter." Kuzma
Vassilyevitch got out his present and waved it in the air. "Look at
it.... Isn't it nice?" Colibri raised her eyes indifferently. "Ah! A cross! We don't wear." "What? You don't wear a cross? Are you a Jewess then, or what?" "We don't wear," repeated Colibri, and, suddenly starting, looked back
over her shoulder. "Would you like me to sing?" she asked hurriedly. Kuzma Vassilyevitch put the cross in the pocket of his uniform and he,
too, looked round. "What is it?" he muttered. "A mouse ... a mouse," Colibri said hurriedly, and suddenly to Kuzma
Vassilyevitch's complete surprise, flung her smooth, supple arms round
his neck and a rapid kiss burned his cheek ... as though a red-hot
ember had been pressed against it. He pressed Colibri in his arms but she slipped away like a snake--her
waist was hardly thicker than the body of a snake--and leapt to her
feet. "Wait," she whispered, "you must have some coffee first." "Nonsense! Coffee, indeed! Afterwards." | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
"No, now. Now hot, after cold." She took hold of the coffee pot by the
handle and, lifting it high, began pouring out two cups. The coffee
fell in a thin, as it were, twirling stream; Colibri leaned her head
on her shoulder and watched it fall. "There, put in the sugar ...
drink ... and I'll drink." Kuzma Vassilyevitch put a lump of sugar in the cup and drank it off at
one draught. The coffee struck him as very strong and bitter. Colibri
looked at him, smiling, and faintly dilated her nostrils over the edge
of her cup. She slowly put it down on the table. "Why don't you drink it?" asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Not all, now." Kuzma Vassilyevitch got excited. "Do sit down beside me, at least." "In a minute." She bent her head and, still keeping her eyes fixed on
Kuzma Vassilyevitch, picked up the guitar. "Only I will sing first." "Yes, yes, only sit down." "And I will dance. Shall I?" "You dance? Well, I should like to see that. But can't that be
afterwards?" "No, now.... But I love you very much." "You love? Mind now ... dance away, then, you queer creature." XXI
Colibri stood on the further side of the table and running her fingers
several times over the strings of the guitar and to the surprise of
Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who was expecting a lively, merry song, began
singing a slow, monotonous air, accompanying each separate sound,
which seemed as though it were wrung out of her by force, with a
rhythmical swaying of her body to right and left. She did not smile,
and indeed knitted her brows, her delicate, high, rounded eyebrows,
between which a dark blue mark, probably burnt in with gunpowder,
stood out sharply, looking like some letter of an oriental alphabet. She almost closed her eyes but their pupils glimmered dimly under the
drooping lids, fastened as before on Kuzma Vassilyevitch. And he, too,
could not look away from those marvellous, menacing eyes, from that
dark-skinned face that gradually began to glow, from the half-closed
and motionless lips, from the two black snakes rhythmically moving on
both sides of her graceful head. Colibri went on swaying without
moving from the spot and only her feet were working; she kept lightly
shifting them, lifting first the toe and then the heel. Once she
rotated rapidly and uttered a piercing shriek, waving the guitar high
in the air.... Then the same monotonous movement accompanied by the
same monotonous singing, began again. Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat
meanwhile very quietly on the sofa and went on looking at Colibri; he
felt something strange and unusual in himself: he was conscious of
great lightness and freedom, too great lightness, in fact; he seemed,
as it were, unconscious of his body, as though he were floating and at
the same time shudders ran down him, a sort of agreeable weakness
crept over his legs, and his lips and eyelids tingled with drowsiness. He had no desire now, no thought of anything ... only he was
wonderfully at ease, as though someone were lulling him, "singing him
to bye-bye," as Emilie had expressed it, and he whispered to himself,
"little doll!" At times the face of the "little doll" grew misty. "Why
is that?" Kuzma Vassilyevitch wondered. "From the smoke," he reassured
himself. "There is such a blue smoke here." And again someone was
lulling him and even whispering in his ear something so sweet ... only
for some reason it was always unfinished. But then all of a sudden in
the little doll's face the eyes opened till they were immense,
incredibly big, like the arches of a bridge.... The guitar dropped,
and striking against the floor, clanged somewhere at the other end of
the earth.... Some very near and dear friend of Kuzma Vassilyevitch's
embraced him firmly and tenderly from behind and set his cravat
straight. Kuzma Vassilyevitch saw just before his own face the hooked
nose, the thick moustache and the piercing eyes of the stranger with
the three buttons on his cuff ... and although the eyes were in the
place of the moustache and the nose itself seemed upside down, Kuzma
Vassilyevitch was not in the least surprised, but, on the contrary,
thought that this was how it ought to be; he was even on the point of
saying to the nose, "Hullo, brother Grigory," but he changed his mind
and preferred ... preferred to set off with Colibri to Constantinople
at once for their forthcoming wedding, as she was a Turk and the Tsar
promoted him to be an actual Turk. XXII
And opportunely a little boat appeared: he lifted his foot to get into
it and though through clumsiness he stumbled and hurt himself rather
badly, so that for some time he did not know where anything was, yet
he managed it and getting into the boat, floated on the big river,
which, as the River of Time, flows to Constantinople in the map on the
walls of the Nikolaevsky High School. With great satisfaction he
floated down the river and watched a number of red ducks which
continually met him; they would not let him come near them, however,
and, diving, changed into round, pink spots. And Colibri was going
with him, too, but to escape the sultry heat she hid, under the boat
and from time to time knocked on the bottom of it.... And here at last
was Constantinople. The houses, as houses should, looked like Tyrolese
hats; and the Turks had all big, sedate faces; only it did not do to
look at them too long: they began wriggling, making faces and at last
melted away altogether like thawing snow. And here was the palace in
which he would live with Colibri.... And how well everything was
arranged in it! Walls with generals' gold lace on it, everywhere
epaulettes, people blowing trumpets in the corners and one could float
into the drawing-room in the boat. Of course, there was a portrait of
Mahomet.... Only Colibri kept running ahead through the rooms and her
plaits trailed after her on the floor and she would not turn round,
and she kept growing smaller and smaller.... And now it was not
Colibri but a boy in a jacket and he was the boy's tutor and he had to
climb after the boy into a telescope, and the telescope got narrower
and narrower, till at last he could not move ... neither backwards nor
forwards, and something fell on his back ... there was earth in his
mouth. XXIII
Kuzma Vassilyevitch opened his eyes. It was daylight and everything
was still ... there was a smell of vinegar and mint. Above him and at
his sides there was something white; he looked more intently: it was
the canopy of a bed. He wanted to raise his head ... he could not; his
hand ... he could not do that, either. What was the meaning of it? He
dropped his eyes.... A long body lay stretched before him and over it
a yellow blanket with a brown edge. The body proved to be his, Kuzma
Vassilyevitch's. He tried to cry out ... no sound came. He tried
again, did his very utmost ... there was the sound of a feeble moan
quavering under his nose. He heard heavy footsteps and a sinewy hand
parted the bed curtains. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
A grey-headed pensioner in a patched military
overcoat stood gazing at him.... And he gazed at the pensioner. A big
tin mug was put to Kuzma Vassilyevitch's lips. He greedily drank some
cold water. His tongue was loosened. "Where am I?" The pensioner
glanced at him once more, went away and came back with another man in
a dark uniform. "Where am I?" repeated Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Well, he
will live now," said the man in the dark uniform. "You are in the
hospital," he added aloud, "but you must go to sleep. It is bad for
you to talk." Kuzma Vassilyevitch began to feel surprised, but sank
into forgetfulness again....
Next morning the doctor appeared. Kuzma Vassilyevitch came to himself. The doctor congratulated him on his recovery and ordered the bandages
round his head to be changed. "What? My head? Why, am I ..."
"You mustn't talk, you mustn't excite yourself," the doctor
interrupted. "Lie still and thank the Almighty. Where are the
compresses, Poplyovkin?" "But where is the money ... the government money ..."
"There! He is lightheaded again. Some more ice, Poplyovkin." XXIV
Another week passed. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was so much better that the
doctors found it possible to tell him what had happened to him. This
is what he learned. At seven o'clock in the evening on the 16th of June he had visited the
house of Madame Fritsche for the last time and on the 17th of June at
dinner time, that is, nearly twenty-four hours later, a shepherd had
found him in a ravine near the Herson high road, a mile and a half
from Nikolaev, with a broken head and crimson bruises on his neck. His
uniform and waistcoat had been unbuttoned, all his pockets turned
inside out, his cap and cutlass were not to be found, nor his leather
money belt. From the trampled grass, from the broad track upon the
grass and the clay, it could be inferred that the luckless lieutenant
had been dragged to the bottom of the ravine and only there had been
gashed on his head, not with an axe but with a sabre--probably his own
cutlass: there were no traces of blood on his track from the high road
while there was a perfect pool of blood round his head. There could be
no doubt that his assailants had first drugged him, then tried to
strangle him and, taking him out of the town by night, had dragged him
to the ravine and there given him the final blow. It was only thanks
to his truly iron constitution that Kuzma Vassilyevitch had not died. He had returned to consciousness on July 22nd, that is, five weeks
later. XXV
Kuzma Vassilyevitch immediately informed the authorities of the
misfortune that had happened to him; he stated all the circumstances
of the case verbally and in writing and gave the address of Madame
Fritsche. The police raided the house but they found no one there; the
birds had flown. They got hold of the owner of the house. But they
could not get much sense out of the latter, a very old and deaf
workman. He lived in a different part of the town and all he knew was
that four months before he had let his house to a Jewess with a
passport, whose name was Schmul or Schmulke, which he had immediately
registered at the police station. She had been joined by another woman,
so he stated, who also had a passport, but what was their calling did
not know; and whether they had other people living with them had not
heard and did not know; the lad whom he used to keep as porter or
watchman in the house had gone away to Odessa or Petersburg, and the
new porter had only lately come, on the 1st of July. Inquiries were made at the police station and in the neighbourhood; it
appeared that Madame Schmulke, together with her companion, whose real
name was Frederika Bengel, had left Nikolaev about the 20th of June,
but where they had gone was unknown. The mysterious man with a gipsy
face and three buttons on his cuff and the dark-skinned foreign girl
with an immense mass of hair, no one had seen. As soon as Kuzma
Vassilyevitch was discharged from the hospital, he visited the house
that had been so fateful for him. In the little room where he had
talked to Colibri and where there was still a smell of musk, there was
a second secret door; the sofa had been moved in front of it on his
second visit and through it no doubt the murderer had come and seized
him from behind. Kuzma Vassilyevitch lodged a formal complaint;
proceedings were taken. Several numbered reports and instructions were
dispatched in various directions; the appropriate acknowledgments and
replies followed in due course.... There the incident closed. The
suspicious characters had disappeared completely and with them the
stolen government money had vanished, too, one thousand, nine hundred
and seventeen roubles and some kopecks, in paper and gold. Not an
inconsiderable sum in those days! Kuzma Vassilyevitch was paying back
instalments for ten years, when, fortunately for him, an act of
clemency from the Throne cancelled the debt. XXVI
He was himself at first firmly convinced that Emilie, his treacherous
Zuckerpüppchen, was to blame for all his trouble and had originated
the plot. He remembered how on the last day he had seen her he had
incautiously dropped asleep on the sofa and how when he woke he had
found her on her knees beside him and how confused she had been, and
how he had found a hole in his belt that evening--a hole evidently
made by her scissors. "She saw the money," thought Kuzma
Vassilyevitch, "she told the old hag and those other two devils, she
entrapped me by writing me that letter ... and so they cleaned me out. But who could have expected it of her!" He pictured the pretty,
good-natured face of Emilie, her clear eyes.... "Women! women!" he
repeated, gnashing his teeth, "brood of crocodiles!" But when he had
finally left the hospital and gone home, he learned one circumstance
which perplexed and nonplussed him. On the very day when he was
brought half dead to the town, a girl whose description corresponded
exactly to that of Emilie had rushed to his lodging with tear-stained
face and dishevelled hair and inquiring about him from his orderly,
had dashed off like mad to the hospital. At the hospital she had been
told that Kuzma Vassilyevitch would certainly die and she had at once
disappeared, wringing her hands with a look of despair on her face. It
was evident that she had not foreseen, had not expected the murder. Or
perhaps she had herself been deceived and had not received her
promised share? Had she been overwhelmed by sudden remorse? And yet
she had left Nikolaev afterwards with that loathsome old woman who had
certainly known all about it. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was lost in
conjecture and bored his orderly a good deal by making him continually
describe over and over again the appearance of the girl and repeat her
words. XXVII
A year and a half later Kuzma Vassilyevitch received a letter in
German from Emilie, _alias_ Frederika Bengel, which he promptly
had translated for him and showed us more than once in later days. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
It
was full of mistakes in spelling and exclamation marks; the postmark
on the envelope was Breslau. Here is the translation, as correct as
may be, of the letter:
"My precious, unforgettable and incomparable Florestan! Mr. Lieutenant
Yergenhof! "How often I felt impelled to write to you! And I have always
unfortunately put it off, though the thought that you may regard me as
having had a hand in that awful crime has always been the most
appalling thought to me! Oh, dear Mr. Lieutenant! Believe me, the day
when I learnt that you were alive and well, was the happiest day of my
life! But I do not mean to justify myself altogether! I will not tell
a lie! I was the first to discover your habit of carrying your money
round your waist! (Though indeed in our part of the world all the
butchers and meat salesmen do the same!) And I was so incautious as to
let drop a word about it! I even said in joke that it wouldn't be bad
to take a little of your money! But the old wretch (Mr. Florestan! she
was _not_ my aunt) plotted with that godless monster Luigi and
his accomplice! I swear by my mother's tomb, I don't know to this day
who those people were! I only know that his name was Luigi and that
they both came from Bucharest and were certainly great criminals and
were hiding from the police and had money and precious things! Luigi
was a dreadful individual (_ein schröckliches Subject_), to kill
a fellow-man (_einen Mitmenschen_) meant nothing at all to him! He spoke every language--and it was _he_ who that time got our
things back from the cook! Don't ask how! He was capable of anything,
he was an awful man! He assured the old woman that he would only drug
you a little and then take you out of town and put you down somewhere
and would say that he knew nothing about it but that it was your
fault--that you had taken too much wine somewhere! But even then the
wretch had it in his mind that it would be better to kill you so that
there would be no one to tell the tale! He wrote you that letter,
signed with my name and the old woman got me away by craft! I
suspected nothing and I was awfully afraid of Luigi! He used to say to
me, 'I'll cut your throat, I'll cut your throat like a chicken's!' And
he used to twitch his moustache so horribly as he said it! And they
dragged me into a bad company, too.... I am very much ashamed, Mr. Lieutenant! And even now I shed bitter tears at these memories! ... It
seems to me ... ah! I was not born for such doings.... But there is no
help for it; and this is how it all happened! Afterwards I was
horribly frightened and could not help going away, for if the police
had found us, what would have happened to us then? That accursed Luigi
fled at once as soon as he heard that you were alive. But I soon
parted from them all and though now I am often without a crust of
bread, my heart is at peace! You will ask me perhaps why I came to
Nikolaev? But I can give you no answer! I have sworn! I will finish by
asking of you a favour, a very, very important one: whenever you
remember your little friend Emilie, do not think of her as a
black-hearted criminal! The eternal God sees my heart. I have
a bad morality (_Ich habe eine schlechte moralität_) and I am
feather-headed, but I am not a criminal. And I shall always love and
remember you, my incomparable Florestan, and shall always wish you
everything good on this earthly globe (_auf diesem Erdenrund!_). I don't know whether my letter will reach you, but if it does, write
me a few lines that I may see you have received it. Thereby you will make
very happy your ever-devoted Emilie. "P. S. Write to F. E. poste restante, Breslau, Silesia. "P. S. S. I have written to you in German; I could not express my
feelings otherwise; but you write to me in Russian." XXVIII
"Well, did you answer her?" we asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "I meant to, I meant to many times. But how was I to write? I don't
know German ... and in Russian, who would have translated it? And so I
did not write." And always as he finished his story, Kuzma Vassilyevitch sighed, shook
his head and said, "that's what it is to be young!" And if among his
audience was some new person who was hearing the famous story for the
first time, he would take his hand, lay it on his skull and make him
feel the scar of the wound.... It really was a fearful wound and the
scar reached from one ear to the other. 1867. * * * * *
THE DOG
"But if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, the
possibility of its participation in real life, then allow me to ask
what becomes of common sense?" Anton Stepanitch pronounced and he
folded his arms over his stomach. Anton Stepanitch had the grade of a civil councillor, served in some
incomprehensible department and, speaking emphatically and stiffly in
a bass voice, enjoyed universal respect. He had not long before, in
the words of those who envied him, "had the Stanislav stuck on to
him." "That's perfectly true," observed Skvorevitch. "No one will dispute that," added Kinarevitch. "I am of the same opinion," the master of the house, Finoplentov,
chimed in from the corner in falsetto. "Well, I must confess, I cannot agree, for something supernatural has
happened to me myself," said a bald, corpulent middle-aged gentleman
of medium height, who had till then sat silent behind the stove. The
eyes of all in the room turned to him with curiosity and surprise, and
there was a silence. The man was a Kaluga landowner of small means who had lately come to
Petersburg. He had once served in the Hussars, had lost money at
cards, had resigned his commission and had settled in the country. The
recent economic reforms had reduced his income and he had come to the
capital to look out for a suitable berth. He had no qualifications and
no connections, but he confidently relied on the friendship of an old
comrade who had suddenly, for no visible reason, become a person of
importance, and whom he had once helped in thrashing a card sharper. Moreover, he reckoned on his luck--and it did not fail him: a few days
after his arrival in town he received the post of superintendent of
government warehouses, a profitable and even honourable position,
which did not call for conspicuous abilities: the warehouses
themselves had only a hypothetical existence and indeed it was not
very precisely known with what they were to be filled--but they had
been invented with a view to government economy. Anton Stepanitch was the first to break the silence. "What, my dear sir," he began, "do you seriously maintain that
something supernatural has happened to you? I mean to say, something
inconsistent with the laws of nature?" "I do maintain it," replied the gentleman addressed as "My dear sir,"
whose name was Porfiry Kapitonitch. "Inconsistent with the laws of nature!" Anton Stepanitch repeated
angrily; apparently he liked the phrase. "Just so ... yes; it was precisely what you say." "That's amazing! What do you think of it,
gentlemen?" | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Anton Stepanitch tried to give
his features an ironical expression, but without
effect--or to speak more accurately, merely
with the effect of suggesting that the dignified
civil councillor had detected an unpleasant
smell. "Might we trouble you, dear sir," he
went on, addressing the Kaluga landowner, "to
give us the details of so interesting an incident?" "Certainly, why not?" answered the landowner and, moving in a
free-and-easy way to the middle of the room, he spoke as follows:
"I have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware, or perhaps are not
aware, a small estate in the Kozelsky district. In old days I used to
get something out of it, though now, of course, I have nothing to look
forward to but unpleasantness. But enough of politics. Well, in that
district I have a little place: the usual kitchen garden, a little
pond with carp in it, farm buildings of a sort and a little lodge for
my own sinful person ... I am a bachelor. Well, one day--some six
years ago--I came home rather late; I had had a game of cards at a
neighbour's and I was--I beg you to note--the least little bit
elevated, as they say; I undressed, got into bed and put out the
candle. And only fancy, gentlemen: as soon as I put out the candle
there was something moving under my bed! I wondered whether it was a
rat; no, it was not a rat: it moved about, scratched on the floor and
scratched itself.... At last it flapped its ears! "There was no mistake about it; it was a dog. But where could a dog
have come from? I did not keep one; could some stray dog have run in,
I wondered. I called my servant; Filka was his name. He came in with a
candle. "'How's this,' I said, 'Filka, my lad? Is that how you look after
things? A dog has got under my bed?' 'What dog?' said he. 'How do I
know,' said I, 'that's your business--to save your master from
disturbance.' My Filka bent down, and began moving the candle under
the bed. 'But there's no dog here,' said he. I bent down, too; there
certainly was no dog there. What a queer thing!--I glanced at Filka
and he was smiling. 'You stupid,' I said to him, 'why are you
grinning. When you opened the door the dog must have whisked out into
the passage. And you, gaping idiot, saw nothing because you are always
asleep. You don't suppose I am drunk, do you?' He would have answered,
but I sent him out, curled up and that night heard nothing more. "But the next night--only fancy--the thing was repeated. As soon as I
blew out the candle, he scratched himself and flapped his ears again. Again I called Filka; again he looked under the bed--again there was
nothing! I sent him away, blew out the candle--and, damn it all, the
dog was there again and it was a dog right enough: one could hear it
breathing, biting its coat, looking for fleas.... It was so
distinct--'Filka,' I said, 'come here without the candle!' He came in. 'Well, now,' I said, 'do you hear?' 'Yes,' he said. I could not see
him, but I felt that the fellow was scared. 'What do you make of it?' said I. 'What do you bid me make of it, Porfiry Kapitonitch? It's
sorcery!' 'You are a foolish fellow,' I said, 'hold your tongue with
your sorcery....' And our voices quavered like a bird's and we were
trembling in the dark as though we were in a fever. I lighted a
candle, no dog, no sound, only us two, as white as chalk. So I kept a
candle burning till morning and I assure you, gentlemen, you may
believe me or you may not, but from that night for six weeks the same
thing was repeated. In the end I actually got used to it and began
putting out the candle, because I couldn't get to sleep in the light. 'Let him fidget,' I thought, 'he doesn't do me any harm.'" "Well, I see you are not one of the chicken-hearted brigade," Anton
Stepanitch interrupted in a half-contemptuous, half-condescending
tone! "One can see the Hussar at once!" "I shouldn't be afraid of you in any case," Porfiry Kapitonitch
observed, and for an instant he really did look like a Hussar. "But listen to the rest. A neighbour came to see me, the very one with
whom I used to play cards. He dined with me on what luck provided and
dropped some fifty roubles for his visit; night came on, it was time
for him to be off. But I had my own idea. 'Stay the night with me,' I
said, 'Vassily Vassilitch; tomorrow, please God, you will win it
back.' Vassily Vassilitch considered and stayed. I had a bed put up
for him in my room.... Well, we went to bed, smoked, chatted--about
the fair sex for the most part, as is only suitable in bachelor
company--we laughed, of course; I saw Vassily Vassilitch put out his
candle and turn his back towards me: as much as to say: 'Good night.' I waited a little, then I, too, put out my candle. And, only fancy, I
had hardly time to wonder what sort of trick would be played this
time, when the sweet creature was moving again. And moving was not
all; it came out from under the bed, walked across the room, tapped on
the floor with its paws, shook its ears and all of a sudden pushed
against the very chair that was close by Vassily Vassilitch's bed. 'Porfiry Kapitonitch,' said the latter, and in such an unconcerned
voice, you know, 'I did not know you had a dog. What sort is it, a
setter?' 'I haven't a dog,' I said, 'and never have had one!' 'You
haven't? Why, what's this?' 'What's _this_?' said I, 'why, light
the candle and then you will see for yourself.' 'Isn't it a dog?' 'No.' Vassily Vassilitch turned over in bed. 'But you are joking, dash
it all.' 'No, I am not joking.' I heard him go strike, strike, with a
match, while the creature persisted in scratching its ribs. The light
flared up ... and, hey presto! not a trace remained! Vassily
Vassilitch looked at me and I looked at him. 'What trick is this?' he
said. 'It's a trick,' I said, 'that, if you were to set Socrates
himself on one side and Frederick the Great on the other, even they
could not make it out.' And then I told him all about it. Didn't my
Vassily Vassilitch jump out of bed! As though he had been scalded! He
couldn't get into his boots. 'Horses,' he cried, 'horses!' I began
trying to persuade him, but it was no use! He positively gasped! 'I
won't stay,' he said, 'not a minute! You must be a man under a curse! Horses.' However, I prevailed upon him. Only his bed was dragged into
another room and nightlights were lighted everywhere. At our tea in
the morning he had regained his equanimity; he began to give me
advice. 'You should try being away from home for a few days, Porfiry
Kapitonitch,' he said, 'perhaps this abomination would leave you.' And
I must tell you: my neighbour was a man of immense intellect. He
managed his mother-in-law wonderfully: he fastened an I. O. U. upon
her; he must have chosen a sentimental moment! She became as soft as
silk, she gave him an authorisation for the management of all her
estate--what more would you have? You know it is something to get the
better of one's mother-in-law. Eh! You can judge for yourselves. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
However, he took leave of me in some displeasure; I'd stripped him of
a hundred roubles again. He actually abused me. 'You are ungrateful.' he said, 'you have no feeling'; but how was I to blame? Well, be that
as it may, I considered his advice. That very day I drove off to the
town and put up at an inn, kept by an old man I knew, a Dissenter. He
was a worthy old fellow, though a little morose from living in
solitude, all his family were dead. But he disliked tobacco and had
the greatest loathing for dogs; I believe he would have been torn to
pieces rather than consent to let a dog into his room. 'For how can
one?' he would say, 'the Queen of Heaven herself is graciously pleased
to be on my wall there, and is an unclean dog to put his infidel nose
there?' Of course, it was lack of education! However, to my thinking,
whatever wisdom a man has he had better stick to that." "I see you are a great philosopher," Anton Stepanitch interrupted a
second time with the same sarcastic smile. This time Porfiry Kapitonitch actually frowned. "How much I know of philosophy I cannot tell," he observed, tugging
grimly at his moustache, "but I would be glad to give you a lesson in
it." We all simply stared at Anton Stepanitch. Every one of us expected a
haughty reply, or at least a glance like a flash of lightning.... But
the civil councillor turned his contemptuous smile into one of
indifference, then yawned, swung his foot and--that was all! "Well, I stayed at that old fellow's," Porfiry Kapitonitch went on. "He gave me a little room, not one of the best, as we were old
friends; his own was close by, the other side of the partition--and
that was just what I wanted. The tortures I faced that night! A little
room, a regular oven, stuffiness, flies, and such sticky ones; in the
corner an extraordinarily big shrine with ancient ikons, with dingy
setting in relief on them. It fairly reeked of oil and some other
stuff, too; there were two featherbeds on the beds. If you moved the
pillow a black beetle would run from under it.... I had drunk an
incredible quantity of tea, feeling so dreary--it was simply dreadful! I got into bed; there was no possibility of sleeping--and, the other
side of the partition, my host was sighing, clearing his throat,
repeating his prayers. However, he subsided at last. I heard him begin
to snore, but only faintly, in the old-fashioned polite way. I had put
my candle out long ago, but the little lamp was burning before the
ikons.... That prevented it, I suppose. So I got up softly with bare
feet, climbed up to the lamp, and blew it out.... Nothing happened. 'Oho!' I thought, 'so it doesn't come off in other people's houses.' "But I had no sooner got into bed than there was a commotion again. He
was scraping on the floor and scratching himself and shaking his
ears ... the usual thing, in fact. Very good! I lay still and waited to
see what would happen. I heard the old man wake up. 'Sir,' he said,
'hey, sir.' 'What is it?' 'Did you put out the lamp?' But without
waiting for my answer, he burst out all at once. 'What's that? What's
that, a dog? A dog! Ah, you vile heretic!' 'Wait a bit, old man, before
you scold,' I said. 'You had better come here yourself. Things are
happening,' I said, 'that may well make you wonder.' The old man
stirred behind the partition and came in to me, with a candle, a very,
very thin one, made of yellow wax; I was surprised when I looked at
him! He looked bristling all over, with hairy ears and eyes as fierce
as a weasel's; he had on a white woollen night cap, a beard to his
waist, white; too, and a waistcoat with copper buttons on it over his
shirt and fur boots on his feet and he smelt of juniper. In this
attire he approached the ikons, crossed himself three times with his
two fingers crossed, lighted the lamp, crossed himself again and,
turning to me, just grunted: 'Explain!' And thereupon, without delay,
I told him all that had happened. The old man listened to my account
and did not drop one word, simply shook his head. Then he sat down on
my bed and still said nothing. He scratched his chest, the back of his
head and so on and said nothing. 'Well,' I said, 'Fedul Ivanitch, what
do you think? Is it some devil's sorcery or what?' The old man looked
at me. 'What an idea! Devil's sorcery! A tobacco-smoker like you might
well have that at home, but not here. Only think what holiness there
is here! Sorcery, indeed!' 'And if it is not sorcery, what is it,
then?' The old man was silent again; again he scratched himself and
said at last, but in a muffled voice, for his moustache was all over
his mouth: 'You go to the town of Belyov. There is no one who can help
you but one man. And that man lives in Belyov. He is one of our
people. If he is willing to help you, you are lucky; if he is not,
nothing can be done.' 'And how am I to find this man?' I said. 'I can
direct you about that,' he answered; 'but how can it be sorcery? It is
an apparition, or rather an indication; but you cannot comprehend it,
it is beyond your understanding. Lie down to sleep now with the
blessing of our Lord Christ; I will burn incense and in the morning we
will converse. Morning, you know, brings wisdom.' "Well, we did converse in the morning, only I was almost stifled by
that incense. And this was the counsel the old man gave me: that when
I reached Belyov I should go into the market place and ask in the
second shop on the right for one Prohoritch, and when I had found
Prohoritch, put into his hand a writing and the writing consisted of a
scrap of paper, on which stood the following words: 'In the name of
the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen. To Sergey Prohorovitch
Pervushin. Trust this man. Feduly Ivanitch.' And below, 'Send the
cabbages, for God's sake.' "I thanked the old man and without further discussion ordered my
carriage and drove to Belyov. For I reflected, that though I suffered
no harm from my nocturnal visitor, yet it was uncanny and in fact not
quite the thing for a nobleman and an officer--what do you think?" "And did you really go to Belyov?" murmured Finoplentov. "Straight to Belyov. I went into the market place and asked at the
second shop on the right for Prohoritch. 'Is there such a person?' I
asked. 'Yes,' they told me. 'And where does he live?' 'By the Oka,
beyond the market gardens.' 'In whose house?' 'In his own.' I went to
the Oka, found his house, though it was really not a house but simply
a hovel. I saw a man wearing a blue patched coat and a ragged cap,
well ... he looked like a working-man, he was standing with his back
to me, digging among his cabbages. I went up to him. 'Are you so and
so?' I said. He turned round and, I tell you the truth, I have never
seen such piercing eyes in my life. Yet the whole face was shrunk up
like a little fist with a little wedge-shaped beard and sunken lips. He was an old man. 'I am so and so,' he said. 'What are you
_needing_?' | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
'Why, this is what I am _needing_,' I said, and
put the writing in his hand. He looked at me intently and said: 'Come
indoors, I can't read without spectacles.' "Well, I went with him into his hut--and a hut it certainly was: poor,
bare, crooked; only just holding together. On the wall there was an
ikon of old workmanship as black as a coal; only the whites of the
eyes gleamed in the faces. He took some round spectacles in iron
frames out of a little table, put them on his nose, read the writing
and looked at me again through the spectacles. 'You have need of me?' 'I certainly have,' I answered. 'Well,' said he, 'if you have, tell it
and we will listen.' And, only fancy, he sat down and took a checked
handkerchief out of his pocket, and spread it out on his knee, and the
handkerchief was full of holes, and he looked at me with as much
dignity as though he were a senator or a minister, and he did not
ask me to sit down. And what was still stranger, I felt all at once
awe-stricken, so awe-stricken ... my soul sank into my heels. He
pierced me through with his eyes and that's the fact! I pulled myself
together, however, and told him all my story. He was silent for a
space, shrank into himself, chewed his lips and then questioned me
just like a senator again, majestically, without haste. 'What is your
name?' he asked. 'Your age? What were your parents? Are you single or
married?' Then again he munched his lips, frowned, held up his finger
and spoke: 'Bow down to the holy ikon, to the honourable Saints
Zossima and Savvaty of Solovki.' I bowed down to the earth and did not
get up in a hurry; I felt such awe for the man and such submission
that I believe that whatever he had told me to do I should have done
it on the spot! ... I see you are grinning, gentlemen, but I was in no
laughing mood then, I assure you. 'Get up, sir,' said he at last. 'I
can help you. This is not sent you as a chastisement, but as a
warning; it is for your protection; someone is praying for your
welfare. Go to the market now and buy a young dog and keep it by you
day and night. Your visions will leave you and, moreover, that dog
will be of use to you.' "I felt as though light dawned upon me, all at once; how those words
delighted me. I bowed down to Prohoritch and would have gone away,
when I bethought me that I could not go away without rewarding him. I
got a three rouble note out of my pocket. But he thrust my hand away
and said, 'Give it to our chapel, or to the poor; the service I have
done you is not to be paid for.' I bowed down to him again almost to
the ground, and set off straight for the market! And only fancy: as
soon as I drew near the shops, lo and behold, a man in a frieze
overcoat comes sauntering towards me carrying under his arm a two
months' old setter puppy with a reddish brown coat, white lips and
white forepaws. 'Stay,' I said to the man in the overcoat, 'what will
you sell it for?' 'For two roubles.' Take three!' The man looked at me
in amazement, thought the gentleman had gone out of his wits, but I
flung the notes in his face, took the pup under my arm and made for my
carriage! The coachman quickly had the horses harnessed and that
evening I reached home. The puppy sat inside my coat all the way and
did not stir; and I kept calling him, 'Little Trésor! Little Trésor!' I gave him food and drink at once. I had some straw brought in,
settled him and whisked into bed! I blew out the candle: it was dark. 'Well, now begin,' said I. There was silence. 'Begin,' said I, 'you so
and so!'... Not a sound, as though to mock me. Well, I began to feel
so set up that I fell to calling it all sorts of names. But still
there was not a sound! I could only hear the puppy panting! Filka,' I
cried, 'Filka! Come here, you stupid!' He came in. 'Do you hear the
dog?' 'No, sir,' said he, 'I hear nothing,' and he laughed. 'And you
won't hear it ever again,' said I. 'Here's half a rouble for vodka!' 'Let me kiss your hand,' said the foolish fellow, and he stooped down
to me in the darkness.... It was a great relief, I must tell you." "And was that how it all ended?" asked Anton Stepanitch, this time
without irony. "The apparitions ended certainly and I was not disturbed in any way,
but wait a bit, the whole business was not over yet. My Trésor grew,
he turned into a fine fellow. He was heavy, with flopping ears and
overhanging lip and a thick tail; a regular sporting dog. And he was
extremely attached to me, too. The shooting in our district is poor,
however, as I had set up a dog, I got a gun, too. I took to sauntering
round the neighbourhood with my Trésor: sometimes one would hit a hare
(and didn't he go after that hare, upon my soul), sometimes a quail,
or a duck. But the great thing was that Trésor was never a step away
from me. Where I went, he went; I even took him to the bath with me, I
did really! One lady actually tried to get me turned out of her
drawing-room on account of Trésor, but I made such an uproar! The
windows I broke! Well, one day ... it was in summer ... and I must
tell you there was a drought at the time such as nobody remembered. The air was full of smoke or haze. There was a smell of burning, the
sun was like a molten bullet, and as for the dust there was no getting
it out of one's nose and throat. People walked with their mouths wide
open like crows. I got weary of sitting at home in complete
deshabille, with shutters closed; and luckily the heat was beginning
to abate a little.... So I went off, gentlemen, to see a lady, a
neighbour of mine. She lived about three-quarters of a mile away--and
she certainly was a benevolent lady. She was still young and blooming
and of most prepossessing appearance; but she was of rather uncertain
temper. Though that is no harm in the fair sex; it even gives me
pleasure.... Well, I reached her door, and I did feel that I had had a
hot time of it getting there! Well, I thought, Nimfodora Semyonovna
will regale me now with bilberry water and other cooling drinks--and I
had already taken hold of the doorhandle when all at once there was
the tramping of feet and shrieking, and shouting of boys from round
the corner of a hut in the courtyard.... I looked round. Good heavens! A huge reddish beast was rushing straight towards me; at the first
glance I did not recognise it as a dog: its jaws were open, its eyes
were bloodshot, its coat was bristling.... I had not time to take
breath before the monster bounded up the steps, stood upon its hind
legs and made straight for my chest--it was a position! I was numb
with terror and could not lift my arms. I was completely stupefied.... I could see nothing but the terrible white tusks just before my nose,
the red tongue all covered with white foam. But at the same instant,
another dark body was whisking before me like a ball--it was my
darling Trésor defending me; and he hung like a leech on the brute's
throat! The creature wheezed, grated its teeth and staggered back. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I
instantly flung open the door and got into the hall.... I stood hardly
knowing what I was doing with my whole weight on the door, and heard a
desperate battle going on outside. I began shouting and calling for
help; everyone in the house was terribly upset. Nimfodora Semyonovna
ran out with her hair down, the voices in the yard grew louder--and
all at once I heard: 'Hold the gate, hold it, fasten it!' I opened the
door--just a crack, and looked out: the monster was no longer on the
steps, the servants were rushing about the yard in confusion waving
their hands and picking up bits of wood from the ground; they were
quite crazy. 'To the village, it has run off to the village,' shrieked
a peasant woman in a cap of extraordinary size poking her head out of
a dormer window. I went out of the house. "'Where is my Trésor?' I asked and at once I saw my saviour. He was
coming from the gate limping, covered with wounds and with blood....
'What's the meaning of it?' I asked the servants who were dashing
about the yard as though possessed. 'A mad dog!' they answered, 'the
count's; it's been hanging about here since yesterday.' "We had a neighbour, a count, who bred very fierce foreign dogs. My
knees shook; I rushed to a looking-glass and looked to see whether I
had been bitten. No, thank God, there was nothing to be seen; only my
countenance naturally looked green; while Nimfodora Semyonovna was
lying on the sofa and cackling like a hen. Well, that one could quite
understand, in the first place nerves, in the second sensibility. She
came to herself at last, though, and asked me whether I were alive. I
answered that I was and that Trésor had saved me. 'Ah,' she said,
'what a noble creature! and so the mad dog has strangled him?' 'No,' I
said, 'it has not strangled him, but has wounded him seriously.' 'Oh,'
she said, 'in that case he must be shot this minute!' 'Oh, no,' I
said, 'I won't agree to that. I shall try to cure him....' At that
moment Trésor began scratching at the door. I was about to go and open
it for him. 'Oh,' she said, 'what are you doing, why, it will bite us
all.' 'Upon my word,' I said, 'the poison does not act so quickly.' 'Oh, how can you?' she said. 'Why, you have taken leave of your
senses!' 'Nimfotchka,' I said, 'calm yourself, be reasonable....' But
she suddenly cried, 'Go away at once with your horrid dog.' 'I will
go away,' said I. 'At once,' she said, 'this second! Get along with
you,' she said, 'you villain, and never dare to let me set eyes on you
again. You may go mad yourself!' 'Very good,' said I, 'only let me
have a carriage for I am afraid to go home on foot now.' 'Give him the
carriage, the coach, the chaise, what he likes, only let him be gone
quickly. Oh, what eyes! Oh, what eyes he has!' and with those words
she whisked out of the room and gave a maid who met her a slap in the
face--and I heard her in hysterics again. "And you may not believe me, gentlemen, but that very day I broke off
all acquaintance with Nimfodora Semyonovna; on mature consideration of
everything, I am bound to add that for that circumstance, too, I shall
owe a debt of gratitude to my friend Trésor to the hour of my death. "Well, I had the carriage brought round, put my Trésor in and drove
home. When I got home I looked him over and washed his wounds, and
thought I would take him next day as soon as it was light to the wise
man in the Yefremovsky district. And this wise man was an old peasant,
a wonderful man: he would whisper over some water--and some people
made out that he dropped some snake spittle into it--would give it as
a draught, and the trouble would be gone completely. I thought, by the
way, I would be bled myself at Yefremovo: it's a good thing as a
precaution against fright, only not from the arm, of course, but from
the falcon." "What place is that, the falcon?" Mr. Finoplentov asked with demure
curiosity. "Why, don't you know? It is here on the fist near the thumb, the spot
on which one shakes the snuff from one's horn, just here. It's the
best place for letting blood. For only consider, the blood from the
arm comes from the vein, but here it is of no consequence. The doctors
don't know that and don't understand it, how should they, the idle
drones, the wretched Germans? It's the blacksmiths who go in for it. And aren't they skilful! They get a chisel, give it a tap with a
hammer and it's done! ... Well, while I was thinking it over, it got
quite dark, it was time for bed. I went to bed and Trésor, of course,
was close by me. But whether it was from the fight, from the
stuffiness, from the fleas or from my thoughts, I could not get to
sleep, do what I would! I can't describe the depression that came over
me; I sipped water, opened the window and played the 'Kamarinsky' with
Italian variations on the guitar.... No good! I felt I must get out of
the room--and that was all about it! I made up my mind at last: I took
my pillow, my quilt and my sheet and made my way across the garden to
the hayloft; and settled myself there. And how pleasant I felt in
there, gentlemen: it was a still, still night, only from time to time
a breath of air like a woman's hand caressed one's cheek; it was so
fresh; the hay smelt as sweet as tea; among the apple trees' the
grasshoppers were chirping; then all at once came the cry of the
quail--and one felt that he, too, the rogue, was happy, sitting in the
dew with his little lady.... And the sky was magnificent.... The stars
were glowing, or a cloud would float by, white as cotton wool,
scarcely moving...."
At this point in the story Skvorevitch sneezed; Kinarevitch sneezed,
too--he never failed in anything to follow his colleague's example. Anton Stepanitch looked approvingly at both of them. "Well," Porfiry Kapitonitch went on, "well, so I lay there and again
could not go to sleep. I fell to musing, and what I thought of most
was the strangeness of it all: how correctly Prohoritch had explained
it as a warning and I wondered why it was to me such marvels had
happened.... I marvelled--particularly because I could make nothing of
it--and Trésor kept whining, as he twisted round in the hay; his
wounds hurt him. And I will tell you what else prevented me from
sleeping--you won't believe it--the moon. It was just facing me, so
big and round and yellow and flat, and it seemed to me that it was
staring at me, it really did. And so insolently, so persistently.... I
put out my tongue at it at last, I really did. What are you so
inquisitive about? I thought. I turned away from it and it seemed to
be creeping into my ear and shining on the back of my head, so that I
felt caught in it as in rain; I opened my eyes and every blade of
grass, every paltry being in the hay, the most flimsy spider's web--all
were standing out as though they were chiselled! As though asking
to be looked at! There was no help for it: I leaned my head on my hand
and began gazing. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
And I couldn't help it: would you believe it: my
eyes bulged out like a hare's; they opened so wide--as though they did
not know what sleep was! It seemed as though I would devour it all
with my eyes. The doors of the barn were wide open; I could see for
four miles into the open country, distinctly and yet not, as it always
is on a moonlight night. I gazed and gazed without blinking.... And
all at once it seemed as though something were moving, far, far
away ... like a faint glimmer in the distance. A little time passed:
again the shadow stirred--now a little nearer; then again nearer still. 'What can it be?' I wondered, 'a hare, no,' I thought, 'it is bigger
than a hare and its action is not the same.' I looked, and again the
shadow came in sight, and was moving across the grazing meadow (the
meadow looked whitish in the moonlight) like a big blur; it was clear
that it was a wild animal, a fox or a wolf. My heart seemed to stand
still ... though one might wonder why I was frightened. All sorts of
wild creatures run about the fields at night. But curiosity was even
stronger than fear. I sat up, I opened my eyes wide and I turned cold
all over. I felt frozen, as though I had been thrust into the ice, up
to my ears, and why? The Lord only knows! And I saw the shadow growing
and growing, so it was running straight towards the barn. And I began
to realise that it certainly was a wild beast, big, with a huge
head.... He flew like a whirlwind, like a bullet.... Holy saints! what
was it? He stopped all at once, as though he scented something.... Why
it was ... the same mad dog! It was ... it was! Heavens! And I could
not stir, I could not cry out.... It darted to the doors, with
glittering eyes, howled and dashed through the hay straight at me! "Out of the hay like a lion leapt my Trésor, here he was. They hung on
to each other's jaws and rolled on the ground. What happened then I
don't remember; all I remember is that I flew headlong between them
into the garden, and home and into my bedroom and almost crept under
the bed--why not make a clean breast of it? And what leaps, what
bounds I took in the garden! The _prémiere danseuse_ dancing
before the Emperor Napoleon on his nameday couldn't have kept pace
with me. However, when I had recovered myself a little, I roused the
whole household; I ordered them all to arm themselves, I myself took a
sword and a revolver (I bought that revolver, I must own, soon after
the emancipation, you know, in case anything should happen, but it
turned out the man who sold it was such a rogue--it would be sure to
miss fire twice out of every three shots). Well, I took all this and
so we went, a regular horde of us with stakes and lanterns, to the
barn. We approached and called--there was not a sound; at last we went
into the barn.... And what did we see? My poor Trésor lay dead with
his throat torn open, and of the other, the damned brute, not a trace
to be seen! "And then, gentlemen, I howled like a calf and I am not ashamed to say
so; I stooped down to the friend who had saved my life twice over and
kissed his head, again and again. And I stayed in that position until
my old housekeeper, Praskovya (she, too, had run in at the uproar),
brought me to my senses. 'How can you, Porfiry Kapitonitch,' she said,
'distress yourself so about a dog? And you will catch cold, too, God
forbid.' (I was very lightly clad.) 'And if this dog has lost his life
in saving you, it may be taken as a great blessing vouchsafed him!' "Though I did not agree with Praskovya, I went home. And next day a
soldier of the garrison shot the mad dog. And it must have been its
destined end: it was the first time in his life that the soldier had
fired a gun, though he had a medal for service in 1812. So this was
the supernatural incident that happened to me." The speaker ceased and began filling his pipe. We all looked at each
other in amazement. "Well, perhaps, you have led a very virtuous life," Mr. Finoplentov
began, "so in recompense ..."
But he broke off at that word, for he saw Porfiry Kapitonitch's cheeks
grow round and flushed while his eyes screwed up--he was on the point
of breaking into a guffaw. "But if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, the
possibility of its participation in everyday life, so to say," Anton
Stepanitch began again, "then allow me to ask, what becomes of common
sense?" None of us found anything to say in reply and we remained in
perplexity as before. 1866. * * * * *
THE WATCH
AN OLD MAN'S STORY
I
I will tell you my adventures with a watch. It is a curious story. It happened at the very beginning of this century, in 1801. I had just
reached my sixteenth year. I was living at Ryazan in a little wooden
house not far from the bank of the river Oka with my father, my aunt
and my cousin; my mother I do not remember; she died three years after
her marriage; my father had no other children. His name was Porfiry
Petrovitch. He was a quiet man, sickly and unattractive in appearance;
he was employed in some sort of legal and--other--business. In old
days such were called attorneys, sharpers, nettle-seeds; he called
himself a lawyer. Our domestic life was presided over by his sister,
my aunt, an old maiden lady of fifty; my father, too, had passed his
fourth decade. My aunt was very pious, or, to speak bluntly, she was a
canting hypocrite and a chattering magpie, who poked her nose into
everything; and, indeed, she had not a kind heart like my father. We
were not badly off, but had nothing to spare. My father had a brother
called Yegor; but he had been sent to Siberia in the year 1797 for
some "seditious acts and Jacobin tendencies" (those were the words of
the accusation). Yegor's son David, my cousin, was left on my father's hands and lived
with us. He was only one year older than I; but I respected him and
obeyed him as though he were quite grown up. He was a sensible fellow
with character; in appearance, thick-set and broad-shouldered with a
square face covered with freckles, with red hair, small grey eyes,
thick lips, a short nose, and short fingers--a sturdy lad, in
fact--and strong for his age! My aunt could not endure him; my father
was positively afraid of him ... or perhaps he felt himself to blame
towards him. There was a rumour that, if my father had not given his
brother away, David's father would not have been sent to Siberia. We
were both at the high school and in the same class and both fairly
high up in it; I was, indeed, a little better at my lessons than
David. I had a good memory but boys--as we all know!--do not think
much of such superiority, and David remained my leader. II
My name--you know--is Alexey. I was born on the seventh of March and
my name-day is the seventeenth. In accordance with the old-fashioned
custom, I was given the name of the saint whose festival fell on the
tenth day after my birth. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
My godfather was a certain Anastasy
Anastasyevitch Putchkov, or more exactly Nastasey Nastasyeitch, for
that was what everyone called him. He was a terribly shifty,
pettifogging knave and bribe-taker--a thoroughly bad man; he had been
turned out of the provincial treasury and had had to stand his trial
on more than one occasion; he was often of use to my father.... They
used to "do business" together. In appearance he was a round, podgy
figure; and his face was like a fox's with a nose like an owl's. His
eyes were brown, bright, also like a fox's, and he was always moving
them, those eyes, to right and to left, and he twitched his nose, too,
as though he were sniffing the air. He wore shoes without heels, and
wore powder every day, which was looked upon as very exceptional in
the provinces. He used to declare that he could not go without powder
as he had to associate with generals and their ladies. Well, my
name-day had come. Nastasey Nastasyeitch came to the house and said:
"I have never made you a present up to now, godson, but to make up for
that, look what a fine thing I have brought you to-day." And he took out of his pocket a silver watch, a regular turnip, with a
rose tree engraved on the face and a brass chain. I was overwhelmed
with delight, while my aunt, Pelageya Petrovna, shouted at the top of
her voice:
"Kiss his hand, kiss his hand, dirty brat!" I proceeded to kiss my godfather's hand, while my aunt went piping on:
"Oh, Nastasey Nastasyeitch! Why do you spoil him like this? How can he
take care of a watch? He will be sure to drop it, break it, or spoil
it." My father walked in, looked at the watch, thanked Nastasey
Nastasyeitch--somewhat carelessly, and invited him to his study. And I
heard my father say, as though to himself:
"If you think to get off _with that_, my man...." But I could not
stay still. I put on the watch and rushed headlong to show my present
to David. III
David took the watch, opened it and examined it attentively. He had
great mechanical ability; he liked having to do with iron, copper, and
metals of all sorts; he had provided himself with various instruments,
and it was nothing for him to mend or even to make a screw, a key or
anything of that kind. David turned the watch about in his hands and muttering through his
teeth (he was not talkative as a rule):
"Oh ... poor ..." added, "where did you get it?" I told him that my godfather had given it me. David turned his little grey eyes upon me:
"Nastasey?" "Yes, Nastasey Nastasyeitch." David laid the watch on the table and walked away without a word. "Do you like it?" I asked. "Well, it isn't that.... But if I were you, I would not take any sort
of present from Nastasey." "Why?" "Because he is a contemptible person; and you ought not to be under an
obligation to a contemptible person. And to say thank you to him, too. I suppose you kissed his hand?" "Yes, Aunt made me." David grinned--a peculiar grin--to himself. That was his way. He never
laughed aloud; he considered laughter a sign of feebleness. David's words, his silent grin, wounded me deeply. "So he inwardly
despises me," I thought. "So I, too, am contemptible in his eyes. He
would never have stooped to this himself! He would not have accepted
presents from Nastasey. But what am I to do now?" Give back the watch? Impossible! I did try to talk to David, to ask his advice. He told me that he
never gave advice to anyone and that I had better do as I thought
best. As I thought best!! I remember I did not sleep all night
afterwards: I was in agonies of indecision. I was sorry to lose the
watch--I had laid it on the little table beside my bed; its ticking
was so pleasant and amusing ... but to feel that David despised me
(yes, it was useless to deceive myself, he did despise me) ... that
seemed to me unbearable. Towards morning a determination had taken
shape in me ... I wept, it is true--but I fell asleep upon it, and as
soon as I woke up, I dressed in haste and ran out into the street. I
had made up my mind to give my watch to the first poor person I met. IV
I had not run far from home when I hit upon what I was looking for. I
came across a barelegged boy of ten, a ragged urchin, who was often
hanging about near our house. I dashed up to him at once and, without
giving him or myself time to recover, offered him my watch. The boy stared at me round-eyed, put one hand before his mouth, as
though he were afraid of being scalded--and held out the other. "Take it, take it," I muttered, "it's mine, I give it you, you can
sell it, and buy yourself ... something you want.... Good-bye." I thrust the watch into his hand--and went home at a gallop. Stopping
for a moment at the door of our common bedroom to recover my breath, I
went up to David who had just finished dressing and was combing his
hair. "Do you know what, David?" I said in as unconcerned a tone as I could,
"I have given away Nastasey's watch." David looked at me and passed the brush over his temples. "Yes," I added in the same businesslike voice, "I have given it away. There is a very poor boy, a beggar, you know, so I have given it to
him." David put down the brush on the washing-stand. "He can buy something useful," I went on, "with the money he can get
for it. Anyway, he will get something for it." I paused. "Well," David said at last, "that's a good thing," and he went off to
the schoolroom. I followed him. "And if they ask you what you have done with it?" he said, turning to
me. "I shall tell them I've lost it," I answered carelessly. No more was said about the watch between us that day; but I had the
feeling that David not only approved of what I had done but ... was to
some extent surprised by it. He really was! V
Two days more passed. It happened that no one in the house thought of
the watch. My father was taken up with a very serious unpleasantness
with one of his clients; he had no attention to spare for me or my
watch. I, on the other hand, thought of it without ceasing! Even the
approval ... the presumed approval of David did not quite comfort me. He did not show it in any special way: the only thing he said, and
that casually, was that he hadn't expected such recklessness of me. Certainly I was a loser by my sacrifice: it was not counter-balanced
by the gratification afforded me by my vanity. And what is more, as ill-luck would have it, another schoolfellow of
ours, the son of the town doctor, must needs turn up and begin
boasting of a new watch, a present from his grandmother, and not even
a silver, but a pinch-back one.... I could not bear it, at last, and, without a word to anyone, slipped
out of the house and proceeded to hunt for the beggar boy to whom I
had given my watch. I soon found him; he was playing knucklebones in the churchyard with
some other boys. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I called him aside--and, breathless and stammering, told him that my
family were angry with me for having given away the watch--and that if
he would consent to give it back to me I would gladly pay him for
it.... To be ready for any emergency, I had brought with me an
old-fashioned rouble of the reign of Elizabeth, which represented the
whole of my fortune. "But I haven't got it, your watch," answered the boy in an angry and
tearful voice; "my father saw it and took it away from me; and he was
for thrashing me, too. 'You must have stolen it from somewhere,' he
said. 'What fool is going to make you a present of a watch?'" "And who is your father?" "My father? Trofimitch." "But what is he? What's his trade?" "He is an old soldier, a sergeant. And he has no trade at all. He
mends old shoes, he re-soles them. That's all his trade. That's what
he lives by." "Where do you live? Take me to him." "To be sure I will. You tell my father that you gave me the watch. For
he keeps pitching into me, and calling me a thief! And my mother, too. 'Who is it you are taking after,' she says, 'to be a thief?'" I set off with the boy to his home. They lived in a smoky hut in the
back-yard of a factory, which had long ago been burnt down and not
rebuilt. We found both Trofimitch and his wife at home. The discharged
sergeant was a tall old man, erect and sinewy, with yellowish grey
whiskers, an unshaven chin and a perfect network of wrinkles on his
cheeks and forehead. His wife looked older than he. Her red eyes,
which looked buried in her unhealthily puffy face, kept blinking
dejectedly. Some sort of dark rags hung about them by way of clothes. I explained to Trofimitch what I wanted and why I had come. He
listened to me in silence without once winking or moving from me his
stupid and strained--typically soldierly--eyes. "Whims and fancies!" he brought out at last in a husky, toothless
bass. "Is that the way gentlemen behave? And if Petka really did not
steal the watch--then I'll give him one for that! To teach him not to
play the fool with little gentlemen! And if he did steal it, then I
would give it to him in a very different style, whack, whack, whack! With the flat of a sword; in horseguard's fashion! No need to think
twice about it! What's the meaning of it? Eh? Go for them with sabres! Here's a nice business! Tfoo!" This last interjection Trofimitch pronounced in a falsetto. He was
obviously perplexed. "If you are willing to restore the watch to me," I explained to him--I
did not dare to address him familiarly in spite of his being a
soldier--"I will with pleasure pay you this rouble here. The watch is
not worth more, I imagine." "Well!" growled Trofimitch, still amazed and, from old habit,
devouring me with his eyes as though I were his superior officer. "It's a queer business, eh? Well, there it is, no understanding it. Ulyana, hold your tongue!" he snapped out at his wife who was opening
her mouth. "Here's the watch," he added, opening the table drawer; "if
it really is yours, take it by all means; but what's the rouble for? Eh?" "Take the rouble, Trofimitch, you senseless man," wailed his wife. "You
have gone crazy in your old age! We have not a half-rouble between us,
and then you stand on your dignity! It was no good their cutting off
your pigtail, you are a regular old woman just the same! How can you
go on like that--when you know nothing about it? ... Take the money,
if you have a fancy to give back the watch!" "Ulyana, hold your tongue, you dirty slut!" Trofimitch repeated. "Whoever heard of such a thing, talking away? Eh? The husband is the
head; and yet she talks! Petka, don't budge, I'll kill you.... Here's
the watch!" Trofimitch held out the watch to me, but did not let go of it. He pondered, looked down, then fixed the same intent, stupid stare
upon me. Then all at once bawled at the top of his voice:
"Where is it? Where's your rouble?" "Here it is, here it is," I responded hurriedly and I snatched the
coin out of my pocket. But he did not take it, he still stared at me. I laid the rouble on
the table. He suddenly brushed it into the drawer, thrust the watch
into my hand and wheeling to the left with a loud stamp, he hissed at
his wife and his son:
"Get along, you low wretches!" Ulyana muttered something, but I had already dashed out into the yard
and into the street. Thrusting the watch to the very bottom of my
pocket and clutching it tightly in my hand, I hurried home. VI
I had regained the possession of my watch but it afforded me no
satisfaction whatever. I did not venture to wear it, it was above all
necessary to conceal from David what I had done. What would he think
of me, of my lack of will? I could not even lock up the luckless watch
in a drawer: we had all our drawers in common. I had to hide it,
sometimes on the top of the cupboard, sometimes under my mattress,
sometimes behind the stove.... And yet I did not succeed in
hoodwinking David. One day I took the watch from under a plank in the floor of our room
and proceeded to rub the silver case with an old chamois leather
glove. David had gone off somewhere in the town; I did not at all
expect him to be back quickly.... Suddenly he was in the doorway. I was so overcome that I almost dropped the watch, and, utterly
disconcerted, my face painfully flushing crimson, I fell to fumbling
about my waistcoat with it, unable to find my pocket. David looked at me and, as usual, smiled without speaking. "What's the matter?" he brought out at last. "You imagined I didn't
know you had your watch again? I saw it the very day you brought it
back." "I assure you," I began, almost on the point of tears....
David shrugged his shoulders. "The watch is yours, you are free to do what you like with it." Saying these cruel words, he went out. I was overwhelmed with despair. This time there could be no doubt! David certainly despised me. I could not leave it so. "I will show him," I thought, clenching my teeth, and at once with a
firm step I went into the passage, found our page-boy, Yushka, and
presented him with the watch! Yushka would have refused it, but I declared that if he did not take
the watch from me I would smash it that very minute, trample it under
foot, break it to bits and throw it in the cesspool! He thought a
moment, giggled, and took the watch. I went back to our room and
seeing David reading there, I told him what I had done. David did not take his eyes off the page and, again shrugging his
shoulder and smiling to himself, repeated that the watch was mine and
that I was free to do what I liked with it. But it seemed to me that he already despised me a little less. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I was fully persuaded that I should never again expose myself to the
reproach of weakness of character, for the watch, the disgusting
present from my disgusting godfather, had suddenly grown so
distasteful to me that I was quite incapable of understanding how I
could have regretted it, how I could have begged for it back from the
wretched Trofimitch, who had, moreover, the right to think that he had
treated me with generosity. Several days passed.... I remember that on one of them the great news
reached our town that the Emperor Paul was dead and his son Alexandr,
of whose graciousness and humanity there were such favourable rumours,
had ascended the throne. This news excited David intensely: the
possibility of seeing--of shortly seeing--his father occurred to him
at once. My father was delighted, too. "They will bring back all the exiles from Siberia now and I expect
brother Yegor will not be forgotten," he kept repeating, rubbing his
hands, coughing and, at the same time, seeming rather nervous. David and I at once gave up working and going to the high school; we
did not even go for walks but sat in a corner counting and reckoning
in how many months, in how many weeks, in how many days "brother
Yegor" ought to come back and where to write to him and how to go to
meet him and in what way we should begin to live afterwards. "Brother
Yegor" was an architect: David and I decided that he ought to settle
in Moscow and there build big schools for poor people and we would go
to be his assistants. The watch, of course, we had completely
forgotten; besides, David had new cares.... Of them I will speak
later, but the watch was destined to remind us of its existence again. VII
One morning we had only just finished lunch--I was sitting alone by
the window thinking of my uncle's release--outside there was the steam
and glitter of an April thaw--when all at once my aunt, Pelageya
Petrovna, walked into the room. She was at all times restless and
fidgetty, she spoke in a shrill voice and was always waving her arms
about; on this occasion she simply pounced on me. "Go along, go to your father at once, sir!" she snapped out. "What
pranks have you been up to, you shameless boy! You will catch it, both
of you. Nastasey Nastasyeitch has shown up all your tricks! Go along,
your father wants you.... Go along this very minute." Understanding nothing, I followed my aunt, and, as I crossed the
threshold of the drawing-room, I saw my father, striding up and down
and ruffling up his hair, Yushka in tears by the door and, sitting on
a chair in the corner, my godfather, Nastasey Nastasyeitch, with an
expression of peculiar malignancy in his distended nostrils and in his
fiery, slanting eyes. My father swooped down upon me as soon as I walked in. "Did you give your watch to Yushka? Tell me!" I glanced at Yushka. "Tell me," repeated my father, stamping. "Yes," I answered, and immediately received a stinging slap in the
face, which afforded my aunt great satisfaction. I heard her gulp, as
though she had swallowed some hot tea. From me my father ran to
Yushka. "And you, you rascal, ought not to have dared to accept such a
present," he said, pulling him by the hair: "and you sold it, too, you
good-for-nothing boy!" Yushka, as I learned later had, in the simplicity of his heart, taken
my watch to a neighbouring watchmaker's. The watchmaker had displayed
it in his shop-window; Nastasey Nastasyeitch had seen it, as he passed
by, bought it and brought it along with him. However, my ordeal and Yushka's did not last long: my father gasped
for breath, and coughed till he choked; indeed, it was not in his
character to be angry long. "Brother, Porfiry Petrovitch," observed my aunt, as soon as she
noticed not without regret that my father's anger had, so to speak,
flickered out, "don't you worry yourself further: it's not worth
dirtying your hands over. I tell you what I suggest: with the consent
of our honoured friend, Nastasey Nastasyeitch, in consideration of the
base ingratitude of your son--I will take charge of the watch; and
since he has shown by his conduct that he is not worthy to wear it and
does not even understand its value, I will present it in your name to
a person who will be very sensible of your kindness." "Whom do you mean?" asked my father. "To Hrisanf Lukitch," my aunt articulated, with slight hesitation. "To Hrisashka?" asked my father, and with a wave of his hand, he
added: "It's all one to me. You can throw it in the stove, if you
like." He buttoned up his open vest and went out, writhing from his coughing. "And you, my good friend, do you agree?" said my aunt, addressing
Nastasey Nastasyeitch. "I am quite agreeable," responded the latter. During the whole
proceedings he had not stirred and only snorting stealthily and
stealthily rubbing the ends of his fingers, had fixed his foxy eyes by
turns on me, on my father, and on Yushka. We afforded him real
gratification! My aunt's suggestion revolted me to the depths of my soul. It was not
that I regretted the watch; but the person to whom she proposed to
present it was absolutely hateful to me. This Hrisanf Lukitch (his
surname was Trankvillitatin), a stalwart, robust, lanky divinity
student, was in the habit of coming to our house--goodness knows what
for!--to help the _children_ with their lessons, my aunt asserted;
but he could not help us with our lessons because he had never
learnt anything himself and was as stupid as a horse. He was
rather like a horse altogether: he thudded with his feet as though
they had been hoofs, did not laugh but neighed, opening his jaws till
you could see right down his throat--and he had a long face, a hooked
nose and big, flat jaw-bones; he wore a shaggy frieze, full-skirted
coat, and smelt of raw meat. My aunt idolised him and called him a
good-looking man, a cavalier and even a grenadier. He had a habit of
tapping children on the forehead with the nails of his long fingers,
hard as stones (he used to do it to me when I was younger), and as he
tapped he would chuckle and say with surprise: "How your head
resounds, it must be empty." And this lout was to possess my
watch!--No, indeed, I determined in my own mind as I ran out of the
drawing-room and flung myself on my bed, while my cheek glowed crimson
from the slap I had received and my heart, too, was aglow with the
bitterness of the insult and the thirst for revenge--no, indeed! I
would not allow that cursed Hrisashka to jeer at me.... He would put
on the watch, let the chain hang over his stomach, would neigh with
delight; no, indeed! "Quite so, but how was it to be done, how to prevent it?" I determined to steal the watch from my aunt. VIII
Luckily Trankvillitatin was away from the town at the time: he could
not come to us before the next day; I must take advantage of the
night! My aunt did not lock her bedroom door and, indeed, none of the
keys in the house would turn in the locks; but where would she put the
watch, where would she hide it? | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
She kept it in her pocket till the
evening and even took it out and looked at it more than once; but at
night--where would it be at night?--Well, that was just my work to
find out, I thought, shaking my fists. I was burning with boldness and terror and joy at the thought of the
approaching crime. I was continually nodding to myself; I knitted my
brows. I whispered: "Wait a bit!" I threatened someone, I was wicked,
I was dangerous ... and I avoided David!--no one, not even he, must
have the slightest suspicion of what I meant to do.... I would act alone and alone I would answer for it! Slowly the day lagged by, then the evening, at last the night came. I
did nothing; I even tried not to move: one thought was stuck in my
head like a nail. At dinner my father, who was, as I have said,
naturally gentle, and who was a little ashamed of his harshness--boys
of sixteen are not slapped in the face--tried to be affectionate to
me; but I rejected his overtures, not from slowness to forgive, as he
imagined at the time, but simply that I was afraid of my feelings
getting the better of me; I wanted to preserve untouched all the heat
of my vengeance, all the hardness of unalterable determination. I went
to bed very early; but of course I did not sleep and did not even shut
my eyes, but on the contrary opened them wide, though I did pull the
quilt over my head. I did not consider beforehand how to act. I had no
plan of any kind; I only waited till everything should be quiet in the
house. I only took one step: I did not remove my stockings. My aunt's
room was on the second floor. One had to pass through the dining-room
and the hall, go up the stairs, pass along a little passage and
there ... on the right was the door! I must not on any account take
with me a candle or a lantern; in the corner of my aunt's room a little
lamp was always burning before the ikon shrine; I knew that. So I
should be able to see. I still lay with staring eyes and my mouth open
and parched; the blood was throbbing in my temples, in my ears, in my
throat, in my back, all over me! I waited ... but it seemed as though
some demon were mocking me; time passed and passed but still silence
did not reign. IX
Never, I thought, had David been so late getting to sleep.... David,
the silent David, even began talking to me! Never had they gone on so
long banging, talking, walking about the house! And what could they be
talking about? I wondered; as though they had not had the whole day to
talk in! Sounds outside persisted, too; first a dog barked on a
shrill, obstinate note; then a drunken peasant was making an uproar
somewhere and would not be pacified; then gates kept creaking; then a
wretched cart on racketty wheels kept passing and passing and seeming
as though it would never pass! However, these sounds did not worry me:
on the contrary, I was glad of them; they seemed to distract my
attention. But now at last it seemed as though all were tranquil. Only
the pendulum of our old clock ticked gravely and drowsily in the
dining-room and there was an even drawn-out sound like the hard
breathing of people asleep. I was on the point of getting up, then
again something rustled ... then suddenly sighed, something soft fell
down ... and a whisper glided along the walls. Or was there nothing of the sort--and was it only imagination mocking
me? At last all was still. It was the very heart, the very dead of night. The time had come! Chill with anticipation, I threw off the
bedclothes, let my feet down to the floor, stood up ... one step; a
second.... I stole along, my feet, heavy as though they did not belong
to me, trod feebly and uncertainly. Stay! what was that sound? Someone
sawing, somewhere, or scraping ... or sighing? I listened ... I felt my
cheeks twitching and cold watery tears came into my eyes. Nothing! ... I stole on again. It was dark but I knew the way. All at once I
stumbled against a chair.... What a bang and how it hurt! It hit me
just on my leg.... I stood stock still. Well, did that wake them? Ah! here goes! Suddenly I felt bold and even spiteful. On! On! Now the
dining-room was crossed, then the door was groped for and opened at
one swing. The cursed hinge squeaked, bother it! Then I went up the
stairs, one! two! one! two! A step creaked under my foot; I looked at
it spitefully, just as though I could see it. Then I stretched for the
handle of another door. This one made not the slightest sound! It flew
open so easily, as though to say, "Pray walk in." ... And now I was in
the corridor! In the corridor there was a little window high up under the ceiling, a
faint light filtered in through the dark panes. And in that glimmer of
light I could see our little errand girl lying on the floor on a mat,
both arms behind her tousled head; she was sound asleep, breathing
rapidly and the fatal door was just behind her head. I stepped across
the mat, across the girl ... who opened that door? ... I don't know,
but there I was in my aunt's room. There was the little lamp in one
corner and the bed in the other and my aunt in her cap and night
jacket on the bed with her face towards me. She was asleep, she did
not stir, I could not even hear her breathing. The flame of the little
lamp softly flickered, stirred by the draught of fresh air, and
shadows stirred all over the room, even over the motionless wax-like
yellow face of my aunt....
And there was the watch! It was hanging on a little embroidered
cushion on the wall behind the bed. What luck, only think of it! Nothing to delay me! But whose steps were those, soft and rapid behind
my back? Oh! no! it was my heart beating! ... I moved my legs
forward.... Good God! something round and rather large pushed against
me below my knee, once and again! I was ready to scream, I was ready
to drop with horror.... A striped cat, our own cat, was standing
before me arching his back and wagging his tail. Then he leapt on the
bed--softly and heavily--turned round and sat without purring, exactly
like a judge; he sat and looked at me with his golden pupils. "Puss,
puss," I whispered, hardly audibly. I bent across my aunt, I had
already snatched the watch. She suddenly sat up and opened her eyelids
wide.... Heavenly Father, what next? ... but her eyelids quivered and
closed and with a faint murmur her head sank on the pillow. A minute later I was back again in my own room, in my own bed and the
watch was in my hands....
More lightly than a feather I flew back! I was a fine fellow, I was a
thief, I was a hero, I was gasping with delight, I was hot, I was
gleeful--I wanted to wake David at once to tell him all about it--and,
incredible as it sounds, I fell asleep and slept like the dead! At
last I opened my eyes.... It was light in the room, the sun had risen. Luckily no one was awake yet. I jumped up as though I had been
scalded, woke David and told him all about it. He listened, smiled. "Do you know what?" | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
he said to me at last, "let's bury the silly watch
in the earth, so that it may never be seen again." I thought his idea
best of all. In a few minutes we were both dressed; we ran out into
the orchard behind our house and under an old apple tree in a deep
hole, hurriedly scooped out in the soft, springy earth with David's
big knife, my godfather's hated present was hidden forever, so that it
never got into the hands of the disgusting Trankvillitatin after all! We stamped down the hole, strewed rubbish over it and, proud and
happy, unnoticed by anyone, went home again, got into our beds and
slept another hour or two--and such a light and blissful sleep! X
You can imagine the uproar there was that morning, as soon as my aunt
woke up and missed the watch! Her piercing shriek is ringing in my
ears to this day. "Help! Robbed! Robbed!" she squealed, and alarmed
the whole household. She was furious, while David and I only smiled to
ourselves and sweet was our smile to us. "Everyone, everyone must be
well thrashed!" bawled my aunt. "The watch has been stolen from under
my head, from under my pillow!" We were prepared for anything, we
expected trouble.... But contrary to our expectations we did not get
into trouble at all. My father certainly did fume dreadfully at first,
he even talked of the police; but I suppose he was bored with the
enquiry of the day before and suddenly, to my aunt's indescribable
amazement, he flew out not against us but against her. "You sicken me worse than a bitter radish, Pelageya Petrovna," he
shouted, "with your watch. I don't want to hear any more about it! It
can't be lost by magic, you say, but what's it to do with me? It may
be magic for all I care! Stolen from you? Well, good luck to it then! What will Nastasey Nastasyeitch say? Damnation take him, your
Nastasyeitch! I get nothing but annoyances and unpleasantness from
him! Don't dare to worry me again! Do you hear?" My father slammed the door and went off to his own room. David and I
did not at first understand the allusion in his last words; but
afterwards we found out that my father was just then violently
indignant with my godfather, who had done him out of a profitable job. So my aunt was left looking a fool. She almost burst with vexation,
but there was no help for it. She had to confine herself to repeating
in a sharp whisper, twisting her mouth in my direction whenever she
passed me, "Thief, thief, robber, scoundrel." My aunt's reproaches
were a source of real enjoyment to me. It was very agreeable, too, as
I crossed the flower-garden, to let my eye with assumed indifference
glide over the very spot where the watch lay at rest under the
apple-tree; and if David were close at hand to exchange a meaning
grimace with him....
My aunt tried setting Trankvillitatin upon me; but I appealed to
David. He told the stalwart divinity student bluntly that he would rip
up his belly with a knife if he did not leave me alone....
Trankvillitatin was frightened; though, according to my aunt, he was a
grenadier and a cavalier he was not remarkable for valour. So passed
five weeks.... But do you imagine that the story of the watch ended
there? No, it did not; only to continue my story I must introduce a
new character; and to introduce that new character I must go back a
little. XI
My father had for many years been on very friendly, even intimate
terms with a retired government clerk called Latkin, a lame little man
in poor circumstances with queer, timid manners, one of those
creatures of whom it is commonly said that they are crushed by God
Himself. Like my father and Nastasey, he was engaged in the humbler
class of legal work and acted as legal adviser and agent. But
possessing neither a presentable appearance nor the gift of words and
having little confidence in himself, he did not venture to act
independently but attached himself to my father. His handwriting was
"regular beadwork," he knew the law thoroughly and had mastered all
the intricacies of the jargon of petitions and legal documents. He had
managed various cases with my father and had shared with him gains and
losses and it seemed as though nothing could shake their friendship,
and yet it broke down in one day and forever. My father quarrelled
with his colleague for good. If Latkin had snatched a profitable job
from my father, after the fashion of Nastasey, who replaced him later
on, my father would have been no more indignant with him than with
Nastasey, probably less. But Latkin, under the influence of an
unexplained, incomprehensible feeling, envy, greed--or perhaps even a
momentary fit of honesty--"gave away" my father, betrayed him to their
common client, a wealthy young merchant, opening this careless young
man's eyes to a certain--well, piece of sharp practice, destined to
bring my father considerable profit. It was not the money loss,
however great--no--but the betrayal that wounded and infuriated my
father; he could not forgive treachery. "So he sets himself up for a saint!" he repeated, trembling all over
with anger, his teeth chattering as though he were in a fever. I
happened to be in the room and was a witness of this ugly scene. "Good. Amen, from today. It's all over between us. There's the ikon
and there's the door! Neither you in my house nor I in yours. You are
too honest for us. How can we keep company with you? But may you have
no house nor home!" It was in vain that Latkin entreated my father and bowed down before
him; it was in vain that he tried to explain to him what filled his
own soul with painful perplexity. "You know it was with no sort of
profit to myself, Porfiry Petrovitch," he faltered: "why, I cut my own
throat!" My father remained implacable. Latkin never set foot in our
house again. Fate itself seemed determined to carry out my father's
last cruel words. Soon after the rupture (which took place two years
before the beginning of my story), Latkin's wife, who had, it is true,
been ill for a long time, died; his second daughter, a child three
years old, became deaf and dumb in one day from terror; a swarm of
bees had settled on her head; Latkin himself had an apoplectic stroke
and sank into extreme and hopeless poverty. How he struggled on, what
he lived upon--it is hard to imagine. He lived in a dilapidated hovel
at no great distance from our house. His elder daughter Raissa lived
with him and kept house, so far as that was possible. This Raissa is
the character whom I must now introduce into our story. XII
When her father was on friendly terms with mine, we used to see her
continually. She would sit with us for hours at a time, either sewing,
or spinning with her delicate, rapid, clever fingers. She was a
well-made, rather thin girl, with intelligent brown eyes and a long,
white, oval face. She talked little but sensibly in a soft, musical
voice, barely opening her mouth and not showing her teeth. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
When she
laughed--which happened rarely and never lasted long--they were all
suddenly displayed, big and white as almonds. I remember her gait, too,
light, elastic, with a little skip at each step. It always seemed to me
that she was going down a flight of steps, even when she was walking on
level ground. She held herself erect with her arms folded tightly over
her bosom. And whatever she was doing, whatever she undertook, if she
were only threading a needle or ironing a petticoat--the effect was
always beautiful and somehow--you may not believe it--touching. Her
Christian name was Raissa, but we used to call her Black-lip: she had
on her upper lip a birthmark; a little dark-bluish spot, as though she
had been eating blackberries; but that did not spoil her: on the
contrary. She was just a year older than David. I cherished for her a
feeling akin to respect, but we were not great friends. But between
her and David a friendship had sprung up, a strange, unchildlike but
good friendship. They somehow suited each other. Sometimes they did not exchange a word for hours together, but both
felt that they were happy and happy because they were together. I had
never met a girl like her, really. There was something attentive and
resolute about her, something honest and mournful and charming. I
never heard her say anything very intelligent, but I never heard her
say anything commonplace, and I have never seen more intelligent eyes. After the rupture between her family and mine I saw her less
frequently: my father sternly forbade my visiting the Latkins, and she
did not appear in our house again. But I met her in the street, in
church and Black-lip always aroused in me the same feeling--respect
and even some wonder, rather than pity. She bore her misfortunes very
well indeed. "The girl is flint," even coarse-witted, Trankvillitatin
said about her once, but really she ought to have been pitied: her
face acquired a careworn, exhausted expression, her eyes were hollow
and sunken, a burden beyond her strength lay on her young shoulders. David saw her much oftener than I did; he used to go to their house. My father gave him up in despair: he knew that David would not obey
him, anyway. And from time to time Raissa would appear at the hurdle
fence of our garden which looked into a lane and there have an
interview with David; she did not come for the sake of conversation,
but told him of some new difficulty or trouble and asked his advice. The paralysis that had attacked Latkin was of a rather peculiar kind. His arms and legs had grown feeble, but he had not lost the use of
them, and his brain indeed worked perfectly; but his speech was
muddled and instead of one word he would pronounce another: one had to
guess what it was he wanted to say.... "Tchoo--tchoo--tchoo," he
would stammer with an effort--he began every sentence with
"Tchoo--tchoo--tchoo, some scissors, some scissors," ... and the word
scissors meant bread.... My father, he hated with all the strength left
him--he attributed all his misfortunes to my father's curse and called
him alternately the butcher and the diamond-merchant. "Tchoo, tchoo,
don't you dare to go to the butcher's, Vassilyevna." This was what he
called his daughter though his own name was Martinyan. Every day he
became more exacting; his needs increased.... And how were those needs
to be satisfied? Where could the money be found? Sorrow soon makes one
old: but it was horrible to hear some words on the lips of a girl of
seventeen. XIII
I remember I happened to be present at a
conversation with David over the fence, on the
very day of her mother's death. "Mother died this morning at daybreak," she
said, first looking round with her dark expressive eyes and then
fixing them on the ground. "Cook undertook to get a coffin cheap but she's not to be trusted; she
may spend the money on drink, even. You might come and look after her,
Davidushka, she's afraid of you." "I will come," answered David. "I will see to it. And how's your
father?" "He cries; he says: 'you must spoil me, too.' Spoil must mean bury. Now he has gone to sleep." Raissa suddenly gave a deep sigh. "Oh,
Davidushka, Davidushka!" She passed her half-clenched fist over her
forehead and her eyebrows, and the action was so bitter ... and as
sincere and beautiful as all her actions. "You must take care of yourself, though," David observed; "you haven't
slept at all, I expect.... And what's the use of crying? It doesn't
help trouble." "I have no time for crying," answered Raissa. "That's a luxury for the rich, crying," observed David. Raissa was going, but she turned back. "The yellow shawl's being sold, you know; part of mother's dowry. They
are giving us twelve roubles; I think that is not much." "It certainly is not much." "We shouldn't sell it," Raissa said after a brief pause, "but you see
we must have money for the funeral." "Of course you must. Only you mustn't spend money at random. Those
priests are awful! But I say, wait a minute. I'll come. Are you going? I'll be with you soon. Goodbye, darling." "Good-bye, Davidushka, darling." "Mind now, don't cry!" "As though I should cry! It's either cooking the dinner or crying. One
or the other." "What! does she cook the dinner?" I said to David, as soon as Raissa
was out of hearing, "does she do the cooking herself?" "Why, you heard that the cook has gone to buy a coffin." "She cooks the dinner," I thought, "and her hands are always so clean
and her clothes so neat.... I should like to see her there at work in
the kitchen.... She is an extraordinary girl!" I remember another conversation at the fence. That time Raissa brought
with her her little deaf and dumb sister. She was a pretty child with
immense, astonished-looking eyes and a perfect mass of dull, black
hair on her little, head (Raissa's hair, too, was black and hers, too,
was without lustre). Latkin had by then been struck down by paralysis. "I really don't know what to do," Raissa began. "The doctor has
written a prescription. We must go to the chemist's; and our peasant
(Latkin had still one serf) has brought us wood from the village and a
goose. And the porter has taken it away, 'you are in debt to me,' he
said." "Taken the goose?" asked David. "No, not the goose. He says it is an old one; it is no good for
anything; he says that is why our peasant brought it us, but he is
taking the wood." "But he has no right to," exclaimed David. "He has no right to, but he has taken it. I went up to the garret,
there we have got a very, very old trunk. I began rummaging in it and
what do you think I found? Look!" She took from under her kerchief a rather large field glass in a
copper setting, covered with morocco, yellow with age. David, as a
connoisseur of all sorts of instruments, seized upon it at once. "It's English," he pronounced, putting it first to one eye and then to
the other. "A marine glass." "And the glasses are perfect," Raissa went on. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
"I showed it to father;
he said, 'Take it and pawn it to the diamond-merchant'! What do you
think, would they give us anything for it? What do we want a telescope
for? To look at ourselves in the looking-glass and see what beauties
we are? But we haven't a looking-glass, unluckily." And Raissa suddenly laughed aloud. Her sister, of course, could not
hear her. But most likely she felt the shaking of her body: she clung
to Raissa's hand and her little face worked with a look of terror as
she raised her big eyes to her sister and burst into tears. "That's how she always is," said Raissa, "she
doesn't like one to laugh. "Come, I won't, Lyubotchka, I won't," she added, nimbly squatting on
her heels beside the child and passing her fingers through her hair. The laughter vanished from Raissa's face and her lips, the corners of
which twisted upwards in a particularly charming way, became
motionless again. The child was pacified. Raissa got up. "So you will do what you can, about the glass I mean, Davidushka. But
I do regret the wood, and the goose, too, however old it may be." "They would certainly give you ten roubles," said David, turning the
telescope in all directions. "I will buy it of you, what could be
better? And here, meanwhile, are fifteen kopecks for the chemist's....
Is that enough?" "I'll borrow that from you," whispered Raissa, taking the fifteen
kopecks from him. "What next? Perhaps you would like to pay interest? But you see I have
a pledge here, a very fine thing.... First-rate people, the English." "They say we are going to war with them." "No," answered David, "we are fighting the French now." "Well, you know best. Take care of it, then. Good-bye, friends." XIV
Here is another conversation that took place beside the same fence. Raissa seemed more worried than usual. "Five kopecks for a cabbage, and a tiny little one, too," she said,
propping her chin on her hand. "Isn't it dear? And I haven't had the
money for my sewing yet." "Who owes it you?" asked David. "Why, the merchant's wife who lives beyond the rampart." "The fat woman who goes about in a green blouse?" "Yes, yes." "I say, she is fat! She can hardly breathe for fat. She positively
steams in church, and doesn't pay her debts!" "She will pay, only when? And do you know, Davidushka, I have fresh
troubles. Father has taken it into his head to tell me his dreams--you
know he cannot say what he means: if he wants to say one word, it
comes out another. About food or any everyday thing we have got used
to it and understand; but it is not easy to understand the dreams even
of healthy people, and with him, it's awful! 'I am very happy,' he
says; 'I was walking about all among white birds to-day; and the Lord
God gave me a nosegay and in the nosegay was Andryusha with a little
knife,' he calls our Lyubotchka, Andryusha; 'now we shall both be
quite well,' he says. 'We need only one stroke with the little knife,
like this!' and he points to his throat. I don't understand him, but I
say, 'All right, dear, all right,' but he gets angry and tries to
explain what he means. He even bursts into tears." "But you should have said something to him," I put in; "you should
have made up some lie." "I can't tell lies," answered Raissa, and even flung up her hands. And indeed she could not tell lies. "There is no need to tell lies," observed David, "but there is no need
to kill yourself, either. No one will say thank you for it, you know." Raissa looked at him intently. "I wanted to ask you something, Davidushka; how ought I to spell
'while'?" "What sort of 'while'?" "Why, for instance: I hope you will live a long _while_." "Spell: w-i-l-e."
"No," I put in, "w-h-i-l-e."
"Well, it does not matter. Spell it with an h, then! What does matter
is, that you should live a long while." "I should like to write correctly," observed Raissa, and she flushed a
little. When she flushed she was amazingly pretty at once. "It may be of use.... How father wrote in his day ... wonderfully! He
taught me. Well, now he can hardly make out the letters." "You only live, that's all I want," David repeated, dropping his voice
and not taking his eyes off her. Raissa glanced quickly at him and
flushed still more. "You live and as for spelling, spell as you like.... Oh, the devil,
the witch is coming!" (David called my aunt the witch.) "What ill-luck
has brought her this way? You must go, darling." Raissa glanced at David once more and ran away. David talked to me of Raissa and her family very rarely and
unwillingly, especially from the time when he began to expect his
father's return. He thought of nothing but him and how we should live
together afterwards. He had a vivid memory of him and used to describe
him to me with particular pleasure. "He is big and strong; he can lift three hundred-weight with one
hand.... When he shouted: 'Where's the lad?' he could be heard all
over the house. He's so jolly and kind ... and a brave man! Nobody can
intimidate him. We lived so happily together before we were ruined. They say he has gone quite grey, and in old days his hair was as red
as mine. He was a strong man." David would never admit that we might remain in Ryazan. "You will go away," I observed, "but I shall stay." "Nonsense, we shall take you with us." "And how about my father?" "You will cast off your father. You will be ruined if you don't." "How so?" David made me no answer but merely knitted his white brows. "So when we go away with father," he began again, "he will get a good
situation and I shall marry." "Well, that won't be just directly," I said. "No, why not? I shall marry soon." "You?" "Yes, I; why not?" "You haven't fixed on your wife, I suppose." "Of course, I have." "Who is she?" David laughed. "What a senseless fellow you are, really? Raissa, of course." "Raissa!" I repeated in amazement; "you are joking!" "I am not given to joking, and don't like it." "Why, she is a year older than you are." "What of it? but let's drop the subject." "Let me ask one question," I said. "Does she know that you mean to
marry her?" "Most likely." "But haven't you declared your feelings?" "What is there to declare? When the time comes I shall tell her. Come,
that's enough." David got up and went out of the room. When I was alone, I pondered ...
and pondered ... and came to the conclusion that David would act
like a sensible and practical man; and indeed I felt flattered at the
thought of being the friend of such a practical man! And Raissa in her everlasting black woollen dress suddenly seemed to
me charming and worthy of the most devoted love. XV
David's father still did not come and did not even send a letter. It
had long been summer and June was drawing to its end. We were wearing
ourselves out in suspense. Meanwhile there began to be rumours that Latkin had suddenly become
much worse, and that his family were likely to die of hunger or else
the house would fall in and crush them all under the roof. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
David's face even looked changed and he became so ill-tempered and
surly that there was no going near him. He began to be more often
absent from home, too. I did not meet Raissa at all. From time to
time, I caught a glimpse of her in the distance, rapidly crossing the
street with her beautiful, light step, straight as an arrow, with her
arms crossed, with her dark, clever eyes under her long brows, with an
anxious expression on her pale, sweet face--that was all. My aunt with
the help of her Trankvillitatin pitched into me as before, and as
before reproachfully whispered in my ear: "You are a thief, sir, a
thief!" But I took no notice of her; and my father was very busy, and
occupied with his writing and driving all over the place and did not
want to hear anything. One day, passing by the familiar apple-tree, more from habit than
anything I cast a furtive glance in the direction of the little spot I
knew so well, and it suddenly struck me that there was a change in the
surface of the soil that concealed our treasure ... as though there
were a little protuberance where there had been a hollow, and the bits
of rubbish were disarranged. "What does that mean?" I wondered. "Can
someone have guessed our secret and dug up the watch?" I had to make certain with my own eyes. I felt, of course, the most
complete indifference in regard to the watch that lay rusting in the
bosom of the earth; but was not prepared to let anyone else make use
of it! And so next day I got up before dawn again and arming myself
with a knife went into the orchard, sought out the marked spot under
the apple-tree, began digging--and after digging a hole a yard deep
was forced to the conviction that the watch was gone, that someone had
got hold of it, taken it away, stolen it! But who could have dug it up except David? Who else knew where it was? I filled in the hole and went back to the house. I felt deeply
injured. "Supposing," I thought, "that David needs the watch to save his future
wife or her father from dying of starvation.... Say what you like, the
watch was worth something.... Why did he not come to me and say:
'Brother' (in David's place I should have certainly begun by saying
brother), 'brother, I need money; you have none, I know, but let me
make use of that watch which we buried together under the old
apple-tree? It is of no use to anyone and I shall be so grateful to
you, brother!' With what joy I should have consented. But to act
secretly, treacherously, not to trust his friend.... No! No passion, no
necessity would justify that!" I repeat, I felt horribly injured. I began by a display of coldness
and sulking.... But David was not one of the sort to notice this and be upset by it. I began dropping hints. But David appeared not to understand my hints in the least! I said before him how base in my eyes was the man who having a friend
and understanding all that was meant by that sacred sentiment
"friendship," was yet so devoid of generosity as to have recourse to
deception; as though it were possible to conceal anything. As I uttered these last words I laughed scornfully. But David did not turn a hair. At last I asked him straight out: "What
did he think, had our watch gone for some time after being buried in
the earth or had it stopped at once?" He answered me: "The devil only knows! What a thing to wonder about!" I did not know what to think! David evidently had something on his
mind ... but not the abduction of the watch. An unexpected incident
showed me his innocence. XVI
One day I came home by a side lane which I usually avoided as the
house in which my enemy Trankvillitatin lodged was in it; but on this
occasion Fate itself led me that way. Passing the open window of an
eating-house, I suddenly heard the voice of our servant, Vassily, a
young man of free and easy manners, "a lazy fellow and a scamp," as my
father called him, but also a great conqueror of female hearts which
he charmed by his wit, his dancing and his playing on the tambourine. "And what do you suppose they've been up to?" said Vassily, whom I
could not see but heard distinctly; he was, most likely, sitting close
by, near the window with a companion over the steaming tea--and as
often happens with people in a closed room, spoke in a loud voice
without suspecting that anyone passing in the street could hear every
word: "They buried it in the ground!" "Nonsense!" muttered another voice. "I tell you they did, our young gentlemen are extraordinary! Especially that Davidka, he's a regular Aesop! I got up at daybreak
and went to the window.... I looked out and, what do you think! Our
two little dears were coming along the orchard bringing that same
watch and they dug a hole under the apple-tree and there they buried
it, as though it had been a baby! And they smoothed the earth over
afterwards, upon my soul they did, the young rakes!" "Ah! plague take them," Vassily's companion commented. "Too well off,
I suppose. Well, did you dig up the watch?" "To be sure I did. I have got it now. Only it won't do to show it for
a time. There's been no end of a fuss over it. Davidka stole it that
very night from under our old lady's back." "Oh--oh!" "I tell you, he did. He's a desperate fellow. So it won't do to show
it. But when the officers come down I shall sell it or stake it at
cards." I didn't stay to hear more: I rushed headlong home and straight to
David. "Brother!" I began, "brother, forgive me! I have wronged you! I
suspected you! I blamed you! You see how agitated I am! Forgive me!" "What's the matter with you?" asked David. "Explain!" "I suspected that you had dug up our watch under the apple-tree." "The watch again! Why, isn't it there?" "It's not there; I thought you had taken it, to help your friends. And
it was all Vassily." I repeated to David all that I had overheard under the window of the
eating-house. But how to describe my amazement! I had, of course, expected David to
be indignant, but I had not for a moment anticipated the effect it
produced on him! I had hardly finished my story when he flew into an
indescribable fury! David, who had always taken up a scornful attitude
to the whole "vulgar," as he called it, business of the watch; David,
who had more than once declared that it wasn't worth a rotten egg,
jumped up from his seat, got hot all over, ground his teeth and
clenched his fists. "We can't let this pass!" he said at last; "how
dare he take someone else's property? Wait a bit, I'll show him. I
won't let thieves off so easily!" I confess I don't understand to this day what can have so infuriated
David. Whether he had been irritated before and Vassily's action had
simply poured oil on the flames, or whether my suspicions had wounded
him, I cannot say, but I had never seen him in such excitement. I
stood before him with my mouth open merely wondering how it was that
his breathing was so hard and laboured. "What do you intend to do?" I asked at last. "You shall see after dinner, when your father lies down. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I'll find
this scoffer, I'll talk to him." "Well," thought I, "I should not care to be in that scoffer's shoes! What will happen? Merciful heavens?" XVII. This is what did happen:
As soon as that drowsy, stifling stillness prevailed, which to this
day lies like a feather bed on the Russian household and the Russian
people in the middle of the day after dinner is eaten, David went to
the servants' rooms (I followed on his heels with a sinking heart) and
called Vassily out. The latter was at first unwilling to come, but
ended by obeying and following us into the garden. David stood close in front of him. Vassily was a whole head taller. "Vassily Terentyev," my comrade began in a firm voice, "six weeks ago
you took from under this very apple-tree the watch we hid there. You
had no right to do so; it does not belong to you. Give it back at
once!" Vassily was taken aback, but at once recovered himself. "What watch? What are you talking about? God bless you! I have no
watch!" "I know what I am saying and don't tell lies. You've got the watch,
give it back." "I've not got your watch." "Then how was it that in the eating-house, you ..." I began, but David
stopped me. "Vassily Terentyev!" he pronounced in a hollow, threatening voice, "we
know for a fact that you have the watch. You are told honourably to
give it back and if you don't ..."
Vassily sniggered insolently. "Then what will you do with me then? Eh?" "What will we do? We will both fight with you till you beat us or we
beat you." Vassily laughed. "Fight? That's not for a gentleman! To fight with a servant!" David suddenly caught hold of Vassily's waistcoat. "But we are not going to fight you with our fists," he articulated,
grinding his teeth. "Understand that! I'll give you a knife and take
one myself.... And then we shall see who does for which? Alexey!" he
began commanding me, "run for my big knife, you know the one with the
bone handle--it's lying on the table and the other's in my pocket." Vassily positively collapsed. David stood holding him by the
waistcoat. "Mercy on us! ... Mercy on us, David Yegoritch!" he muttered; tears
actually came into his eyes. "What do you mean, what are you saying? Let me go." "I won't let you go. And we shall have no mercy on you! If you get
away from us today, we shall begin again to-morrow. Alyoshka, where's
the knife?" "David Yegoritch," wailed Vassily, "don't commit murder.... What are
you doing! The watch ... I certainly ... I was joking. I'll give it to
you this minute. What a thing, to be sure! First you are going to slit
Hrisanf Lukitch's belly, then mine. Let me go, David Yegoritch....
Kindly take the watch. Only don't tell your papa." David let go his hold of Vassily's waistcoat. I looked into his face:
certainly not only Vassily might have been frightened by it. It looked
so weary ... and cold ... and angry....
Vassily dashed into the house and promptly returned with the watch in
his hand. He gave it to David without a word and only on going back
into the house exclaimed aloud in the doorway:
"Tfoo! here's a go." He still looked panic-stricken. David tossed his head and walked into
our room. Again I followed on his heels. "A Suvorov! He's a regular
Suvorov!" I thought to myself. In those days, in 1801, Suvorov was
our great national hero. XVIII
David shut the door after him, put the watch on the table, folded his
arms and--oh, wonder!--laughed. Looking at him I laughed, too. "What a wonderful performance!" he began. "We can't get rid of this
watch anyway. It's bewitched, really. And why was I so furious about
it?" "Yes, why?" I repeated. "You ought to have let Vassily keep it...."
"Well, no," interposed David. "That's nonsense. But what are we to do
with it?" "Yes! what?" We both stared at the watch and pondered. Adorned with a chain of pale
blue beads (the luckless Vassily in his haste had not removed this
chain which belonged to him) it was calmly doing its work: ticking
somewhat irregularly, it is true, and slowly moving its copper minute
hand. "Shall we bury it again? Or put it in the stove," I suggested at last. "Or, I tell you what: shouldn't we take it to Latkin?" "No," answered David. "That's not the thing. I know what: they have
set up a committee at the governor's office and are collecting
subscriptions for the benefit of the people of Kasimov. The town has
been burnt to ashes with all its churches. And I am told they take
anything, not only bread and money, but all sorts of things. Shall we
send the watch there?" "Yes! yes!" I answered. "A splendid idea. But I thought that since
your friends are in want...."
"No, no; to the committee; the Latkins will manage without it. To the
committee." "Well, if it is to be the committee, let it be. Only, I imagine, we
must write something to the governor." David glanced at me. "Do you think so?" "Yes, of course; there is no need to write much. But just a few
words." "For instance?" "For instance ... begin like this: 'Being' ... or better: 'Moved
by' ..."
"'Moved by' ... very good." "Then we must say: 'herewith our mite' ..."
"'Mite' ... that's good, too. Well, take your pen, sit down and write,
fire away!" "First I must make a rough copy," I observed. "All right, a rough copy, only write, write.... And meanwhile I will
clean it with some whitening." I took a sheet of paper, mended a pen, but before I had time to write
at the top of the sheet "To His Excellency, the illustrious Prince"
(our governer was at that time Prince X), I stopped, struck by the
extraordinary uproar ... which had suddenly arisen in the house. David
noticed the hubbub, too, and he, too, stopped, holding the watch in
his left hand and a rag with whitening in his right. We looked at each
other. What was that shrill cry. It was my aunt shrieking ... and
that? It was my father's voice, hoarse with anger. "The watch! the
watch!" bawled someone, surely Trankvillitatin. We heard the thud of
feet, the creak of the floor, a regular rabble running ... moving
straight upon us. I was numb with terror and David was as white as
chalk, but he looked proud as an eagle. "Vassily, the scoundrel, has
betrayed us," he whispered through his teeth. The door was flung wide
open, and my father in his dressing gown and without his cravat, my
aunt in her dressing jacket, Trankvillitatin, Vassily, Yushka, another
boy, and the cook, Agapit--all burst into the room. "Scoundrels!" shouted my father, gasping for breath.... "At last we
have found you out!" And seeing the watch in David's hands: "Give it
here!" yelled my father, "give me the watch!" But David, without uttering a word, dashed to the open window and
leapt out of it into the yard and then off into the street. Accustomed to imitate my paragon in everything, I jumped out, too, and
ran after David....
"Catch them! Hold them!" we heard a medley of frantic shouts behind
us. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
But we were already racing along the street bareheaded, David in
advance and I a few paces behind him, and behind us the clatter and
uproar of pursuit. XIX
Many years have passed since the date of these events; I have
reflected over them more than once--and to this day I can no more
understand the cause of the fury that took possession of my father
(who had so lately been so sick of the watch that he had forbidden it
to be mentioned in his hearing) than I can David's rage at its having
been stolen by Vassily! One is tempted to imagine that there was some
mysterious power connected with it. Vassily had not betrayed us as
David assumed--he was not capable of it: he had been too much
scared--it was simply that one of our maids had seen the watch in his
hands and had promptly informed our aunt. The fat was in the fire! And so we darted down the street, keeping to the very middle of it. The passers-by who met us stopped or stepped aside in amazement. I
remember a retired major craned out of the window of his flat--and,
crimson in the face, his bulky person almost overbalancing, hallooed
furiously. Shouts of "Stop! hold them" still resounded behind us. David ran flourishing the watch over his head and from time to time
leaping into the air; I jumped, too, whenever he did. "Where?" I shouted to David, seeing that he was turning into a side
street--and I turned after him. "To the Oka!" he shouted. "To throw it into the water, into the river. To the devil!" "Stop! stop!" they shouted behind. But we were already flying along the side street, already a whiff of
cool air was meeting us--and the river lay before us, and the steep
muddy descent to it, and the wooden bridge with a train of waggons
stretching across it, and a garrison soldier with a pike beside the
flagstaff; soldiers used to carry pikes in those days. David reached
the bridge and darted by the soldier who tried to give him a blow on
the legs with his pike and hit a passing calf. David instantly leaped
on to the parapet; he uttered a joyful exclamation.... Something
white, something blue gleamed in the air and shot into the water--it
was the silver watch with Vassily's blue bead chain flying into the
water.... But then something incredible happened. After the watch
David's feet flew upwards--and head foremost, with his hands thrust
out before him and the lapels of his jacket fluttering, he described
an arc in the air (as frightened frogs jump on hot days from a high
bank into a pond) and instantly vanished behind the parapet of the
bridge ... and then flop! and a tremendous splash below. What happened to me I am utterly unable to describe. I was some steps
from David when he leapt off the parapet ... but I don't even remember
whether I cried out; I don't think that I was even frightened: I was
stunned, stupefied. I could not stir hand or foot. People were running
and hustling round me; some of them seemed to be people I knew. I had
a sudden glimpse of Trofimitch, the soldier with the pike dashed off
somewhere, the horses and the waggons passed by quickly, tossing up
their noses covered with string. Then everything was green before my
eyes and someone gave me a violent shove on my head and all down my
back ... I fell fainting. I remember that I came to myself afterwards and seeing that no one was
paying any attention to me went up to the parapet but not on the side
that David had jumped. It seemed terrible to me to approach it, and as
I began gazing into the dark blue muddy swollen river, I remember that
I noticed a boat moored to the bridge not far from the bank, and
several people in the boat, and one of these, who was drenched all
over and sparkling in the sun, bending over the edge of the boat was
pulling something out of the water, something not very big, oblong, a
dark thing which at first I took to be a portmanteau or a basket; but
when I looked more intently I saw that the thing was--David. Then in
violent excitement I shouted at the top of my voice and ran towards
the boat, pushing my way through the people, but when I had run down
to it I was overcome with timidity and began looking about me. Among
the people who were crowding about it I recognised Trankvillitatin,
the cook Agapit with a boot in his hand, Yushka, Vassily ... the wet
and shining man held David's body under the arms, drew him out of the
boat and laid him on his back on the mud of the bank. Both David's
hands were raised to the level of his face as though he were trying to
hide himself from strange eyes; he did not stir but lay as though
standing at attention, with his heels together and his stomach out. His face was greenish--his eyes were staring and water was dripping
from his hair. The wet man who had pulled him out, a factory hand,
judging by his clothes, began describing how he had done it, shivering
with cold and continually throwing back his hair from his forehead as
he talked. He told his story in a very proper and painstaking way. "What do I see, friends? This young lad go flying from the bridge....
Well! ... I ran down at once the way of the current for I knew he had
fallen into mid-stream and it would carry him under the bridge and
there ... talk of the devil! ... I looked: something like a fur cap was
floating and it was his head. Well, quick as thought, I was in the
water and caught hold of him.... It didn't need much cleverness for
that!" Two or three words of approval were audible in the crowd. "You ought to have something to warm you now. Come along and we will
have a drink," said someone. But at this point all at once somebody pushed forward abruptly: it was
Vassily. "What are you doing, good Christians?" he cried, tearfully. "We must
bring him to by rolling him; it's our young gentleman!" "Roll him, roll him," shouted the crowd, which was continually
growing. "Hang him up by the feet! it's the best way!" "Lay him with his stomach on the barrel and roll him backwards and
forwards.... Take him, lads." "Don't dare to touch him," put in the soldier with the pike. "He must
be taken to the police station." "Low brute," Trofimitch's bass voice rang out. "But he is alive," I shouted at the top of my voice and almost with
horror. I had put my face near to his. "So that is what the drowned
look like," I thought, with a sinking heart.... And all at once I saw
David's lips stir and a little water oozed from them....
At once I was pushed back and dragged away; everyone rushed up to him. "Roll him, roll him," voices clamoured. "No, no, stay," shouted Vassily. "Take him home.... Take him home!" "Take him home," Trankvillitatin himself chimed in. "We will bring him to. We can see better there," Vassily went on....
(I have liked him from that day.) "Lads, haven't you a sack? If not we
must take him by his head and his feet...."
"Stay! Here's a sack! Lay him on it! Catch hold! Start! That's fine. As though he were driving in a chaise." A few minutes later David, borne in triumph on the sack, crossed the
threshold of our house again. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
XX
He was undressed and put to bed. He began to give signs of life while
in the street, moaned, moved his hands.... Indoors he came to himself
completely. But as soon as all anxiety for his life was over and there
was no reason to worry about him, indignation got the upper hand
again: everyone shunned him, as though he were a leper. "May God chastise him! May God chastise him!" my aunt shrieked, to be
heard all over the house. "Get rid of him, somehow, Porfiry
Petrovitch, or he will do some mischief beyond all bearing." "Upon my word, he is a viper; he is possessed with a devil,"
Trankvillitatin chimed in. "The wickedness, the wickedness!" cackled my aunt, going close to the
door of our room so that David might be sure to hear her. "First of
all he stole the watch and then flung it into the water ... as though
to say, no one should get it...."
Everyone, everyone was indignant. "David," I asked him as soon as we were left alone, "what did you do
it for?" "So you are after that, too," he answered in a voice that was still
weak; his lips were blue and he looked as though he were swollen all
over. "What did I do?" "But what did you jump into the water for?" "Jump! I lost my balance on the parapet, that was all. If I had known
how to swim I should have jumped on purpose. I shall certainly learn. But the watch now--ah...."
But at that moment my father walked with a majestic step into our
room. "You, my fine fellow," he said, addressing me, "I shall certainly
whip, you need have no doubt about that, though you are too big to lie
on the bench now." Then he went up to the bed on which David was lying. "In Siberia," he
began in an impressive and dignified tone, "in Siberia, sir, in penal
servitude, in the mines, there are people living and dying who are
less guilty, less criminal than you. Are you a suicide or simply a
thief or altogether a fool? Be so kind as to tell me just that!" "I am not a suicide and I am not a thief," answered David, "but the
truth's the truth: there are good men in Siberia, better than you or
I ... who should know that, if not you?" My father gave a subdued gasp, drew back a step, looked intently at
David, spat on the floor and, slowly crossing himself, walked away. "Don't you like that?" David called after him and put his tongue out. Then he tried to get up but could not. "I must have hurt myself somehow," he said, gasping and frowning. "I
remember the water dashed me against a post." "Did you see Raissa?" he added suddenly. "No. I did not.... Stay, stay, stay! Now I remember, wasn't it she
standing on the bank by the bridge? ... Yes ... yes ... a dark
dress ... a yellow kerchief on her head, yes it must have been
Raissa." "Well, and afterwards.... Did you see her?" "Afterwards ... I don't know, I had no thought to spare for her....
You jumped in ..."
David was suddenly roused. "Alyosha, darling, go to her at once, tell
her I am all right, that there's nothing the matter with me. Tomorrow
I shall be with them. Go as quickly as you can, brother, for my sake!" David held out both hands to me.... His red hair, by now dry, stuck up
in amusing tufts.... But the softened expression of his face seemed
the more genuine for that. I took my cap and went out of the house,
trying to avoid meeting my father and reminding him of his promise. XXI
"Yes, indeed," I reflected as I walked towards the Latkins', "how was
it that I did not notice Raissa? What became of her? She must have
seen...."
And all at once I remembered that the very moment of David's fall, a
terrible piercing shriek had rung in my ears. "Was not that Raissa? But how was it I did not see her afterwards?" Before the little house in which Latkin lodged there stretched a
waste-ground overgrown with nettles and surrounded by a broken hurdle. I had scarcely clambered over the hurdle (there was no gate anywhere)
when the following sight met my eyes: Raissa, with her elbows on her
knees and her chin propped on her clasped hands, was sitting on the
lowest step in front of the house; she was looking fixedly straight
before her; near her stood her little dumb sister with the utmost
composure brandishing a little whip, while, facing the steps with his
back to me, old Latkin, in torn and shabby drawers and high felt
boots, was trotting and prancing up and down, capering and jerking his
elbows. Hearing my footsteps he suddenly turned round and squatted
on his heels--then at once, skipping up to me, began speaking
very rapidly in a trembling voice, incessantly repeating,
"Tchoo--tchoo--tchoo!" I was dumbfoundered. I had not seen him for a
long time and should not, of course, have known him if I had met him
anywhere else. That red, wrinkled, toothless face, those lustreless
round eyes and touzled grey hair, those jerks and capers, that
senseless halting speech! What did it mean? What inhuman despair was
torturing this unhappy creature? What dance of death was this? "Tchoo--tchoo," he muttered, wriggling incessantly. "See Vassilyevna
here came in tchoo--tchoo, just now.... Do you hear? With a trough on
the roof" (he slapped himself on the head with his hand), "and there
she sits like a spade, and she is cross-eyed, cross-eyed, like
Andryushka; Vassilyevna is cross-eyed" (he probably meant to say
dumb), "tchoo! My Vassilyevna is cross-eyed! They are both on the same
cork now. You may wonder, good Christians! I have only these two
little boats! Eh?" Latkin was evidently conscious that he was not saying the right thing
and made terrible efforts to explain to me what was the matter. Raissa
did not seem to hear what her father was saying and the little sister
went on lashing the whip. "Good-bye, diamond-merchant, good-bye, good-bye," Latkin drawled
several times in succession, making a low bow, seeming delighted at
having at last got hold of an intelligible word. My head began to go round. "What does it all mean?" I asked of an old woman who was looking out
of the window of the little house. "Well, my good gentleman," she answered in a sing-song voice, "they
say some man--the Lord only knows who--went and drowned himself and
she saw it. Well, it gave her a fright or something; when she came
home she seemed all right though; but when she sat down on the
step--here, she has been sitting ever since like an image, it's no good
talking to her. I suppose she has lost her speech, too. Oh, dear! Oh,
dear!" "Good-bye, good-bye," Latkin kept repeating, still with the same bow. I went up to Raissa and stood directly facing her. "Raissa, dear, what's the matter with you?" She made no answer, she seemed not to notice me. Her face had not
grown pale, had not changed--but had turned somehow stony and there
was a look in it as though she were just falling asleep. "She is cross-eyed, cross-eyed," Latkin muttered in my ear. I took Raissa by the hand. "David is alive," I cried, more loudly than
before. "Alive and well; David's alive, do you understand? | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
He was
pulled out of the water; he is at home now and told me to say that he
will come to you to-morrow; he is alive!" As it were with effort
Raissa turned her eyes on me; she blinked several times, opening them
wider and wider, then leaned her head on one side and flushed slightly
all over while her lips parted ... she slowly drew in a deep breath,
winced as though in pain and with fearful effort articulated:
"Da ... Dav ... a ... alive," got up impulsively and rushed away. "Where are you going?" I exclaimed. But with a faint laugh she ran
staggering across the waste-ground.... I, of course, followed her, while behind me a wail rose up in unison
from the old man and the child.... Raissa darted straight to our
house. "Here's a day!" I thought, trying not to lose sight of the black dress
that was fluttering before me. "Well!" XXII
Passing Vassily, my aunt, and even Trankvillitatin, Raissa ran into
the room where David was lying and threw herself on his neck. "Oh ...
oh ... Da ... vidushka," her voice rang out from under her loose
curls, "oh!" Flinging wide his arms David embraced her and nestled his head against
her. "Forgive me, my heart," I heard his voice saying. And both seemed swooning with joy. "But why did you go home, Raissa, why didn't you stay?" I said to
her.... She still kept her head bowed. "You would have seen that he
was saved...."
"Ah, I don't know! Ah, I don't know. Don't ask. I don't know, I don't
remember how I got home. I only remember: I saw you in the air ...
something seemed to strike me ... and what happened afterwards ..."
"Seemed to strike you," repeated David, and we all three suddenly
burst out laughing together. We were very happy. "What may be the meaning of this, may I ask," we heard behind us a
threatening voice, the voice of my father. He was standing in the
doorway. "Will there ever be an end to these fooleries? Where are we
living? Are we in the Russian Empire or the French Republic?" He came into the room. "Anyone who wants to be rebellious and immoral had better go to
France! And how dare _you_ come here?" he said, turning to Raissa,
who, quietly sitting up and turning to face him, was evidently taken
aback but still smiled as before, a friendly and blissful smile. "The daughter of my sworn enemy! How dare you? And hugging him, too! Away with you at once, or ..."
"Uncle," David brought out, and he sat up in bed. "Don't insult
Raissa. She is going away, only don't insult her." "And who are you to teach me? I am not insulting her, I am not in ...
sul ... ting her! I am simply turning her out of the house. I have an
account to settle with you, too, presently. You have made away with
other people's property, have attempted to take your own life, have
put me to expense." "To what expense?" David interrupted. "What expense? You have ruined your clothes. Do you count that as
nothing? And I had to tip the men who brought you. You have given the
whole family a fright and are you going to be unruly now? And if this
young woman, regardless of shame and honour itself ..."
David made a dash as though to get out of bed. "Don't insult her, I tell you." "Hold your tongue." "Don't dare ..."
"Hold your tongue!" "Don't dare to insult my betrothed," cried David at the top of his
voice, "my future wife!" "Betrothed!" repeated my father, with round eyes. "Betrothed! Wife! Ho, ho, ho! ..." ("Ha, ha, ha," my aunt echoed behind the door.) "Why,
how old are you? He's been no time in the world, the milk is hardly
dry on his lips, he is a mere babe and he is going to be married! But
I ... but you ..."
"Let me go, let me go," whispered Raissa, and she made for the door. She looked more dead than alive. "I am not going to ask permission of you," David went on shouting,
propping himself up with his fists on the edge of the bed, "but of my
own father who is bound to be here one day soon; he is a law to me,
but you are not; but as for my age, if Raissa and I are not old
enough ... we will bide our time whatever you may say...."
"Aië, aië, Davidka, don't forget yourself," my father interrupted. "Just look at yourself. You are not fit to be seen. You have lost all
sense of decency." David put his hand to the front of his shirt. "Whatever you may say ..." he repeated. "Oh, shut his mouth, Porfiry Petrovitch," piped my aunt from behind
the door, "shut his mouth, and as for this hussy, this baggage ...
this ..."
But something extraordinary must have cut short my aunt's eloquence at
that moment: her voice suddenly broke off and in its place we heard
another, feeble and husky with old age....
"Brother," this weak voice articulated, "Christian soul." XXIII
We all turned round.... In the same costume
in which I had just seen him, thin, pitiful
and wild looking, Latkin stood before us like an
apparition. "God!" he pronounced in a sort of childish way, pointing upwards with
a bent and trembling finger and gazing impotently at my father, "God
has chastised me, but I have come for Va ... for Ra ... yes, yes, for
Raissotchka.... What ... tchoo! what is there for me? Soon
underground--and what do you call it? One little stick, another ...
cross-beam--that's what I ... want, but you, brother, diamond-merchant
... mind ... I'm a man, too!" Raissa crossed the room without a word and taking his arm buttoned his
vest. "Let us go, Vassilyevna," he said; "they are all saints here, don't
come to them and he lying there in his case"--he pointed to David--"is
a saint, too, but you and I are sinners, brother. Come. Tchoo....
Forgive an old man with a pepper pot, gentleman! We have stolen
together!" he shouted suddenly; "stolen together, stolen together!" he
repeated, with evident satisfaction that his tongue had obeyed him at
last. Everyone in the room was silent. "And where is ... the ikon here," he
asked, throwing back his head and turning up his eyes; "we must
cleanse ourselves a bit." He fell to praying to one of the corners, crossing himself fervently
several times in succession, tapping first one shoulder and then the
other with his fingers and hurriedly repeating:
"Have mercy me, oh, Lor ... me, oh, Lor ... me, oh, Lor ..." My
father, who had not taken his eyes off Latkin, and had not uttered a
word, suddenly started, stood beside him and began crossing himself,
too. Then he turned to him, bowed very low so that he touched the
floor with one hand, saying, "You forgive me, too, Martinyan
Gavrilitch," kissed him on the shoulder. Latkin in response smacked
his lips in the air and blinked: I doubt whether he quite knew what he
was doing. Then my father turned to everyone in the room, to David, to
Raissa and to me:
"Do as you like, act as you think best," he brought out in a soft and
mournful voice, and he withdrew. My aunt was running up to him, but he cried out sharply and gruffly to
her. He was overwhelmed. "Me, oh, Lor ... me, oh, Lor ... mercy!" Latkin repeated. "I am a
man." "Good-bye, Davidushka," said Raissa, and she, too, went out of the
room with the old man. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
"I will be with you tomorrow," David called after her, and, turning
his face to the wall, he whispered: "I am very tired; it will be as
well to have some sleep now," and was quiet. It was a long while before I went out of the room. I kept in hiding. I
could not forget my father's threats. But my apprehensions turned out
to be unnecessary. He met me and did not utter a word. He seemed to
feel awkward himself. But night soon came on and everything was quiet
in the house. XXIV
Next morning David got up as though nothing were the matter and not
long after, on the same day, two important events occurred: in the
morning old Latkin died, and towards evening my uncle, Yegor, David's
father, arrived in Ryazan. Without sending any letter in advance,
without warning anyone, he descended on us like snow on our heads. My
father was completely taken aback and did not know what to offer to
his dear guest and where to make him sit. He rushed about as though
delirious, was flustered as though he were guilty; but my uncle did
not seem to be much touched by his brother's fussy solicitude; he kept
repeating: "What's this for?" or "I don't want anything." His manner
with my aunt was even colder; she had no great liking for him, indeed. In her eyes he was an infidel, a heretic, a Voltairian ... (he had in
fact learnt French to read Voltaire in the original). I found my Uncle
Yegor just as David had described him. He was a big heavy man with a
broad pock-marked face, grave and serious. He always wore a hat with
feathers in it, cuffs, a frilled shirt front and a snuff-coloured vest
and a sword at his side. David was unspeakably delighted to see him--he
actually looked brighter in the face and better looking, and his
eyes looked different: merrier, keener, more shining; but he did his
utmost to moderate his joy and not to show it in words: he was afraid
of being too soft. The first night after Uncle Yegor's arrival, father
and son shut themselves up in the room that had been assigned to my
uncle and spent a long time talking together in a low voice; next
morning I saw that my uncle looked particularly affectionately and
trustfully at his son: he seemed very much pleased with him. David
took him to the requiem service for Latkin; I went to it, too, my
father did not hinder my going but remained at home himself. Raissa
impressed me by her calm: she looked pale and much thinner but did not
shed tears and spoke and behaved with perfect simplicity; and with all
that, strange to say, I saw a certain grandeur in her; the unconscious
grandeur of sorrow forgetful of itself! Uncle Yegor made her
acquaintance on the spot, in the church porch; from his manner to her,
it was evident that David had already spoken of her. He was as pleased
with her as with his son: I could read that in David's eyes when he
looked at them both. I remember how his eyes sparkled when his father
said, speaking of her: "She's a clever girl; she'll make a capable
woman." At the Latkins' I was told that the old man had quietly
expired like a candle that has burnt out, and that until he had lost
power and consciousness, he kept stroking his daughter's head and
saying something unintelligible but not gloomy, and he was smiling to
the end. My father went to the funeral and to the service in the
church and prayed very devoutly; Trankvillitatin actually sang in the
choir. Beside the grave Raissa suddenly broke into sobs and sank forward on
the ground; but she soon recovered herself. Her little deaf and dumb
sister stared at everyone and everything with big, bright, rather
wild-looking eyes; from time to time she huddled up to Raissa, but
there was no sign of terror about her. The day after the funeral Uncle
Yegor, who, judging from appearances, had not come back from Siberia
with empty hands (he paid for the funeral and liberally rewarded
David's rescuer) but who told us nothing of his doings there or of his
plans for the future, Uncle Yegor suddenly informed my father that he
did not intend to remain in Ryazan, but was going to Moscow with his
son. My father, from a feeling of propriety, expressed regret and even
tried--very faintly it is true--to induce my uncle to alter his
decision, but at the bottom of his heart, I think he was really much
relieved. The presence of his brother with whom he had very little in common,
who did not even condescend to reproach him, whose feeling for him was
more one of simple disgust than disdain--oppressed him ... and parting
with David could not have caused him much regret. I, of course, was
utterly crushed by the separation; I was utterly desolate at first and
lost all support in life and all interest in it. And so my uncle went away and took with him not only David but, to the
great astonishment and even indignation of our whole street, Raissa
and her little sister, too.... When she heard of this, my aunt
promptly called him a Turk, and called him a Turk to the end of her
days. And I was left alone, alone ... but this story is not about me. XXV
So this is the end of my tale of the watch. What more have I to tell
you? Five years after David was married to his Black-lip, and in 1812,
as a lieutenant of artillery, he died a glorious death on the
battlefield of Borodino in defence of the Shevardinsky redoubt. Much water has flowed by since then and I have had many watches; I
have even attained the dignity of a real repeater with a second hand
and the days of the week on it. But in a secret drawer of my writing
table there is preserved an old-fashioned silver watch with a rose on
the face; I bought it from a Jewish pedlar, struck by its likeness to
the watch which was once presented to me by my godfather. From time to
time, when I am alone and expect no one, I take it out of the drawer
and looking at it remember my young days and the companion of those
days that have fled never to return. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Produced by David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Books project.) Twenty-Five Ghost Stories. COMPILED AND EDITED
BY
W. BOB HOLLAND. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
--_Hamlet._
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY. NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 ROSE STREET. CONTENTS. PAGE
Preface 5
The Black Cat 7
The Flayed Hand 28
The Vengeance of a Tree 37
The Parlor-Car Ghost 44
Ghost of Buckstown Inn 51
The Burglar’s Ghost 59
A Phantom Toe 76
Mrs. Davenport’s Ghost 81
The Phantom Woman 90
The Phantom Hag 100
From the Tomb 105
Sandy’s Ghost 114
The Ghosts of Red Creek 123
The Spectre Bride 128
How He Caught the Ghost 134
Grand-Dame’s Ghost Story 144
A Fight with a Ghost 153
Colonel Halifax’s Ghost Story 168
The Ghost of the Count 190
The Old Mansion 202
A Misfit Ghost 210
An Unbidden Guest 215
The Dead Woman’s Photograph 220
The Ghost of a Live Man 228
The Ghost of Washington 236
PREFACE
This collection of ghost stories owes its publication to an interest
that I have long felt in the supernatural and in works of the
imagination. As a child I was deeply concerned in tales of spooks,
haunted houses, wraiths and specters and stories of weird experiences,
clanking chains, ghostly sights and gruesome sounds always held me
spellbound and breathless. Experiences in editorial offices taught me that I was not alone in
liking stories of mystery. The desire to know something of that
existence that is veiled by Death is equally potent in old age and in
youth, and men, women and children like to be thrilled and to have a
“creepy” feeling along the spinal column as the result of reading of a
visitor from beyond the grave. This volume contains the most famous of the weird stories of Edgar Allan
Poe, that master of this form of literature. “The Black Cat” contains
all the needed element of mystery and supernatural, and yet the feline
acts in a natural manner all of the time, and the story is quite
possibly true. It is only in the manner of its telling that the tale
becomes one that fittingly finds its place in this collection. Guy de Maupassant, the clever Frenchman, is also represented by two
effective bits of work, and other less widely known writers have also
contributed stories that are worth reading, and when once read will be
remembered. There is not a story among the twenty-five that is not
worthy of close reading. There has recently been a revival in interest in ghost stories. Many of
the high-class magazines have within a few months printed stories with
supernatural incidents, and writers whose names are known to all who
read have turned their attention to this form of literature. Whether or not the reader believe in ghosts, he cannot fail to be
interested in this little book. Without venturing to express a positive
opinion either way, I will only say with Hamlet: “There are more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
W. BOB HOLLAND. Twenty-Five Ghost Stories
THE BLACK CAT. BY EDGAR ALLAN POE. For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it,
in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I
not--and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I
would unburden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the
world, plainly, succinctly and without comment a series of mere
household events. In their consequences, these events have
terrified--have tortured--have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to
expound them. To me they have presented little but horror, to many they
will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some
intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the
commonplace--some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less
excitable than my own, which will perceive in the circumstances I detail
with awe nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes
and effects. From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make
me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing
them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my
manhood I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To
those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog,
I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the
intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the
unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to
the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not
uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets she
lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We
had birds, goldfish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey and a cat. This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
In speaking of his intelligence,
my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made
frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all
black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon
this point--and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than
that it happens, just now, to be remembered. Pluto--this was the cat’s name--was my favorite pet and playmate. I
alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It
was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me
through the streets. Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which
my general temperament and character--through the instrumentality of the
fiend Intemperance--had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical
alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more
irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself
to use intemperate language to my wife. At length I even offered her
personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in
my disposition. I not only neglected them, but ill-used them. For Pluto,
however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from
maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the
monkey or even the dog, when by accident or through affection they came
in my way. But my disease grew upon me--for what disease is like
alcohol! And at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and
consequently somewhat peevish--even Pluto began to experience the
effects of my ill-temper. One night, returning home much intoxicated from one of my haunts about
town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him, when, in
his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with
his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no
longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my
body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every
fiber of my frame. I took from my waistcoat pocket a penknife, opened
it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of
its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder while I pen the
damnable atrocity. When reason returned with the morning--when I had slept off the fumes of
the night’s debauch--I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of
remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best,
a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again
plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed. In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. [Illustration: “_One night, returning home much intoxicated._”]
The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful
appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about
the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at
my approach. I had so much of my old heart left as to be at first
grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once
so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then
came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of
perverseness. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not
more sure that my soul lives than I am that perverseness is one of the
primitive impulses of the human heart--one of the indivisible primary
faculties or sentiments which give direction to the character of man. Who has not, hundreds of times, found himself committing a vile or silly
action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we
not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to
violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was
this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself--to offer violence
to its own nature--to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only--that urged me
to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon
the unoffending brute. One morning, in cold blood, I slipped a noose
about its neck, and hung it to the limb of a tree; hung it with the
tears streaming from my eyes and the bitterest remorse at my heart; hung
it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given
me no offense; hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing
a sin--a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to
place it, if such a thing were possible--even beyond the reach of the
infinite mercy of the most merciful and most terrible God. On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused
from sleep by the cry of “fire!” The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife,
a servant and myself made our escape from the conflagration. The
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and
I resigned myself thenceforward to despair. I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and
effect between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain
of facts, and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the
day succeeding the fire I visited the ruins. The walls, with one
exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment
wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and
against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in
great measure, resisted the action of the fire--a fact which I
attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense
crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a
particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words
“strange!” “singular!” and other similar expressions excited my
curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas-relief upon the
white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given
with an accuracy truly marvelous. There was a rope about the animal’s
neck. When I first beheld this apparition--for I could scarcely regard it as
less--my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection
came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden
adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire this garden had been
immediately filled by the crowd--by some one of whom the animal must
have been cut from the tree and thrown through an open window into my
chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from
sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my
cruelty into the substance of the freshly spread plaster, the lime of
which with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then
accomplished the portraiture as I saw it. Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my
conscience, for the
[Illustration: “_Because I knew that it had loved me._”]
startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep
impression upon my fancy. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
For months I could not rid myself of the
phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my
spirit a half sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far
as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the
vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the
same species and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply
its place. One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my
attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the
head of one of the immense hogsheads of gin, or of rum, which
constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking
steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now
caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the
object thereupon. I approached it and touched it with my hand. It was a
black cat--a very large one--fully as large as Pluto, and closely
resembling him in every respect, but only Pluto had not a white hair
upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although
indefinite, splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the
breast. Upon my touching him he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against
my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the
very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it
of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it--knew nothing of
it--had never seen it before. I continued my caresses, and when I prepared to go home the animal
evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so,
occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the
house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great
favorite with my wife. For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This
was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but--I know not how or
why it was--its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed
me. By slow degrees these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into
the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of
shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me
from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or
otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually--very gradually--I came to
look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its
odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence. What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on
the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been
deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared
it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree,
that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait,
and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures. With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed
to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would
be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat it would
crouch beneath my chair or spring upon my knees, covering me with its
loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet, and
thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my
dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I
longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing,
partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly--let me confess it at
once--by absolute dread of the beast. This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil--and yet I should be
at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own--yes,
even in this felon’s cell, I am almost ashamed to own--that the terror
and horror with which the animal inspired me had been heightened by one
of the merest chimeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had
called my attention more than once, to the character of the mark of
white hair, of which I have spoken, and which
[Illustration: “_The figure of a gigantic cat._”]
constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and
the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark,
although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow
degrees--degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my
reason struggled to reject as fanciful--it had, at length, assumed a
rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an
object that I shudder to name--and for this, above all, I loathed and
dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared--it was
now I say the image of a hideous, of a ghastly thing--of the gallows! Oh, mournful and terrible engine of horror and of crime--of agony and of
death! And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere humanity. And a brute beast, whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed--a brute
beast to work out for me--for me, a man, fashioned in the image of the
High God--so much of insufferable woe. Alas! neither by day nor night
knew I the blessing of rest any more. During the former the creature
left me no moment alone, and in the latter I started hourly from dreams
of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face,
and its vast weight--an incarnate nightmare that I had no power to shake
off--incumbent eternally upon my heart. Beneath the pressure of torments such as these the feeble remnants of
the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole
intimates--the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my
usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind;
while, from the sudden, frequent and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to
which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was
the most usual and the most patient of sufferers. One day she accompanied me upon some household errand into the cellar of
the old building, which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat
followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong,
exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my
wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a
blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal
had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of
my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal,
I withdrew my arm from her grasp, and buried the ax in her brain. She
fell dead upon the spot, without a groan. This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with
entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I
could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without
the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my
mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute
fragments and destroying them by fire. At another I resolved to dig a
grave for it in the floor of the cellar. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Again, I deliberated about
casting it into the well in the yard--about packing it in a box, as if
merchandise, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to
take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far
better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the
cellar--as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up
their victims. For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were
loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a
rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from
hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a
false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to
resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily
displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole
up as before, so that no eye could detect anything suspicious. And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crowbar I
easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body
against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with
little trouble, I relaid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having
[Illustration: “_An extraordinary cat._”]
procured mortar, sand and hair with every possible precaution, I
prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and
with this I very carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had
finished I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present
the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the
floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly
and said to myself, “Here, at least, then, my labor has not been in
vain.”
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so
much wretchedness, for I had at length firmly resolved to put it to
death. Had I been able to meet with it at the moment there could have
been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had
been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger and forebore to
present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe or to
imagine the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the
detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance
during the night--and thus, for one night at least since its
introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept--aye, slept,
even with the burden of murder upon my soul! The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a free man. The monster, in terror, had fled
the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was
supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few
inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a
search had been instituted--but, of course, nothing was to be
discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured. Upon the fourth day of the assassination a party of the police came very
unexpectedly into the house and proceeded again to make a rigorous
investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of
my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers
bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner
unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into
the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat as calmly as that
of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I
folded my arms upon my bosom and roamed easily to and fro. The police
were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart
was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say but one word, by way of
triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness. “Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, “I delight
to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health and a little
more courtesy. By the by, gentlemen, this--this is a very well
constructed house.” (In the rabid desire to say something easily I
scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) “I may say an excellently well
constructed house. These walls--are you going, gentlemen?--these walls
are solidly put together;” and here, through the mere frenzy of bravado,
I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very
portion of the brickwork behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my
bosom. But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch Fiend! No
sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence than I was
answered by a voice from within the tomb!--by a cry, at first muffled
and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into
one long, loud and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman--a
howl!--a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as
might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the
damned in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation. Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the
opposite wall. For an instant the party upon the stairs remained
motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next a dozen
stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already
getting decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of
the spectators. Upon its head, with red, extended mouth and solitary eye
of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder,
and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled
the monster up within the tomb! THE FLAYED HAND. BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT. One evening about eight months ago I met with some college comrades at
the lodgings of our friend Louis R. We drank punch and smoked, talked of
literature and art, and made jokes like any other company of young men. Suddenly the door flew open, and one who had been my friend since
boyhood burst in like a hurricane. “Guess where I come from?” he cried. “I bet on the Mabille,” responded one. “No,” said another, “you are too
gay; you come from borrowing money, from burying a rich uncle, or from
pawning your watch.” “You are getting sober,” cried a third, “and, as
you scented the punch in Louis’ room, you came up here to get drunk
again.”
“You are all wrong,” he replied. “I come from P., in Normandy, where I
have spent eight days, and whence I have brought one of my friends, a
great criminal, whom I ask permission to present to you.”
With these words he drew from his pocket a long, black hand, from which
the skin had been stripped. It had been severed at the wrist. Its dry
and shriveled shape, and the narrow, yellowed nails still clinging to
the fingers, made it frightful to look upon. The muscles, which showed
that its first owner had been possessed of great strength, were bound in
place by a strip of parchment-like skin. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
“Just fancy,” said my friend, “the other day they sold the effects of an
old sorcerer, recently deceased, well known in all the country. Every
Saturday night he used to go to witch gatherings on a broomstick; he
practised the white magic and the black, gave blue milk to the cows, and
made them wear tails like that of the companion of Saint Anthony. The
old scoundrel always had a deep affection for this hand, which, he said,
was that of a celebrated criminal, executed in 1736 for having thrown
his lawful wife head first into a well--for which I do not blame
him--and then hanging in the belfry the priest who had married him. After this double exploit he went away, and, during his subsequent
career, which was brief but exciting, he robbed twelve travelers, smoked
a score of monks in their monastery, and made a seraglio of a convent.”
“But what are you going to do with this horror?” we cried. “Eh! parbleu! I will make it the handle to my door-bell and frighten my
creditors.”
“My friend,” said Henry Smith, a big, phlegmatic Englishman, “I believe
that this hand is only a kind of Indian meat, preserved by a new
process; I advise you to make bouillon of it.”
“Rail not, messieurs,” said, with the utmost sang froid, a medical
student who was three-quarters drunk, “but if you follow my advice,
Pierre, you will give this piece of human debris Christian burial, for
fear lest its owner should come to demand it. Then, too, this hand has
acquired some bad habits, for you know the proverb, ‘Who has killed will
kill.’”
“And who has drank will drink,” replied the host as he poured out a big
glass of punch for the student, who emptied it at a draught and slid
dead drunk under the table. His sudden dropping out of the company was
greeted with a burst of laughter, and Pierre, raising his glass and
saluting the hand, cried:
“I drink to the next visit of thy master.”
Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and shortly afterward
each returned to his lodgings. * * * * *
About two o’clock the next day, as I was passing Pierre’s door, I
entered and found him reading and smoking. “Well, how goes it?” said I. “Very well,” he responded. “And your hand?”
“My hand? Did you not see it on the bell-pull? I put it there when I
returned home last night. But, apropos of this, what do you think? Some
idiot, doubtless to play a stupid joke on me, came ringing at my door
towards midnight. I demanded who was there, but as no one replied, I
went back to bed again, and to sleep.”
At this moment the door opened and the landlord, a fat and extremely
impertinent person, entered without saluting us. “Sir,” said he, “I pray you to take away immediately that carrion which
you have hung to your bell-pull. Unless you do this I shall be compelled
to ask you to leave.”
“Sir,” responded Pierre, with much gravity, “you insult a hand which
does not merit it. Know you that it belonged to a man of high breeding?”
The landlord turned on his heel and made his exit, without speaking. Pierre followed him, detached the hand and affixed it to the bell-cord
hanging in his alcove. “That is better,” he said. “This hand, like the ‘Brother, all must die,’
of the Trappists, will give my thoughts a serious turn every night
before I sleep.”
At the end of an hour I left him and returned to my own apartment. I slept badly the following night, was nervous and agitated, and several
times awoke with a start. Once I imagined, even, that a man had broken
into my room, and I sprang up and searched the closets and under the
bed. Towards six o’clock in the morning I was commencing to doze at
last, when a loud knocking at my door made me jump from my couch. It was
my friend Pierre’s servant, half dressed, pale and trembling. “Ah, sir!” cried he, sobbing, “my poor master. Someone has murdered
him.”
I dressed myself hastily and ran to Pierre’s lodgings. The house was
full of people disputing together, and everything was in a commotion. Everyone was talking at the same time, recounting and commenting on the
occurrence in all sorts of ways. With great difficulty I reached the
bedroom, made myself known to those guarding the door and was permitted
to enter. Four agents of police were standing in the middle of the
apartment, pencils in hand, examining every detail, conferring in low
voices and writing from time to time in their note-books. Two doctors
were in consultation by the bed on which lay the unconscious form of
Pierre. He was not dead, but his face was fixed in an expression of the
most awful terror. His eyes were open their widest, and the dilated
pupils seemed to regard fixedly, with unspeakable horror, something
unknown and frightful. His hands were clinched. I raised the quilt,
which covered his body from the chin downward, and saw on his neck,
deeply sunk in the flesh, the marks of fingers. Some drops of blood
spotted his shirt. At that moment one thing struck me. I chanced to
notice that the shriveled hand was no longer attached to the bell-cord. The doctors had doubtless removed it to avoid the comments of those
entering the chamber where the wounded man lay, because the appearance
of this hand was indeed frightful. I did not inquire what had become of
it. I now clip from a newspaper of the next day the story of the crime with
all the details that the police were able to procure:
“A frightful attempt was made yesterday on the life of young M. Pierre
B., student, who belongs to one of the best families in Normandy. He
returned home about ten o’clock in the evening, and excused his valet,
Bouvin, from further attendance upon him, saying that he felt fatigued
and was going to bed. Towards midnight Bouvin was suddenly awakened by
the furious ringing of his master’s bell. He was afraid, and lighted a
lamp and waited. The bell was silent about a minute, then rang again
with such vehemence that the domestic, mad with fright, flew from his
room to awaken the concierge, who ran to summon the police, and, at the
end of about fifteen minutes, two policemen forced open the door. A
horrible sight met their eyes. The furniture was overturned, giving
evidence of a fearful struggle between the victim and his assailant. In
the middle of the room, upon his back, his body rigid, with livid face
and frightfully dilated eyes, lay, motionless, young Pierre B., bearing
upon his neck the deep imprints of five fingers. Dr. Bourdean was called
immediately, and his report says that the aggressor must have been
possessed of prodigious strength and have had an extraordinarily thin
and sinewy hand, because the fingers left in the flesh of the victim
five holes like those from a pistol ball, and had penetrated until they
almost met. There is no clue to the motive of the crime or to its
perpetrator. The police are making a thorough investigation.”
The following appeared in the same newspaper next day:
“M. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Pierre B., the victim of the frightful assault of which we published
an account yesterday, has regained consciousness after two hours of the
most assiduous care by Dr. Bourdean. His life is not in danger, but it
is strongly feared that he has lost his reason. No trace has been found
of his assailant.”
My poor friend was indeed insane. For seven months I visited him daily
at the hospital where we had placed him, but he did not recover the
light of reason. In his delirium strange words escaped him, and, like
all madmen, he had one fixed idea: he believed himself continually
pursued by a specter. One day they came for me in haste, saying he was
worse, and when I arrived I found him dying. For two hours he remained
very calm, then, suddenly, rising from his bed in spite of our efforts,
he cried, waving his arms as if a prey to the most awful terror: “Take
it away! Take it away! It strangles me! Help! Help!” Twice he made the
circuit of the room, uttering horrible screams, then fell face downward,
dead. * * * * *
As he was an orphan I was charged to take his body to the little village
of P., in Normandy, where his parents were buried. It was the place from
which he had arrived the evening he found us drinking punch in Louis
R.’s room, when he had presented to us the flayed hand. His body was
inclosed in a leaden coffin, and four days afterwards I walked sadly
beside the old cure, who had given him his first lessons, to the little
cemetery where they dug his grave. It was a beautiful day, and sunshine
from a cloudless sky flooded the earth. Birds sang from the blackberry
bushes where many a time when we were children we had stolen to eat the
fruit. Again I saw Pierre and myself creeping along behind the hedge and
slipping through the gap that we knew so well, down at the end of the
little plot where they bury the poor. Again we would return to the house
with cheeks and lips black with the juice of the berries we had eaten. I
looked at the bushes; they were covered with fruit; mechanically I
picked some and bore it to my mouth. The cure had opened his breviary,
and was muttering his prayers in a low voice. I heard at the end of the
walk the spades of the grave-diggers who were opening the tomb. Suddenly
they called out, the cure closed his book, and we went to see what they
wished of us. They had found a coffin; in digging a stroke of the
pickaxe had started the cover, and we perceived within a skeleton of
unusual stature, lying on its back, its hollow eyes seeming yet to
menace and defy us. I was troubled, I know not why, and almost afraid. “Hold!” cried one of the men, “look there! One of the rascal’s hands has
been severed at the wrist. Ah, here it is!” and he picked up from beside
the body a huge withered hand, and held it out to us. “See,” cried the other, laughing, “see how he glares at you, as if he
would spring at your throat to make you give him back his hand.”
“Go,” said the cure, “leave the dead in peace, and close the coffin. We
will make poor Pierre’s grave elsewhere.”
The next day all was finished, and I returned to Paris, after having
left fifty francs with the old cure for masses to be said for the repose
of the soul of him whose sepulchre we had troubled. THE VENGEANCE OF A TREE. BY ELEANOR F. LEWIS. Through the windows of Jim Daly’s saloon, in the little town of C----,
the setting sun streamed in yellow patches, lighting up the glasses
scattered on the tables and the faces of several men who were gathered
near the bar. Farmers mostly they were, with a sprinkling of
shopkeepers, while prominent among them was the village editor, and all
were discussing a startling piece of news that had spread through the
town and its surroundings. The tidings that Walter Stedman, a laborer on
Albert Kelsey’s ranch, had assaulted and murdered his employer’s
daughter, had reached them, and had spread universal horror among the
people. A farmer declared that he had seen the deed committed as he walked
through a neighboring lane, and, having always been noted for his
cowardice, instead of running to the girl’s aid, had hailed a party of
miners who were returning from their mid-day meal through a field near
by. When they reached the spot, however, where Stedman (as they
supposed) had done his black deed, only the girl lay there, in the
stillness of death. Her murderer had taken the opportunity to fly. The
party had searched the woods of the Kelsey estate, and just as they were
nearing the house itself the appearance of Walter Stedman, walking in a
strangely unsteady manner toward it, made them quicken their pace. He was soon in custody, although he had protested his innocence of the
crime. He said that he had just seen the body himself on his way to the
station, and that when they had found him he was going to the house for
help. But they had laughed at his story and had flung him into the tiny,
stifling calaboose of the town. What were their proofs? Walter Stedman, a young fellow of about
twenty-six, had come from the city to their quiet town, just when times
were at their hardest, in search of work. The most of the men living in
the town were honest fellows, doing their work faithfully, when they
could get it, and when they had socially asked Stedman to have a drink
with them, he had refused in rather a scornful manner. “That infernal
city chap,” he was called, and their hate and envy increased in strength
when Albert Kelsey had employed him in preference to any of themselves. As time went on, the story of Stedman’s admiration for Margaret Kelsey
had gone afloat, with the added information that his employer’s
daughter had repulsed him, saying that she would not marry a common
laborer. So Stedman, when this news reached his employer’s ears, was
discharged, and this, then, was his revenge! For them, these proofs were
sufficient to pronounce him guilty. Yet that afternoon, as Stedman, crouched on the floor of the calaboose,
grew hopeless in the knowledge that no one would believe his story, and
that his undeserved punishment would be swift and sure, a tramp,
boarding a freight car several miles from the town, sped away from the
spot where his crime had been committed, and knew that forever its
shadow would follow him. From the tiny window of his prison Walter Stedman could see the red glow
of the heavens that betokened the setting of the sun. So the red sun of
his life was soon to set, a life that had been innocent of all crime,
and that now was to be ended for a deed that he had never committed. Most prominent of all the visions that swept through his mind was that
of Margaret Kelsey, lying as he had first found her, fresh from the
hands of her murderer. But there was another of a more tender nature. How long he and Margaret had tried to keep their secret, until Walter
could be promoted to a higher position, so that he could ask for her
hand with no fear of the father’s antagonism! | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Then came the remembrance
of an afternoon meeting between the two in the woods of the Kelsey
estate--how, just as they were parting, Walter had heard footsteps near
them, and, glancing sharply around, saw an evil, scowling, murderous
face peering through the brush. He had started toward it, but the owner
of the countenance had taken himself hurriedly off. The gossiping townspeople had misconstrued this romance, and when Albert
Kelsey had heard of this clandestine meeting from the man who was later
on to appear as a leader of the mob, and that he had discharged Stedman,
they had believed that the young man had formally proposed and had been
rejected. But justice had gone wrong, as it had done innumerable times
before, and will again. An innocent man was to be hanged, even without
the comfort of a trial, while the man who was guilty was free to wander
where he would. That autumn night the darkness came quickly, and only the stars did
their best to light the scene. A body of men, all masked, and having as
a leader one who had ever since Stedman’s arrival in town, cherished a
secret hatred of the young man, dragged Stedman from the calaboose and
tramped through the town, defying all, defying even God himself. Along
the highway, and into Farmer Brown’s “cross cut,” they went, vigilantly
guarding their prisoner, who, with the lanterns lighting up his haggard
face, walked among them with the lagging step of utter hopelessness. “That’s a good tree,” their leader said, presently, stopping and
pointing out a spreading oak; when the slipknot was adjusted and Stedman
had stepped on the box, he added: “If you’ve got anything to say, you’d
better say it now.”
“I am innocent, I swear before God,” the doomed man answered; “I never
took the life of Margaret Kelsey.”
“Give us your proof,” jeered the leader, and when Stedman kept a
despairing silence, he laughed shortly. “Ready, men!” he gave the order. The box was kicked aside, and
then--only a writhing body swung to and fro in the gloom. In front of the men stood their leader, watching the contortions of the
body with silent glee. “I’ll tell you a secret, boys,” he said suddenly. “I was after that poor murdered girl myself. A d---- little chance I
had; but, by ----, he had just as little!”
A pause--then: “He’s shunted this earth. Cut him down, you fellows!”
* * * * *
“It’s no use, son. I’ll give up the blasted thing as a bad job. There’s
something queer about that there tree. Do you see how its branches
balance it? We have cut the trunk nearly in two, but it won’t come down. There’s plenty of others around; we’ll take one of them. If I’d a long
rope with me I’d get that tree down, and yet the way the thing stands it
would be risking a fellow’s life to climb it. It’s got the devil in it,
sure.”
So old Farmer Brown shouldered his axe and made for another tree, his
son following. They had sawed and chopped and chopped and sawed, and yet
the tall white oak, with its branches jutting out almost as regularly as
if done by the work of a machine, stood straight and firm. Farmer Brown, well known for his weak, cowardly spirit, who in beholding
the murder of Albert Kelsey’s daughter, had in his fright mistaken the
criminal, now in his superstition let the oak stand, because its
well-balanced position saved it from falling, when other trees would
have been down. And so this tree, the same one to which an innocent man
had been hanged, was left--for other work. It was a bleak, rainy night--such a night as can be found only in
central California. The wind howled like a thousand demons, and lashed
the trees together in wild embraces. Now and then the weird “hoot,
hoot!” of an owl came softly from the distance in the lulls of the
storm, while the barking of coyotes woke the echoes of the hills into
sounds like fiendish laughter. In the wind and rain a man fought his path through the bush and into
Farmer Brown’s “cross cut,” as the shortest way home. Suddenly he
stopped, trembling, as if held by some unseen impulse. Before him rose
the white oak, wavering and swaying in the storm. “Good God! it’s the tree I swung Stedman from!” he cried, and a strange
fear thrilled him. His eyes were fixed on it, held by some undefinable fascination. Yes,
there on one of the longest branches a small piece of rope still
dangled. And then, to the murderer’s excited vision, this rope seemed to
lengthen, to form at the end into a slipknot, a knot that encircled a
purple neck, while below it writhed and swayed the body of a man! “Damn him!” he muttered, starting toward the hanging form, as if about
to help the rope in its work of strangulation; “will he forever follow
me? And yet he deserved it, the black-hearted villain! He took her
life----”
He never finished the sentence. The white oak, towering above him in its
strength, seemed to grow like a frenzied, living creature. There was a
sudden splitting sound, then came a crash, and under the fallen tree lay
Stedman’s murderer, crushed and mangled. From between the broken trunk and the stump that was left, a gray, dim
shape sprang out, and sped past the man’s still form, away into the wild
blackness of the night. THE PARLOR-CAR GHOST. All draped with blue denim--the seaside cottage of my friend, Sara Pyne. She asked me to go there with her when she opened it to have it set in
order for the summer. She confessed that she felt a trifle nervous at
the idea of entering it alone. And I am always ready for an excursion. So much blue denim rather surprised me, because blue is not
complimentary to Sara’s complexion--she always wears some shade of red,
by preference. She perceived my wonder; she is very near-sighted, and
therefore sees everything by some sort of sixth sense. “You do not like my portieres and curtains and table-covers,” said she. “Neither do I. But I did it to accommodate. And now he rests well in his
grave, I hope.”
“Whose grave, for pity’s sake?”
“Mr. J. Billington Price’s.”
“And who is he? He doesn’t sound interesting.”
“Then I will tell you about him,” said Sara, taking a seat directly in
front of one of those curtains. “Last autumn I was leaving this place
for New York, traveling on the fast express train known as the Flying
Yankee. Of course, I thought of the Flying Dutchman and Wagner’s musical
setting of the uncanny legend, and how different things are in these
days of steam, etc. Then I looked out of the window at the landscape,
the horizon that seemed to wheel in a great curve as the train sped on. Every now and then I had an impression at the ‘tail of the eye’ that a
man was sitting in a chair three or four numbers in front of me on the
opposite side of the car. Each time that I saw this shape I looked at
the chair and ascertained that it was unoccupied. But it was an odd
trick of vision. I raised my lorgnette, and the chair showed emptier
than before. There was nobody in it, certainly. But the more I knew that
it was vacant the more plainly I saw the man. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Always with the corner of
my eye. It made me nervous. When passengers entered the car I dreaded
lest they might take that seat. What would happen if they should? A bag
was put in the chair--that made me uncomfortable. The bag was removed at
the next station. Then a baby was placed in the seat. It began to laugh
as though someone had gently tickled it. There was something odd about
that chair--thirteen was its number. When I looked away from it the
impression was strong upon me that some person sitting there was
watching me. “Really, it would not do to humor such fancies. So I touched the
electric button, asked the porter to bring me a table, and taking from
my bag a pack of cards, proceeded to divert myself with a game of
patience. I was puzzling where to put a seven of spades. ‘Where can it
go?’ I murmured to myself. A voice behind me prompted: ‘Play the four of
diamonds on the five, and you can do it.’ I started. The only occupants
of the car, besides me, were a bridal couple, a mother with three little
children, and a typical preacher of one of the straitest sects. Who had
spoken? ‘Play up the four, madam,’ repeated this voice. “I looked fearfully over my shoulder. At first I saw a bluish cloud,
like cigar smoke, but inodorous. Then the vision cleared, and I saw a
young man whom I knew by a subtle intuition to be the occupant, seen and
not seen, of chair number thirteen. Evidently he was a traveling
salesman--and a ghost. Of course, a drummer’s ghost sounds
ridiculous--they’re so extremely alive! Or else you would expect a dead
drummer to be particularly dead and not ‘walk.’ This was a most
commonplace-looking ghost, cordial, pushing, businesslike. At the same
time, his face had an expression of utter despair and horror which made
him still more preposterous. Of course it is not nice to let a stranger
speak to one, even on so impersonal a topic as a four of diamonds. But a
ghost--there can’t be any rule of etiquette about talking with a ghost! My dear, it was dreadful! That forward creature showed me how to play
all the cards, and then begged me to lay them out again, in order that
he might give me some clever points. I was too much amazed and disturbed
to speak. I could only place the cards at his suggestion. This I did so
as not to appear to be listening to the empty air, and be supposed to be
a crazy woman. Presently the ghost spoke again, and told me his story. “‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I have been riding back and forth on this car ever
since February 22, 189--. Seven months and eleven days. All this time I
have not exchanged a word with anyone. For a drummer, that is pretty
hard, you may believe! You know the story of the Flying Dutchman? Well,
that is very nearly my case. A curse is upon me and will not be removed
until some kind soul----. But I’m getting ahead of my text. That day
there were four of us, traveling for different houses. One of the boys
was in wool, one in baking powder, one in boots and shoes, and myself in
cotton goods. We met on the road, took seats together and fell into
talking shop. “‘Those fellows told big lies about their sales, Washington’s Birthday
though it was. The baking powder man raised the amount of the bills of
goods which he had sold better than a whole can of his stuff could have
done. I admitted the straight truth, that I had not yet been able to
make a sale. And then I swore--not in a light-minded, chipper style of
verbal trimmings, but a great, round, heaven-defying oath--that I would
sell a case of blue denims on that trip if it took me forever. We became
dry with talk, and when the train stopped at Rivermouth, we went out to
have some beer. It is good there, you know--pardon me, I forgot that I
was speaking to a lady. Well, we had to run to get aboard. I missed my
footing, fell under the wheels, and the next thing that I knew they were
holding an inquest over my remains; while I, disemboweled, was sitting
on a corner of the undertaker’s table, wondering which of the coroner’s
jury was likely to want a case of blue denims. “‘Then I remembered my wicked oath, and understood that I was a soul
doomed to wander until I could succeed in selling that bill of goods. I
spoke once or twice, offering the denims under value, but nobody noticed
me. Verdict: accidental death; negligence of deceased; railroad
corporation not to blame; deceased got out for beer at his own risk. The
other drummers took charge of the remains, and wrote a beautiful letter
to my relatives about my social qualities and my impressive
conversation. I wish it had been less impressive that time! I might have
lied about my sales, or I might have said that I hoped for better luck. But after that oath there was nothing for it. Back and forth, back and
forth, on this road, in chair number thirteen, to all eternity. Nobody
suspects my presence. They sit on my knees--I’m playing in luck when it
is a nice baby as it was this afternoon! They pile wraps, bags, even
railway literature on me. They play cards under my nose--and what
duffers some of them are! You, madam, are the first person who has
perceived me; and therefore I ventured to speak to you, meaning no
offense. I can see that you are sorry for me. Now, if you recall the
story of the Flying Dutchman, he was saved by the charity of a good
woman. In fact, Senta married him. Now I’m not asking anything of that
size. I see that you wear a wedding ring, and no doubt you make some
man’s happiness. I wasn’t a marrying man myself, and, naturally, am not
a marrying ghost. And that has nothing to do with the matter anyway. But
if you could--I don’t suppose you would have any use for them--but if
you were disposed to do a turn of good, solid, Christian charity--I
should be everlastingly grateful, and you may have that case of denims
at $72.50. And that quality is quoted to-day at $80. Does it go, madam?’
“The speech of the poor ghost was not very eloquent, but his eyes had an
intense, eager glare, which was terrible. Something--pity, fear, I do
not know what--compelled me. I decided to do without that white and gold
evening cloak. Instead, I gave $72.50 to the ghost and took from him a
receipt for the sum, signed J. Billington Price. Then he smiled
contentedly, thanked me with emotion, and returned to chair number
thirteen. Several times on the journey, although I did not perceive him
again, I felt dazed. When the train arrived at New York, and I, with the
other passengers, dismounted, it seemed to me that a strong hand passed
under my elbow, steadying me down the steps. As I walked the length of
the station my bag--not heavy at any time--appeared to become
weightless. I believe that the parlor-car ghost walked beside me,
carrying the bag, whose handle still remained in my other hand. Indeed,
once or twice I thought I felt the touch of cold fingers against mine. Since then I have no reason to suppose that the poor ghost is not at
rest. I hope he is. “But I never expected nor wished for the blue denims. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
The next day,
however, a dray belonging to a great wholesale house backed up to our
door and delivered a case of denims, with a receipted bill for the same. What was I to do? I could not go about selling blue denims; I could not
give them away without exciting comment. So I furnished the cottage with
them--and you know the effect on my complexion. Pity me, dear! And
credit me, frivolous woman as I am, with having saved a soul at the
expense of my own vanity. My story is told. What do you think about
it?”
GHOST OF BUCKSTOWN INN. BY ARNOLD M. ANDERSON. Several travel-worn drummers sat in the lobby exchanging yarns. It was
Rodney Green’s turn, and he looked wise and began his tale. “I don’t claim, by any means, that the belief in ghosts is a general
thing in Arkansas, but I do say that I had an experience out there a few
years ago. “It was late in the fall, and I happened to be in the village of
Buckstown, which desecrates a very limited portion of the State. The
town is about as small and dirty a place as ever I saw, and the
Buckstown Inn is not much above the general character of the place. The
region is inhabited by natives who still cling to all sorts of foolish
superstitions. The inn, in the ante-bellum days, was kept by one who was
said to be the meanest and most crabbed of mortals. The old demon was as
miserly as he was mean, and all his narrow life he hoarded his filthy
lucre with fiendish greed. Report had it also that he had even murdered
his patrons in their beds for their money. What the facts actually were
I don’t know, but even to this day the old inn is held in suspicion. A
lingering effect of former horrors still clouds its memory. “The present proprietor, Bunk Watson--his real name is Bunker, I
believe--is an altogether different sort of chap--a Southern type, in
fact--one of those shiftless, heedless, happy-go-lucky mortals who loves
strong whiskey and who chews an enormous quid of black tobacco and
smokes a corncob pipe at the same time. “When the former keeper ‘shuffled off,’ his property fell to a distant
relative, the present keeper, who, with his family, immediately moved in
from a neighboring hamlet and took possession. It was well known that
the old proprietor had accumulated considerable wealth during his
sojourn among the living, but all efforts to discover any treasure upon
the premises had failed, and now the idea of ever finding it was
practically given up. As far as Bunk was concerned, the matter troubled
him little. He had a hard-working wife who ran things the best she could
under the circumstances, and saw that his meals were forthcoming at
their respective intervals. What more could he wish? Why should he care
if there was a treasure buried upon his place? Indeed, it would have
been a sore puzzle for him to know what to do with a fortune unless
perhaps his wife came to his aid. “Among the stories that hovered in the history of the Buckstown Inn was
one which involved a ghost. In the room where the former keeper had died
peculiar noises were heard at unearthly hours: sighing, moaning, and, in
fact, all the other indications which point to the existence of ghosts,
were said to be present. On account of this the chamber had long since
been abandoned. “I listened with keen interest to the wonderful tales about the haunted
room, and then suddenly resolved to investigate--to sleep in that
chamber that very night and see for myself all that was to be seen. I
told Buck of my purpose. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, but
instead of warning me and offering a flood of protests, as I expected,
he merely took his pipe from his mouth, let fly a quart or so of
yellowish juice from between a pair of brown-stained lips, and, opening
one corner of his wide mouth, lazily called out: ‘Jane.’ His wife
appeared, and he intimated that I should settle the matter with the ‘old
woman.’ The prospect of a fee persuaded the wife, and off she went to
arrange for my bed in that ill-fated room. “At nine o’clock that evening I bid the family good-night, took my
candle, ascended the rickety stairs and entered the chamber of horrors. The atmosphere was heavy and had a peculiar odor that was not at all
pleasing. However, I latched the door and was soon in bed. Having
propped myself up with pillows, I was prepared to await the coming of
the ghost. “Overhead the dusty rafters, which once had experienced the sensation of
being whitewashed, but which were now a dirty, yellowish color, were
hung with a fantastic array of cobwebs. The flickering light of the
candle reflected upon the walls and against the ceiling a pyramid of
grotesque shapes, and with this effect being continually disturbed by
the swaying cobwebs, the whole caused the room to appear rather ghostly
after all, and especially so to an imaginative mind. “I waited and waited for hours, it seemed, but still no ghost. Perhaps
it was afraid of my candle light, so I blew it out. No sooner had I done
this and settled back in bed again than a white hand appeared through
the door, then a whole figure--at last the ghost had come, a white and
sheeted ghost! “It had come right through the door, although it was locked, and now it
advanced toward the bed. Raising its long, white arm, it pointed a bony
finger at me, and then commanded: ‘Come with me!’ Thereupon it turned to
the door, while instantly I jumped out of bed to follow. Some unseen
power compelled me to obey. The door flew open and the ghost led me down
the stairs, through long halls into the cellar, through mysterious
underground corridors, upstairs again, in and out rooms which I never
dreamed were to be found in that old rambling inn. Finally, through a
small door in the rear, we left the house. I was in my sleeping
garments, but no matter, I had to follow. “The white form, with a slow and measured tread and as silent as death,
led the way into the orchard. There, under a tree at the farther end, it
pointed to the ground, and in the same ghostly tones before used, said:
“‘Here you will find a great treasure buried.’
“The ghost then disappeared, and I saw it no more. I stood dazed and
trembling. Upon recovering my wits I started to dig, but the chill of
the night air and the scantiness of my night robes made such labor
impracticable. So I decided to leave some mark to identify the place and
come around again at daybreak. I reached up and broke off a limb. Overcome with my night’s exertions I slept the next morning until a loud
rapping on my door and a croaking voice warned me that it was noon. “I had intended to leave Buckstown Inn that day, but, prompted by
curiosity and anxious to investigate, I unpacked my gripsack for a
comfortable stay. “You must understand that this was my first experience with a ghost, and
I feared I might never see another. “At breakfast my landlady waited on me in silence, though once I
detected her eyes following me with a peculiar expression. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
She wanted to
ask me how I enjoyed the night, but I would not gratify her by
volunteering a word. “My host was more outspoken. “‘Reckon ye didn’t get much sleep,’ said he, with a queer smile. “‘Did you hear anything?’ I asked. “‘Well, I did--ye-es,’ he said, with a drawl. ‘But ye didn’t disturb me
any. I knew ye’d hev trouble when ye went in thet room ter sleep.’
“That afternoon I slipped out to the tree. But to my amazement I found
that the twig I had broken from the branches was gone. Finally I found
under the lower trunk of an apple tree an open place from which a small
branch had evidently been wrested. But on looking further, I discovered
that every apple tree in the orchard had been similarly disfigured. “‘More mysterious than ever,’ I said; ‘but to-night shall decide.’
“That night I pleaded weariness, which no one seemed inclined to
question, and sought my couch earlier. “‘Goin’ ter try it again?’ asked my host. “‘Yes; and I’ll stay all winter but what I’ll get even with that ghost,’
I said. “That night I kept the candle burning until midnight, when I blew it
out. “Instantly the room was flooded with a soft light, and at the foot of
the bed stood my ghost, the identical ghost of last night. “Again the bony finger beckoned and a sepulchral voice whispered,
‘Follow me!’ I sprang from the bed, but the figure darted ahead of me. It flew through the doorway and down the stairs, and I after it. At the
foot of the staircase an unseen hand reached forward and caught my foot
and I fell sprawling headlong. “But in a second I was on my feet and pursuing the ghost. It had gained
on me a few yards, but I was quicker, and just as we reached the outside
door I nearly touched its robes. They sent a chill through my frame, and
I nearly gave up the pursuit. “As it passed through the doorway it turned and gave me one look, and I
caught the same malignant light in its eyes that I remembered from the
night before. “In the open orchard I felt sure I could catch it. “But my ghost had no intention of allowing me any such opportunity. To
my disgust, it darted backward and into the house, slamming the door in
my face. “In my frenzy of fear and chagrin I threw myself against the oaken door
with such force that its rusty old hinges yielded and I landed in the
big front room of the inn just in time to see the white skirts of the
ghost flit up the stairs. “Upstairs I flew after it, and into an old chamber. There, huddled in a
corner, I saw it. In the minute’s delay it had secured a lighted candle
and, as I entered, it advanced to daunt me with bony arm upraised to a
great height. “‘Caught!’ I cried, throwing my arms around the figure. And I had made
the acquaintance of a real live ghost. “The white robes fell, and I saw revealed my hostess of Buckstown Inn. “Next morning, when I threatened to call the police, she confessed to me
that she masqueraded as a ghost to draw visitors to the out-of-the-way
old place, and that she found its tale of being haunted highly
profitable to her.”
THE BURGLAR’S GHOST. I am not an imaginative man, and no one who knows me can say that I have
ever indulged in sentimental ideas upon any subject. I am rather
predisposed, in fact, to look at everything from a purely practical
standpoint, and this quality has been further developed in me by the
fact that for twenty years I have been an active member of the detective
police force at Westford, a large town in one of our most important
manufacturing districts. A policeman, as most people will readily
believe, has to deal with so much practical life that he has small
opportunity for developing other than practical qualities, and he is
more apt to believe in tangible things than in ideas of a somewhat
superstitious nature. However, I was once under the firm conviction that
I had been largely helped up the ladder of life by the ghost of a once
well-known burglar. I have told the story to many, and have heard it
commented upon in various fashions. Whether the comments were satirical
or practical, it made no difference to me; I had a firm faith at that
time in the truth of my tale. Eighteen years ago I was a plain clothes officer at Westford. I was then
twenty-three years of age, and very anxious about two matters. First and
foremost I desired promotion; second, I wished to be married. Of course
I was more eager about the second than the first, because my sweetheart,
Alice Moore, was one of the prettiest and cleverest girls in the town;
but I put promotion first for the simple reason that with me promotion
must come before marriage. Knowing this, I was always on the lookout for
a chance of distinguishing myself, and I paid such attention to my
duties that my superiors began to notice me, and foretold a successful
career for me in the future. One evening in the last week of September, 1873, I was sitting in my
lodgings wondering what I could do to earn the promotion which I so
earnestly wished for. Things were quiet just then in Westford, and I am
afraid I half wished that something dreadful might occur if I only could
have a share in it. I was pursuing this train of thought when I suddenly
heard a voice say, “Good evening, officer.”
I turned sharply around. It was almost dusk and my lamp was not lighted. For all that, I could see clearly enough a man who was sitting by a
chest of drawers that stood between the door and the window. His chair
stood between the drawers and the door, and I concluded that he had
quietly entered my room and seated himself before addressing me. “Good evening!” I replied. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He laughed when I said that--a low, chuckling, rather sly laugh. “No,”
he said, “I dessay not, officer. I’m a very quiet sort of person. You
might say, in fact, noiseless. Just so.”
I looked at him narrowly, feeling considerably surprised and astonished
at his presence. He was a thickly built man, with a square face and
heavy chin. His nose was small, but aggressive; his eyes were little and
overshadowed by heavy eyebrows; I could see them twinkle when he spoke. As for his dress, it was in keeping with his face. He wore a rough suit of woolen or frieze; a thick, gayly colored Belcher
neckerchief encircled his bull-like throat, and in his big hands he
continually twirled and twisted a fur cap, made apparently out of the
skin of some favorite dog. As he sat there smiling at me and saying
nothing, it made me feel uncomfortable. “What do you want with me?” I asked. “Just a little matter o’ business,” he answered. “You should have gone to the office,” I said. “We’re not supposed to do
business at home.”
“Right you are, guv’nor,” he replied; “but I wanted to see you. It’s you
that’s got to do my job. If I’d ha’ seen the superintendent he might
ha’ put somebody else on to it. That wouldn’t ha’ suited me. You see,
officer, you’re young, and nat’rally eager-like for promotion. Eh?”
“What is it you want?” I inquired again. “Ain’t you eager to be promoted?” he reiterated. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
“Ain’t you now,
officer?”
I saw no reason why I should conceal the fact, even from this strange
visitor. I admitted that I was eager for promotion. “Ah!” he said, with a satisfied smile; “I’m glad o’ that. It’ll make you
all the keener. Now, officer, you listen to me. I’m a-goin’ to put you
on to a nice little job. Ah! I dessay you’ll be a sergeant before long,
you will. You’ll be complimented and praised for your clever conduck in
this ’ere affair. Mark my words if you ain’t.”
“Out with it,” I said, fancying I saw through the man’s meaning. “You’re
going to split on some of your pals, I suppose, and you’ll want a
reward.”
He shook his head. “A reward,” he said, “wouldn’t be no use to me at
all--no, not if it was a thousand pounds. No, it ain’t nothing to do
with reward. But now, officer, did you ever hear of Light Toed Jim?”
Light Toed Jim! I should have been a poor detective if I had not. Why,
the man known under that sobriquet was one of the cleverest burglars and
thieves in England, and had enjoyed such a famous career that his name
was a household word. At that moment there was an additional interest
attached to him. He had been convicted of burglary at the Northminster
assizes in 1871, and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. After
serving nearly two years of his time he had escaped from Portland,
getting away in such clever fashion that he had never been heard of
since. Where he was no one could say; but lately there had been a strong
suspicion among the police that Light Toed Jim was at his old tricks
again. “Light Toed Jim!” I repeated. “I should think so. Why, what do you know
about him?”
He smiled and nodded his head. “Light Toed Jim,” said he, “is in
Westford at this ’ere hidentical moment. Listen to me, officer. Light
Toed Jim is a-goin’ to crack a crib to-night. Said crib is the mansion
of Miss Singleton, that ’ere rich old lady as lives out on the Mapleton
Road. You know her--awfully rich, with naught but women servants and
animals about the place. There’s some very valyable plate there. That’s
what Light Toed Jim’s after. He’ll get in through the scullery window
about 1 a. m., then he’ll pass through the back and front kitchens and
into the butler’s pantry--only it’s a butleress, ’cos there ain’t no men
at all--and there he’ll set to work on the safe. Some of his late pals
in Portland give him the tip about this ’ere job.”
“How did you come to hear of it?” I asked. “Never mind, guv’nor. You wouldn’t understand. Now, I wants you to be up
there to-night and to nab Light Toed Jim red-handed, so to speak. It’ll
mean promotion for you, and it’ll suit me down to the ground. You wants
to be about and to watch him enter. Then follow him and dog him. And be
armed, officer, for Jim’ll fight like a tiger if you don’t draw his
teeth first.”
“Now, look here, my man,” said I, “this is all very well, but it’s all
irregular. You must just tell me who you are and how you come to be in
Light Toed Jim’s secrets, and I’ll put it down in black and white.”
I turned away from him to get my writing materials. I was not half a
minute with my back to him, but when I turned round he was gone. The
door was shut, but I had heard no sound from it either opening or
shutting. Quick as thought I darted to it, tore it wide open, and looked
down the narrow staircase. There was no one there. I ran hastily
downstairs into the passage, and found my landlady, Mrs. Marriner,
standing at the open door with a female friend. “Mrs. Marriner,” I said,
breaking in upon their conversation, “which way did that man go who came
downstairs just now?”
Mrs. Marriner looked at me strangely. “There ain’t been no man come
downstairs, Mr. Parker,” said she; “leastways, not this good
three-quarters of an hour, which me and Missis Higgins ’ere, as ’ave
come out to take an airing, her having been ironin’ all this blessed
day, has been standin’ ’ere all the time and ain’t never seen a soul.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “A man came down from my room just now--the man you
sent up twenty minutes since.”
Mrs. Marriner looked at me with an expression betokening the most
profound astonishment. Mrs. Higgins sighed deeply. “Mr. Parker,” said Mrs. Marriner, “sorry am I to say it, sir, but you’re
either intoxicated or else you’re a-sickening for brain fever, sir. There ain’t no person entered this door, in or out, for nigh onto an
hour, as me and Missis Higgins ’ere will take our Bible oaths on.”
I went upstairs and looked in the rooms on either side of mine. The man
was not there. I looked under my bed, and of course he was not there. He
must have gone downstairs. But then the women must have seen him. There
was only one door to the house. I gave it up in despair and began to
smoke my pipe. By the time I had drawn the last whiff I decided that if
anyone was “intoxicated,” it was probably Mrs. Marriner and Mrs.
Higgins, and that my strange visitor had departed by the door. I was not
going to believe that he had anything supernatural about him. I had no duty that night, and as the hours wore on I found myself stern
in my resolve to go up to Miss Singleton’s house and see what I could
make out of my informant’s story. It was my opinion that my late visitor
was a whilom “pal” of Light Toed Jim, and that having become aware of
the latter’s plot, he had, for some reason of his own, decided to split
on his old chum. Thieves’ disagreement is an honest man’s opportunity,
and I determined to solve the truth of the story told me. Lest it should
come to nothing, I decided not to report the matter to my chief. If I
could really capture Light Toed Jim, my success would be all the more
brilliant by being suddenly sprung upon the authorities. I made my plan of action rapidly. I took a revolver with me and went up
to Miss Singleton’s house. Fortunately, I knew the housekeeper there--a
middle-aged, strong-minded woman, not easily frightened, which was a
good thing. To her I communicated such information as I considered
necessary. She consented to conceal me in the room where the safe stood. There was a cupboard close by the safe from which I could command a full
view of the burglar’s operations and pounce upon him at the right
moment. If only my information was to be relied upon, there was every
chance of my capturing the famous burglar. Soon after midnight, when the house was all quiet, I went to the pantry
and got into the cupboard, locking myself in. There were two openings
in the panel, through either of which I was able to command a full view
of the room. My position was somewhat cramped, but the time soon passed
away. My mind was principally occupied in wondering if I was really
about to have a chance of distinguishing myself. Somehow, there was an
air of unreality about the events of the evening which puzzled me. Suddenly I heard a sound which put me on the alert at once. It was
nothing more than the creaking of a board or opening of a door would
make in a quiet house; but it sounded intensified to my expectant ears. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
I drew myself up against the door of the cupboard and placed my eye to
the opening in the panel. I had oiled the key of the door, and kept my
fingers upon it in readiness to spring upon the burglar at the proper
moment. After what seemed some time I saw the gleam of light through the
keyhole of the door opening into the pantry. Then it opened, and a man
carrying a small lantern came gently into the room. At first I could see
nothing of his face; but when my eyes grew accustomed to the hazy light
I saw that I had been rightly informed, and that the burglar was indeed
no other than the famous Light Toed Jim. As I stood there watching him I could not help admiring the cool fashion
in which he went to work. He went over to the window and examined it. He
tried the door of the cupboard in which I stood concealed. Then he
locked the door of the pantry and turned his attention to the safe. He
set his lamp on a chair before the lock and took from his pocket as neat
and pretty a collection of tools as ever I saw. With these he went
quietly and swiftly to work. Light Toed Jim was a somewhat slimly built fellow, with little muscular
development about him, while I am a big man with plenty of bone and
sinew. If matters had come to a fight between us I could have done what
I pleased with him; but I knew that Jim would not chance a fight. Somewhere about him I felt sure there was a revolver, which he would use
on the least provocation. My plan, therefore, was to wait until his back
was bent over the lock of the safe, then to open the cupboard door
noiselessly and fall bodily upon him, pinning him to the ground beneath
me. Before long the moment came. He was working steadily away at the lock,
his whole attention concentrated on the job. The slight noise of his
drill was sufficient to drown the faint click of the key in the cupboard
door. I turned it quickly and tumbled right upon him, driving the tool
out of his hands and tumbling him into a heap at the foot of the safe. He uttered an exclamation of rage and astonishment as he went down, and
immediately began to wriggle under me like an eel. As I kept him down
with one hand I tried to pull out the handcuffs with the other. This
somewhat embarrassed me, and the burglar profited by it to pull out a
sharp knife. He had worked himself round on his back, and before I
realized what he was after he was hacking furiously at me with his keen,
dagger-like blade. Then I realized that we were going to have a fight
for it, and prepared myself. He tried to run the knife into my side. I
warded it off, but the blade caught the fleshy part of my left arm and I
felt a warm stream of blood spurt out. That maddened me, and I seized one of the steel drills lying near at
hand, and hit my man such a blow over the temple that he collapsed at
once, and lay as if dead. I put the handcuffs on him instantly, and, to
make matters still more certain, I secured his ankles. Then I rose and
looked at my arm. The knife had made a nasty gash, and the blood was
flowing freely, but it was not serious; and when the housekeeper, who
had just then appeared on the scene, had bandaged it, I went out and
secured the help of the first policeman I met in conveying Light Toed
Jim to the office. I felt a proud man when I made my report to the inspector. “Light Toed Jim?” said he. “What, James Bland? Nonsense, Parker.” But I
took him to the cells where Jim was being attended to by the doctor. “You’re right, Parker,” he said. “That’s the man. Well, this will be a
fine thing for you.”
After a time, feeling a little exhausted, I went home to try and get
some sleep. The surgeon had attended to my arm, and told me it was but a
superficial wound. It felt sore enough in spite of that. I had no sooner reached my lodgings than I saw sitting in my easy-chair
the strange man who had called upon me earlier in the evening. He rose
to his feet when I entered. I stared at him in utter astonishment. “Well, guv’nor,” said he, “I see you’ve done it. You’ve got him square
and fair, I reckon?”
“Yes,” I said. “Ah!” he said, with a sigh of complete satisfaction. “Then I’m
satisfied. Yes, I don’t know as how there’s aught more I could say. I
reckon as how Light Toed Jim an’ me is quits.”
I was determined to find out who this man was this time. “Sit down,” I
said. “There’s a question or two I must ask you. Just let me get my coat
off and I’ll talk to you.” I took my coat off and went over to the bed
to lay it down. “Now then,” I began, and looked around at him. I said no
more, being literally struck dumb. The man was gone! I began to feel uncomfortable. I ran hastily downstairs, only to find
the outer door locked and bolted, as I had left it a few minutes
before. I went back, utterly nonplussed. For an hour I pondered the
matter over, but could neither make head nor tail of it. When I went down to the office next morning I was informed that the
burglar wanted to see me. I went to his cell, where he was lying in bed
with his head bandaged. I had hit him pretty hard, as it turned out, and
it was probable he would have to lie on the sick list for some days. “Well, guv’nor,” said he, “you’d the best of me last night. You hit me
rather hard that time.”
“I was sorry to have to do it, my man,” I answered. “You would have
stabbed me if you could.”
“Yes,” he said, “I should. But I say, guv’nor, come a bit closer; I want
to ask you a question. How did you know I was on that little job last
night? For, s’elp me, there wasn’t a soul knew a breath about it but
myself. I hadn’t no pals, never talked to anybody about it, never
thought aloud about it, as I knows on. How came you to spot it,
guv’nor?”
There was no one else in the cell with us, and I thought I might find
out something about my mysterious visitor of the night before. “It was a
pal of yours who gave me the information,” I said. “Can’t be, guv’nor. No use telling me that. I ain’t got no
pals--leastways not in this job.”
“Did you ever know a man like this?” I described my visitor. As I
proceeded, Light Toed Jim’s face assumed an expression of real terror. Whatever color there was in it faded away. I never saw a man look more
thoroughly frightened. “Yes, yes,” he said, eagerly. “In course I know
who it is. Why, it’s Barksea Bill, as I pal’d with at one time--and what
did he say, guv’nor--that he owed me a grudge? That we was quits at
last? Right you are, ’cos he did owe me a grudge. I treated Bill very
shabby--very shabby, indeed, and he swore solemn he’d have his revenge. On’y, guv’nor, what you see wasn’t Barksea Bill at all, but his ghost,
’cos Barksea Bill’s been dead and buried this three year.”
I was naturally very much exercised in my mind over this weird
development of the affair, and I used to think about it long after Light
Toed Jim had once more retired to the seclusion of Portland. While he
was in charge at Westford I tried more than once to worm some more
information out of him about the defunct Barksea Bill, but with no
success. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
He would say no more than that “Bill was dead and buried this
three year;” and with that I had to be content. Gradually I came to have
a firm belief that I had indeed been visited by Barksea Bill’s ghost,
and I often told the story to brother officers, and sometimes got well
laughed at. That, however, mattered little to me; I felt sure that any
man who had gone through the same experience would have had the same
beliefs. Of course I got my promotion and was soon afterward married. Things went
well with me, and I was lifted from one step to another. In my secret
mind I was always sure I owed my first rise to the burglar’s ghost, and
I should have continued to think so but for an incident which occurred
just five years after my capture of Light Toed Jim. I had occasion to travel to Sheffield from Westford, and had to change
trains at Leeds. The carriage I stepped into was occupied by a solitary
individual, who turned his face to me as I sat down. Though dressed in
more respectable fashion, I immediately recognized the man who had
visited me so mysteriously at my lodgings. My first feeling was one of
fear, and I daresay my face showed it, for the man laughed. “Hallo, guv’nor,” said he; “I see you knew me as soon as you come in. You owes a deal to me, guv’nor; now, don’t you, eh?”
“Look here, my man,” I said, “I’ve been taking you for a ghost these
five years past. Now just tell me how you got in and out of my room that
night, will you?”
He laughed long and loud at that. “A ghost?” said he. “Well, if that
ain’t a good un! Why, easy enough, guv’nor. I was a-lodging for a day or
two in the same house. It’s easy enough, when you know how, to open a
door very quiet and to slip out, too.”
“But I followed you sharp, and looked for you.”
“Ay, guv’nor; but you looked down, and I had gone up! You should ha’
come up to the attics, and there you’d ha’ found me. So you took me for
a ghost? Well, I’m blowed.”
I told him what Light Toed Jim had said in the cell. “Ay,” said he, “I dessay, guv’nor. You see, ’twas this way--it weren’t
Jim’s fault as I wasn’t dead. He tried to murder me, guv’nor, he did,
and left me a-lying for dead. So I ses to myself when I comes round that
I’d pay him out sooner or later. But after that I quit the profession,
Jim’s nasty conduck havin’ made me sick of it. So I went in for honest
work at my old trade, which was draining and pipe repairing. I was on a
job o’ that sort in Westford, near Miss Singleton’s house, when I see
Light Toed Jim. I had a hidea what he was up to, havin’ heard o’ the
plate, and I watches him one or two nights, and gets a notion ’ow he was
going to work the job. Then, o’ course, you being a officer and close at
hand I splits on him--and that’s all.”
“But you had got the time and details correct?”
“Why, o’ course, guv’nor. I was an old hand--served many years at
Portland, I have, and I knew just how Jim would work it, after seeing
his perlim’nary observations. But a ghost! Ha, ha, ha! Why, guv’nor, you
must ha’ been a very green young officer in them days!”
Perhaps I was. At any rate I learned a lesson from the ci-devant Barksea
Bill--namely, that in searching a house it is always advisable to look
up as well as down. A PHANTOM TOE. I am not a superstitious man, far from it, but despite all my efforts to
the contrary I could not help thinking, directly I had taken a survey of
my chamber, that I should never quit it without going through a strange
adventure. There was something in its immense size, heaviness and gloom
that seemed to annihilate at one blow all my resolute skepticism as
regards supernatural visitations. It appeared to me totally impossible
to go into that room and disbelieve in ghosts. The fact is, I had incautiously partaken at supper of that favorite
Dutch dish, sauerkraut, and I suppose it had disagreed with me and put
strange fancies into my head. Be this as it may I only know that after
parting with my friend for the night I gradually worked myself up into
such a state of fidgetiness that at last I wasn’t sure whether I hadn’t
become a ghost myself. “Supposing,” ruminated I, “supposing the landlord himself should be a
practical robber and should have taken the lock and bolt from off this
door for the purpose of entering here in the dead of the night,
abstracting all my property, and perhaps murdering me! I thought the dog
had a very cutthroat air about him.” Now, I had never had any such idea
until that moment, for my host was a fat (all Dutchmen are fat),
stupid-looking fellow, who I don’t believe had sense enough to
understand what a robbery or murder meant, but somehow or other,
whenever we have anything really to annoy us (and it certainly was not
pleasant to go to bed in a strange place without being able to fasten
one’s door), we are sure to aggravate it by myriads of chimeras of our
own brain. So, on the present occasion, in the midst of a thousand disagreeable
reveries, some of the most wild absurdity, I jumped very gloomily into
bed, having first put out my candle (for total darkness was far
preferable to its flickering, ghostly light, which transformed rather
than revealed objects), and soon fell asleep, perfectly tired out with
my day’s riding. How long I lay asleep I don’t know, but I suddenly awoke from a
disagreeable dream of cutthroats, ghosts and long, winding passages in a
haunted inn. An indescribable feeling, such as I never before
experienced, hung upon me. It seemed as if every nerve in my body had a
hundred spirits tickling it, and this was accompanied by so great a heat
that, inwardly cursing mine host’s sauerkraut and wondering how the
Dutchmen could endure such poison, I was forced to sit up in bed to
cool myself. The whole of the room was profoundly dark, excepting at one
place, where the moonlight, falling through a crevice in the shutters,
threw a straight line of about an inch or so thick upon the
floor--clear, sharp and intensely brilliant against the darkness. I
leave you to conceive my horror when, upon looking at this said line of
light, I saw there a naked human toe--nothing more. For the first instant I thought the vision must be some effect of
moonlight, then that I was only half awake and could not see distinctly. So I rubbed my eyes two or three times and looked again. Still there was
the accursed thing--plain, distinct, immovable--marblelike in its
fixedness and rigidity, but in everything else horribly human. I am not an easily frightened man. No one who has traveled so much and
seen so much and been exposed to so many dangers as I, can be, but there
was something so mysterious and unusual in the appearance of this single
toe that for a short time I could not think what to be at, so I did
nothing but stare at it in a state of utter bewilderment. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
At length, however, as the toe did not vanish under my steady gaze, I
thought I might as well change my tactics, and remembering that all
midnight invaders, be they thieves, ghosts or devils, dislike nothing
so much as a good noise I shouted out in a loud voice:
“Who’s there?”
The toe immediately disappeared in the darkness. Almost simultaneously with my words I leaped out of bed and rushed
toward the place where I had beheld the strange appearance. The next
instant I ran against something and felt an iron grip round my body. After this I have no distinct recollection of what occurred, excepting
that a fearful struggle ensued between me and my unseen opponent; that
every now and then we were violently hurled to the floor, from which we
always rose again in an instant, locked in a deadly embrace; that we
tugged and strained and pulled and pushed, I in the convulsive and
frantic energy of a fight for life, he (for by this time I had
discovered that the intruder was a human being) actuated by some passion
of which I was ignorant; that we whirled round and round, cheek to cheek
and arm to arm, in fierce contest, until the room appeared to whiz round
with us, and that at least a dozen people (my fellow traveler among
them), roused, I suppose, by our repeated falls, came pouring into the
room with lights and showed me struggling with a man having nothing on
but a shirt, whose long, tangled hair and wild, unsettled eyes told me
he was insane. And then, for the first time, I became aware that I had
received in the conflict several gashes from a knife, which my opponent
still held in his hand. To conclude my story in a few words (for I daresay all of you by this
time are getting very tired), it turned out that my midnight visitor was
a madman who was being conveyed to a lunatic asylum at The Hague, and
that he and his keeper had been obliged to stop at Delft on their way. The poor fellow had contrived during the night to escape from his
keeper, who had carelessly forgotten to lock the door of his chamber,
and with that irresistible desire to shed blood peculiar to many insane
people had possessed himself of a pocketknife belonging to the man who
had charge of him, entered my room, which was most likely the only one
in the house unfastened, and was probably meditating the fatal stroke
when I saw his toe in the moonlight, the rest of his body being hidden
in the shade. After this terrible freak of his he was watched with much greater
strictness, but I ought to observe, as some excuse for the keeper’s
negligence, that this was the first act of violence he had ever
attempted. MRS. DAVENPORT’S GHOST. BY FREDERICK F. SCHRADER. Dear readers, do you agree with Hamlet? Do you believe that there is
more between heaven and earth than we dream of in our philosophy? Does
it seem possible to you that Eliphas Levy conjured up the shade of
Apollonius of Tyana, the prophet of the Magii, in a London hotel, and
that the great sage, William Crookes, drank his tea at breakfast several
days a week, for months in succession, in the society of the
materialized spirit of a young lady, attired in white linen, with a
feather turban on her head? Do not laugh! Panic would seize you in the presence even of a turbaned
spirit, and the grotesque spectacle would but intensify your terror. As
for me, I did not laugh last night on reading an account in a New York
newspaper of a criminal trial that will probably terminate in the death
penalty of the accused. It is a sad case. I shudder as I transcribe the records of the trial
from the testimony of the hotel waiter, who heard the conversation of
the two confederates through a keyhole, and of forty thoroughly
credible witnesses, who testified to the same facts. What would be my
feelings if I had seen the beautiful victim with the gaping wound in her
breast, into which she dipped her finger to mark the brow of her
murderer? I. About three o’clock on the afternoon of February 3, Professor Davenport
and Miss Ida Soutchotte, a very pale and delicate young girl, who had
submitted to the tests of Professor Davenport for a number of years,
were finishing their dinner in their room in the second story of a New
York hotel. Professor Benjamin Davenport was a celebrity, but it was
said that he owed his fame to somewhat questionable means. The leading
spiritualists did not repose the confidence in him that manifestly
marked their regard for William Crookes or Daniel Douglas Home. “Greedy and unscrupulous mediums,” the author of Spiritualism in America
thinks, “are to blame for the most bitter attacks to which our cause has
been exposed. When the materializations do not take place as quickly as
circumstances require, they resort to trickery and fraud to extricate
themselves from a dilemma.”
Professor Benjamin Davenport belonged to these “versatile” mediums. Aside from this, queer stories were afloat about him. He was secretly
accused of highway robbery in South America, cheating at cards in the
gambling houses of San Francisco, and the overhasty use of firearms
toward persons who had never offended him. It was said almost openly,
that the professor’s wife had died from abuse and grief at his
infidelity. But in spite of these annoying rumors, Mr. Davenport, by
virtue of his skill as a fraud and fakir, continued to exercise a great
deal of influence upon certain plain and simple-minded folks, whom it
was impossible to convince that they had not touched the materialized
spirits of their brothers, mothers, or sisters through the agency of his
wonderful power. His professional success received material accession
from his swarthy, Mephisto-like countenance, his deep, fiery eyes, his
large curved nose, the cynical expression of his mouth, and the lofty,
almost prophetic tone of his words. When the waiter had made his last visit--he did not go far--the
following conversation took place in the room:
“There is to be a seance this evening at the residence of Mrs. Harding,”
began the medium. “Quite a number of influential people will be there,
and two or three millionaires. Conceal under your skirt the blonde
woman’s wig and the white material in which the spirits usually make
their appearance.”
“Very well,” replied Ida Soutchotte, in a resigned tone. The waiter heard her pace the room. After a pause, she asked:
“Whose spirit are you going to control this evening, Benjamin?”
The waiter heard a loud, brutal laugh and the chair groaning beneath the
weight of the demonstrative professor. “Guess.”
“How should I know?” she asked. “I am going to conjure up the spirit of my dead wife.”
And another burst of laughter issued from the room, full of sinister
levity. A cry of terror burst from Ida’s lips. A muffled sound indicated
to the eavesdropper at the door that she was dragging herself to the
feet of the professor. “Benjamin, Benjamin! don’t do it,” she sobbed. “Why not? They say I broke Mrs. Davenport’s heart. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
The story is damaging
my reputation, but it will be forgotten if her spirit should address me
in terms of endearment from the other shore in the presence of numerous
witnesses. For you will speak to me tenderly, will you not, Ida?”
“No, no. You shall not do it; you shall not think of it. Listen to me,
for God’s sake. During the four years that I have been with you I have
obeyed you faithfully and suffered patiently. I have lied and deceived,
like you; I learned to imitate the sleep and symptoms of clairvoyants. Tell me, did I ever refuse to serve you, or utter a word of complaint,
even when my shoulders bent with the weight of my burden, when you
pierced the flesh of my arms with knitting needles? Worse than all this,
I imitated distant voices behind curtains, and made mothers and wives
believe that their sons and husbands had come from a better world to
communicate with them. How often have I performed the most dangerous
feats in parlors with the lamps turned low? Clothed in a shroud or white
muslin I essayed to represent supernatural forms, whom tear-dimmed eyes
recognized as those of departed dear ones. You do not know what I
suffered at this unhallowed work. You scoff at the mysteries of
eternity. I suffer the torments of an impending retribution. My God! if
some time the dead whom I counterfeit should rise up before me with
uplifted arms and dreadful imprecations! This constant terror has
injured my heart--it will kill me. I am consumed by fever. Look how
emaciated, how worn-out and downcast I am. But I am under your control. Do as you like with me; I am in your power, and I want it to be so. Have
I ever complained? But do not force me to do this thing, Benjamin. Have
pity on me for what I have done for you in the past, for what I am
suffering. Do not attempt this mummery; do not compel me to play the
role of your dead wife, who was so tender and beautiful. Oh, what put
that thought into your mind? Spare me, Benjamin, I implore you!”
The professor did not laugh again. Amid the confusion of upturned
articles of furniture the eavesdropper distinguished the sound of a
skull striking the floor. He concluded that Professor Davenport had
knocked Miss Ida down with a blow of his fist, or had kicked her as she
approached him. But the waiter did not enter the room, as no one rang
for him. II. That evening forty persons were assembled in Mrs. Joanne Harding’s
parlor, staring at the curtain where a spirit form was in process of
materializing. One dark lantern in a corner of the room contributed the
light that emphasized the darkness rather than relieved it. The room was
pervaded by profound silence, save the quickened, suppressed breathing
of the spectators. The fire in the grate cast mysterious rays of light,
resembling fugitive spirits, upon the objects around, almost
indistinguishable in the semi-gloom. Professor Davenport was at his best this evening. The spirit world
obeyed him without hesitation, like their lawful master. He was the
mighty prince of souls. Hands that had no arms were seen picking flowers
from the vases; the touch of an invisible spirit conjured sweet
melodies from the keys of the piano; the furniture responded by
intelligent rappings to the most unanticipated questions. The professor
himself elevated his form in symbolical distortions from the floor to an
altitude of three feet, indicated by Mrs. Harding, and remained
suspended in the air for a quarter of an hour, holding live coals in his
hands. III. But the most interesting, as well as the most conclusive, test was to be
the materialization of the spirit of Mrs. Arabella Davenport, which the
professor had promised at the beginning of the seance. “The hour has come,” exclaimed the medium. And while the hearts of all throbbed with anxious suspense, and their
eyes distended with painful expectancy of the promised materialization,
Benjamin Davenport stood before the curtain. In the twilight the tall
man with the disheveled hair and demon look, was really terrible and
handsome. “Appear, Arabella!” he exclaimed, in a commanding voice, with gestures
of the Nazarene at the sepulcher of Lazarus. All are waiting----
Suddenly a cry burst from behind the curtain--a piercing, shuddering,
horrible shriek, the shriek of an expiring soul. The spectators trembled. Mrs. Harding almost fainted. The medium
himself appeared surprised. But Benjamin recovered his composure on seeing the curtain move and
admit the spirit. The apparition was that of a young woman with long blonde tresses; she
was beautiful and pale, clad in some light, whitish material. Her breast
was bare, and on the left side appeared a bleeding wound, in which
trembled a knife. The spectators arose and retreated, pushing their chairs to the wall. Those who chanced to look at the medium noticed that a deathly pallor
had overspread his face, and that he was cowering and trembling. But the young woman, Mrs. Arabella, the real one, whom he so well
remembered, she had come in response to his summons, and advanced in a
direct line toward Benjamin, who in terror covered his eyes to shut out
the ghastly sight, and with a cry fled behind the furniture. But she
dipped the finger of her thin hand into the blood from her wound and
traced it across the brow of the unconscious medium, the while
repeating, in a slow, monotonous tone that sounded like the echo of a
wail, again and again:
“You are my murderer! You are my murderer!”
And while he was rolling and tossing in deadly terror on the floor they
turned up the lights. The spirit had vanished. But in the communicating room, behind the
curtain, they found the body of poor Miss Ida Soutchotte with horribly
distorted features. A physician who was present pronounced it heart
stroke. And that is the reason that Prof. Benjamin Davenport appeared alone in a
New York courtroom to answer to the charge of having murdered his wife
four years ago in San Francisco. THE PHANTOM WOMAN. He took an all-possessing, burning fancy to her from the first. She was
neither young nor pretty, so far as he could see--but she was wrapped
round with mystery. That was the key of it all; she was noticeable in
spite of herself. Her face at the window, sunset after sunset; her eyes,
gazing out mournfully through the dusty panes, hypnotized the lawyer. He
saw her through the twilight night after night, and he grew at length to
wait through the days in a feverish waiting for dusk, and that one look
at an unknown woman. She was always at the same window on the ground floor, sitting doing
nothing. She looked beyond, so the infatuated solicitor fancied, at him. Once he even thought that he detected the ghost of a friendly smile on
her lips. Their eyes always met with a mute desire to make acquaintance. This romance went on for a couple of months. Gilbert Dent assured himself that nothing in this life can possibly
remain stationary, and he cudgeled his brain for a respectable manner of
introducing himself to his idol. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
He had hardly arrived at this point when he received a shock. There came
an evening when she was not at the window. Next morning he walked down Wood Lane on his way to the office. He
always went by train, but he felt a strong disinclination to go through
another day without a sight of her. His heart began to beat like a
schoolgirl’s as he drew near the house. If she should be at the window. He was almost disposed to take his courage in his hand and call on her,
and--yes, even--tell her in a quick burst that she had mysteriously
become all the world to him. He could see nothing ridiculous in this
course; the possibility of her being married, or having family ties of
any sort, had simply never occurred to him. However, she was not at the window; what was more, there was a sinister
silence, a sort of breathlessness about the whole place. It was a very hot morning in late August. He looked a long time, but no
face came, and no movement stirred the house. He went his way, walking like a man who has been heavily knocked on the
brow and sees stars still. That afternoon he left the office early, and
in less than an hour stood at the gate again. The window was blank. He
pushed the gate back--it hung on one hinge--and walked up the drive to
the door. There were five steps--five steps leading up to it. At the
foot he wheeled aside sharply to the window; he had a sick dread of
looking through the small panes--why he could not have told. When at last he found courage to look he saw that there was a small
round table set just under the window--a work-table to all appearance;
one of those things with lots of little compartments all round and a lid
in the middle which shut over a well-like cavity for holding pieces of
needlework. He remembered that his mother had one--thirty years before. Round the edge of the table was gripped a small, delicate hand. Gilbert
Dent’s eyes ran from this bloodless hand and slim wrist to a shoulder
under a coarse stuff bodice--to a rather wasted throat, which was bare
and flung back. So this was the end--before the beginning. He saw her. She was dead;
twisted on the floor with a ghastly face turned up toward the ceiling,
and stiff fingers caught in desperation round the work table. He stumbled away along the path and into the lane. For a long time he could not realize the horror of this thing. The
influence of the decayed house hung over him--nothing seemed real. It
was quite dark when he moved away from the gate, and went in the
direction of the nearest police station. That she was dead--this woman
whose very name he did not know although she influenced him so
powerfully--he was certain; one look at the face would have told anyone
that. That she was murdered he more than suspected. He had seen no blood
about; there had been no mark on the long, bare throat, and yet the word
rushed in his ears, “Murder.”
Later on he went back with a police officer. They broke into the house and entered the room. It was in utter
darkness, of course, by now. Dent, his fingers trembling, struck a
match. It flared round the walls and lighted them for a moment before he
let it fall on the dusty floor. The policeman began to light his lantern and turned it stolidly on the
window. He had no reason for delay; he was eager to get to the bottom of
the business. His professional zeal was whetted; this promised to be a
mystery with a spice in it. He turned the light full on the window; he gave a strange, choked cry,
half of rage, half of apprehension. Then he went up to Gilbert Dent, who
stood in the middle of the room with his hands before his eyes, and took
his shoulder and shook it none too gently. “There ain’t nobody,” he said. Dent looked wildly at the window--the recess was empty except for the
work-table. The woman was gone. They searched the house; they minutely inspected the garden. Everything
was normal; everything told the same mournful tale--of desertion, of
death, of long empty years. But they found no woman, nor trace of one. “This house,” said the policeman, looking suspiciously into the lawyer’s
face, “has been empty for longer than I can remember. Nobody’ll live in
it. They do say something about foul play a good many years ago. I don’t
know about that. All I do know is that the landlord can’t get it off his
hands.”
It was doubtful if Gilbert Dent heard one word of what the man was
saying. He was too stunned to do anything but creep home--when he was
allowed to go--and let himself stealthily into his own house with a
latch key; he was afraid even of himself. He did not go to bed that
night. As for the mystery of the woman, the matter was allowed to drop; it
ended--officially. There was a shrug and a grin at the police station. The impression there was that the lawyer had been drinking--that the
dead woman in the empty room was a gruesome freak of his tipsy brain. * * * * *
A week or so later Dent called on his brother Ned--the one near relation
he had. Ned was a doctor; perhaps he was a shade more matter-of-fact
than Gilbert; at all events, when the latter told his story of the house
and the woman, he attributed the affair solely to liver. “You are overworked”--the elder brother looked at the younger’s yellow
face. “An experience of this nature is by no means uncommon. Haven’t you
heard of people having their pet ‘spooks’?”
“But this was a real woman,” he declared. “I--I, well, I was in love
with her. I had made up my mind to marry her--if I could.”
Ned gave him a keen, swift glance. “We’ll go to Brighton to-morrow,” he said, with quiet decision. “As for
your work, everything must be put aside. You’ve run completely down. You
ought to have been taken in hand before.”
They went to Brighton, and it really seemed as if Ned was right, and
that the woman at the window had been merely a nervous creation. It
seemed so, that is, for nearly three weeks, and then the climax came. It was in the twilight--she had always been part of it--that Gilbert
Dent saw her again; the woman that he had found lying dead. They were walking, the two brothers, along the cliffs. The wind was blowing in their faces, the sea was booming beneath the
cliff. Ned had just said it was about time they turned back to the hotel
and had some dinner, when Gilbert with a cry leapt forward to the very
edge of the flat grass path on which they were strolling. The movement
was so sudden that his brother barely caught him in time. They
struggled and swayed on the very edge of the cliff for a second;
Gilbert, possessed by some sudden frenzy, seemed resolved to go over,
but the other at last dragged him backward, and they rolled together on
the close, thick turf. At this point Gilbert opened his eyes and tried to get on his feet. “Better?” asked his brother, cheerfully, holding out a helping hand. “Strange! The sea has that effect on some people. Didn’t think that you
were one of them.”
“What effect?”
“Vertigo, my dear fellow.”
“Ned,” said the other solemnly, “I saw her. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
It is not worth your while
to try to account for anything. I have been inclined to think that you
were right--that she, the woman at the window, was a fancy, that I had
fallen in love with a creation of my own brain; but I saw her again
to-night. You must have seen her yourself--she was within a couple of
feet of you. Why did you not try and save her? It was nothing short of
murder to let her go over like that. I did my best.”
“You certainly did--to kill us both,” said Ned, grimly. Gilbert gave him a wild look. After luncheon Ned persuaded him to rest--watched him fall asleep, and
then went out. In the porch of the hotel he was met by a waiter on his return who told
him that Gilbert had left about a quarter of an hour after he had
himself gone out. Directly he heard this he feared the worst; having, as is usual in such
cases, a very hazy idea of what the worst might be. Of course he must
follow without a moment’s delay; but a reference to the time-table told
him that there was not another train for an hour, and that was slow. It was already getting dusk when he arrived there. He felt certain that
Gilbert would go there. He got to the end of the lane and walked up it
slowly, examining every house. There would be no difficulty in
recognizing the one he wanted; Gilbert had described it in detail more
than once. He stood outside the loosely hanging gate at last, and stared through
the darkness at the shabby stucco front and rank garden. He went down a flight of steps to the back door, and finding it
unfastened, stepped into a stone passage. It was one of the problems of
the place that he should have avoided the main entrance door with a
half-admitted dread, and that, only half admitting still, he was afraid
to mount the long flight of stone stairs leading from the servants’
quarters. However, he pulled himself together and went up to the room. It was quite dark inside. He heard something scuttle across the floor;
he felt the grit and dust of years under his feet. He struck a
match--just as Gilbert had done--and looked first at the recess in which
the window was built. The match flared round the room for a moment and
gave him a flash picture of his surroundings. He saw the stripes of
gaudy paper moving almost imperceptibly, like tentacles of some sea
monster, from the wall; he saw a creature--it looked like a rat--scurry
across the floor from the window to the great mantelpiece of hard white
marble. If he had seen nothing more than this. He saw in detail all that the first match had flashed at him. He saw his
brother lying on the floor; a ghastly coincidence, his hand was caught
round the edge of the work-table as hers had been. The other hand was
clenched across his breast; there was a look of great agony on his face. A dead face, of course. This was the end of the affair. He was lying
dead by the window where the woman had sat every night at dusk and
smiled at him. The second match went out; the brother of the dead man struck a third. He looked again and closely. Then he staggered to his feet and gave a
cry. It rang through the empty rooms and echoed without wearying down
the long, stone passages in the basement. Gilbert’s head was thrown back; his chin peaked to the ceiling. On his
throat were livid marks. The doctor saw them distinctly; he saw the grip
of small fingers; the distinct impression of a woman’s little hand. * * * * *
The curious thing about the whole story--the most curious thing,
perhaps--is that no other eye ever saw those murderous marks. So there
was no scandal, no chase after the murderer, no undiscovered crime. They
faded; when the doctor saw his brother again in the full light and in
the presence of others his throat was clear. And the post mortem proved
that death was due to natural causes. So the matter stands, and will. But where the house and its overgrown garden stood runs a new road with
neat red and white villas. Whatever secret it knew--if any--it kept discreetly. Ned Dent is morbid enough to go down the smart new road in the twilight
sometimes and wonder. THE PHANTOM HAG. The other evening in an old castle the conversation turned upon
apparitions, each one of the party telling a story. As the accounts grew
more horrible the young ladies drew closer together. “Have you ever had an adventure with a ghost?” said they to me. “Do you
not know a story to make us shiver? Come, tell us something.”
“I am quite willing to do so,” I replied. “I will tell you of an
incident that happened to myself.”
Toward the close of the autumn of 1858 I visited one of my friends,
sub-prefect of a little city in the center of France. Albert was an old
companion of my youth, and I had been present at his wedding. His
charming wife was full of goodness and grace. My friend wished to show
me his happy home, and to introduce me to his two pretty little
daughters. I was feted and taken great care of. Three days after my
arrival I knew the entire city, curiosities, old castles, ruins, etc. Every day about four o’clock Albert would order the phaeton, and we
would take a long ride, returning home in the evening. One evening my
friend said to me:
“To-morrow we will go further than usual. I want to take you to the
Black Rocks. They are curious old Druidical stones, on a wild and
desolate plain. They will interest you. My wife has not seen them yet,
so we will take her.”
The following day we drove out at the usual hour. Albert’s wife sat by
his side. I occupied the back seat alone. The weather was gray and
somber that afternoon, and the journey was not very pleasant. When we
arrived at the Black Rocks the sun was setting. We got out of the
phaeton, and Albert took care of the horses. We walked some little distance through the fields before reaching the
giant remains of the old Druid religion. Albert’s wife wished to climb
to the summit of the altar, and I assisted her. I can still see her
graceful figure as she stood draped in a red shawl, her veil floating
around her. “How beautiful it is! But does it not make you feel a little
melancholy?” said she, extending her hand toward the dark horizon, which
was lighted a little by the last rays of the sun. The afternoon wind blew violently, and sighed through the stunted trees
that grew around the stone cromlechs; not a dwelling nor a human being
was in sight. We hastened to get down, and silently retraced our steps
to the carriage. “We must hurry,” said Albert; “the sky is threatening, and we shall have
scarcely time to reach home before night.”
We carefully wrapped the robes around his wife. She tied the veil around
her face, and the horses started into a rapid trot. It was growing dark;
the scenery around us was bare and desolate; clumps of fir trees here
and there and furze bushes formed the only vegetation. We began to feel
the cold, for the wind blew with fury; the only sound we heard was the
steady trot of the horses and the sharp clear tinkle of their bells. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Suddenly I felt the heavy grasp of a hand upon my shoulder. I turned my
head quickly. A horrible apparition presented itself before my eyes. In
the empty place at my side sat a hideous woman. I tried to cry out; the
phantom placed her fingers upon her lips to impose silence upon me. I
could not utter a sound. The woman was clothed in white linen; her head
was cowled; her face was overspread with a corpse-like pallor, and in
place of eyes were ghastly black cavities. I sat motionless, overcome by terror. The ghost suddenly stood up and leaned over the young wife. She
encircled her with her arms, and lowered her hideous head as if to kiss
her forehead. “What a wind!” cried Madame Albert, turning precipitately toward me. “My
veil is torn.”
As she turned I felt the same infernal pressure on my shoulder, and the
place occupied by the phantom was empty. I looked out to the right and
left--the road was deserted, not an object in sight. “What a dreadful gale!” said Madame Albert. “Did you feel it? I cannot
explain the terror that seized me; my veil was torn by the wind as if by
an invisible hand; I am trembling still.”
“Never mind,” said Albert, smiling; “wrap yourself up, my dear; we will
soon be warming ourselves by a good fire at home. I am starving.”
A cold perspiration covered my forehead; a shiver ran through me; my
tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and I could not articulate a
sound; a sharp pain in my shoulder was the only sensible evidence that I
was not the victim of an hallucination. Putting my hand upon my aching
shoulder, I felt a rent in the cloak that was wrapped around me. I
looked at it; five perfectly distinct holes--visible traces of the grip
of the horrible phantom. I thought for a moment that I should die or
that my reason should leave me; it was, I think, the most dreadful
moment of my life. Finally I became more calm; this nameless agony had lasted for some
minutes; I do not think it is possible for a human being to suffer more
than I did during that time. As soon as I had recovered my senses, I
thought at first I would tell my friends all that had passed, but
hesitated, and finally did not, fearing that my story would frighten
Madame Albert, and feeling sure my friend would not believe me. The
lights of the little city revived me, and gradually the oppression of
terror that overwhelmed me became lighter. So soon as we reached home, Madame Albert untied her veil; it was
literally in shreds. I hoped to find my clothes whole and prove to
myself that it was all imagination. But no, the cloth was torn in five
places, just where the fingers had seized my shoulder. There was no
mark, however, upon my flesh, only a dull pain. I returned to Paris the next day, where I endeavored to forget the
strange adventure; or at least when I thought of it, I would force
myself to think it an hallucination. The day after my return I received a letter from my friend Albert. It
was edged with black. I opened it with a vague fear. His wife had died the day of my return. FROM THE TOMB. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF DE MAUPASSANT BY E. C. WAGGENER. The guests filed slowly into the hotel’s great dining-hall and took
their places, the waiters began to serve them leisurely, to give the
tardy ones time to arrive and to save themselves the bother of bringing
back the courses; and the old bathers, the yearly habitues, with whom
the season was far advanced, kept a close watch on the door each time it
opened, hoping for the coming of new faces. New faces! the single distraction of all pleasure resorts. We go to
dinner chiefly to canvass the daily arrivals, to wonder who they are,
what they do and what they think. A restless desire seems to have taken
possession of us, a longing for pleasant adventures, for friendly
acquaintances, perhaps, for possible lovers. In this elbow-to-elbow life
our unknown neighbors become of paramount importance. Curiosity is
piqued, sympathy on the alert and the social instinct doubly active. We have hatreds for a week, friendships for a month, and view all men
with the special eyes of watering-place intimacy. Sometimes during an
hour’s chat after dinner, under the trees of the park, where ripples a
healing spring, we discover men of superior intellect and surprising
merit, and a month later have wholly forgotten these new friends, so
charming at first sight. There, too, more specially than elsewhere, serious and lasting ties are
formed. We see each other every day, we learn to know each other very
soon, and in the affection that springs up so rapidly between us there
is mingled much of the sweet abandon of old and tried intimates. And
later on, how tender are the memories cherished of the first hours of
this friendship, of the first communion in which the soul came to light,
of the first glances that questioned and responded to the secret
thoughts and interrogatories the lips have not dared yet to utter, of
the first cordial confidence and delicious sensation of opening one’s
heart to someone who has seemed to lay bare to you his own! The very
dullness of the hours, as it were, the monotony of days all alike, but
renders more complete the rapid budding and blooming of friendship’s
flower. That evening, then, as on every evening, we awaited the appearance of
unfamiliar faces. There came only two, but very peculiar ones, those of a man and a
woman--father and daughter. They seemed to have stepped from the pages
of some weird legend; and yet there was an attraction about them, albeit
an unpleasant one, that made me set them down at once as the victims of
some fatality. The father was tall, spare, a little bent, with hair blanched white; too
white for his still young countenance, and in his manner and about his
person the sedate austerity of carriage that bespeaks the Puritan. The
daughter was, possibly, some twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. She was very slight, emaciated, her exceedingly pale countenance bearing
a languid, spiritless expression; one of those people whom we sometimes
encounter, apparently too weak for the cares and tasks of life, too
feeble to move or do the things that we must do every day. Nevertheless
the girl was pretty, with the ethereal beauty of an apparition. It was
she, undoubtedly, who came for the benefit of the waters. They chanced to be placed at table immediately opposite to me; and I was
not long in noticing that the father, too, had a strange affection,
something wrong about the nerves it seemed. Whenever he was going to
reach for anything, his hand, with a jerky twitch, described a sort of
fluttering zig-zag, before he was able to grasp what he was after. Soon,
the motion disturbed me so much, I kept my head turned in order not to
see it. But not before I had also observed that the young girl kept her
glove on her left hand while she ate. Dinner ended, I went out as usual for a turn in the grounds belonging to
the establishment. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
A sort of park, I might say, stretching clear to the
little station of Auvergne, Chatel-Guyon, nestling in a gorge at the
foot of the high mountain, from which flowed the sparkling, bubbling
springs, hot from the furnace of an ancient volcano. Beyond us there,
the domes, small extinct craters--of which Chatel-Guyon is the starting
point--raised their serrated heads above the long chain; while beyond
the domes came two distinct regions, one of them, needle-like peaks, the
other of bold, precipitous mountains. It was very warm that evening, and I contented myself with pacing to and
fro under the rustling trees, gazing at the mountains and listening to
the strains of the band, pouring from the Casino, situated on a knoll
that overlooked the grounds. Presently, I perceived the father and daughter coming toward me with
slow steps. I bowed to them in that pleasant Continental fashion with
which one always salutes his hotel companions. The gentleman halted at
once. “Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but may I ask if you can direct us to a
short walk, easy and pretty, if possible?”
“Certainly,” I answered, and offered to lead them myself to the valley
through which the swift river flows--a deep, narrow cleft between two
great declivities, rocky and wooded. They accepted, and as we walked, we naturally discussed the virtue of
the mineral waters. They had, as I had surmised, come there on his
daughter’s account. “She has a strange malady,” said he, “the seat of which her physicians
cannot determine. She suffers from the most inexplicable nervous
symptoms. Sometimes they declare her ill of a heart disease; sometimes
of a liver complaint; again of a spinal trouble. At present they
attribute it to the stomach--that great motor and regulator of the
body--this Protean disease of a thousand forms, a thousand modes of
attack. It is why we are here. I, myself, think it is her nerves. In any
case it is sad.”
This reminded me of his own jerking hand. “It may be hereditary,” said I, “your own nerves are a little disturbed,
are they not?”
“Mine?” he answered, tranquilly. “Not at all, I have always possessed
the calmest nerves.” Then, suddenly, as if bethinking himself:
“For this,” touching his hand, “is not nerves, but the result of a
shock, a terrible shock that I suffered once. Fancy it, sir, this child
of mine has been buried alive!”
I could find nothing to say, I was dumb with surprise. “Yes,” he continued, “buried alive; but hear the story, it is not long. For some time past Juliette had seemed affected with a disordered action
of the heart. We were finally certain that the trouble was organic and
feared the worst. One day it came, she was brought in lifeless--dead. She had fallen dead while walking in the garden. Physicians came in
haste, but nothing could be done. She was gone. For two days and nights
I watched beside her myself, and with my own hands placed her in her
coffin, which I followed to the cemetery and saw placed in the family
vault. This was in the country, in the province of Lorraine. “It had been my wish, too, that she should be buried in her jewels,
bracelets, necklace and rings, all presents that I had given her, and in
her first ball dress. You can imagine, sir, the state of my heart in
returning home. She was all that I had left, my wife had been dead for
many years. I returned, in truth, half mad, shut myself alone in my room
and fell into my chair dazed, unable to move, merely a miserable,
breathing wreck. “Soon my old valet, Prosper, who had helped me place Juliette in her
coffin and lay her away for her last sleep, came in noiselessly to see
if he could not induce me to eat. I shook my head, answering nothing. He
persisted:
“‘Monsieur is wrong; this will make him ill. Will monsieur allow me,
then, to put him to bed?’
“‘No, no,’ I answered. ‘Let me alone.’
“He yielded and withdrew. “How many hours passed I do not know. What a night! What a night! It was
very cold; my fire of logs had long since burned out in the great
fireplace; and the wind, a wintry blast, charged with an icy frost,
howled and screamed about the house and strained at my windows with a
curiously sinister sound. “Long hours, I say, rolled by. I sat still where I had fallen,
prostrated, overwhelmed; my eyes wide open, but my body strengthless,
dead; my soul drowned in despair. Suddenly the great bell gave a loud
peal. “I gave such a leap that my chair cracked under me. The slow, solemn
sound rang through the empty house. I looked at the clock. “It was two in the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour? “Twice again the bell pulled sharply. The servants would never answer,
perhaps never hear it. I took up a candle and made my way to the door. I
was about to demand:
“‘Who is there?’ but, ashamed of the weakness, nerved myself and drew
back the bolts. My heart throbbed, my pulse beat, I threw back the panel
brusquely and there, in the darkness, saw a shape like a phantom,
dressed in white. “I recoiled, speechless with anguish, stammering:
“‘Who--who are you?’
“A voice answered:
“‘It is I, father.’
“It was my child, Juliette. “Truly, I thought myself mad. I shuddered, shrinking backward before the
specter as it advanced, gesticulating with my hand to ward off the
apparition. It is that gesture which has never left me. “Again the phantom spoke:
“‘Father, father! See, I am not dead. Someone came to rob me of my
jewels--they cut off my finger--the--the flowing blood revived me.’
“And I saw then that she was covered with blood. I fell to my knees
panting, sobbing, laughing, all in one. As soon as I regained my senses,
but still so bewildered I scarcely comprehended the happiness that had
come to me, I took her in my arms, carried her to her room, and rang
frantically for Prosper to rekindle the fire, bring a warm drink for
her, and go for the doctor. “He came running, entered, gazed a moment at my daughter in the
chair--gave a gasp of fright and horror and fell back--dead. “It was he who had opened the vault, who had wounded and robbed my
child, and then abandoned her; for he could not efface all trace of his
deed; and he had not even taken the trouble to return the coffin to its
niche; sure, besides, of not being suspected by me, who trusted him so
fully. We are truly very unfortunate people, monsieur.”
He was silent. Meanwhile the night had come on, enveloping in the gloom the still and
solitary little valley; a sort of mysterious dread seemed to fall upon
me in presence of these strange beings--this corpse come to life, and
this father with his painful gestures. “Let us return,” said I, “the night has grown chill.”
And still in silence, we retraced our steps back to the hotel, and I
shortly afterward returned to the city. I lost all further knowledge of
the two peculiar visitors to my favorite summer resort. SANDY’S GHOST. “‘Commerdations fer the night, stranger? Waal, yes; I reckon we can fix
a place fer you. Hev a cheer an’ set you down.”
“Thank you. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Don’t you find this rather a lonely place--no neighbors, no
nothing, that I can see? How came you to settle here, so far removed
from other habitations?”
“Waal, perhaps it’s best not ter ask too many questions ter once.”
“Beg your pardon. No offense was intended, I assure you. Simply idle
curiosity.”
“Don’t say ’nuther word, stranger, but come in an’ we’ll hev a snack fer
supper. Polly, bring on the victu’ls. Yer jes’ in time.”
Polly at once obeyed. She was a typical Western girl--tall, lithe,
graceful and limpid-eyed. She was clear-skinned and high-spirited, too,
and in this case ignorant through no fault of her own. John Barr’s eyes
scanned her intently, and a flush came to her cheeks. For the first time
in her life she was unpleasantly conscious of her bare feet. It may have
been this that made her stumble and spill some of the contents of an
earthen bowl over the guest’s knees as she placed it on the table. Her eyes flashed and a tear of anger twinkled on the lashes. She
stopped, half meaning to apologize, but an oath from her father caused
her to set the bowl down heavily and to hurry from the cabin. A moment
later Barr saw a flutter of pink calico from behind a pile of rocks. Old
Kit Robinson saw it, too. “Don’t wonder at yer sayin’ ’tain’t right. She’s a sma’t gal, and a good
looker, too, as should hev been sent away frum here ter school ter be
eddicated. But she won’t leave her no ’count dad. I orter be shot fer
cussin’ her. But I ain’t what I use ter be. Settin’ here an’ keepin’
guard makes me narvous.”
Barr’s eyes asked the question his lips refused to speak. Supper eaten,
the men went outside and sat with their chairs tilted back against the
cabin. Something in the younger man’s frank face had softened old Kit
into a reminiscent mood and made him strangely inclined to gratify an
idle curiosity. The soft evening winds sighed through the branches of the tall spruce
pines, and the declining rays of the setting sun caused the shadow of
the rude home to stretch out longer across the greensward. From its
shelter where he sat John Barr looked out on the grand ranges of the
Rockies and wondered where in their vastness he would find the man he
sought--the finding of whom had brought him out into this wild and
almost forsaken mining camp. “Stranger, I’ve took a likin’ ter you. Ye’ve a sumthin’ about you thet
reminds me of sum one I know, an’ you look like an honest chap. Say, do
you b’lieve in ghosts?”
He put the question very suddenly, and a look of disappointment crossed
his face when Barr told him that he did not believe in spooks. “Waal, I’ve seen ’em!”
A thought connecting the pink calico with something in the past came to
Barr’s mind. “Can’t you tell me about it?” he asked. “I’d like ter if you’ll sw’ar, on yer derringer, never ter blab. Will
you sw’ar?”
The solitary guest started to smile, but the smile faded at the thought
of unshed tears in Polly’s eyes. It might make it easier for her if he
humored the old man. “I’ll swear,” he said. And he did. “Do you see yan old spruce at the turn of the trail an’ the cliff jes’
above? Waal, thet’s the spot I’m watchin’ an’ guardin’ till the owner
cums ter claim it. I’m quick ter burn powder an’ a pretty sure shot. I
know a man when I sees him, an’ I ain’t easy fooled. Waal, ter begin
with, I had a pardner once, an’ he wuz a man, sure ’nough. He wuz frum
the State of New York. I never axed him as ter how so fine a gent cum
ter be diggin’ an’ shov’lin’ in the Rockies, though ter myself I said
thar wuz sum good reason. He had light hair, an’ we called him Sandy,
fer short, an’ he wuz jes’ erbout as gritty as sand. We wuz as unlike as
any two fellers you ever saw. He wuz quietlike an’ steady, an’ I wuz
sorter wild an’ reckless an’ liked mounting dew mos’ too well. Waal,
when we had a little dust scraped together, we would divvy, an’ I tuk my
share way down ter the station on the other side of the cliffs an’ sent
it off ter the bank in Helena. But I allers left sum hid whar the gal
would find it. Old Sandy hed a bank of his own thet no one knew erbout,
’cepting hisself, an’ ev’ry time we divided he’d carry part of it ter
his hidin’ place, an’ then give the rest ter me ter send ter his boy,
thet he said wuz bein’ eddicated in sum college way up in Boston. He
seemed ter think a heap of thet boy. Arter awhile my old woman give out,
an’ soon we laid her away on the hillside. It wuz hard, stranger.”
Old Kit’s voice failed him for a moment, but he quickly regained his
composure and continued:
“But when old Sandy, my good old pard, give up I didn’t keer fer
nothin’. We buried him in style. All the boys frum round the diggin’s
wuz thar, an’ many an eye wuz wet. We didn’t hev nary a preacher, but
the gal she prayed at the grave. Fer the life of me I don’t know where
she larnt it. Reckon the old woman must hev told her. Next mornin’ the
gal showed me a letter thet Sandy give her jes’ afore he died. It wuz
ter his boy, an’ she wuz ter give it ter him if he ever cum out this
way, an’ she’s got it yet. “Thet same evenin’ after supper, feelin’ kinder glumish an’ like thar
wuz sumthin’ in my throat I couldn’t swaller, I tuk a stroll up the
gulch. I went on out ter the top of the edge of the big rock an’ got ter
studyin’ whar I’d find another pard like Sandy. All ter once I felt a
hand touch my shoulder kinder light once or twice. I jumped up, half
expectin’ it wuz Sandy, but it wuz only the gal. Waal, I wuz all tuk
back at fust, an’ then I got mad. “‘What air you doin’ up here?’ I axed, kinder rough. She hed tears in
her eyes as she looked at me, an’ said:
“‘Pap, don’t git mad. I wuz lonesum. I seed you cumin’ up this way, an’
I follered you, ’cause I wanted ter tell you thet Sandy said ter give
his boy his pile when he cums.’
“‘Waal,’ says I, ‘you might hev waited till I cum back ter the house.’
An’ then I sent her back. “Arter she wuz gone I sot ter studyin’ whar in the world Sandy’s pile
wuz. I tried ter think whar could he hev hid it. But it warn’t no use. All ter once I noticed it wuz plum dark, an’ as these mountings ain’t a
he’lthy place fer a man ter roam in arter nightfall, especially if he
ain’t got his shootin’ irons on, I cut a pretty swift gait fer the
shack. “Jes’ as I cum round the bend thar at the pine I happened ter look up
terward the clift, an’ thar sot Sandy. Yes, sir. It wuz him sure as yer
born. My feet felt heavy as lead, an’ I couldn’t move frum the spot. I
tried ter holler, but it warn’t no go. Finally I gave a sudden jerk an’
made a step terward him, an’ as I did so he disappeared. Then I made
tracks fer home. But I kept mum, ’cause I knowed the boys would say thet
mounting dew wuz lickin’ up my brains, an’ I would be seein’ snakes an’
sich things afore long. “The next night sumhow er ’nuther I thought ter go an’ see if he wuz
thar ag’in, an’ sure ’nough, thar he sot, lookin’ kinder sad an’ making
marks on the rocks with his fingers. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
I hed my hand on my gun this time,
so I got a little closter than afore. But, by hookey, he got away from
me ag’in, nor did he cum back. “I could hardly wait fer the next night ter cum round. At the same time
I wuz on hand good an’ early, jes’ as it begun ter git dark, an’ the
trees looked like long spooks a-stretchin’ out their arms. I looked
terward the clift, an’ thar he sot a-markin’ an’ a-scratchin’ on the
rock with his fingers an’ still looking sad. Now, this bein’ the third
time, I kinder got bold, an’ I went a little closter, an’ says:
“‘Sandy, wha-what’s the ma-mat-matter with you? Didn’t the boys do the
plantin’ right fer you?’
“Then as luck would hev it I thought of sumthin’ else right quick, an’ I
said:
“‘Or is it the dust you hev hid whar yer sittin’?’
“Waal, he looked up then, an’ the happiest smile cum ter his face, an’
all ter once he disappeared ag’in. An’ since then I hev sot here an’
guarded the place till the right one cums along ter claim it. “Let’s see. What did you say yer name wuz?”
“Pardon me. I thought I had told you. My name is John Willett Barr.”
“Polly, oh, Polly! Cum hyar, gal. What wuz Sandy’s full name? I plum
fergot.”
“What you want ter know fer?” she asked. “I ain’t a-goin’ ter tell you
now. Thet’s my own secret.”
“Cum, cum, gal. Tell me ter once, or it won’t be he’lthy fer you.”
“Waal, then,” she answered stubbornly, “it’s John Willett Barr.”
At her reply the younger man’s face grew deathly pale, and he started up
from his chair, but Kit thrust him back into his seat, saying:
“Bring me the letter, Polly.”
“What are you goin’ ter do with it, pa?” she inquired, cautiously. “I promised old Sandy on my oath ter keep it till the right one cums
erlong ter claim it, an’ I mean ter keep my word. The right one is here,
gal. Thar he sits. So trot thet letter out, an’ don’t parley long with
me if you knows when yer well off.”
Polly stared at the younger man in utter bewilderment for a moment. Then, turning slowly, she stepped quietly into the cabin after the
precious document; an unusual gleam of joy lighted up her face and a
suppressed excitement shone in her eyes. Under her breath she said:
“Sumhow er ruther I felt he wuz the right one.”
Too truly, John Barr realized in that painful moment that he whom he
sought was now dead to him; that the father from whom he had been parted
so many years was sleeping that long, dreamless sleep in the clay mound
on the hillside, which marked his last resting place. As he turned to
look at the face of old, honest Kit, who had been his father’s friend
during those long years of forced exile, a happy smile lit up the old
miner’s rugged features as he pointed with his finger to the rock cliff
near the old spruce vine, and said, in an exultant, trembling voice:
“Thar he be, stranger--jes’ as I hev seen him many a night--yer dad--my
pard--pore old Sandy!”
With an eager voice John Barr sprang forward, and the mountains echoed
and re-echoed the plaintive cry of “Father! Father!” But his
outstretched arms clasped only emptiness and the darkening shadows of
the rapidly approaching night. THE GHOSTS OF RED CREEK. BY S. T.
To the northward of Mississippi City and its neighbor, Handsboro, there
extends a tract of pine forest for miles with but few habitations
scattered through it. Black and Red Creeks, with their numerous
branches, drain this region into the Pascagoula River to the eastward. With the swamps of Pascagoula as a refuge, and the luxuriant and
unfrequented bottoms of Red and Black Creeks to browse upon, there are
few choicer spots for deer. Knowing this fact, a small party of
gentlemen on the day before a crisp, cold Christmas, started from
Handsboro in a large four-wheeled wagon for a thirty-mile drive into
this wilderness of pine and a week’s sport after the deer. The guide was
Jim Caruthers, a true woodsman, and the driver and general factotum, a
jolly negro named Jack Lyons, than whom no one could make a better
hoe-cake and cook a venison steak. His laugh could be heard a quarter of
a mile, and his good nature was as expansive as the range of the
laughter. The usual experiences of a hunting camp were heartily enjoyed during
the first days of this life out of doors; but its cream did not rise
until about the fifth night, when, from familiar intercourse, Jack Lyons
became loquacious, and after the day’s twenty or twenty-five-mile walk,
would spin yarns in front of the camp fire, which brought forgetfulness
of fatigue. The night before New Year’s was intensely cold. The cold north wind of
the afternoon had subsided at sunset, and only a gust now and again
touched the musical leaves of the pines, making them vibrant with that
mournful score of nature’s operas which even maestros have failed to
catch. In front of two new and white tents two sportsmen reclined at length
within reach of the warmth of the fire, while opposite them rested at
ease the guide and the worthy Jack Lyons. Wearied with the day’s chase four stanch hounds--Ringwood, Rose, Jet and
Boxer--were dreaming of future quarry. The firelight brought out in bright relief the trunks of the tall pines
like cathedral columns, and sparkling through the leafy dome overhead
the scintillating stars glistened with a diamond brightness. A silence
which added its influence to the scene rested about the borders of the
creek below, and gave more effect to the story of the veteran teamster
than perhaps it otherwise would have had. “If de deer run down de creek,” said old Jack, smacking his lips over a
carefully prepared brewing of the real Campbellton punch, “wese boun’ to
see fun to-morrer, for dey’ll take us down thar by de old Gibbet’s
place. In daylight dere’s no place like it, but after nightfall, you bet
you wouldn’t catch dis nigger thar.”
Old Jack was naturally asked why he didn’t care about visiting the
Gibbet’s place at night. Asking to be excused until he filled his pipe,
the silence was unbroken until his return. He piled on more pine knots
and commenced:
“You kno’, gemmen, dat when de gunboats was in de sound we folks had to
travel way back hyar on dese roads outun de range of deir big guns. I
was ’gaged by Mr. Harrison in hauling salt from de factory at
Mississippi City, on de beach ober to Mobile, an’ I had been making a
trip ebery week or so. Dis back country road was neber thought ob by de
Federals, an’ we had good times long de way, no shells and no shootin’. “De nite, gemmen, I’se speakin’ of was a Friday, dat yous all knows is
unlucky. Well, you see, I hitched up Betsie an’ Rose in de lead, an’ ole
Fox an’ Blossom at de pole, an’ takes in de biggest load of salt dat
team eber carried. I starts out an’ crosses de Biloxi Riber at Han’sboro
jes’ as de moon was goin’ down. Yes, boss, dese roads weren’t no better
den now, an’ de rain had made ’em mighty rough when yer come to de
holes. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
“I sat in de seat whistlin’ ‘De Cows is in de Pea Patch,’ and a-thinkin’
of Sarah Jamison, what was afterwards my wife, when I felt de off fore
wheel go ‘kersush’ in a hole up to de hub. I’d made seventeen miles out
ob Han’sboro. I did some cussin’, an’ den went to de fence, about twenty
yards off, an’ took out a rail to prize up de wheel. Den I saw I was at
Mister Gibbet’s place. I sez to myself, I’ll go up to de house an’ get
old Mr. Gibbet to give me a turn. I had done gone by dar two weeks afore
an’ seed de old man. “Now, gemmen, yer listen to me, for what I’se tellin’ yer is as sure as
Jinny’ll blow de horn on de las’ day. I walked up to de house an’ dar I
saw a bright light inside. It showed out froo de windows, an’ I saw
shadders of Miss Gibbet and Mrs. Gibbet on de window curtain--shore,
honeys, shore. De front do’ was shet, an’ I steps up on ter de gallery
an’ knocks wid de butt end of my whip. I didn’t knock loud, needer. God
bless us all, gemmen, de lights went out like dat, an’ I hears set up a
laugh, ha-ha-ha-ha. How dat set my knees a-shakin’. I opens de do’, an’
dere was no sign of anybody. I struck a match an’ all de furniture was
moved out, an’ de old red curtain dat I fought I seed was in rags. De
whole family was gone, for shore. I didn’t kno’ ’zactly what to think
’bout dem strange voices, but I started back to de wagon, when it
lightened, an’ bress God, dar in de front yard was six graves jes’ made. Somefin’ wrong here, sed I; an’ I builds a fire by de wagon an’ digs de
wheel out. Jes’ den old Squire Pasture kem along de road from Mobile,
an’ he tells me de news. Ole man Gibbet cut de froats of his wife and
fore chillerns an’ shoot hisself in de head outun jealousy of his wife. Dey was all buried in de front yard, an’ de house was deserted ten days
befo’. “Gemmen, when I hear dat, dem mules make de quickest time to Mobile eber
seed; an’ youse can tell me dar’s no ghosts, but yo’ don’ catch me roun’
dat log house of Gibbet’s ’ceptin’ sun’s an hour high.”
Jack looked suspiciously over his shoulder into the darkness and crawled
into his blanket, muttering:
“It scares dis nigger eben now to tell ’bout dat night.”
Sleep soon fell upon the camp, but the impression of old Jack’s story
survived the night, and the next day he still asserted its truth. THE SPECTRE BRIDE. The winter nights up at Sault Ste. Marie are as white and luminous as
the Milky Way. The silence that rests upon the solitude appears to be
white also. Nature has included sound in her arrestment. Save the still
white frost, all things are obliterated. The stars are there, but they
seem to belong to heaven and not to earth. They are at an immeasurable
height, and so black is the night that the opaque ether rolls between
them and the observer in great liquid billows. In such a place it is difficult to believe that the world is peopled to
any great extent. One fancies that Cain has just killed Abel, and that
there is need for the greatest economy in the matter of human life. The night Ralph Hagadorn started out for Echo Bay he felt as if he were
the only man in the world, so complete was the solitude through which he
was passing. He was going over to attend the wedding of his best friend,
and was, in fact, to act as the groomsman. Business had delayed him, and
he was compelled to make his journey at night. But he hadn’t gone far
before he began to feel the exhilaration of the skater. His skates were
keen, his legs fit for a longer journey than the one he had undertaken,
and the tang of the frost was to him what a spur is to a spirited horse. He cut through the air as a sharp stone cleaves the water. He could feel
the tumult of the air as he cleft it. As he went on he began to have
fancies. It seemed to him that he was enormously tall--a great Viking of
the Northland, hastening over icy fiords to his love. That reminded him
that he had a love--though, indeed, that thought was always present with
him as a background for other thoughts. To be sure, he had not told her
she was his love, because he had only seen her a few times and the
opportunity had not presented itself. She lived at Echo Bay, too, and
was to be the maid of honor to his friend’s bride--which was another
reason why he skated on almost as swiftly as the wind, and why, now and
then, he let out a shout of exhilaration. The one drawback in the matter was that Marie Beaujeu’s father had
money, and that Marie lived in a fine house and wore otter skin about
her throat and little satin-lined mink boots on her feet when she went
sledding, and that the jacket in which she kept a bit of her dead
mother’s hair had a black pearl in it as big as a pea. These things
made it difficult--nay, impossible--for Ralph Hagadorn to say anything
more than “I love you.” But that much he meant to have the satisfaction
of saying, no matter what came of it. With this determination growing upon him he swept along the ice which
gleamed under the starlight. Indeed, Venus made a glowing path toward
the west and seemed to reassure him. He was sorry he could not skim down
that avenue of light from the love star, but he was forced to turn his
back upon it and face toward the northeast. It came to him with a shock that he was not alone. His eyelashes were a
good deal frosted and his eyeballs blurred with the cold, and at first
he thought it an illusion. But he rubbed his eyes hard and at length
made sure that not very far in front of him was a long white skater in
fluttering garments who sped over the snows fast as ever werewolf went. He called aloud, but there was no answer, and then he gave chase,
setting his teeth hard and putting a tension on his firm young muscles. But however fast he might go the white skater went faster. After a time
he became convinced, as he chanced to glance for a second at the North
Star, that the white skater was leading him out of his direct path. For
a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should not keep to his road, but
the strange companion seemed to draw him on irresistibly, and so he
followed. Of course it came to him more than once that this might be no earthly
guide. Up in those latitudes men see strange things when the hoar frost
is on the earth. Hagadorn’s father, who lived up there with the Lake
Superior Indians and worked in the copper mines, had once welcomed a
woman at his hut on a bitter night who was gone by morning, and who left
wolf tracks in the snow--yes, it was so, and John Fontanelle, the
half-breed, could tell you about it any day--if he were alive. (Alack,
the snow where the wolf tracks were is melted now!) Well, Hagadorn followed the white skater all the night, and when the ice
flushed red at dawn and arrows of lovely light shot up into the cold
heavens, she was gone, and Hagadorn was at his destination. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Then, as he
took off his skates while the sun climbed arrogantly up to his place
above all other things, Hagadorn chanced to glance lakeward, and he saw
there was a great wind-rift in the ice and that the waves showed blue as
sapphires beside the gleaming ice. Had he swept along his intended path,
watching the stars to guide him, his glance turned upward, all his body
at magnificent momentum, he must certainly have gone into that cold
grave. The white skater had been his guardian angel! Much impressed, he went up to his friend’s house, expecting to find
there the pleasant wedding furore. But someone met him quietly at the
door, and his friend came downstairs to greet him with a solemn
demeanor. “Is this your wedding face?” cried Hagadorn. “Why, really, if this is
the way you are affected, the sooner I take warning the better.”
“There’s no wedding to-day,” said his friend. “No wedding? Why, you’re not----”
“Marie Beaujeu died last night----”
“Marie----”
“Died last night. She had been skating in the afternoon, and she came
home chilled and wandering in her mind, as if the frost had got in it
somehow. She got worse and worse and talked all the time of you.”
“Of me?”
“We wondered what it all meant. We didn’t know you were lovers.”
“I didn’t know it myself; more’s the pity.”
“She said you were on the ice. She said you didn’t know about the big
breaking up, and she cried to us that the wind was off shore. Then she
cried that you could come in by the old French Creek if you only
knew----?”
“I came in that way,” interrupted Hagadorn. “How did you come to do that? It’s out of your way.”
So Hagadorn told him how it came to pass. And that day they watched beside the maiden, who had tapers at her head
and feet, and over in the little church the bride who might have been at
her wedding said prayers for her friend. Then they buried her in her
bridesmaid’s white, and Hagadorn was there before the altar with her, as
he intended from the first. At midnight the day of the burial her
friends were married in the gloom of the cold church, and they walked
together through the snow to lay their bridal wreaths on her grave. Three nights later Hagadorn started back again to his home. They wanted
him to go by sunlight, but he had his way and went when Venus made her
bright path on the ice. He hoped for the companionship of the white
skater. But he did not have it. His only companion was the wind. The
only voice he heard was the baying of a wolf on the north shore. The
world was as white as if it had just been created and the sun had not
yet colored nor man defiled it. HOW HE CAUGHT THE GHOST. “Yes, the house is a good one,” said the agent; “it’s in a good
neighborhood, and you’re getting it at almost nothing; but I think it
right to tell you all about it. You are orphans, you say, and with a
mother dependent on you? That makes it all the more necessary that you
should know. The fact is, the house is said to be haunted----”
The agent could not help smiling as he said it, and he was relieved to
see an answering smile on the two faces before him. “Ah, you don’t believe in ghosts,” he went on; “nor do I, for that
matter; but, somehow, the reputation of the house keeps me from having a
tenant long at a time. The place ought to rent for twice as much as it
does.”
“If we succeed in driving out the ghost, you will not raise the rent?”
asked the boy, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. “Well, no--not this year, at any rate,” laughed the agent. And so the
house was rented; and the slip of a girl and the tall lad, her brother,
went their way. Within a week the family had moved into the house, and were delighted
with it. It was large and cool, with wide halls and fine stairways, and
with more room than they needed. But that did not matter in the least,
for they had always been cramped in small houses, suffering many
discomforts; and they never could have afforded such a place as this if
it had not been “haunted.”
“Blessings on the ghost!” cried Margaret, gaily, as she ran about as
merry as a child. “Who would be without a ghost in the house, when it
brings one like this?”
“And it is so near your school,” said the mother; “and I used to worry
so over the long walk; and David can come home to lunch now, and you
don’t know what a pleasure that will be.”
“It seems to me,” David gravely explained, “that if I should meet the
ghost I would treat him with the greatest politeness and encourage him
to stay. We shall not miss the room he takes, shall we? I think it would
be well to set aside that room over yours, Maggie, for his ghostship’s
own, for we shall not need that, you know. Besides, the door doesn’t
shut, and he can go in and out without breaking the lock.”
And then they all laughed and had a great deal of fun over the ghost,
which was a great joke to them. They were very tired that night and slept soundly all night long. When
they met the next morning there was more laughter about the ghost which
was shy about meeting strangers, probably, and had made no effort to
introduce himself. For the next three days they were all hard at work,
trying to bring chaos into something like order; and then it was time
for the school to open, and Margaret was to begin teaching, and David
inserted an advertisement in the city papers for a maid-of-all-work, who
might help their mother in their absence. For one whole day prospective colored servants presented themselves and
announced:
“Is dis de house whar dey wants a worklady? No, ma’am, I ain’ gwine to
work in dis house. Ketch me workin’ in no ha’nted house.”
After which they each and all departed, and others came in their stead. One was secured after a while, but no sooner had she talked across the
fence with a neighbor’s servant than she, too, departed. “Never mind, children,” said Mrs. Craig, wearily, “I would much rather
do the work than be troubled in this way.”
So the maid-of-all-work was dismissed and the Craig family locked the
doors and went to their rooms, worn out with the day’s anxieties. They had been in the house four days, and there had been neither sight
nor sound of the ghost. The very mention of it was enough to start them
all to laughing, for they were thoroughly practical people, with a
fondness for inquiring into anything that seemed mysterious to them and
for understanding it thoroughly before they let it go. David was soon sleeping the sound sleep of healthy boyhood, and all was
silent in the house, when Margaret stole softly into his room and laid
her hand on his arm. He was not easy to waken, and several minutes had
passed before he sat up in bed with an articulate murmur of surprise. “Hush!” said Margaret, in a whisper, with her hand on his lips. “I want
you to come into my room and listen to a sound that I have been hearing
for some time.”
“Doors creaking,” suggested David, as he began to dress. “Nothing of the kind,” was all she said. They walked up the stairway, and along the upper hall to the door of the
unused room. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Something was wrong with the lock and the door would not
stay fastened, as I have said. Something that was not fear thrilled their hearts as they pushed the
door further ajar, and stood where they could see every foot of the
vacant floor. One of their own boxes stood in the middle of the room,
but aside from that, nothing was to be seen, and they looked at one
another in silence. “Hold the lamp a minute, Maggie,” David said, at last, and then he went
all over the room, and looked more particularly at its emptiness, and
even felt the walls. “Secret panels, you know,” he said, with a smile, but it was a very
puzzled smile indeed. “I can’t see what it could have been,” Margaret said, as they went down
the stairs. “No, I can’t see, either, but I’m going to see,” said David. “That was a
chain, and chains don’t drag around by themselves, you know. A ghost
could not drag a chain, if he were to try.”
“The conventional ghost very often drags chains,” said Margaret, as she
closed the door of her room. And then she lay awake all night and listened for the conventional ghost
that dragged a chain, but it seemed that the weight of the chain must
have wearied him, for he was not heard again. The mother had slept through it all, and next morning they gave her a
vivid account of the night’s adventure. “Perhaps it was someone in the house,” she said, in alarm. There were no
ghosts within the bounds of possibility, so far as she was concerned,
but burglars were very possible, indeed. Then Margaret and David both laughed more than ever. “What fun it would be,” said David, “for a burglar to get into this
house and try to find something worth carrying away!”
So they went on to the next night, all three fully determined to spend
the night in listening for the ghost, and running him to earth if
possible. But it was Margaret that heard the ghost, after all. She had been
sleeping and was suddenly startled wide awake, and there, overhead, was
the sound of the chain dragging; and just as she was on the point of
springing out of bed to call her brother, the chain seemed to go out of
the upper room. She lay still and listened, and in a moment she heard it
again. It was coming down the stairs. There was no carpet on the stairs, and she could hear the chain drop
from step to step, until it had come the whole way down. There it was,
almost at the door of her room, and something that was strangely like
fear kept her lying still, listening in horrified silence. Then it went along the hall, dragging close to the door; and then
further away; and back and forth for awhile; and then it began dragging
back up the stairs again. Step by step she could hear it drawn over the
edge of every step--and by the time it had reached the top she
remembered herself and called David. Again did the brother and sister make a tour of the upper room, with the
lamp. Not only that, but they looked into every nook and corner of the
upper part of the house, and at last came back, baffled. They had seen
nothing extraordinary, and they had not heard a sound. “I’m going to see that ghost to-night,” David said to his sister the
next evening. “How?”
“I’m going to sit up all night at the head of the stairs. Don’t say
anything about it to mother; it might make her uneasy.”
So, after the household were all quiet, David slipped into his place at
the head of the stairs, and sat down to his vigil. He had placed a
screen at the head of the stairway so that it hid him from view--as if a
ghost cared for a screen--and he established himself behind it, and
prepared to be as patient as he could. It seemed to him that hours so long had never been devised as those the
town clocks tolled off that night. He bore it until midnight moderately
well, because, he argued with himself, if there were any ghosts about
they would surely walk then; but they were not in a humor for walking;
and still the hours rolled on without any developments. He took the
fidgets, and had nervous twitches all over him, and at last he could
endure it no longer, and had leaned his head back against the wall and
was going blissfully to sleep when----
He heard a chain dragging just beyond the open door of that unused room. In spite of himself a shiver ran down his back. There was no mistaking
it; it was a real chain, if he had ever heard one. More than that, it
had left the room, and was coming straight towards the stairs. The hall
was dark, and it was impossible for him to see anything, although he
strained his eyes in the direction of the sound. And even while he
looked it had passed behind the screen, and was going down the stairs,
dropping from step to step with a clank. Half way down a narrow strip of moonlight from a stair-window lay
directly across the steps. Whatever the thing was, it must pass through
that patch of light, and David leaned forward and watched. Down it went from step to step, and presently it had slipped through the
light, and was down; and a little later it came back again, through the
light, and up the stairs, and back into that unused room. And then David slapped his knees jubilantly, and ran down to his room,
and slept all the rest of the night. Next morning he was very mysterious about his discoveries of the night
before. “Oh, yes, I saw the ghost,” he said to Maggie. “There; don’t ask so many
questions; I’ll tell you more about it to-morrow, maybe.”
And that was all the information she could get from him. It was very
provoking. That day David made a purchase down town and brought home a bulky
bundle, which he hid in his own room and would not let his sister even
peep at. “I’m going to try to catch a ghost to-night,” he said, “and you know how
it is; if I brag too much beforehand, I shall be sure to fail.”
He was working with something in the hall after the others had retired;
but he did not sit up this time. He went to bed, and Margaret listened
at his door and found that he was soon asleep. But away in the night they were all awakened by a squealing that brought
them all into the hall in a great hurry; and there, at the head of the
stairs, they found the huge rat-trap that David had set a few hours
before, and in the midst of the toils was a rat. “Why, David,” exclaimed the mother, “I didn’t know that there was a rat
in the house.”
And then, all at once, she saw that there was a long chain hanging from
a little iron collar around the creature’s neck, and she and Margaret
cried together. “And this was the ghost!”
Such a funny ghost when they came to think of it--this poor rat, with a
nest in some hole of the broken chimney. He had been someone’s pet,
once, perhaps; and now, the households he had broken up, the nights he
had disturbed, the wild sensations he had created--it made his captors
laugh to think that this innocent creature had been the cause of the
whole trouble. “I’ll get a cage for him, and take care of him for the rest of his
life,” said David. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
“We owe him so much that we can’t afford to be
ungrateful.”
The next morning he took the ghost-in-a-cage and showed it to the agent,
and gave him a vivid account of the capture. “So, you have a good house for about half price, all on account of that
rat,” exclaimed the agent, grimly. “Young man--but never mind, you
deserve it. What are you working for now? Six dollars a week? If you
ever want to change your place--suppose you come around here. I think
you need a business that will give you a chance to grow.”
And the agent and David shook hands warmly over the cage of the
“ghost.”
GRAND-DAME’S GHOST STORY. BY C. D.
I don’t know whether you ever tell your children ghost stories or not;
some mothers don’t, but our mother, though of German descent, was
strong-minded on the ghost subject, and early taught all of her children
to be fearless mentally as well as physically, and, though dearly fond
of hearing ghost stories, especially if they were real true ghosts, we
were sadly skeptical as to their being anything of the kind that could
harm. We were quite learned in ghostly lore, knew all about
“doppeigangers,” “Will o’ the Wisp,” “blue lights,” etc., and we could
not have a greater treat for good behavior than for our mother to draw
on her store of supernatural tales for our entertainment. The story I am
about to relate she told us one stormy night, when, gathered round her
chair in her own cozy sanctum, before a cheerful fire, we ate nuts and
apples, and listened while she recited “an o’er true tale,” told her by
her grandmother, who herself witnessed the vision:
It was a fearful night, the wind sobbed and wailed round the house like
lost spirits mourning their doom; the rain beat upon the casements, and
the trees, writhing in the torture of the fierce blast, groaned and
swayed until their tops almost swept the earth; bright flashes of
lightning pierced even through the closed shutters and heavy curtains,
and the thunder had a sullen, threatening roar that made your blood
creep. It was a night to make one seek to shut out all sound, draw the
curtains close, stir the fire and nestle deep in the arm-chair before
it, with feet upon the fender, and have something cheerful to think or
talk about. But I was all alone; none in the house with me but the
servants, and the servants’ wing was detached from the main part of the
building, for I do not care to have menials near me, and I had no loved
ones near. It was just such a night that Nancy Black died. “What a fearful night
for the soul to leave its earthly home and go out into the vast, unknown
future!” I spoke aloud, as, rousing from a train of thought, I drew my
heavy mantle closer round me, wheeled my arm-chair nearer the fire, and
cuddled down in it, burying my feet in the foot-cushion to warm them,
for I felt strangely cold. I was in the library; it was my usual
sitting-room, for I seldom used the parlors. What was the use? My books
were my friends, and I loved best to be with them. My children dead, or
married and away, the cold, grand parlors always seemed gloomy and sad;
the ghosts of departed pleasures haunted them, and I cared not to enter
them. It was a long, wide room across the hall from the parlors, running the
whole length of the house, and was lined with shelves from floor to
ceiling. My husband’s father had been a bibliomaniac, and my husband had
had a leaning that way also, and the shelves held many an old rare work
that was worth its weight in gold. The fire, though burning brightly,
did not illume one-half the room of which, sitting in the chimney
corner, I commanded a full view, and had been looking at the shadows
playing on the furniture and shelves, as the flame shot up, and after
flickering a moment, would die out, leaving a gloom which would break
away into fantastic shadows as the firelight would again shoot up. While watching the gleams of light and darkling shades, unconsciously
the wailing of the storm outside attracted my attention, there seemed to
be odd noises of tapping on the windows, and sobs and sighs, as though
someone was entreating entrance from the fierce tumult; and as I sat
there, again I thought of Nancy Black, the old schoolgirl friend who had
loved me so dearly, and the night when she went forth to meet the doom
appointed her; resting my head upon my hand, I sat gazing in the fire,
thinking over her strange life, and still stranger death, and wondering
what could have become of the money and jewels that I knew she had once
possessed. While sitting thus, a queer sensation crept over me; it was not fear,
but a feeling as though if I’d look up I’d see something frightful; a
shiver, not like that of cold, ran from my head to my feet, and a
sensation as though someone was breathing icy cold breath upon my
forehead, the same feeling you would cause by holding a piece of ice to
your cheek; it fluttered over my face and finally settled round my lips,
as though the unseen one was caressing me, thrilling me with horror. But
I am not fearful, nervous nor imaginative, and resolutely throwing off
the dread that fell upon me, I turned round and looked up, and there, so
close by my side that my hand, involuntarily thrown out, passed through
her seeming form, stood Nancy Black. It was Nancy Black, and yet not
Nancy Black; her whole body had a semi-transparent appearance, just as
your hand looks when you hold it between yourself and a strong light;
her clothing, apparently the same as worn in life, had a wavy, seething,
flickering look, like flames have, and yet did not seem to burn. “In the name of God, Nancy Black, what brought you here, and whence came
you?” I exclaimed. A hollow whisper followed:
“Thank you, my old friend, for speaking to me, and, oh, how deeply I
thank you for thinking of me to-night--I shall have rest.”
Rest! I heard echoed, and a jeering laugh rang through the room that
made her quiver at its sound. “I have been near you often; but always failed to find you in a
condition when you would be en rapport before to-night. What I came for
I will tell you; whence I come, you need not know; suffice it to say,
that were I happy I would not be here on such an errand, nor on such a
night--it is only when the elements are in a tumult, and the winds wail
and moan, that we come forth. When you hear these sounds it is souls of
the lost you hear mourning their doom--’tis then they wander up and
down, to and fro, their only release from their fearful home of torture
and undying pain. “I have come to tell you that you must go over to the old house, and in
the back room I always kept locked, have the carpet taken up from toward
the fireplace. You will see a plank with a knot-hole in it. Remove that,
and you will find what caused me to lose my soul--have prayers said for
me, for ’tis well to pray for the dead. The money and jewels give in
charity; bury in holy ground the others you find, and pray for them and
me. Ah! | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Jeannette, you thought your old friend, though strange and odd,
pure and innocent. It is a bitter part of my punishment that I must
change your thought of me. Farewell! Do not fail me, and I shall trouble
you no more. But whenever you hear that wind howl and sweep round the
house as it does to-night, know that the lost are near. It is their
swift flight through space--fleeing before the scourge of memory and
conscience--that causes that sound. “That to-morrow you may not think you are dreaming, here is a token,”
and she touched the palm of my hand with her finger-tips, and as you
see, my child, to this day, there are three crimson spots in the palm of
my hand that nothing will eradicate. “Do not fail me, and pray for us, Jeannette, pray,” and with a longing,
wistful gaze, and a deep, sobbing sigh, Nancy Black faded from my sight. “Am I dreaming?” I exclaimed, as I rose from my chair and rang the bell. When the servant entered, I bade him attend to the fire and light the
lamps, and I went through the room to see if any unusual arrangement of
the furniture could have caused the appearance, but nothing was
apparent, and I bade him send my maid to attend me in my chamber, for I
could not help feeling unwilling to remain in the library any longer
that evening. While making my toilet for the night my maid said:
“Have you burned your hand, madam?”
Glancing hastily down, I saw three dark crimson spots upon the palm of
my left hand. They had an odd look, seared as though touched by a
red-hot iron, yet the flesh was soft, not burned and not painful. Making
some excuse for it, I did not allude to it again, and dismissed her
speedily, that I might reflect undisturbed over the singular occurrence. There were the marks upon my hand; I could not remove them, and they did
not fade. In fact, their deep red made the rest of the palm lose its
pinkish hue and look pale from the strong contrast. Could I have been
asleep and dreamed it all, and by any means have done this to myself? I
thought, but finally concluded that on the morrow I’d go over to Nancy
Black’s old residence and settle the question; and with that conclusion
had to content myself until the morrow came. Nancy Black was an old friend from my girlhood, who had owned large
property in the town, and lived all alone in a spacious stone house
directly opposite my home, and who, when dying, had left me the sole
legatee of her property. When morning came I took the keys, and, with my maid, went over to
Nancy’s house. It had never been disturbed since her death, which was
sudden and somewhat singular, and the furniture remained just as she
left it when taken to her last resting place. We went to the room Nancy
had directed. I bade Sarah take up the carpet, and, sure enough, there
was a plank with a knot-hole in it; so I sent her from the room, and
lifted the plank myself, and there, between the two joints, rested a
long box, the lid not fastened. Opening it, I was horrified to see two
skeletons--those of an infant and of a woman, small in stature and
delicate frame. In a moment it flashed before me that I saw all that
remained of Nancy Black’s young sister, a girl of seventeen, who had
left home somewhat mysteriously years ago, and had died while absent--at
least, that was the version Nancy had given of her absence, and no one
had dreamed of doubting it, her tale was so naturally told. Left orphans when Lucy was only two years and Nancy eighteen, she had
devoted her life to the care of this young girl, and when she found her
sister had fallen, she, in her pride of name and position, had destroyed
mother and child, that her shame might not be known, and had lived all
those dreary years in that house with her fearful secret. Round the box, heaped up on every side, were money and jewels, and a
parchment scroll among them had written on it: “Lucy’s share of our
father’s estate.” I carried out Nancy’s wishes to the letter, for I now
firmly believed that she had come to me herself that night. To avoid
scandal resting on the dead, I took our clergyman into my confidence,
and with his assistance had the remains buried quietly in consecrated
ground. The money and jewels were given to the poor, and the old
building I turned into a home for destitute females; and morning and
night, as I kneel in prayer, I pray forgiveness to rest upon Nancy Black
and peace to her troubled soul. A FIGHT WITH A GHOST. BY Q. E. D.
“No, I never believed much in ghosts,” said the doctor. “But I was
always rather afraid of them.”
“Have you ever seen one?” asked one of the other men. The doctor took his cigar out of his mouth and contemplated the ash for
a moment or two before replying. “I have had some rather startling
experiences,” he said, after a pause, during which the rest of us
exchanged glances, for the doctor has seen many things and is not averse
to talking about them in congenial company. “Would you care about
hearing one of them? It gives me the cold shivers now to speak of it.”
We nodded, and the doctor, taking a sip as an antidote to the shivers,
began:
“You remember George Carson, who played for the ‘Varsity some years ago;
big chap, with a light mustache? Well, I saw a good deal of him before
he married, while he was reading for the bar in town. It was just after
he became engaged to Miss Stonor, who is now Mrs. Carson, that he asked
me to go down to a place which his people had taken in the country. Miss
Stonor was to be there and he wanted me to meet her. I could not go down
for Christmas Day, as I had promised to be with my people. But as I had
been working a bit too hard, and wanted a few days’ rest, I decided to
run down for a few days about the New Year. “Woodcote was a pleasant enough place to look at. There were two packs
of hounds within easy distance, and it was not far enough from a station
to cut you off completely from the morning papers. The Carsons had been
lucky, I thought, in coming across such a good house at such a moderate
figure. For, as George told me, the owner had been obliged to go abroad
for his health, and was anxious not to leave the place empty all the
winter. It was an old house, with big gables and preposterous corners
all over the place, and you couldn’t walk ten paces along any of the
passages without tumbling up or down stairs. But it had been patched
from time to time and, among other improvements, a big billiard-room had
been built out at the back. A country house in the winter without a
billiard-room, when the frost stops hunting, is just--well, not even a
gilded prison. The party was a small one; besides George and his father
and mother, there were only a couple of Misses Carson, who, being
somewhere in the early teens, didn’t count, and Miss Stonor, who, of
course, counted a good deal, and, lastly, myself. “Miss Stonor ought to have been happy, for George Carson, besides being
an excellent fellow all around, was by no means a bad match, being an
only son with considerable expectations. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
But, somehow or other, she did
not strike me as looking either very well or very happy. She gave me the
impression of having something on her mind, which made her alternately
nervous and listless. George, I fancied, noticed it, and was puzzled by
it, for I caught him several times watching her with an anxious and
inquiring look, but, as I was not there as a doctor, of course it was no
business of mine, though I discovered the reason before I left Woodcote. “The second night after my arrival--we had been playing, I remember, a
family pool; the rest had gone upstairs to bed--George and I adjourned
to a sort of study, which he had arranged upstairs, for a final smoke
and a chat before turning in. The study was next to his bedroom, and
parted off from it by curtains. As we were settling down I missed my
pipe, and remembered that I had laid it down in the billiard-room. On
principle I never smoke another man’s pipe, so I lit a candle, the house
being in darkness, and started away in search of my own. The house
looked awfully weird by the flickering light of a solitary candle, and
the stairs creaked in a particularly gruesome way behind me, just for
all the world as though someone were following at my heels. I found my
pipe where I had expected in the billiard-room, and came back in perhaps
a little more hurry than was absolutely necessary. Which, perhaps,
explains why I stumbled in the uncertain light over a couple of
unforeseen stairs, and dropped my candle. Of course it went out, but
after a little groping I found it. Having no matches with me I was
obliged to feel my way along the banisters, for it was so dark that I
could not see my hand in front of me. And as I slowly advanced, sliding
my hand along the broad balustrade at my side, it suddenly slid over
something cold and clammy, which was not balustrade at all; for,
stopping dead, and closing my fingers round it for an instant, I felt
that I was holding another hand, a skinny, bony hand, which writhed
itself slowly from my grasp. And though I could hear nothing and see
nothing, I was yet conscious that something was brushing past me and
going up the stairs. “‘Hi--what’s that? Who are you?’ I called. “There was no answer. “I admit that I was in a regular funk. I must have shown it in my face. “‘What’s the matter?’ asked George, as I blundered into his study. “‘Oh, nothing,’ I answered; ‘dropped my candle and lost the way.’
“‘But who were you talking to?’
“‘I was only swearing at the candle,’ I replied. “‘Oh! I thought perhaps you had seen--somebody,’ replied George. “Somehow I did not like to tell him the truth, for fear he would laugh
at my nervousness. But I determined to keep an eye on my liver, and take
a couple of weeks’ complete rest. That night I woke up several times
with the feeling of that confounded hand under my own--a clammy hand
which writhed as my fingers closed upon it. “The next morning after breakfast I was in the billiard-room practicing
strokes while Carson was over at the stables. Presently the door opened,
and Miss Stonor looked in. “‘Come in,’ I said; ‘George will be back from the stables in a few
minutes. Meanwhile we can have fifty up.’
“‘I wanted to speak to you,’ she said. “She was looking very tired and ill, and I began to think I should not
have an uninterrupted holiday after all. “‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ she asked, having closed the door and come
up to the table, where she stood leaning with both her hands upon it. “‘No,’ I replied, missing an easy carrom as I remembered my experience
of last night, ‘but I believe in fancy.’
“‘And, supposing then that a person fancied he saw things, is there any
remedy?’
“‘What do you mean, Miss Stonor?’ I replied, looking at her in some
surprise. ‘Do you mean that you fancy----’
“I stopped, for Miss Stonor turned away, sat down on one of the
easy-chairs by the wall, and burst into tears. “‘Oh! please help me’ she sobbed; ‘I believe I am going mad.’
“I laid down my cue and went over to her. “‘Look here, Miss Stonor,’ I said, taking her hand, which was hot and
feverish, ‘I am a doctor, and a friend of George. Now tell me all about
it, and I’ll do my best to set it right.’
“She was in a more or less hysterical condition, and her words were
freely punctuated by sobs. But gradually I managed to elicit from her
that nearly every night since she came to Woodcote she had been awakened
in some mysterious way, and had seen a horrible face looking at her from
over the top of a screen which stood by the door of her bedroom. As soon
as she moved the face disappeared, which convinced her that the
apparition existed only in her imagination. That seemed to distress her
even more than if she had believed it to be a genuine ghost, for she
thought her brain was giving way. “I told her that she was only suffering from a very common symptom of
nervous disorder, as indeed it was, and promised to send a groom into
the village to get a prescription made up for her. And, having made me
promise to breathe no word to anyone on the subject, more especially to
George, she went away relieved. Nevertheless, I was not quite certain
that I had made a correct diagnosis of the case. You see I had been
rather upset myself not many hours before. George was longer than I
expected at the stable, and I was just going to find him when at the
door I met Mrs. Carson. “‘Can you spare me one moment?’ she said, as I held open the door for
her. ‘I wanted to find you alone.’
“‘Certainly, Mrs. Carson, with pleasure; an hour, if you wish,’ I
replied. “‘It is so convenient, you know, to have a doctor in the house,’ she
said, with a nervous laugh. ‘Now I want you to prescribe me a sleeping
draught. My nerves are rather out of order, and--I don’t sleep as I
should.’
“‘Ah,’ I said, ‘do you see faces--and such like things when you wake?’
“‘How do you know?’ she asked quickly. “‘Oh, I inferred from the other symptoms. We doctors have to observe all
kinds of little things.’
“‘Well, of course, I know it is only fancy; but it is just as bad as if
it were real. I assure you it is making me quite ill; and I didn’t like
to mention it to Mr. Carson or to George. They would think I was losing
my head.’
“I gave Mrs. Carson the same prescription as I had written for Miss
Stonor, though by that time the conviction had grown upon me that there
was something wrong which could not be cured by medicine. However, I
decided to say nothing to George about the matter at present. For I
could hardly utilize the confidence which had been placed in me by Miss
Stonor and Mrs. Carson. And my own experience of the night before would
scarcely have appeared convincing to him. But I determined that on the
next day--which was Sunday--I would invent an excuse for staying at home
from church and make some explorations in the house. There was obviously
some mystery at work which wanted clearing up. “We all sat up rather late that night. There seemed to be a general
disinclination to go to bed. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
We stayed all together in the billiard-room
until nearly midnight, and then loitered about in the hall, talking in
an aimless sort of fashion. But at last Mrs. Carson said good-night,
with a confidential nod to me, and Miss Stonor murmured, ‘So many
thanks; I’ve got it,’ and they both went upstairs. George and I parted
in the corridor above. Our rooms were opposite each other. “I did not begin undressing at once, but sat down and tried to piece
together some theory to account for the uncanniness of things. But the
more I thought, the more perplexing it became. There was no doubt
whatever that I had put my hand on something extremely alive and
extremely unpleasant the night before. The bare recollection of it made
me shudder. What living thing could possibly be creeping about the house
in the dark? It was a man’s hand. Of that I was certain from the size of
it. George Carson was out of the question, for he was in his room all
the time. Nor was it likely that Mr. Carson, senior, would steal about
his own house in his socks and refuse to answer when spoken to. The only
other man in the house was an eminently respectable-looking butler; and
his hand, as I had noted particularly when he poured out my wine at
dinner, was plump and soft, whereas the mysterious hand on the
balustrade was thin and bony. And then, what was the real explanation of
the face which had appeared to the two ladies? Indigestion might have
explained either singly. Extraordinary coincidences do sometimes occur,
but it seemed too extraordinary that a couple of ladies--one old and one
young--should suffer from the same indigestion in the same house, at the
same time, and with the same symptoms. On the whole, I did not feel at
all comfortable, and looked carefully in all the cupboards and recesses,
as well as under the bed, before starting to undress. Then I went to the
door, intending to lock it. Just as my hand was upon the key, I heard a
soft step in the corridor outside, accompanied by a sound which was
something between a sigh and a groan. Very faint, but quite
unmistakable, and, under the circumstances, discomposing. It might, of
course, be George. Anyhow, I decided to look and see. I turned the
handle gently and opened the door. There was nothing to be seen in the
corridor. But on the opposite side I could see a door open, and George’s
head peeping round the corner. “‘Hullo!’ he said. “‘Hullo!’ I replied. “‘Was that you walking up the passage?’ he asked. “‘No,’ I answered, ‘I thought it might be you.’
“‘Then who the devil was it?’ he said. ‘I’ll swear I heard someone.’
“There was silence for a few moments. I was wondering whether I had
better tell him of the fright I had already had, when he spoke again:
“‘I say, just come here for a bit, old fellow; I want to speak to you.’
“I stepped across the passage, and we went together into the little
study which adjoined his bedroom. “‘Look here,’ he said, poking up the fire, which was burning low,
‘doesn’t it strike you that there is something very odd about this
house?’
“‘You mean----’
“‘Well, I wouldn’t say anything about it to the master or Miss Stonor
for fear of frightening them. All the same, scarcely a night passes but
I hear curious footsteps on the stairs. You’ve heard them yourself,
haven’t you?’
“‘Now you mention it,’ I said, ‘I confess I have.’
“‘And, what is more,’ he continued, ‘I was sitting here two nights ago
half asleep, and--it seems ridiculous, I know, but it’s a fact--I
suddenly saw a horrible face glaring at me from between those curtains
behind you. It was gone in a moment, but I saw it as plainly as I see
you.’
“I moved my seat uneasily. “‘Did you look in your bedroom or in the passage?’ I asked. “‘Yes--at once,’ he replied. ‘There was nothing to be seen; but twice
again that night I heard footsteps passing--good God!’
“He started up in his chair, staring straight over my shoulder. I turned
quickly and saw the curtains which parted off the bedroom swing
together. “‘What is it?’ I asked, breathlessly. “‘I saw it again--the same face--between the curtains.’
“I tore the hangings aside, and rushed into the next room. It was empty. The lamp was burning upon a side table, and the door was open, just as
George had left it. In the passage outside all was quiet. I came back
into the study and found George running his fingers through his hair in
perplexity. “‘There is clearly one person too many in the house,’ I said. ‘I think
we ought to draw the place and find out who it is.’
“‘All right,’ said he, picking up the poker from the fireplace; ‘if it’s
anything made of flesh and blood this will be useful, and if not----’
“He stopped short, for at that instant the most awful shriek of horror
rang through the house--a shriek of wild, uncontrollable terror, such as
I had never heard before and I never hope to hear again. One moment we
stood staring at each other, dumbfounded. The next George Carson had
dashed out of the room and down the corridor to the stairs. I followed
close behind him. For we both knew that none but a woman in mortal fear
would shriek like that, and that that woman was Miss Stonor. “Down the stairs we tumbled pell-mell in the darkness. But before I
reached the landing below, where Miss Stonor’s room was, I felt, as I
had felt the evening before, something brush swiftly past me. As I ran I
turned and caught at it in the dark. But my hand gripped only empty air. I was just about to turn back and follow it, when a cry from George
arrested me, and, looking down, I saw him standing over the prostrate
form of Miss Stonor. The door of her room was open, and by the moonlight
which streamed into the room I could see her lying in her white
nightdress across the threshold. What followed in the next few minutes
I can scarcely recall with accuracy. The whole house was aroused by the
poor girl’s awful shriek. She was quite unconscious when we came upon
her, but she revived more or less as soon as Mrs. Carson and one of the
terrified servants had lifted her into bed again. Nothing intelligible
could be gathered from her, however, as to the cause of her fright; she
only repeated, hysterically, again and again:
“‘Oh, the face; the face!’
“When I saw I could do her no further good for the present, I took
George by the arm and led him out of the room. “‘Look here, George,’ I said, ‘we must find out the reason of this at
once. I am certain I felt something go by me as I came downstairs. Now
does that staircase lead anywhere but to our rooms?’
“George considered for a moment. “‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘there is a door at the end of the passage which
leads up into a sort of lumber room.’
“‘Then we’ll explore it,’ I said. ‘For my part I can’t go to sleep until
I’ve got to the bottom of this. Get the man to bring a lantern along.’
“The butler looked as though he didn’t half like the enterprise, and, to
tell the truth, no more did I. It was the uncanniest job I ever
undertook. However, we started, the three of us. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
First of all we
searched the rooms on the floor above, where George and I slept. Everything was just as we had left it. Then I pushed open the door at
the end of the corridor. A crazy-looking staircase led up into darkness. We went cautiously up, I first with a candle, then George, and last of
all the butler with a lantern. At the top we stepped into a big, rather
low room, with beams across the ceiling, and a rough, uneven floor. Our
lights threw strange shadows into the corners, and more than once I
started at what looked like a crouching human figure. We searched every
corner. There was nothing to be seen but a few old boxes, a roll or two
of matting, and some broken chairs. But in the far corner George pointed
out to me a rickety ladder which ended at a closed trap-door. Just then
I distinctly heard the curious, half groaning, half sighing sound which
had already puzzled me in the corridor below. We stood still and looked
at one another. We all heard the sound. “‘Whatever it is, it’s up there,’ I said. ‘The question is, who is going
up?’
“George put his candle down upon the floor and stepped upon the ladder. It cracked beneath his weight. He stopped. “‘Come down; it won’t bear you,’ I said. ‘I shall have to go.’
“I don’t know that I was ever in such a queer funk as I was while I
slowly mounted that ladder, and pushed open the trap-door. I had formed
no clear idea of what I expected to find there. Certainly I was not
prepared for what happened. For no sooner was the trap-door fully open
than there fell--literally fell--upon me from the darkness above a thing
in human shape, which kicked and spat and tore at me as I stood clinging
to the ladder. It lasted but a moment or so, but in that moment I lived
a lifetime of terror. The ladder swayed and cracked beneath me, and I
fell to the floor with the thing gripping my throat like a vise. The
next instant George had stunned it with a blow from the poker and
dragged it off me. It lay upon its back on the floor--a ragged, hideous,
loathsome shape. And the mystery was solved.”
“But you haven’t told us what it really was,” said one of the listeners. The doctor smiled. “It was the owner of the house,” he replied. “He had not gone abroad. He
had gone to a private lunatic asylum with homicidal mania upon him. About a fortnight before this he had managed to escape; and, having made
his way to his former home, had concealed himself, with a cunning often
shown by lunatics, in the loft. I suppose he had found enough to eat in
his nightly rambles about the house. The only wonder is that he didn’t
kill someone before he was caught.”
COLONEL HALIFAX’S GHOST STORY. I had just come back to England, after having been some years in India,
and was looking forward to meet my friends, among whom there was none I
was more anxious to see than Sir Francis Lynton. We had been to Eton
together, and for the short time I had been at Oxford, before entering
the army, we had been at the same college. Then we had parted. He came
into the title and estates of the family in Yorkshire on the death of
his grandfather--his father had predeceased--and I had been over a good
part of the world. One visit, indeed, I had made him in his Yorkshire
home, before leaving for India, of but a few days. It will be easily imagined how pleasant it was, two or three days after
my arrival in London, to receive a letter from Lynton, saying that he
had just seen in the papers that I had arrived, and, begging me to come
down at once to Byfield, his place in Yorkshire. “You are not to tell me,” he said, “that you cannot come. In fact, you
are to come on Monday. I have a couple of horses which will just suit
you; the carriage shall meet you at Packham, and all you have got to do
is to put yourself in the train which leaves Kings Cross at twelve
o’clock.”
Accordingly, on the day appointed, I started, in due time reached
Packham, losing much time on a detestable branch line, and there found
the dog-cart of Sir Francis awaiting me. I drove at once to Byfield. The house I remembered. It was a low gable structure of no great size,
with old-fashioned lattice windows, separated from the park, where were
deer, by a charming terraced garden. No sooner did the wheels crunch the gravel by the principal entrance,
than, almost before the bell was rung, the porch-door opened, and there
stood Lynton himself, whom I had not seen for so many years, hardly
altered, and with all the joy of welcome beaming in his face. Taking me
by both hands, he drew me into the house, got rid of my hat and wraps,
looked me all over, and then, in a breath, began to say how glad he was
to see me, what a real delight it was to have got me at last under his
roof, and what a good time we would have together, like the old days
over again. He had sent my luggage up to my room, which was ready for me, and he
bade me make haste and dress for dinner. So saying he took me through a paneled hall, up an old oak staircase,
and showed me my room, which, hurried as I was, I observed was hung
with tapestry, and had a large four-post bed, with velvet curtains,
opposite the window. They had gone in to dinner when I came down, despite all the haste I
made in dressing; but a place had been kept for me next Lady Lynton. Besides my hosts, there were their two daughters, Colonel Lynton, a
brother of Sir Francis, the chaplain, and some others, whom I do not
remember distinctly. After dinner there was some music in the hall, and a game of whist in
the drawing-room, and after the ladies had gone upstairs, Lynton and I
retired to the smoking-room, where we sat up talking the better part of
the night. I think it must have been near three when I retired. Once in
bed I slept so soundly that my servant’s entrance the next morning
failed to arouse me, and it was past nine when I awoke. After breakfast and the disposal of the newspapers, Lynton retired to
his letters, and I asked Lady Lynton if one of her daughters might show
me the house. Elizabeth, the eldest, was summoned, and seemed in no way
to dislike the task. The house was, as already intimated, by no means large; it occupied
three sides of a square, the entrance and one end of the stables making
the fourth side. The interior was full of interest--passages, rooms,
galleries, as well as hall, were paneled in dark wood and hung with
pictures. I was shown everything on the ground
[Illustration: “_Losing much time on a detestable branch line._”]
floor, and then on the first floor. Then my guide proposed that we
should ascend a narrow, twisting staircase that led to a gallery. We did
as proposed, and entered a handsome long room or passage leading to a
small chamber at one end, in which my guide told me her father kept
books and papers. I asked if anyone slept in this gallery, as I noticed a bed and
fireplace, and rods by means of which curtains might be drawn, enclosing
one portion where were bed and fireplace, so as to convert it into a
very cosy chamber. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
She answered “No;” the place was not really used, except as a playroom;
though, sometimes, if the house happened to be very full--in her
great-grandfather’s time--she had heard that it had been occupied. By the time we had been over the house, and I had also been shown the
garden and the stables, and introduced to the dogs, it was nearly one
o’clock. We were to have an early luncheon, and to drive afterwards to
see the ruins of one of the grand old Yorkshire abbeys. This was a pleasant expedition, and we got back just in time for tea,
after which there was some reading aloud. The evening passed much in the
same way as the preceding one, except that Lynton, who had some
business, did not go down into the smoking-room, and I took the
opportunity of retiring early in order to write a letter for the Indian
mail, something having been said as to the prospect of hunting the next
day. I had finished my letter, which was a long one, together with two or
three others, and had just got into bed, when I heard a step overhead,
as of someone walking along the gallery, which I now knew ran
immediately above my room. It was a slow, heavy, measured tread which I
could hear getting gradually louder and nearer, and then as gradually
fading away, as it retreated into the distance. I was startled for a moment, having been told that the gallery was
unused; but the next instant it occurred to me that I had been told it
communicated with a chamber where Sir Francis kept books and papers. I
knew he had some writing to do, and I thought no more on the matter. I was down the next morning at breakfast in good time. “How late you
were last night,” I said to Lynton, in the middle of breakfast. “I heard
you overhead after one o’clock.”
Lynton replied rather shortly: “Indeed you did not, for I was in bed
last night before twelve.”
“There was someone certainly moving overhead last night,” I answered,
“for I heard his steps as distinctly as I ever heard anything in my life
going down the gallery.”
Upon which Colonel Lynton remarked that he had often fancied he had
heard steps on the staircase, when he knew that no one was about. He was
apparently disposed to say more, when his brother interrupted him
somewhat curtly, as I fancied, and asked me if I should feel inclined
after breakfast to have a horse and go out and look for the hounds. They
met a considerable way off, but if they did not find in the coverts they
would first draw, a thing not improbable, they would come our way, and
we might fall in with them about one o’clock and have a run. I said
there was nothing I should like better. Lynton mounted me on a very nice
chestnut, and the rest of the party having gone out shooting, and the
young ladies being otherwise engaged, he and I started about eleven
o’clock for our ride. It was a beautiful day, soft, with a bright sun, one of those beautiful
days which so frequently occur in the early part of November. On reaching the hilltop where Lynton had expected to meet the hounds, no
trace of them was to be discovered. They must have found at once, and
run in a different direction. At three o’clock, after we had eaten our
sandwiches, Lynton reluctantly abandoned all hopes of falling in with
the hounds, and said we would return home by a slightly different route. We had not descended the hill before we came on an old chalk quarry and
the remains of a disused kiln. I recollected the spot at once. I had been here with Sir Francis on my
former visit, many years ago. “Why, bless me!” said I; “do you remember,
Lynton, what happened here when I was with you before? There had been
men engaged removing chalk, and they came on a skeleton under some depth
of rubble. We went together to see it removed, and you said you would
have it preserved till it could be examined by some ethnologist or
anthropologist, any one of those dry-as-dusts, to decide whether the
remains were dolichocephalous or brachycephalous--whether British,
Danish, or--modern. What was the result?”
Sir Francis hesitated a moment, and then answered, “It is true, I had
the remains removed.”
“Was there an inquest?”
“No. I had been opening some of the tumuli on the Wolds. I had sent a
crouched skeleton and some skulls to the Scarsborough museum. This, I
was doubtful about--whether it was a prehistoric interment--in fact, to
what date it belonged. No one thought of an inquest.”
On reaching the house, one of the grooms who took the horses, in answer
to a question from Lynton, said that Colonel and Mrs. Hampshire had
arrived about an hour ago, and that, one of the horses being lame, the
carriage in which they had driven over from Castle Frampton was to put
up for the night. In the drawing-room we found Lady Lynton pouring out
tea for her husband’s sister and her husband, who, as we came in,
exclaimed: “We have come to beg a night’s lodging.”
It appeared that they had been on a visit in the neighborhood, and had
been obliged to leave at a moment’s notice in consequence of a sudden
death in the house where they were staying, and that, in the
impossibility of getting a fly, their hosts had sent them over to
Byfield. “We thought,” Mrs. Hampshire went on to say, “that as we were coming
here the end of next week, you would not mind having us a little sooner;
or that, if the house were quite full, you would be willing to put us up
anywhere till Monday, and let us come back later.”
Lady Lynton interposed with the remark that it was all settled; and
then, turning to her husband, added: “But I want to speak to you for a
moment.”
They both left the room together. Lynton came back almost immediately, and, making an excuse to show me,
on a map in the hall, the point to which we had ridden, said, as soon as
we were alone, with a look of considerable annoyance: “I am afraid we
must ask you to change your room. Shall you mind very much? I think we
can make you quite comfortable upstairs in the gallery, which is the
only room available. Lady Lynton has had a good fire lit; the place is
really not cold, and it will be only for a night or two. Your servant
has been told to put your things together, but Lady Lynton did not like
to give orders to have them actually moved before my speaking to you.”
I assured him that I did not mind in the very least; that I should be
quite as comfortable upstairs; but that I did mind very much their
making such a fuss about a matter of that sort with an old friend like
myself. Certainly nothing could look more comfortable than my new lodging when I
went upstairs to dress. There was a bright fire in the large grate, an
arm-chair had been drawn up beside it, and all my books and writing
things had been put in, with a reading-lamp in the central position, and
the heavy tapestry curtains were drawn, converting this part of the
gallery into a room to itself. Indeed, I felt somewhat inclined to
congratulate myself on the change. The spiral staircase had been one
reason against this place having been given to the Hampshires. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
No lady’s
long dress trunk could have mounted it. Sir Francis was necessarily a good deal occupied in the evening with his
sister and her husband, whom he had not seen for some time. Colonel
Hampshire had also just heard that he was likely to be ordered to Egypt,
and when Lynton and he retired to the smoking-room, instead of going
there I went upstairs to my own room to finish a book in which I was
interested. I did not, however, sit up long, and very soon went to bed. Before doing so, I drew back the curtains on the rods, partly because I
like plenty of air where I sleep, and partly also because I thought I
might like to see the play of the moonlight on the floor in the portion
of the gallery beyond where I lay, and where the blinds had not been
drawn. I must have been asleep for some time, for the fire, which I had left in
full blaze, was gone to a few sparks wandering among the ashes, when I
suddenly awoke with the impression of having heard a latch click at the
further extremity of the gallery, where was the chamber containing books
and papers. I had always been a light sleeper, but on the present occasion I woke at
once to complete and acute consciousness, and with a sense of stretched
attention which seemed to intensify all my faculties. The wind had
risen, and was blowing in fitful gusts round the house. A minute or two passed, and I began almost to fancy I must have been
mistaken, when I distinctly heard the creak of the door, and then the
click of the latch falling back into place. Then I heard a sound on the
boards as of one moving in the gallery. I sat up to listen, and as I did
so I distinctly heard steps coming down the gallery. [Illustration: “_Who are you?_”]
I heard them approach and pass my bed; I could see nothing, all was
dark; but I heard the tread proceeding toward where were the uncurtained
and unshuttered windows, two in number; but the moon shone through only
one of these, the nearest--the other was dark, shadowed by the chapel or
some other building at right angles. The tread seemed to me to pause now
and again, and then continue as before. I now fixed my eyes intently on the one illumined window, and it
appeared to me as if some dark body passed across it; but what? I
listened intently, and heard the step proceed to the end of the gallery,
and then return. I again watched the lighted window, and immediately that the sound
reached that portion of the long passage it ceased momentarily, and I
saw, as distinctly as I ever saw anything in my life, by moonlight, a
figure of a man with marked features, in what appeared to be a fur cap
drawn over the brows. It stood in the embrasure of the window, and the outline of the face was
in silhouette; then it moved on, and as it moved I again heard the
tread. I was as certain as I could be that the thing, whatever it was, or the
person, whoever he was, was approaching my bed. I threw myself back in the bed, and as I did see a mass of charred wood
on the hearth fell down and sent up a flash of--I fancy sparks, that
gave out a glare into the darkness, and by that--red as blood--I saw a
face near me. With a cry, over which I had as little control as the scream uttered by
a sleeper in the agony of a nightmare, I called, “Who are you?”
There was an instant during which my hair bristled on my head, as in the
horror of the darkness I prepared to grapple with the being at my side;
when a board creaked as if someone had moved, and I heard the footsteps
retreat, and again the click of the latch. The next instant there was a rush on the stairs and Lynton burst into
the room, just as he had sprung out of bed, crying: “For God’s sake,
what is the matter? Are you ill?”
I could not answer. Lynton struck a light and leaned over the bed. Then
I seized him by the arm, and said, without moving: “There has been
something in this room--gone in thither.”
The words were hardly out of my mouth when Lynton, following the
direction of my eyes, had sprung to the end of the corridor and thrown
open the door there. He went into the room beyond, looked round it, returned, and said: “You
must have been dreaming.”
By this time I was out of bed. “Look for yourself,” said he, and he led me into the little room. It was
bare, with cupboards and boxes, a sort of lumber place. “There is
nothing beyond this,” said he, “no door, no staircase. It is a blind
way.” Then he added: “Now pull on your dressing-gown and come downstairs
to my sanctum.”
I followed him, and after he had spoken to Lady Lynton, who was standing
with the door of her room ajar in a state of great agitation, he turned
to me, and said: “No one can have been in your room. You see, my and my
wife’s apartments are close below, and no one could come up the spiral
staircase without passing my door. You must have had a nightmare. Directly you screamed I rushed up the steps, and met no one descending;
and there is no place of concealment in the lumber-room at the end of
the gallery.”
Then he took me into his private snuggery, blew up the fire, lighted a
lamp, and said: “I shall be really grateful if you will say nothing
about this. There are some in the house and neighborhood who are silly
enough as it is. You stay here, and if you do not feel inclined to go to
bed, read--here are books. I must go to Lady Lynton, who is a good deal
frightened, and does not like to be left alone.”
He then went to his bedroom. Sleep, as far as I was concerned, was out of the question, nor do I
think Sir Francis and his wife slept much, either. I made up the fire, and after a time took up a book, and tried to read,
but it was useless. I sat absorbed in thoughts and questionings till I heard the servants
stirring in the morning. I went to my own room, left the candle burning,
and got into bed. I had just fallen asleep when my servant brought me a
cup of tea at eight o’clock. At breakfast Colonel Hampshire and his wife asked if anything had
happened in the night, as they had been much disturbed by noises
overhead, to which Lynton replied that I had not been very well, and had
an attack of cramp, and that he had been upstairs to look after me. From
his manner I could see that he wished me to be silent, and I said
nothing accordingly. In the afternoon, when everyone had gone out, Sir Francis took me into
his snuggery, and said: “Halifax, I am very sorry about that matter last
night. It is quite true, what my brother said, that steps have been
heard about this house, but I never gave heed to such things, putting
all noises down to rats. But after your experiences I feel that it is
due to you to tell you something, and also to make to you an
explanation. There is--there was--no one in the room at the end of the
corridor, except the skeleton that was discovered in the chalk-pit when
you were here many years ago. I confess I had not paid much heed to it. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
My archæological fancies passed; I had no visits from anthropologists;
the bones and skull were never shown to experts, but remain packed in a
chest in that lumber-room. I confess I ought to have buried them, having
no more scientific use for them, but I did not--on my word, I forgot all
about them, or, at least, gave no heed to them. However, what you have
gone through, and have described to me, has made me uneasy, and has also
given me a suspicion that I can account for that body in a manner that
had never occurred to me before.”
After a pause, he added: “What I am going to tell you is known to no one
else, and must not be mentioned by you--anyhow, in my lifetime. You know
now that, owing to the death of my father when quite young, I and my
brother and sister were brought up here with our grandfather, Sir
Richard. He was an old, imperious, hot-tempered man. I will tell you
what I have made out of a matter that was a mystery for long, and I will
tell you afterwards how I came to unravel it. My grandfather was in the
habit of going out at night with a young under-keeper, of whom he was
very fond, to look after the game and see if any poachers, whom he
regarded as his natural enemies, were about. “One night, as I suppose, my grandfather had been out with the young man
in question, and, returning by the plantations, where the hill is
steepest, and not far from the chalk-pit you
[Illustration: “_He and the keeper buried the body._”]
remarked on yesterday, they came upon a man who, though not actually
belonging to the country, was well known in it as a sort of traveling
tinker of indifferent character and a notorious poacher. Mind this, I am
not sure it was at the place I mention; I only now surmise it. On the
particular night in question, my grandfather and the keeper must have
caught this man setting snares; there must have been a tussle, in the
course of which, as subsequent circumstances have led me to imagine, the
man showed fight, and was knocked down by one or the other of the
two--my grandfather or the keeper. I believe that after having made
various attempts to restore him, they found that the man was actually
dead. “They were both in great alarm and concern--my grandfather especially. He had been prominent in putting down some factory riots, and had given
orders to the military to fire, whereby several lives had been lost. There was a vast outcry against him, and a certain political party had
denounced him as an assassin. No man was more vituperated; yet now, in
my conscience, I believe he acted with both discretion and pluck, and
arrested a mischievous movement that might have led to much bloodshed. Be that as it may, my impression is that he lost his head over this
fatal affair with the tinker, and that he and the keeper together buried
the body secretly, not far from the place where he was killed. I now
think it was in the chalk-pit, and that the skeleton found years after
there belonged to this man.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, as at once my mind rushed back to the
figure with the fur cap that I had seen against the window. Sir Francis went on: “The sudden disappearance of the tramp, in view of
his well-known habits and wandering mode of life, did not for some time
excite surprise; but, later on, one or two circumstances having led to
suspicion, an inquiry was set on foot, and among others, my
grandfather’s keepers were examined before the magistrates. It was
remembered afterwards that the under-keeper in question was absent at
the time of the inquiry, my grandfather having sent him with some dogs
to a brother-in-law of his who lived upon the moors; but whether anyone
noticed the fact, or if they did, preferred to be silent, no
observations were made. Nothing came of the investigation, and the whole
subject would have been dropped if it had not been that two years later,
for some reasons I do not understand, but at the instigation of a
magistrate recently imported into the division, whom my grandfather
greatly disliked, and who was opposed to him in politics, a fresh
inquiry was instituted. In the course of that inquiry it transpired
that, owing to some unguarded words dropped by the under-keeper, a
warrant was about to be issued for his arrest. My grandfather, who had a
fit of the gout, was away from home at the time, but on hearing the news
he came home at once. The evening he returned he had a long interview
with the young man, who left the house after he had supped in the
servants’ hall. It was observed that he looked much depressed. The
warrant was issued the next day, but in the meantime the keeper had
disappeared. My grandfather gave orders to his people to do everything
in their power to assist the authorities in the search that was at once
set on foot, but was unable himself to take any share in it. “No trace of the keeper was found, although at a subsequent period
rumors circulated that he had been heard of in America. But the man
having been unmarried, he gradually dropped out of remembrance, and as
my grandfather never allowed the subject to be mentioned in his
presence, I should probably never have known anything about it but for
the vague tradition which always attaches to such events, and for this
fact, that after my grandfather’s death, a letter came addressed to him
from somewhere in the United States from some one--the name different
from that of the keeper--but alluding to the past, and implying the
presence of a common secret, and, of course, with it came a request for
money. I replied, mentioning the death of Sir Richard, and asking for
an explanation. I did get an answer, and it is from that that I am able
to fill in so much of the story. But I never learned where the man had
been killed and buried, and my next letter to the fellow was returned
with ‘deceased’ written across it. Somehow, it never occurred to me till
I heard your story that possibly the skeleton in the chalk-pit might be
that of the poaching tinker. I will now most assuredly have it buried in
the churchyard.”
“That certainly ought to be done,” said I. “And,” said Sir Francis, after a pause, “I give you my word--after the
burial of the bones, and you are gone, I will sleep for a week in the
bed in the gallery, and report to you if I see or hear anything. If all
be quiet, then--well, you form your own conclusions.”
I left a day after. Before long I got a letter from my friend, brief,
but to the point: “All quiet, old boy; come again.”
THE GHOST OF THE COUNT. Not far from the Alameda, in the City of Mexico, there is a great old
stone building, in which once lived a very wealthy and wicked Spanish
count. The house has about four floors, and ninety rooms, more or less. The entire fourth floor is rented and occupied by a big American firm,
and their bookkeeper, an American girl, has given us the following true
account of the ghost that for years haunted the building. The second
floor is unoccupied, as no one cares to live there for obvious reasons. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
And the bottom floor is also unoccupied, save for lumber rooms, empty
boxes and crates and barrels. And last of all is the great patio with
its tiled floor, where secretly in the night a duel was fought to the
death by the wicked count and a famous Austrian prince, who was one of
Maximilian’s men. The count was killed. No one knows why the duel was fought; some say it was because of a
beautiful Spanish woman; some say that it was because of treasure that
the two jointly “conveyed,” and which the count refused to divide with
his princely “socio,” and more people--Mexicans--shrug their shoulders
if you ask about it, and say, “Quien sabe?”
“I saw a ghost here last night, Miss James,” announces our cashier with
much eclat and evident pride. So great is the shock that I gasp, and my pen drops, spattering red ink
on my nice fresh cuffs, and (worse luck!) on the ledger page that I had
just totted up. It is ruined, and I will have to erase it,
or--something! Wretched man! “I wish to goodness it had taken you off,” I cry, wrathfully, as I look
at the bespattered work. “Now will you just look here and see what you
have done? I wish you and your ghosts were in----”
“Gehenna?” he inquires, sweetly; “I’ll fix that--it won’t take half a
minute. And don’t look so stern, else I won’t tell you about the
‘espanto.’ And you will be sorry if you don’t hear about it--it would
make such a good story.” (Insinuatingly.) “Then go ahead with it.” (Ungraciously.) “Well, last night I was waiting for West. He was to meet me here, after
which it was our intention to hit the--that is, I mean we were going out
together. (I nod scornfully.) And it seems that while I was patiently
waiting here, in my usual sweet-tempered way, the blank idiot had his
supper and then lay down to rest himself for a while. You know how
delicate he is? (Another contemptuous nod.) Unfortunately he forgot the
engagement, and slept on. He says he never awoke until three o’clock,
and so didn’t come, thinking I wouldn’t be there. Meantime I also went
to sleep, and might have snoozed on until three, likewise, but for the
fact that the ghost woke me----”
“Well? Do go on,” I urge. “The ghost woke me, as I said,” proceeds the simpleton, slowly. “It was
passing its cold fingers over my face and groaning. Really, it was most
extraordinary. At first I didn’t know what it was; then, as I felt the
icy fingers stroking my face and heard blood-curdling groans issuing
from the darkness, I knew what it was. And I remembered the story of the
prince and his little duel down in the patio, and knew it was the ghost
of the prince’s victim. By the way, you don’t know what a funny
sensation it is to have a ghost pat your face, Miss James----”
“Pat nothing,” I retort, indignantly. “I wonder you are not ashamed to
tell me such fibs. Such a ta-ra-diddle! And as for the man that the
prince killed downstairs, you know as well as I do that he was taken
home to Spain and buried there. Why, then, should he come back here,
into our offices, and pat your face?”
“Ah, that I can’t say,” with a supercilious drawl. “I can only account
for it by thinking that the ghost has good taste--better than that of
some people I know,” meaningly. “But honestly, I swear that I am telling
you the truth--cross my heart and hope to die if I am not! And you
don’t know how brave I was--I never screamed; in fact, I never made a
sound; oh, I was brave!”
“Then what did you do?” sternly. “I ran. Por Dios, how I ran! You remember with what alacrity we got down
the stairs during the November earthquake? (I remember only too
distinctly.) Well, last night’s run wasn’t a run, in comparison--it was
a disappearance, a flight, a sprint! I went down the four flights of
stairs like a streak of blue lightning, and the ghost flew with me. I
heard the pattering of its steps and its groans clean down to the patio
door, and I assure you I quite thought I had made such an impression
that it was actually going on home with me. And the thought made me feel
so weak that I felt perforce obliged to take a--have a--that is,
strengthen myself with a cocktail. After which I felt stronger and went
home quite peacefully. But it was an uncanny experience, wasn’t it?”
“Was it before or after taking that cocktail?” I ask, incredulously. “And did you take one only or eleven?”
I am hard on the man, but he really deserves it. Ghosts! Spirits,
perhaps, but not ghosts. Whereat his feelings are quite “hurted”--so
much so that he vows he will never tell me anything again; I had better
read about Doubting Thomas; he never has seen such an unbelieving woman
in all his life, and if I were only a man he would be tempted to pray
that I might see the ghost; it would serve me right. Then, wrathfully
departs, to notice me no more that day. Not believing the least bit in ghosts I gave the matter no more thought. In fact, when you fall heir to a set of books that haven’t been posted
for nineteen days, and you have to do it all, and get up your trial
balance, too, or else give up your Christmas holidays, you haven’t much
time to think about ghosts, or anything else, except entries. And though
I had been working fourteen hours per day, the 24th of December, noon
hour, found me with a difference of $13.89. The which I, of course, must
locate and straighten out before departing next morning on my week’s
holiday. Por supuesto, it meant night work. Nothing else would do; and
besides, our plans had all been made to leave on the eight o’clock train
next morning. So I would just sit up all night, if need be, and find the
wretched balance and be done with it. Behold me settled for work that night at seven o’clock in my own office,
with three lamps burning to keep it from looking dismal and lonely, and
books and ledgers and journals piled up two feet high around me. If hard
work would locate that nasty, hateful $13.89 it would surely be found. I
had told the portero downstairs on the ground floor to try and keep
awake for a time, but if I didn’t soon finish the work I would come down
and call him when I was ready to go home. He lived in a little room, all shut off from the rest of the building,
so that it was rather difficult to get at him. Besides, he was the very
laziest and sleepiest peon possible, and though he was supposed to take
care of the big building at night, patrolling it so as to keep off
ladrones, he in reality slept so soundly that the last trumpet, much
less Mexican robbers, would not have roused him. And for this very reason, before settling to my work I was careful to go
around and look to locks and bolts myself; everything was secure, and
the doors safely fastened. So that if ladrones did break through they
would have to be in shape to pass through keyholes or possess false
keys. With never a thought of spirits or porteros, or anything else, beyond
the thirteen dollars and eighty-nine cents, I worked and added and
re-added and footed up. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
And at eleven o’clock, grazia a Dios, I had the
thirteen dollars all safe, and would have whooped for joy, had I the
time. However, I wasn’t out of the woods yet, the sum of eighty-nine
dollars being often more easy of location than eighty-nine cents. The
latter must be found, also, before I could have the pleasure of shouting
in celebration thereof. At it I went again. After brain cudgeling and more adding and prayerful
thought I at last had under my thumb that abominable eighty cents. Eureka! Only nine cents out. I could get it all straight and have some
sleep, after all! Inspired by which thought I smothered my yawns and
again began to add. I looked at my watch--ten minutes to twelve. Perhaps
I could get it fixed before one. I suppose I had worked at the nine cents for about twenty minutes. One
of the cash entries looked to me to be in error. I compared it with the
voucher--yes, that was just where the trouble lay! Eleven
cents--ten--nine----
S-t-t! Out went the lights in the twinkling of an eye--as I sat, gaping
in my astonishment, from out of the pitchy darkness of the room came the
most dreary, horrible, blood-curdling groan imaginable. As I sat
paralyzed, not daring to breathe, doubting my senses for a moment, and
then thinking indignantly that it was some trick of that wretched
cashier, I felt long, thin, icy fingers passing gently over my face. Malgame Dios! what a sensation! At first I was afraid to move. Then I
nervously tried to brush the icy, bony things away. As fast as I
brushed, with my heart beating like a steam-hammer, and gasping with
deadly fear, the fingers would come back again; a cold wind was blowing
over me. Again came that dreadful groan, and too frightened to move or
scream, I tumbled in a heap on the floor, among the books and ledgers. Then I suppose I fainted. When I regained my senses I was still in a heap with the ledgers; still
it was dark and still I felt the cold fingers caressing my face. At
which I became thoroughly desperate. No ghost should own me! I had
laughed at the poor cashier and hinted darkly at cocktails. Pray, what
better was I? I scrambled to my feet, the fingers still stroking my face. I must
address them--what language--did they understand English or Spanish, I
wondered? Spanish would doubtless be most suitable, if indeed, it was
the ghost of the murdered count----. “Will you do me the favor, Senor Ghost,” I started out bravely, in my
best Spanish, but with a very trembling voice, “to inform me what it is
that you desire? Is there anything I can do for you? Because, if not, I
would like very much to be allowed to finish my work, which I cannot do
(if you will pardon my abruptness) if I am not alone.”
(Being the ghost of a gentleman and a diplomat, surely he would take the
hint and vanish. Ojala!) Perhaps the ghost did not understand my Spanish; at any rate there was
no articulate reply; there was another groan--again the fingers touched
me, and then there was such a mournful sigh that I felt sorry for the
poor thing--what could be the matter with it? With my pity, all fear was
lost for a moment, and I said to the darkness all about me:
“What is it that you wish, pobre senor? Can I not aid you? I am not
afraid--let me help you!”
The fingers moved uncertainly for a moment; then the ledgers all fell
down, with a loud bang; a cold hand caught mine, very gently--I tried
not to feel frightened, but it was difficult--and I was led off blindly,
through the offices. I could not see a thing--not a glimmer of light
showed; not a sound was heard except my own footsteps, and the faint
sound of the invisible something that was leading me along--there were
no more groans, thank goodness, else I should have shrieked and fainted,
without a doubt. Only the pattering footsteps and the cold hand that led
me on and on. We--the fingers and I--were somehow in the great hall, then on the
second floor, and at last on the stairs, going on down, flight after
flight. Then I knew that I was being led about by the fingers on the
tiled floor of the patio, and close to the portero’s lodge. Simpleton
that he was! Sleeping like a log, no doubt, while I was being led about
in the black darkness by an invisible hand, and no one to save me! I
would have yelled, of course, but for one fact--I found it utterly
impossible to speak or move my tongue, being a rare and uncomfortable
sensation. But where were we going? Back into the unused lumber rooms, joining onto
the patio? Nothing there, except barrels and slabs and empty boxes. What
could the ghost mean? He must be utterly demented, surely. In the middle of the first room we paused. I had an idea of rushing out
and screaming for the portero, but abandoned it when I found that my
feet wouldn’t go. I heard steps passing to and fro about the floor, and
waited, cold and trembling. They approached me; again my hand was taken,
and I was led over near the corner of the room. Obedient to the unseen
will, I bent down and groped about the floor, guided by the cold fingers
holding mine, until I felt something like a tiny ring, set firmly in the
floor. I pulled at it faintly, but it did not move, at which the ghost
gave a faint sigh. For a second the cold fingers pressed mine, quite
affectionately, then released me, and I heard steps passing slowly into
the patio, then dying away. Where was it going, and what on earth did it
all mean? But I was so tired and wrought up I tried to find the door, but couldn’t
(the cashier would have been revenged could he have seen me stupidly
fumbling at a barrel, thinking it was the door), and at last, too
fatigued and sleepy to stand, I dropped down on the cold stone floor
and went to sleep. I must have slept for some hours, for when I awoke the light of dawn was
coming in at the window, and I sat up and wondered if I had taken leave
of my senses during the night. What on earth could I be doing here in
the lumber-room? Then, like a flash, I remembered, and, half
unconsciously, crept about on the floor seeking the small ring. There it
was! I caught it and jerked at it hard. Hey, presto, change! For it
seemed to me that the entire floor was giving way. There was a sliding,
crashing sound, and I found myself hanging on for dear life to a barrel
that, fortunately, retained its equilibrium, and with my feet dangling
into space. Down below me was a small, stone-floored room, with big
boxes and small ones ranged about the walls. Treasure! Like a flash the
thought struck me, and with one leap I was down in the secret room
gazing about at the boxes. But, alas! upon investigation, the biggest chests proved empty. The bad,
wicked count! No wonder he couldn’t rest in his Spanish grave, but must
come back to the scene of his wickedness and deceit to make reparation! | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
But the smaller chests were literally crammed with all sorts of
things--big heavy Spanish coins, in gold and silver--gold and silver
dinner services, with the crest of the unfortunate emperor; magnificent
pieces of jeweled armor and weapons, beautiful jewelry and loose
precious stones. I deliberately selected handfuls of the latter, giving
my preference to the diamonds and pearls--I had always had a taste for
them, which I had never before been able to gratify!--and packed them in
a wooden box that I found in the lumber-room. The gold and dinner
services and armor, etc., I left as they were, being rather cumbersome,
and carried off, rejoicing, my big box of diamonds and pearls and other
jewelry. Needless to say we didn’t go away for the holidays on the eight o’clock
train. But I did come down to the office and proceeded to locate my
missing nine cents. After which I unfolded the tale of the ghost and the
treasure--only keeping quiet the matter of my private loot. Of which I
was heartily glad afterwards. For when the government learned of the
find what do you suppose they offered me for going about with the ghost
and discovering the secret room and treasure? Ten thousand dollars! When
I refused, stating that I would take merely, as my reward, one of the
gold dinner services, the greedy things objected at first, but I finally
had my way. And to this very day they have no idea that I--even I--have
all the beautiful jewels. Wouldn’t they be furious if they knew it? But
they aren’t apt to, unless they learn English and read this story. Which
isn’t likely. THE OLD MANSION. Down on Long Beach, that narrow strip of sand which stretches along the
New Jersey coast from Barnegat Inlet on the north to Little Egg Harbor
Inlet on the south, the summer sojourner at some one of the numerous
resorts, which of late years have sprung up every few miles, may, in
wandering over the sand dunes just across the bay from the village of
Manahawkin, stumble over some charred timbers or vestiges of crumbling
chimneys, showing that once, years back, a human habitation has stood
there. If the find rouses the jaded curiosity of the visitor
sufficiently to impel him to question the weatherbeaten old bayman who
sails him on his fishing trips he will learn that these relics mark the
site of one of the first summer hotels erected on the New Jersey coast. “That’s where the Old Mansion stood,” he will be informed by Captain
Nate or Captain Sam, or whatever particular captain it may chance to be,
and if by good fortune it chances to be Captain Jim, he will hear a
story that will pleasantly pass away the long wait for a sheepshead
bite. It was my good luck to have secured Captain Jim for a preceptor in the
angler’s art during my vacation last summer, and his stories and
reminiscences of Long Beach were not the least enjoyable features of the
two weeks’ sojourn. Captain Jim was not garrulous. Few of the baymen are. They are a sturdy,
self-reliant and self-controlled people, full of strong common sense,
but still with that firm belief in the supernatural which seems inherent
in dwellers by the sea. “The Old Mansion,” said Captain Jim, “or the Mansion of Health, for that
was its full name, was built away back in 1822, so I’ve heard my father
say. There had been a tavern close by years before that was kept by a
man named Cranmer, and people used to come from Philadelphia by stage,
sixty miles through the pines, to ‘Hawkin, and then cross here by boat. Some would stop at Cranmer’s and others went on down the beach to
Homer’s which was clear down at End by the Inlet. Finally some of the
wealthy people concluded that they wanted better accommodations than
Cranmer gave, so they formed the Great Swamp Long Beach Company, and
built the Mansion of Health. I’ve heard that when it was built it was
the biggest hotel on the coast, and was considered a wonder. It was 120
feet long, three stories high, and had a porch running all the way
around it, with a balcony on top. It was certainly a big thing for
those days. I’ve heard father tell many a time of the stage loads of gay
people that used to come rattling into ‘Hawkin, each stage drawn by four
horses, and sometimes four or five of them a day in the summer. A good
many people, too, used to come in their own carriages, and leave them
over on the mainland until they were ready to go home. There were gay
times at the Old Mansion then, and it made times good for the people
along shore, too.”
“How long did the Old Mansion flourish, Captain?” I asked. “Well, for twenty-five or thirty years people came there summer after
summer. Then they built a railroad to Cape May, and that, with the
ghosts, settled the Mansion of Health.”
“What do you mean by the ghosts?” I demanded. “Well, you see,” said Captain Jim, cutting off a mouthful of navy plug,
“the story got around that the old house was haunted. Some people said
there were queer things seen there, and strange noises were heard that
nobody could account for, and pretty soon the place got a bad name and
visitors were so few that it didn’t pay to keep it open any more.”
“But how did it get the name of being haunted, Captain Jim?” I
persisted. “Why, it was this way,” continued the mariner. “Maybe you’ve heard of
the time early in the fifties when the Powhatan was wrecked on the beach
here, and every soul on board was lost. She was an emigrant ship, and
there were over 400 people aboard--passengers and crew. She came ashore
here during the equinoctial storm in September. There wasn’t any
life-saving stations in them days, and everyone was drowned. You can see
the long graves now over in the ‘Hawkin churchyard, where the bodies
were buried after they came ashore. They put them in three long trenches
that were dug from one end of the burying-ground to the other. The only
people on the beach that night was the man who took care of the old
mansion. He lived there with his family, and his son-in-law lived with
him. He was the wreckmaster for this part of the coast, too. It wasn’t
till the second day that the people from ‘Hawkin could get over to the
beach, and by that time the bodies had all come ashore, and the
wreckmaster had them all piled up on the sand. I was a youngster, then,
and came over with my father, and, I tell you, it was the awfullest
sight I ever saw--them long rows of drowned people, all lying there with
their white, still faces turned up to the sky. Some were women, with
their dead babies clasped tight in their arms, and some were husbands
and wives, whose bodies came ashore locked together in a death embrace. I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live. Well, when the coroner
came and took charge he began to inquire whether any money or valuables
had been found, but the wreckmaster declared that not a solitary coin
had been washed ashore. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
People thought this was rather singular, as the
emigrants were, most of them, well-to-do Germans, and were known to have
brought a good deal of money with them, but it was concluded that it had
gone down with the ship. Well, the poor emigrants were given pauper
burial, and the people had begun to forget their suspicions until three
or four months later there came another storm, and the sea broke clear
over the beach, just below the Old Mansion, and washed away the sand. Next morning early two men from ‘Hawkin sailed across the bay and landed
on the beach. They walked across on the hard bottom where the sea had
washed across, and, when about half way from the bay, one of the men saw
something curious close up against the stump of an old cedar tree. He
called the other man’s attention to it, and they went over to the stump. What they found was a pile of leather money-belts that would have filled
a wheelbarrow. Every one was cut open and empty. They had been buried in
the sand close by the old stump, and the sea had washed away the
covering. The men didn’t go any further. “They carried the belts to their boats and sailed back to ‘Hawkin as
fast as the wind would take them. Of course, it made a big sensation,
and everybody was satisfied that the wreckmaster had robbed the bodies,
if he hadn’t done anything worse, but there was no way to prove it, and
so nothing was done. The wreckmaster didn’t stay around here long after
that, though. The people made it too hot for him, and he and his family
went away South, where it was said he bought a big plantation and a lot
of slaves. Years afterward the story came to ‘Hawkin somehow that he was
killed in a barroom brawl, and that his son-in-law was drowned by his
boat upsettin’ while he was out fishin’. I don’t furnish any affidavits
with that part of the story, though. “However, after that nobody lived in the Old Mansion for long at a time. People would go there, stay a week or two, and leave--and at last it was
given up entirely to beach parties in the day time, and ghosts at
night.”
“But, Captain, you don’t really believe the ghost part, do you?” I
asked. Captain Jim looked down the bay, expectorated gravely over the side of
the boat, and answered, slowly:
“Well, I don’t know as I would have believed in ’em if I hadn’t seen the
ghost.”
“What!” I exclaimed; “you saw it? Tell me about it. I’ve always wanted
to see a ghost, or next best thing, a man who has seen one.”
“It was one August, about 1861,” said the captain. “I was a young
feller then, and with a half dozen more was over on the beach cutting
salt hay. We didn’t go home at nights, but did our own cooking in the
Old Mansion kitchen, and at nights slept on piles of hay upstairs. We
were a reckless lot of scamps, and reckoned that no ghosts could scare
us. There was a big full moon that night, and it was as light as day. The muskeeters was pretty bad, too, and it was easier to stay awake than
go to sleep. Along toward midnight me and two other fellers went out on
the old balcony, and began to race around the house. We hollered and
yelled, and chased each other for half an hour or so, and then we
concluded we had better go to sleep, so we started for the window of the
room where the rest were. This window was near one end on the ocean
side, and as I came around the corner I stopped as if I had been shot,
and my hair raised straight up on top of my head. Right there in front
of that window stood a woman looking out over the sea, and in her arms
she held a little child. I saw her as plain as I see you now. It seemed
to me like an hour she stood there, but I don’t suppose it was a second;
then she was gone. When I could move I looked around for the other boys,
and they were standing there paralyzed. They had seen the woman, too. We
didn’t say much, and we didn’t sleep much that night, and the next night
we bunked out on the beach. The rest of the crowd made all manner of
fun of us, but we had had all the ghost we wanted, and I never set foot
inside the old house after that.”
“When did it burn down, Captain?” I asked, as Jim relapsed into silence. “Somewhere about twenty-five years ago. A beach party had been roasting
clams in the old oven, and in some way the fire got to the woodwork. It
was as dry as tinder, and I hope the ghosts were all burnt up with it.”
A MISFIT GHOST. Every boy with a knowledge of adventurous literature, otherwise “novels
of action,” knows of the “phantom ship,” the spook of the high seas. But it has not been known that ships themselves are haunted, and that in
the service of the United States Coast Survey there is a vessel now in
commission that is by her own officers supposed to be haunted. Yet the Eagre, a 140-foot schooner of the coast survey, is looked upon
in the service as a very undesirable vessel to be aboard of. About her
there is an atmosphere of gloom that wardroom jest cannot dispel. Duty on board her has been shunned as would be a pestilence, and stories
have been told by officers who have cruised aboard her that are not good
for timid people to hear. Officers have hesitated about telling these
uncanny stories, but they have become sufficiently well known to make a
billet to duty aboard the Eagre unwelcome among the coast survey men. The Mohawk was launched June 10, 1875, at Greenpoint, and she was then
the largest sailing yacht afloat. William T. Garner, her young millionaire owner, was very proud of his
new craft, and all the then leaders of New York society were invited to
participate in the good time afloat with which her launching was
celebrated. Commodore Garner, then but thirty-three years old, and his
young wife entertained charmingly, and the trim, speedy Mohawk was
christened with unusually merry festivities. Soon after that she was
capsized by a sudden squall off the landing at Stapleton, N. Y., and six
people were drowned like rats in her cabin and forecastle. Then the Mohawk was raised at a cost of $25,000 and purchased by the
United States Government for the service of the coast survey. Her name
was changed to Eagre, for Jack Tar is proverbially superstitious, and
with the old name it would have been impossible to ship a crew. Lieutenant Higby King describes his initial experience when he was
assigned to duty on the Eagre in this way:
“She had her full complement of officers minus one when I boarded her at
Newport to complete the list. Every cabin was occupied but the port
cabin by the companion way, and to that I was assigned. “We had a jolly wardroom mess that night, and I retired from it early,
as I was tired by my journey to join the vessel. The others who were
still at the table regarded my retirement to the port cabin in absolute
silence, having bidden me good-night. Their silence did not lead me to
suspect anything, though I knew that the Eagre had once been the Mohawk. My cabin door had the usual cabin lock of brass, and the porthole was
also securely fastened. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
There could have been no one under the bed or
sofa, as beneath each was a facing of solid oak paneling. “I undressed lazily and left the light burning dimly in my bracket lamp. I tried conscientiously to go to sleep for I don’t know how long with my
back turned to the light. The noise ceased in the wardroom after a time,
and I knew the others had turned in, but I felt unaccountably nervous
and restless. I turned over and faced the light, thoroughly wide awake,
and there in the single chair sat an elderly man, seemingly wrapt in
deep thought. He was dressed in a blue yachting reefer, and had a long,
gray beard. His hands were clasped in his lap, and his eyes were
downcast. His face was not pale and ghastly, as the faces of ghosts are
popularly supposed to be, but ruddy and weatherbeaten. “I regarded him in scared silence for I don’t know how long, though it
seemed an hour when he, or it, or whatever it was, disappeared. During
that time the ghost, and such I now believe it to have been, made not a
motion, nor did it say anything. Presently I looked again, and it was
gone. “At breakfast the others watched me critically as I took my seat. I had
not intended to say anything about my experience, for I thought then I
had seen some sort of hallucination and strongly suspected that I was
verging on insanity. Lieutenant Irving asked me if I had slept well. I
replied that I had. ‘Didn’t you see anything?’ he inquired. I then
frankly admitted that I had and described my experience. Then I learned
that each one of the seven others present had tried the port cabin at
one time or another, and each had seen the self-same apparition. It had
acted in exactly the same way in each case, except in the case of
Irving, who shot at it with his pistol, when it immediately disappeared. Some of the others had been led by their curiosity to inquire if anyone
lost on the Mohawk resembled the figure, and found that none of the
unfortunate ones at all fitted the description. It had been dubbed by
them the ‘misfit ghost.’ That one experience was enough for me, and
after that I, by courtesy, shared the cabin of another fellow.”
Lieutenant Irving and others corroborate the story of Lieutenant King,
and as additional evidence that the Eagre is haunted, Lieutenant Irving
describes a New Year’s eve experience of the Eagre’s officers, that is,
to say the least, novel in the way of supernatural manifestations. “It was at mess. The first toast, ‘Sweethearts and Wives,’ had been
drunk, as it always is by Yankee sailors the world over on occasions of
festivity. Everyone was feeling happy, or, as Thackeray has it,
‘pleasant,’ when suddenly the sliding-doors separating the wardroom from
the companion way closed slowly with a loud, squeaking noise. They had
seldom been closed, and it took the entire strength of a man to start
them from their rusty fastenings. Yet upon this occasion they started
easily and closed tightly, while the officers jumped to their feet in
breathless astonishment. Half a dozen men hauled them open in haste, but
not a soul was behind them or anywhere about. ‘It must be our old friend
of the port cabin,’ suggested one, and in awe-stricken silence the
health of the ‘misfit ghost’ was drunk.”
AN UNBIDDEN GUEST. My cousins, Kate and Tom Howard, married at Trinity, at Easter time,
concluded to commence housekeeping by taking one of those delightfully
expensively furnished, unfurnished cottages, with which the fashionable
watering place of W---- abounds, from whose rear windows one might
almost take a plunge into the surf, the beach beginning at the back
door. They went down quite early in May, being in a great hurry to try
their domestic experiment; and, as the evenings were still cold, they
spent them about the open fire, “spooning.”
It was upon one of those nights, about eleven o’clock, that they were
startled by a noise, as of some small object falling, soon followed by
the sound of heavy footsteps, and then quiet again reigned supreme. At
once Tom, poker in hand, boldly started in search of the burglar,
followed by Kate, wildly clutching at his coat-tail, and in a state of
tremor. They looked upstairs, under the various beds, Kate suggesting
that in novels they were always to be found there. The dining-room was next explored, where all seemed well, and, lastly
the kitchen, where they found what was evidently a solution of the
mystery. The burglar had entered by the back door, which was found to be
unlocked and slightly ajar. The first excitement subsiding, they
returned again to the dining-room, where Tom, upon closer inspection,
then discovered that one of a pair of quaint little pepper-pots, wedding
gifts, was missing, and other small articles on the sideboard had been
slightly disturbed. The next morning, when Kate mildly remonstrated with the queen of the
kitchen for her carelessness, she received a shock by being told that it
was her usual custom to leave the door open, “so that it would be aisy,
convanient loike for the milkmaid.” They parted with her, and a new maid
was engaged, whose chief qualification for the place was that she was
most faithful in the discharge of her duties, especially in “locking
up.”
While they mourned the loss of the pepper-pot, still it seemed so
trifling when they thought of that lovely repousse salad bowl, sent by
Aunt Julia, which stood near by, that nothing was said of the loss
outside of the family, and the little household settled into its normal
state once more of “billing and cooing.”
About a fortnight later, Tom started out one night with an old
fisherman, one of the natives, and a local “character,” to indulge in
that delightful pastime, so dear to the heart of man, known as
“eeling,” and, as the night was dark, the eels were particularly
“sporty,” so that it was well on towards the “wee sma’ hours” when Tom
at last returned to the cottage. He found all excitement within. Kate was in hysterics, and the new maid,
also weeping, was industriously applying the camphor bottle to her
mistress’ nose. The burglar, or ghost, as they had now decided, the
windows and doors being found to be securely locked this time, had been
abroad again, but had succeeded in purloining nothing. His royal
ghostship had amused himself, apparently, by simply walking about. “Oh, Tom! he had on such heavy boots and was so dreadfully bold about
it,” said Kate, tearfully. From that time Kate became nervous and refused to be left alone. Tom
started whenever a door creaked, and the “treasure” departed hurriedly,
saying, “Faith, the house is haunted, sure.”
After that Kate spent her days in “girl hunting,” and her nights in
answering shadowy advertisements that never materialized. They tried
Irish, English, Dutch, and a “heathen Chinee,” with a sprinkling of
“colored ladies” to vary the monotony. They seemed about to become
famous throughout the length and breadth of the land as “the family
that changes help once a week,” when they landed Treasure No. 2. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Shortly after her advent we were all asked down to W----, to help
celebrate their happiness, and incidentally to christen the new dinner
set. We were not a little surprised at finding Kate so pale and Tom
rather distrait. However, after a delightful dinner, that should have
filled with pleasure the most exacting bride, we adjourned to the
piazza, leaving the men to the contemplation of their cigars. We were
enthusiastic in our praise of the house, and congratulated Kate in
securing such a prize, when, to our horror, she burst into tears, and
said: “Oh, girls, it’s a dreadful place; it’s haunted!” and then
tearfully proceeded with the details, until we all felt creepy and
suggested the parlor and lights. It was not until long afterwards that Kate discovered that Tom had also
related the “ghost story” to the men, that evening, to which Ned Harris
had said, laconically, “Rats,” and Bob Shaw laughingly remarked, “Tom,
old chap, you really shouldn’t take your nightcap so strong.”
About the first of July the climax came. The ghost walked again, this
time taking not only the remaining pepper-pot, but also a silver
salt-cellar. Evidently he had a penchant for small articles, but unlike
former times, everything on the sideboard was in the greatest disorder. Aunt Julia’s salad bowl was found on the floor, and not far away the
cheese-dish, with its contents scattered about. This time one of the
windows was found half open. A week later a note came to me from Kate,
saying that she and Tom had gone to Saratoga to spend the remainder of
the season with her mother. The following spring Tom received a note and parcel from Mr. B----, the
owner of the house at W----, which read as follows:
DEAR MR. HOWARD: I send you by express three articles of silver,
which my wife suggests may belong to you, as they are marked with
your initials, namely, two silver pepper-pots and a salt-cellar;
they were found, the other day, during the process of spring house
cleaning, in a rat hole, behind the sideboard. I forgot to have the
holes stopped up last spring, or to caution you against the water
rats; the great fellows will get in, you know. Kind regards to Mrs.
Howard. Very truly,
JOHN B----. The next season the “Ghost Club” was organized, the badge being a small
silver rat, bearing proudly aloft a tiny pepper-pot. We thoughtfully
offered Tom the presidency, but he declined, with offended dignity, from
the effects of which I think he will never fully recover. THE DEAD WOMAN’S PHOTOGRAPH. Virgil Hoyt is a photographer’s assistant up at St. Paul, and a man of a
good deal of taste. He has been in search of the picturesque all over
the West, and hundreds of miles to the north in Canada, and can speak
three or four Indian dialects, and put a canoe through the rapids. That
is to say, he is a man of an adventurous sort and no dreamer. He can
fight well and shoot well and swim well enough to put up a winning race
with the Indian boys, and he can sit all day in the saddle and not dream
about it at night. Wherever he goes he uses his camera. “The world,” Hoyt is in the habit of saying to those who sit with him
when he smokes his pipe, “was created in six days to be photographed. Man--and especially woman--was made for the same purpose. Clouds are not
made to give moisture, nor trees to cast shade. They were created for
the photographer.”
In short, Virgil Hoyt’s view of the world is whimsical, and he doesn’t
like to be bothered with anything disagreeable. That is the reason that
he loathes and detests going to a house of mourning to photograph a
corpse. The horribly bad taste of it offends him partly, and partly he
is annoyed at having to shoulder, even for a few moments, a part of
someone’s burden of sorrow. He doesn’t like sorrow, and would willingly
canoe 500 miles up the cold Canadian rivers to get rid of it. Nevertheless, as assistant photographer, it is often his duty to do this
very kind of thing. Not long ago he was sent for by a rich Jewish family at St. Paul to
photograph the mother, who had just died. He was very much put out, but
he went. He was taken to the front parlor, where the dead woman lay in
her coffin. It was evident that there was some excitement in the
household and that a discussion was going on, but Hoyt wasn’t concerned,
and so he paid no attention to the matter. The daughter wanted the coffin turned on end, in order that the corpse
might face the camera properly, but Hoyt said he could overcome the
recumbent attitude and make it appear that the face was taken in the
position it would naturally hold in life, and so they went out and left
him alone with the dead. The face was a strong and positive one, such as may often be seen among
Jewish matrons. Hoyt regarded it with some admiration, thinking to
himself that she was a woman who had been used to having her own way. There was a strand of hair out of place, and he pushed it back from her
brow. A bud lifted its head too high from among the roses on her breast
and spoiled the contour of the chin, so he broke it off. He remembered
these things later very distinctly and that his hand touched her bare
face two or three times. Then he took the photographs and left the house. He was very busy at the time and several days elapsed before he was able
to develop the plates. He took them from the bath, in which they had
lain with a number of others, and went to work upon them. There were
three plates, he having taken that number merely as a precaution against
any accident. They came up well, but as they developed he became aware
of the existence of something in the photograph which had not been
apparent to his eye. The mysterious always came under the head of the
disagreeable with him, and was therefore to be banished, so he made only
a few prints and put the things away out of sight. He hoped that
something would intervene to save him from attempting an explanation. But it is a part of the general perplexity of life that things do not
intervene as they ought and when they ought, so one day his employer
asked him what had become of those photographs. He
[Illustration: “_They left him alone with the dead._”]
tried to evade him, but it was futile, and he got out the finished
photographs and showed them to him. The older man sat staring at them a
long time. “Hoyt,” said he, at length, “you’re a young man, and I suppose you have
never seen anything like this before. But I have. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Not exactly the same
thing, but similar phenomena have come my way a number of times since I
went into the business, and I want to tell you there are things in
heaven and earth not dreamt of----”
“Oh, I know all that tommy-rot,” cried Hoyt, angrily, “but when anything
happens I want to know the reason why, and how it is done.”
“All right,” said his employer, “then you might explain why and how the
sun rises.”
But he humored the younger man sufficiently to examine with him the bath
in which the plates were submerged and the plates themselves. All was as
it should be. But the mystery was there and could not be done away with. Hoyt hoped against hope that the friends of the dead woman would somehow
forget about the photographs, but of course the wish was unreasonable,
and one day the daughter appeared and asked to see the photographs of
her mother. “Well, to tell the truth,” stammered Hoyt, “those didn’t come out as
well as we could wish.”
“But let me see them,” persisted the lady. “I’d like to look at them,
anyway.”
[Illustration: “_He showed her the prints._”]
“Well, now,” said Hoyt, trying to be soothing, as he believed it was
always best to be with women--to tell the truth, he was an ignoramus
where women were concerned--“I think it would be better if you didn’t
see them. There are reasons why----” he ambled on like this, stupid man
that he was, and of course the Jewess said she would see those pictures
without any further delay. So poor Hoyt brought them out and placed them in her hand, and then ran
for the water pitcher, and had to be at the bother of bathing her
forehead to keep her from fainting. For what the lady saw was this: Over face and flowers and the head of
the coffin fell a thick veil, the edges of which touched the floor in
some places. It covered the features so well that not a hint of them was
visible. “There was nothing over mother’s face,” cried the lady at length. “Not a thing,” acquiesced Hoyt. “I know, because I had occasion to touch
her face just before I took the picture. I put some of her hair back
from her brow.”
“What does it mean, then?” asked the lady. “You know better than I. There is no explanation in science. Perhaps
there is some in psychology.”
“Well,” said the lady, stammering a little and coloring, “mother was a
good woman, but she always wanted her own way, and she always had it,
too.”
“Yes?”
“And she never would have her picture taken. She didn’t admire herself. She said no one should ever see a picture of hers.”
“So?” said Hoyt, meditatively. “Well, she’s kept her word, hasn’t she?”
The two stood looking at the pictures for a time. Then Hoyt pointed to
the open blaze in the grate. “Throw them in,” he commanded. “Don’t let your father see them--don’t
keep them yourself. They wouldn’t be good things to keep.”
“That’s true enough,” said the lady, slowly. And she threw them in the
fire. Then Virgil Hoyt brought out the plates and broke them before her
eyes. And that was the end of it--except that Hoyt sometimes tells the story
to those who sit beside him when his pipe is lighted. THE GHOST OF A LIVE MAN. We were in the South Atlantic Ocean, in the latitude of the island of
Fernando Norohna, about 40 degrees 12 minutes south, on board the barque
H. G. Johnson, homeward bound from Australia. I was the only passenger,
and we had safely rounded Cape Horn, with the barometer at 28 degrees 18
minutes, and yet had somehow miraculously escaped any extremely heavy
gale--had had light northerly and easterly winds till we reached 20
degrees, and thence the southeast trades were sending us fast on our way
to the equator. I sat on deck smoking my pipe, with a glorious full moon
shedding its bright pathway across the blue waters, and chatting with
the first mate, a man some fifty-eight years of age, who had followed
the sea since he was a boy. For twenty years or more he had been mate or
captain, and many and varied were the experiences he could relate. A
thorough sailor and skillful navigator, he was as honest as the day is
long--had a heart as big as an ox and was an all-round good fellow and
genial companion. Some of his yarns might be taken cum grano salis, yet
he always positively assured me that he “was telling me the truth.” An
account of a voyage that he made in a whaler from the Southern Ocean to
New Bedford seemed to me worthy to be repeated. He had rounded Cape Horn
six times and the Cape of Good Hope twenty-six times, besides making
many trips across the Western Ocean and to South American ports. I give
his account as near as possible in his own words:
“It was in ’71 that I commanded the whaler Mary Jane. We had been out
from home over three years, and had on board a full cargo of whale oil,
besides 2,000 pounds of whalebone, which was then worth $5 per pound. I
also had been fortunate enough to find in a dead whale which we came
across a large quantity of ambergris, and our hearts were all very light
as we began our homeward voyage, and our thoughts all tended to the
hearty welcome which we should receive from wives and sweethearts when
we reached our journey’s end. Many a night as I lay in my berth I had
thought with great pleasure of the amount of money that would be coming
to me from the proceeds of our voyage when we arrived in New Bedford. “I calculated that I had made $12,000 as my share of the proceeds of the
whalebone and oil--to say nothing of the ambergris, which I well knew
would bring at least $20,000, and one-half of which belonged to me. You
can therefore imagine that I was well pleased with myself as we went
bounding along through the southeast trades. We crossed the equator in
longitude 36 and soon after took strong northeast trades, and all was
going as well as I could wish. We had put the ship in perfect order,
painted her inside and out, and you would never have recognized her as
the old whaling ship that had for three years been plying the Southern
Ocean for whales. Never shall I forget an old bull whale that we tackled
about two degrees to the south of Cape Horn--but that is another story,
which I will give you another time. “We had just lost the northeast trades and were entering the Gulf
Stream. I sat in my cabin with my chart on the table before me rolled
up. I had just picked our location on it, and was thinking that in a
week more I should be at home, surrounded by those near and dear to me,
and relating to them the story of my great good fortune. “It was always my custom to work up my latitude and longitude about four
o’clock in the afternoon, and then after supper pick off her position on
the chart, have a smoke and perhaps just before retiring a nip of grog,
and then at 8.30 o’clock, as regular as a clock, I would turn in. “I am a great smoker, and this day I had been smoking all the afternoon,
besides having had two or three nips. We had a dog on board whom we
called ‘Bosun,’ who had been out with us all the voyage, and who was
afraid of nothing. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
He had endeared himself to every man on board, and
when Bosun ‘took water’ something very serious was in the wind. This
night as I sat in the cabin I heard a most dismal howl from Bosun, and
called out to the mate to know what was the matter with the dog. He
replied that he ‘reckoned some of the men had been teasing him,’ and the
occurrence soon passed from my mind. “Suddenly I saw someone coming down the after companion way into the
cabin. I supposed at first it was the mate and wondered that he had not
first spoken to me, but then I noticed that he wore clothes I had never
seen on the mate, and as he advanced into the cabin I saw his face. It
was the face of a man I had never seen in my life. He was thin and pale
and haggard, and as he advanced he looked about the cabin and at the
rolled up chart on the table. There seemed to be an appeal in his eyes,
and then there swept over his face a look of intense disappointment, and
before I could move or speak, he had vanished from my sight. “Now I am a very practical man, and I at once straightened myself in my
chair and said to myself: ‘Well, old man, you have smoked one too many
pipes to-day, or else you have had one drink too much, for you have been
asleep in your chair and seen a ghost.’ I was quite satisfied that I
had had a dream, especially as I called to the mate and asked him if he
had seen anyone come below. He said no; that he had not left the deck
for the last hour, and the man at the wheel, directly in front of the
door, was sure no one had entered the cabin, so I convinced myself that
I had had a very vivid dream--though I could not help thinking of the
matter all through the next day. “At eight o’clock the next evening I sat in the same place with my work
just finished and the chart lying rolled up on the table before me, when
suddenly the dog’s dismal howl rang through the ship, and looking up I
saw those same legs coming down the after companion. My hair fairly
stood on end, and yet to-day surely I was wide awake. I had only smoked
one pipe all day, and had not touched a drop of liquor. The same wan,
emaciated figure walked into the cabin, glanced inquiringly and
appealingly at me, and again there spread over his face that look of
utter disappointment as if he had sought something and failed to find
it, and again he disappeared. I rushed on deck to the mate and told him
all I had seen during the last two nights; but he made light of it, and
assured me I had been asleep or smoking too much. He did not like to
suggest that I had been drinking. Still, I could see that the thought
that came into his mind was ‘The old man has seen ’em again.’ I gave up
trying to convince him, but requested that the next night, from 8 to
8.30, he should sit with me in the cabin. “How the next day passed I cannot tell. I only know that my thoughts
never left that ghostly visitant, and somehow I felt that the evening
would reveal something to me and the spell be broken. I made up my mind
I would speak to the thing, whatever it was, and I felt a sort of
security in the presence of the mate, who was a daring fellow and feared
neither man nor the devil. Neither rum nor tobacco passed my lips during
the next day, and eight o’clock found the mate and I sitting in the
cabin, and this time the chart lay open on the table beside us. Just as
eight bells struck the dog’s premonitory wail sounded, and looking up we
both saw the figure descending the cabin stairs. We both seemed frozen
to our seats, and the strange weirdness of the whole proceeding cast the
same spell over the mate and me alike, and we were both unable to move
or speak. Slowly the figure proceeded into the cabin and glanced around
without a word, but with the same expectant look on his face. His form
was even more wasted, his cheeks sunken and his eyes seemed almost out
of sight so deeply were they set in their sockets. As his eye fell on
the open chart a look of supreme joy fairly irradiated his features, and
advancing to the table he placed one long, bony finger on the chart,
held it for a moment and then again disappeared from our sight. “For five minutes after he had left us we sat speechless. Then I managed
to say: ‘What do you think of that, Mr. Morris?’ ‘My God! sir, I don’t
know--it’s beyond me.’ Then my eyes fell on the open chart and there
where the finger had been was a tiny spot of blood, exactly on the point
of longitude 63 degrees west and latitude 37 degrees north. We were then
only about fifty miles distant from that position, and immediately there
came to me the determination to steer the ship there; so I laid her
course accordingly, and posted a lookout in the crow’s nest. At five
o’clock in the morning, just as the east began to grow gray, the lookout
called out: ‘Boat on the lee bow,’ and as we came up to it we found four
men in it--three dead and one with just a remnant of life left in him. We sewed the three bodies in canvas and buried them in the ocean, and
then gave all our attention to restoring life to the poor emaciated
frame, which, I then recognized, was the very man who for three
successive nights had visited me in my cabin. “By judicious and careful nursing life gradually came back to him, and
in four days’ time he was able to sit up and talk with me in the cabin. It seems he commanded the ship Promise, and she had taken fire and been
destroyed, and all hands had to take to the boats. Ten were in the boats
at first, but their food had given out, and one by one he had seen them
die, and one by one he had cast the bodies overboard. Finally he lost
consciousness and knew not whether his three remaining companions were
dead or alive. “Then he said he seemed in a dream to see a ship and tried to go to her
for help, but just as he would be going on board of her something would
seem to keep him back; three times in his dreams he tried to visit this
ship, and the last time there seemed to come to him a certain
satisfaction, and he felt that he had succeeded in his object. Turning
to my table, he said: ‘Let me take your chart; I’ll show you just where
we were.’
“‘Stop,’ said I, ‘don’t take that chart, it is an old one and all marked
over. Mark your position on this new one.’ He took my pencil and knife,
and carefully sharpened his pencil. Then, taking my dividers, he
measured his latitude and longitude and placed a pencil dot at a point
on the clean chart. As he lifted his hand he said: ‘Oh, excuse me,
captain, I cut my finger in sharpening the pencil and have left a drop
of blood on the chart.’
“‘Never mind,’ said I, ‘leave it there.’ And then I produced the old
chart and there, in an exactly corresponding place was the drop of blood
left by my ghostly visitor.”
Then looking steadily into my face the mate solemnly added: “I can’t
explain this, sir, perhaps you can; but I can tell you on my honor it is
God’s own truth that I have told you.”
THE GHOST OF WASHINGTON. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
It was early on Christmas morning when John Reilly wheeled away from a
picturesque little village where he had passed the previous night, to
continue his cycling tour through eastern Pennsylvania. To-day his
intention was to stop at Valley Forge, and then to ride on up the
Schuylkill Valley, visiting in turn the many points of historical
interest that lay along his route. Valley Forge, his road map indicated,
was but a short distance further on. All around him were the hills and
fields and roads over which Washington and his half-starved army had
foraged and roamed throughout the trying winter of 1777-8--one hundred
and twenty-six years ago. It was a beautiful Christmas day, truly, and, as he wheeled along, young
Reilly’s thoughts were almost equally divided between the surrounding
pleasant scenery and the folks at home, who, he knew very well, were
assembling at just about the present time around a heavily laden
Christmas tree in the front parlor. The sun rose higher and higher and
Reilly pedaled on down the valley, passing every now and then quaint,
pleasant-looking farmhouses, many of which, no doubt, had been built
anterior to the period which had given the vicinity its history. Arriving, finally, at a place where the road forked off in two
directions, Reilly was puzzled which way to go on. There happened to be
a dwelling close by. Accordingly he dismounted, left his wheel leaning
against a gate-post at the side of the road, and walked up a wretchedly
flagged walk leading to the house, with the idea of getting instructions
from its inmates. Situated in the center of an unkempt field of rank grass and weeds, the
building lay back from the highway probably one hundred and fifty feet. It was long and low in shape, containing but one story and having what
is termed a gabled roof, under which there must have been an attic of no
mean size. On coming close to the house, a fact Reilly had not noticed
from the road became plainly evident. It was deserted. He saw that the
roof and side shingles were in wretched condition; that the window
sashes and frames as well as the doors and door frames were missing from
the openings in the side walls where once they had been, and that the
entire side of the house, including that part of the stone foundation
which showed above the ground, was full of cracks and seams. At first on
the point of turning back, he concluded to see what the interior was
like anyway. Accordingly he went inside. Glancing around the large dust-filled room
he had entered his gaze at first failed to locate any object of the
least interest. A rickety appearing set of steps went up into the attic
from one side of the apartment and over in one corner was a large open
fireplace, from the walls of which much of the brickwork had become
loosened and fallen out. Reilly had started up the steps toward the
attic, when happening to look back for an instant, his attention was
attracted to a singular-looking, jug-shaped bottle no larger than a
vinegar cruet, which lay upon its side on the hearth of the fireplace,
partly covered up by debris of loose bricks and mortar. He hastened back
down the steps and crossed the room, taking the bottle up in his hand
and examining it with curiosity. Being partly filled with a liquid of
some kind or other the bottle was very soon uncorked and held under the
young man’s nose. The liquid gave forth a peculiar, pungent and inviting
odor. Without further hesitation Reilly’s lips sought the neck of the
bottle. It is hardly possible to describe the pleasure and satisfaction
his senses experienced as he drank. While the fluid was still gurgling down his throat a heavy hand was
placed most suddenly on his shoulder and his body was given a violent
shaking. The bottle fell to the floor and was broken into a hundred
pieces. “Hello!” said a rough voice almost in Reilly’s ear. “Who are you,
anyway? And what are you doing within the lines? A spy, I’ll be bound.”
As most assuredly there had been no one else in the vicinity of the
building when he had entered it and with equal certainty no one had come
down the steps from the attic, Reilly was naturally surprised and
mystified by this unexpected assault. He struggled instinctively to
break loose from the unfriendly grasp, and when he finally succeeded he
twisted his body around so that he faced across the room. Immediately he
made the remarkable discovery that there were four other persons in the
apartment--three uncouth-looking fellows habited in fantastic but ragged
garments, and a matronly-looking woman, the latter standing over a
washtub which had been elevated upon two chairs in a corner near the
fireplace. To all appearance the woman had been busy at her work and had
stopped for the moment to see what the men were going to do; her waist
sleeves were rolled up to the shoulders and her arms dripped with water
and soapsuds. Over the tops of the tubs, partly filled with water, there
were visible the edges of several well-soaked fabrics. Too add to his
astonishment he noticed that in the chimney-place, which a moment before
was falling apart, but now seemed to be clean and in good condition, a
cheerful fire burned, and that above the flames was suspended an iron
pot, from which issued a jet of steam. He noticed also that the entire
appearance of the room had undergone a great change. Everything seemed
to be in good repair, tidy and neat; the ceilings, the walls and the
door; even the stairway leading to the attic. The openings in the walls
were fitted with window sashes and well-painted doors. The apartment
had, in fact, evolved under his very eyesight from a state of absolute
ruin into one of excellent preservation. All of this seemed so weird and uncanny, that Reilly stood for a moment
or two in the transformed apartment, utterly dumbfounded, with his mouth
wide open and his eyes all but popping out of his head. He was brought
to his senses by the fellow who had shaken him growling out:
“Come! Explain yourself!”
“An explanation is due me,” Reilly managed to gasp. “Don’t bandy words with the rascal, Harry,” one of the other men spoke
up. “Bring him along to headquarters.”
Thereupon, without further parley, the three men marched Reilly in
military fashion into the open air and down to the road. Here he picked
up at the gate-post his bicycle, while they unstacked a group of three
old-fashioned-looking muskets located close by. When the young man had
entered the house a few minutes before, this stack of arms had not been
there. He could not understand it. Neither could he understand, on
looking back at the building as he was marched off down the road, the
mysterious agency that had transformed its dilapidated exterior, just as
had been the interior, into a practically new condition. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
While they trudged along, the strangers exhibited a singular interest in
the wheel Reilly pushed at his side, running their coarse hands over the
frame and handle-bar, and acting on the whole as though they never
before had seen a bicycle. This in itself was another surprise. He had
hardly supposed there were three men in the country so totally
unacquainted with what is a most familiar piece of mechanism everywhere. At the same time that they were paying so much attention to the wheel,
Reilly in turn was studying with great curiosity his singular-looking
captors. Rough, unprepossessing appearing fellows they were, large of
frame and unshaven, and, it must be added, dirty of face. What remained
of their very ragged clothing, he had already noticed, was of a most
remarkable cut and design, resembling closely the garments worn by the
Continental militiamen in the War of Independence. The hats were broad,
low of crown, and three-cornered in shape; the trousers were
buff-colored and ended at the knees, and the long, blue spike-tailed
coats were flapped over at the extremities of the tails, the flaps being
fastened down with good-sized brass buttons. Leather leggings were
strapped around cowhide boots, through the badly worn feet of which, in
places where the leather had cracked open, the flesh, unprotected by
stockings, could be seen. Dressed as he was, in a cleanly, gray cycling
costume, Reilly’s appearance, most assuredly, was strongly in contrast
to that of his companions. After a brisk walk of twenty minutes, during which they occasionally met
and passed by one or two or perhaps a group of men clothed and outfitted
like Reilly’s escorts, the little party followed the road up a slight
incline and around a well-wooded bend to the left, coming quite
suddenly, and to the captive, very unexpectedly, to what was without
doubt a military encampment; a village, in fact, composed of many rows
of small log huts. Along the streets, between the buildings, muskets
were stacked in hundreds of places. Over in one corner, on a slight
eminence commanding the road up which they had come, and cleverly hidden
from it behind trees and shrubbery, the young man noticed a battery of
field pieces. Wherever the eye was turned on this singular scene were
countless numbers of soldiers all garmented in three-cornered hats,
spike-tailed coats and knee breeches, walking lazily hither and thither,
grouped around crackling fires, or parading up and down the streets in
platoons under the guidance of ragged but stern-looking officers. Harry stopped the little procession of four in front of one of the
larger of the log houses. Then, while they stood there, the long blast
from a bugle was heard, followed by the roll of drums. A minute or two
afterward, several companies of militia marched up and grounded their
arms, forming three sides of a hollow square around them, the fourth
and open side being toward the log house. Directly succeeding this
maneuver there came through the doorway of the house and stepped up the
center of the square, stopping directly in front of Reilly, a
dignified-looking person, tall and straight and splendidly proportioned
of figure, and having a face of great nobility and character. The cold chills chased one another down Reilly’s back. His limbs swayed
and tottered beneath his weight. He had never experienced another such
sensation of mingled astonishment and fright. He was in the presence of General Washington. Not a phantom Washington,
either, but Washington in the flesh and blood; as material and earthly a
being as ever crossed a person’s line of vision. Reilly, in his time,
had seen so many portraits, marble busts and statues of the great
commander that he could not be mistaken. Recovering the use of his
faculties, which for the moment he seemed to have lost, Reilly did the
very commonplace thing that others before him have done when placed
unexpectedly in remarkable situations. He pinched himself to make sure
that he was in reality wide awake and in the natural possession of his
senses. He felt like pinching the figure in front of him also, but he
could not muster up the courage to do that. He stood there trying to
think it all out, and as his thoughts became less stagnant, his fright
dissolved under the process of reasoning his mind pursued. To reason a
thing out, even though an explanation can only be obtained by leaving
much of the subject unaccounted for, tends to make one bolder and less
shaky in the knees. The series of strange incidents which he was experiencing had been
inaugurated in the old-fashioned dwelling he had visited after
information concerning the roads. And everything had been going along in
a perfectly normal way up to, the very moment when he had taken a drink
from the bottle found in the fireplace. But from that precise time
everything had gone wrongly. Hence the inference that the drinking of
the peculiar liquid was accountable in some way or other for his
troubles. There was a supernatural agency in the whole thing. That much
must be admitted. And whatever that agency was, and however it might be
accounted for, it had taken Reilly back into a period of time more than
a hundred years ago, and landed him, body and soul, within the lines of
the patriot forces wintering at Valley Forge. He might have stood there,
turning over and over in his mind, pinching himself and muttering, all
the morning, had not the newcomer ceased a silent but curious inspection
of his person, and asked: “Who are you, sir?”
“John Reilly, at your pleasure,” the young man replied, adding a
question on his own account: “And who are you, sir?”
Immediately he received a heavy thump on his back from Harry’s hard
fist. “It is not for you to question the general,” the ragged administrator of
the blow exclaimed. “And it is not for you to be so gay,” Reilly returned, angrily, giving
the blow back with added force. “Here, here!” broke in the first questioner. “Fisticuffs under my very
nose! No more of this, I command you both.” To Harry he added an extra
caution: “Your zeal in my behalf will be better appreciated by being
less demonstrative. Blows should be struck only on the battlefield.” To
Reilly he said, with a slight smile hovering over his face, “My name is
Washington. Perhaps you may have heard of me?”
To this Reilly replied: “I have, indeed, and heard you very well spoken
of, too.” Emboldened by the other’s smile, he ventured another question:
“I think my reckoning of the day and year is badly at fault. An hour ago
I thought the day was Christmas day. How far out of the way did my
calculation take me, sir?”
“The day is indeed Christmas day, and the year is, as you must know, the
year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-seven.”
Reilly again pinched himself. “Why do you bring this man to me?” Washington now inquired, turning to
Harry and his companions. “He is a spy, sir,” said Harry. “That is a lie!” Reilly indignantly interpolated. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
“I have done nothing
to warrant any such charge.”
“We found him in the Widow Robin’s house, pouring strong liquor down his
throat.”
“I had gone inside after information concerning the roads----”
“Which he was getting from a bottle, sir.”
“If drinking from a bottle of necessity constitutes being a spy, I fear
our camp is already a hotbed,” Washington somewhat sagely remarked,
casting his eye around slyly at his officers and men. “Tell me,” he went
on, with sudden sternness, looking Reilly through and through, as though
to read his very thoughts, “is the charge true? Do you come from Howe?”
“The charge is not true, sir. I come from no one. I simply am making a
tour of pleasure through this part of the country on my bicycle.”
“With the country swarming with the men from two hostile armies, any
kind of a tour, save one of absolute necessity, seems ill-timed.”
“When I set out I knew nothing about any armies. The fact is, sir----”
Reilly started to make an explanation, but he checked himself on
realizing that the telling of any such improbable yarn would only
increase the hazardousness of his position. “Well?” Washington questioned, in a tone of growing suspicion. “I certainly did not know that your army or any other army was
quartered in this vicinity.” Reilly hesitated for lack of something
further to say. “You see,” he finally added, prompted by a happy idea,
“I rode my wheel from New York.”
“You may have come from New York, though it is hard to believe you came
on that singular-looking machine so great a distance. Where is the horse
which drew the vehicle?”
Reilly touched his bicycle. “This is the horse, sir, just as it is; the
vehicle,” he said. “The man is crazy!” Harry exclaimed. Washington only looked the
incredulity he felt, and this time asked a double question. “How can the thing be balanced without it be held upright by a pair of
shafts from a horse’s back, and how is the motive power acquired?”
For an answer Reilly jumped upon the wheel, and at a considerable speed
and in a haphazard way pedaled around the space within the hollow square
of soldiers. Hither and thither he went, at one second nearly wheeling
over the toes of the line of astonished, if not frightened, militiamen;
at the next, bearing suddenly down on Harry and his companions and
making them dance and jump about most alertly to avoid a collision. Even
the dignified Washington was once or twice put to the necessity of
dodging hurriedly aside when his equilibrium was threatened. Reilly
eventually dismounted, doing so with assumed clumsiness by stopping the
wheel at Harry’s back and falling over heavily against the soldier. Harry tumbled to the ground, but Reilly dexterously landed on his feet. At once he began offering a profusion of apologies. “You did that by design!” Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. His face
was red with anger and he shook his fist threateningly at the bicyclist. Washington commanded the man to hold his peace. Then to Reilly he
expressed a great surprise at his performance and a desire to know more
about the bicycle. The young man thereupon described the machine
minutely, lifting it into the air and spinning the wheels to illustrate
how smoothly they rotated. “I can see it is possible to ride the contrivance with rapidity. It has
been put together with wonderful ingenuity,” Washington said, when
Reilly had replaced the wheel on the ground. “And you, sir, it is but a toy,” an officer spoke up. “Put our friend on
his bundle of tin and race him against one of our horsemen and he would
make a sorry showing.”
Reilly smiled. “I bear the gentleman no ill-will for his opinion,” he
said. “Still, I should like to show him by a practical test of the
subject that his ignorance of it is most profound.”
“You would test the speed of the machine against that of a horse?”
Washington said, in amazement. “I would, sir. You have a good road yonder. With your permission and a
worthy opponent I would make the test at once.”
“But, sir, the man is a spy,” Harry broke in. “Would it not be better to
throw a rope around his neck and give him his deserts?”
“The charge is by no means proven,” Washington replied. “Nor can it be
until a court martial convenes this afternoon. And I see no reason why
we may not in the meantime enjoy the unique contest which has been
suggested. It will make a pleasant break in the routine of camp life.”
A murmur of approval went up from the masses of men by whom they were
surrounded. While they had been talking it seemed as though everybody in
the camp not already on the scene had gathered together behind the
square of infantry. “Then, sir,” Harry said, with some eagerness, “I would like to be the
man to ride the horse. There is no better animal than mine anywhere. And
I understand his tricks and humors quite well enough to put him to his
best pace.”
“I confess I have heard you well spoken of as a horseman,” Washington
said. “Be away with you! Saddle and bridle your horse at once.”
It was the chain of singular circumstances narrated above which brought
John Reilly into the most remarkable contest of his life. He had entered
many bicycle races at one time or other, always with credit to himself
and to the club whose colors he wore. And he had every expectation of
making a good showing to-day. Yet a reflection of the weird conditions
which had brought about the present contest took away some of his
self-possession when a few minutes later he was marched over to the
turnpike and left to his own thoughts, while the officers were pacing
out a one mile straightaway course down the road. After the measurements had been taken, two unbroken lines of soldiers
were formed along the entire mile; a most evident precaution against
Reilly leaving the race course at any point to escape across the fields. Washington came up to him again, when the preparations were completed,
to shake his hand and whisper a word or two of encouragement in his ear. Having performed these kindly acts he left to take up a position near
the point of finish. The beginning of the course was located close to the battery of half
concealed field pieces. Reilly was now conducted to this place. Shortly
afterward Harry appeared on his horse. He leered at the bicyclist
contemptuously and said something of a sarcastic nature partly under his
breath when the two lined up, side by side, for the start. To these
slights Reilly paid no heed; he had a strong belief that when the race
was over there would be left in the mutton-like head of his opponent
very little of his present inclination toward the humorous. The
soldier’s mount was a handsome black mare, fourteen and a half hands
high; strong of limbs and at the flanks, and animated by a spirit that
kept her prancing around with continuous action. It must be admitted
that the man rode very well. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
He guided the animal with ease and
nonchalance when she reared and plunged, and kept her movements confined
to an incredibly small piece of ground, considering her abundance of
action. “Keep to your own side of the road throughout the race. I don’t want to
be collided with by your big beast,” Reilly cautioned, while they were
awaiting two signals from the starter. To this Harry replied in some derision, “I’ll give you a good share of
the road at the start, and all of it and my dust, too, afterward.” And
then the officer who held the pistol fired the first shot. Reilly was well satisfied with the conditions under which the race was
to be made. The road was wide and level, smooth, hard and straight, and
a strong breeze which had sprung up, blew squarely against his back. His
wheel was geared up to eighty-four inches; the breeze promised to be a
valuable adjunct in pushing it along. Awaiting the second and last
signal, Reilly glanced down the two blue ranks of soldiers, which
stretched away into hazy lines in the distance and converged at the
termination of the course where a flag had been stuck into the ground. The soldiers were at parade rest. Their unceasing movements as they
chatted to one another, turning their bodies this way and that and
craning their heads forward to look toward the starting point, and then
jerking them back, made the lines seem like long, squirming snakes. At
the end of the course a thick bunch of militiamen clogged the road and
overspread into the fields. Crack! The signal to be off. Reilly shoved aside the fellow who had been
holding his wheel upright while astride of it, and pushed down on the
pedals. The mare’s hoofs dug the earth; her great muscular legs
straightened out; she sprang forward with a snort of apparent pleasure,
taking the lead at the very start. Reilly heard the shout of excitement
run along the two ranks of soldiers. He saw them waving their arms and
hats as he went by. And on ahead through the cloud of dust there was
visible the shadow-like outlines of the snorting, galloping horse, whose
hoof beats sounded clear and sharp above the din which came from the
sides of the highway. The mare crept farther and farther ahead. Very
soon a hundred feet or more of the road lay between her and the
bicyclist. Harry turned in his saddle and called out another sarcasm. “I shall pass you very soon. Keep to your own side of the road!” Reilly
shouted, not a bit daunted by the way the race had commenced. His head
was well down over the handle-bars, his back had the shape of the upper
portion of an immense egg. Up and down his legs moved; faster and
faster and faster yet. He went by the soldiers so rapidly that they only
appeared to be two streaks of blurry color. Their sharp rasping shouts
sounded like the cracking of musketry. The cloud of dust blew against
the bicyclist’s head and into his mouth and throat. When he glanced
ahead again he saw with satisfaction that the mare was no longer
increasing her lead. It soon became evident even that he was slowly
cutting down the advantages she had secured. Harry again turned his head shortly afterward, doubtless expecting to
find his opponent hopelessly distanced by this time. Instead of this
Reilly was alarmingly close upon him. The man ejaculated a sudden oath
and lashed his animal furiously. Straining every nerve and sinew the
mare for the moment pushed further ahead. Then her pace slackened a bit
and Reilly again crept up to her. Closer and closer to her than before,
until his head was abreast of her outstretched tail. Harry was lashing
the mare and swearing at her unceasingly now. But she had spurted once
and appeared to be incapable of again increasing her speed. In this way
they went on for some little distance, Harry using his whip brutally,
the mare desperately struggling to attain a greater pace, Reilly hanging
on with tenacity to her hind flanks and giving up not an inch of ground. A mile is indeed a very short distance when traversed at such a pace. The finishing flag was already but a few hundred feet further on. Reilly realized that it was time now to go to the front. He gritted his
teeth together with determination and bent his head down even further
toward his front wheel. Then his feet began to move so quickly that
there was only visible an indistinct blur at the sides of his crank
shaft. At this very second, with a face marked with rage and hatred,
Harry brought his horse suddenly across the road to thet part of it
which he had been warned to avoid. It is hard to tell what kept Reilly from being run into and trampled
under foot. An attempt at back pedaling, a sudden twist of the
handle-bar, a lurch to one side that almost threw him from his seat. Then, in the fraction of a second he was over on the other side of the
road, pushing ahead of the mare almost as though she were standing
still. The outburst of alarm from the throats of the soldiers changed
when they saw that Reilly had not been injured; first into a shout of
indignation at the dastardly attempt which had been made to run him
down, and then into a roar of delight when the bicyclist breasted the
flag a winner of the race by twenty feet. As he crossed the line Reilly caught a glimpse of Washington. He stood
close to the flag and was waving his hat in the air with the enthusiasm
of a schoolboy. Reilly went on down the road slackening his speed as
effectively as he could. But before it was possible to entirely stop
his wheel’s momentum the noisy acclamations in his rear ceased with
startling suddenness. He turned in his saddle and looked back. As sure
as St. Peter he had the road entirely to himself. There wasn’t a soldier
or the ghost of a soldier in sight. As soon as he could he turned his bicycle about and rode slowly back
along the highway, now so singularly deserted, looking hither and
thither in vain for some trace of the vanished army. Even the flag which
had been stuck into the ground at the end of the one-mile race course
was gone. The breeze had died out again and the air was tranquil and
warm. In the branches of a nearby tree two sparrows chirped and
twittered peacefully. Reilly went back to the place where the camp had
been. He found there only open fields on one side of the road and a
clump of woodland on the other. He continued on down the little hill up
which Harry and his companions had brought him a few hours previously
and followed the road on further, coming finally to the fork in it near
which was located the old farmhouse wherein he had been taken captive. The house was, as it had been when he had previously entered it, falling
apart from age and neglect. When he went inside he found lying on the
brick hearth in front of the fireplace a number of pieces of broken
glass. THE END. | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
* * * * *
True Ghost Stories
BY HEREWARD CARRINGTON
[Illustration]
The author of this book is well known in both America and Europe as a
prominent scientific writer on psychical and occult subjects. He has
been a member of both the English and American Societies for Psychical
Research for more than fifteen years, has written over a dozen books on
the subject, a number of which have been translated into foreign
languages including the Japanese and Arabic, and he has lectured in
London, Paris, Rome, Venice, Milan, Geneva, Turin, etc., before
scientific organizations. His writings are well known and have earned
him a high place in psychical circles. In this book he presents a number of startling cases which he has
discovered in his unrivalled investigations of psychical mysteries. They
are not the ordinary “ghost stories,” based on pure fiction and having
no foundation in reality, but are a collection of incidents all
thoroughly investigated and vouched for, the testimony being obtained
first hand and corroborated by others. The first chapter deals with the interesting question =What Is a Ghost?=
and attempts to answer this question in the light of the latest
scientific theories which have been advanced to explain these
supernatural happenings and visitants. Other chapters are:
=Phantasms of the Dead.=
=More Phantasms.=
=Haunted Houses.=
=Ghost Stories of a More Dramatic Order.=
=Historical Ghosts.=
=The Phantom Armies Seen in France.=
=Bibliography.=
=True Ghost Stories= is a book of absorbing interest and cannot fail to
grip and hold the attention of every reader, whether he be a student of
these questions, or merely in search of hair-raising anecdotes and
stories, he will find them here a-plenty. The book contains 250 pages printed on antique woven book paper,
attractively bound in cloth, with illustrated jacket in colors. =Price,
75 cents by mail, postpaid.=
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY
P. O. Box 767. 57 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK | Unknown Author - Twenty-Five Ghost Stories |
Produced by David Clarke, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) UNCANNY TALES
LONDON
C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED
HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
1916
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect
spellings have been retained. The oe ligature has been transcribed
as [oe]. CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY 7
II. THE ARMLESS MAN 19
III. THE TOMTOM CLUE 33
IV. THE CASE OF SIR ALISTER MOERAN 43
V. THE KISS 63
VI. THE GOTH 73
VII. THE LAST ASCENT 88
VIII. THE TERROR BY NIGHT 97
IX. THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR" 113
UNCANNY STORIES
I
THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
Professor William James Maynard was in a singularly happy and contented
mood as he strolled down the High Street after a long and satisfactory
interview with the solicitor to his late cousin, whose sole heir he was. It was exactly a month by the calendar since he had murdered this
cousin, and everything had gone most satisfactorily since. The fortune
was proving quite as large as he had expected, and not even an inquest
had been held upon the dead man. The coroner had decided that it was not
necessary, and the Professor had agreed with him. At the funeral the Professor had been the principal mourner, and the
local paper had commented sympathetically on his evident emotion. This
had been quite genuine, for the Professor had been fond of his relative,
who had always been very good to him. But still, when an old man remains
obstinately healthy, when his doctor can say with confidence that he is
good for another twenty years at least, and when he stands between you
and a large fortune which you need, and of which you can make much
better use in the cause of science and the pursuit of knowledge, what
alternative is there? It becomes necessary to take steps. Therefore, the
Professor had taken steps. Looking back to-day on that day a month ago, and the critical preceding
week, the Professor felt that the steps he had taken had been as
judicious as successful. He had set himself to solve a problem in higher
mathematics. He had found it easier to solve than many he was obliged to
grapple with in the course of his studies. A policeman saluted as the Professor passed, and he acknowledged it with
the charming old world courtesy that made him so popular a figure in the
town. Across the way was the doctor who had certified the cause of
death. The Professor, passing benevolently on, was glad he had now
enough money to carry out his projects. He would be able to publish at
once his great work on "The Secondary Variation of the Differential
Calculus," that hitherto had languished in manuscript. It would make a
sensation, he thought; there was more than one generally accepted theory
he had challenged or contradicted in it. And he would put in hand at
once his great, his long projected work, "A History of the Higher
Mathematics." It would take twenty years to complete, it would cost
twenty thousand pounds or more, and it would breathe into mathematics
the new, vivid life that Bergson's works have breathed into
metaphysics. The Professor thought very kindly of the dead cousin, whose money would
provide for this great work. He wished greatly the dead man could know
to what high use his fortune was designed. Coming towards him he saw the wife of the vicar of his parish. The
Professor was a regular church-goer. The vicar's wife saw him, too, and
beamed. She and her husband were more than a little proud of having so
well known a man in their congregation. She held out her hand and the
Professor was about to take it when she drew it back with a startled
movement. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she exclaimed, distressed, as she saw him raise
his eyebrows. "There is blood on it." Her eyes were fixed on his right hand, which he was still holding out. In fact, on the palm a small drop of blood showed distinctly against the
firm, pink flesh. Surprised, the Professor took out his handkerchief and
wiped it away. He noticed that the vicar's wife was wearing white kid
gloves. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she said again. "It--it startled me somehow. I
thought you must have cut yourself. I hope it's not much?" "Some scratch, I suppose," he said. "It's nothing." The vicar's wife, still slightly discomposed, launched out into some
parochial matter she had wished to mention to him. They chatted a few
moments and then parted. The Professor took an opportunity to look at
his hand. He could detect no sign of any cut or abrasion, the skin
seemed whole everywhere. He looked at his handkerchief. There was still
visible on it the stain where he had wiped his hand, and this stain
seemed certainly blood. "Odd!" he muttered as he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Very
odd!" His thoughts turned again to his projected "A History of the Higher
Mathematics," and he forgot all about the incident till, as it happened
that day month, the first of the month by the calendar, when he was
sitting in his study with an eminent colleague to whom he was explaining
his great scheme. "If you are able to carry it out," the colleague said slowly, "your book
will mark an epoch in human thought. But the cost will be tremendous." "I estimate it at twenty thousand pounds," answered the Professor
calmly. "I am fully prepared to spend twice as much. You know I have
recently inherited forty thousand pounds from a relative?" The eminent colleague nodded and looked very impressed. "It is magnificent," he said warmly, "magnificent." He added: "You've
cut yourself, do you know?" "Cut myself?" the Professor echoed, surprised. "Yes," answered the eminent colleague, "there is blood upon your
hand--your right hand." In fact a spot of blood, slightly larger than that which had appeared
before, showed plainly upon the Professor's right hand. He wiped it away
with his handkerchief, and went on talking eagerly, for he was deeply
interested. He did not think of the matter again till just as he was
getting into bed, when he noticed a red stain upon his handkerchief. He
frowned and examined his hand carefully. There was no sign of any wound
or cut from which the blood could have come, and he frowned again. "Very odd!" he muttered. A calendar hanging on the wall reminded him that it was the first of the
month. The days passed, the incident faded from his memory, and four weeks
later he came down one morning to breakfast in an unusually good temper. There was a certain theory he had worked on the night before he meant to
write to a friend about. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
It seemed to him his demonstration had been
really brilliant, and then, also, he was already planning out with great
success the details of the scheme for his great work. He was making an excellent breakfast, for his appetite was always good,
and, needing some more cream, he rang the bell. The maid appeared, he
showed her the empty jug, and as she took it she dropped it with a
sudden cry, smashing it to pieces on the floor. Very pale, she stammered
out:
"Beg pardon, sir, your hand--there is blood upon your hand." In fact, on the Professor's right hand there showed a drop of blood,
perceptibly larger this time than before. The Professor stared at it
stupidly. He was sure it had not been there a moment before, and he
noticed by the heading of the newspaper at the side of his plate that
this was the first of the month. With a hasty movement of his napkin he wiped the drop of blood away. The
maid, still apologising, began to pick up the pieces of the jug she had
broken; but the Professor had no further appetite for his breakfast. He
silenced her with a gesture, and, leaving a piece of toast half-eaten on
his plate, he got up and went into his study. All this was trivial, absurd even. Yet somehow it disturbed him. He got
out a magnifying glass and examined his hand under it. There was nothing
to account for the presence of the drop of blood he and the maid had
seen. It occurred to him that he might have cut himself in shaving; but
when he looked in the mirror he could find no trace of even the
slightest wound. He decided that, though he had not been aware of it, his nerves must be
a little out of order. That was disconcerting. He had not taken his
nerves into consideration for the simple reason that he had never known
that he possessed any. He made up his mind to treat himself to a holiday
in Switzerland. One or two difficult ascents might brace him up a bit. Three days later he was in Switzerland, and a few days later again he
was on the summit of a minor but still difficult peak. It had been an
exhilarating climb, and he had enjoyed it. He said something laughingly
to the head guide to the effect that climbing was good sport and a fine
test for the nerves. The head guide agreed, and added politely that if
the nerves of monsieur the Professor had shown signs of failing on the
lower glacier, for example, they might all have been in difficulties. The Professor thrilled with pleasure at the head guide's implied praise. He was glad to know on such good authority that his nerves were all
right, and the incidents that had driven him there began to fade in his
memory. Nevertheless, he found himself watching the calendar with a certain
interest, and when he woke on the morning of the first day of the next
month he glanced quickly at his right hand. There was nothing there. He dressed and spent, as he had planned, a quiet day, busy with his
correspondence. His spirits rose as the day passed. He was still
watchful, but more confident; and, after dinner, though he had meant to
go straight to his room, he agreed to join in a suggested game of
bridge. They were cutting for partners when one of the ladies who was to
take part in the game dropped with a little cry the card she had just
lifted. "Oh, there is blood upon your hand," she cried, "on your right hand,
Professor!" Upon the Professor's right hand there showed now a drop of blood, larger
still then those other three had been. Yet the very moment before it had
not been there. The Professor put down his cards without a word, and
left the room, going straight upstairs. The drop of blood was still standing on his hand. He soaked it up
carefully with some cotton-wool he had, and was not surprised to find
beneath no sign or trace of any cut or wound. The cotton-wool he made up
carefully into a parcel and addressed it to an analytical chemist he
knew, inclosing with it a short note. He rang the bell, sent the parcel to the post, and then he got out pen
and paper and set himself to solve this problem, as in his life he had
solved so many others. Only this time it seemed somehow as though the data were insufficient. Idly his pen traced upon the paper in front of him a large _X_, the sign
of the unknown quantity. But how, in this case, to find out what was the unknown quantity? His
hand, his firm and steady hand, shook so that he could no longer hold
his pen. He rang the bell again and ordered a stiff whisky-and-soda. He
was a man of almost ascetic habits, but to-night he felt that he needed
some stimulant. Neither did he sleep very well. The next day he returned to England. Almost at once he went to see his
friend, the analytical chemist, to whom he had sent the parcel from
Switzerland. "Mammalian blood," pronounced the chemist, "probably human--rather a
curious thing about it, too." "What's that?" asked the Professor. "Why," his friend answered, "I was able to identify the distinctive
bacillus----" He named the rare bacillus of an unusual and obscure
disease. And this disease was that from which the Professor's cousin had
died. The professor was a man interested in all phenomena. In other
circumstances he would have observed keenly that which now occurred,
when the hair of his head underwent a curious involuntary stiffening and
bristling process that in popular but sufficiently accurate terms, might
be described as "standing on end." But at the moment he was in no state
for scientific observations. He got out of the house somehow. He said he did not feel well, and his
friend, the chemist, agreed that his holiday in Switzerland did not seem
to have done him much good. The Professor went straight home and shut himself up in his study. It
was a fine room, ranged all round with books. On the shelves nearest to
his hand stood volumes on mathematics, the theory of mathematics, the
study of mathematics, pure mathematics, applied mathematics. But there
was not any one of these books that told him anything about such a thing
as this. Though, it is true, there were many references in them, here
and there, to _X_, the unknown quantity. The Professor took his pen and wrote a large _X_ upon the sheet of paper
in front of him. "An unknown quantity!" he muttered. "An unknown--quantity!" The days passed peacefully. Nothing was out of the ordinary except that
the Professor developed an odd trick of continually glancing at his
right hand. He washed it a good deal, too. But the first of the month
was not yet. On the last day of the month he told his housekeeper that he was feeling
a little unwell. She was not surprised, for she had thought him looking
ill for some time past. He told her he would probably spend the next day
in bed for a thorough rest, and she agreed that that would be a very
good idea. When he was in his own room and had undressed, he bandaged
his right hand with care, tying it up carefully and thoroughly with
three or four of his large linen handkerchiefs. "Whatever comes, shall now show," he said to himself. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
He stayed in bed accordingly the next day. His housekeeper was a little
uneasy about him. He ate nothing and his eyes were strangely bright and
feverish. She overheard him once muttering something to himself about
"the unknown quantity," and that made her think that he had been working
too hard. She decided he must see the doctor. The Professor refused peremptorily. He declared he would be quite well again in the morning. The
housekeeper, an old servant, agreed, but sent for the doctor all the
same; and when he had come the Professor felt he could not refuse to see
him without appearing peculiar. And he did not wish to appear peculiar. So he saw the doctor, but declared there was nothing much the matter, he
merely felt a little unwell and out of sorts and tired. "You have hurt your hand?" the doctor asked, noticing how it was
bandaged. "I cut it slightly--a trifle," the Professor answered. "Yes," the doctor answered, "I see there is blood on it." "What?" the Professor stammered. "There is blood upon your hand," the doctor repeated. The Professor looked. In fact, a deep, wide stain showed crimson upon
the bandages in which he had swathed his hand. Yet he knew that the
moment before the linen had been fair and white and clean. "It is nothing," he said quickly, hiding his hand beneath the bed
clothes. The doctor, a little puzzled, took his leave, but had not gone ten
yards when the housekeeper flew screaming after him. It seemed she had
heard a fall, and when she had gone into the Professor's bedroom she had
found him lying there dead upon the hearthrug. There was a razor in his
hand, and there was a ghastly gash across his throat. The doctor went back at a run, but there was nothing he or any man could
do. One thing he noticed, with curiosity, was that the bandage had been
torn away from the dead man's hand and that oddly enough there seemed to
be on the hand no sign of any cut or wound. There was a large solitary
drop of blood on the palm, at the root of the thumb; but, of course,
that was no great wonder, for the wound the dead man had dealt himself
had bled freely. Apparently death had not been quite instantaneous, for with a last
effort the Professor seemed to have traced an _X_ upon the floor in his
own blood with his forefinger. The doctor mentioned this at the
inquest--the coroner had decided at once that in this case an inquest
was certainly necessary--and he suggested that it showed the Professor
had worked too hard and was suffering from overwork which had disturbed
his mental balance. The coroner took the same view, and in his short address to the jury
adduced the incident as proof of a passing mental disturbance. "Very probably," said the coroner, "there was some problem that had
worried him, and that he was still endeavouring to work out. As you are
aware, gentlemen, the sign _X_ is used to symbolise the unknown
quantity." An appropriate verdict was accordingly returned, and the Professor was
duly interred in the same family vault as that in which so short a time
previously his cousin had been laid to rest. II
THE ARMLESS MAN
I first met Bob Masters in the hotel at a place called Fourteen Streams,
not very far from Kimberley. I had for some months been trying to find gold or diamonds by digging
holes in the veldt. But since this has little or nothing to do with the
story, I pass by my mining adventures and come back to the hotel. I came
to it very readily that afternoon, for I was very thirsty. A tall man standing at the bar turned his head as I entered and said
"Good-day" to me. I returned the compliment, but took no particular
notice of him at first. Suddenly I heard the man say to the barman:
"I'm ready for another drink." That surprised me, because his glass was still three-quarters full. But
I was still more startled by the action of the barman who lifted up the
glass and held it whilst the man drank. Then I saw the reason. The man had no arms. You know the easy way in which Englishmen chum together anywhere out of
England, whilst in their native country nothing save a formal
introduction will make them acquainted? I made some remark to Masters
which led to another from him, and in five minutes' time we were
chatting on all sorts of topics. I learnt that Masters, bound for England, had come in to Fourteen
Streams to catch the train from Kimberley, and, having a few hours to
wait, had strolled up to the collection of tin huts calling itself a
town. I was going down to Kimberley too, so of course we went together, and
were quite old friends by the time we reached that city. We had a wash and something to eat, and then we walked round to the
post-office. I used to have my letters addressed there, _poste
restante_, and call in for them when I happened to be in Kimberley. I found several letters, one of which altered the whole course of my
life. This was from Messrs. Harvey, Filson, and Harvey, solicitors,
Lincoln's Inn Fields. It informed me that the sudden death of my cousin
had so affected my uncle's health that he had followed his only son
within the month. The senior branch of the family being thus extinct the
whole of the entailed estate had devolved on me. The first thing I did was to send off two cablegrams to say that I was
coming home by the first available boat, one to the solicitors, the
other to Nancy Milward. Masters and I arranged to come home together and eventually reached Cape
Town. There we had considerable trouble at the shipping office. It was
just about the time of year when people who live in Africa to make
money, come over to England to spend it, and in consequence the boats
were very crowded. Masters demanded a cabin to himself, a luxury which
was not to be had, though there was one that he and I could share. He
made a tremendous fuss about doing this, and I thought it very strange,
because I had assisted him in many ways which his mutilation rendered
necessary. However, he had to give way in the end, and we embarked on
the Castle liner. On the voyage he told me how he had lost his arms. It seemed that he had
been sent up country on some Government job or other, and had had the
ill-fortune to be captured by the natives. They treated him quite well
at first, but gave him to understand that he must not try to escape. I
suppose that to most men such a warning would be a direct incitement to
make the attempt. Masters made it and failed. They cut off his right arm
as a punishment. He waited until the wound was healed and tried again. Again he failed. This time they cut off his other arm. "Good Lord," I cried. "What devils!" "Weren't they!" he said. "And yet, you know, they were quite
good-tempered chaps when you didn't cross them. I wasn't going to be
beaten by a lot of naked niggers though, and I made a third attempt. "I succeeded all right that time, though, of course, it was much more
difficult. I really don't know at all how I managed to worry through. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
You see, I could only eat plants and leaves and such fruit as I came
across; but I'd learnt as much as I could of the local botany in the
intervals." "Was it worth while?" I asked. "I think the first failure and its result
would have satisfied me." "Yes," he said slowly, "it was worth while. You see, my wife was waiting
for me at home, and I wanted to see her again very badly--you don't
know how badly." "I think I can imagine," I said. "Because there is a girl waiting for me
too at home." "I saw her before she died," he continued. "Died?" I said. "Yes," he answered. "She was dying when I reached home at last, but I
was with her at the end. That was something, wasn't it?" I do hate people to tell me this sort of thing. Not because I do not
feel sorry for them; on the contrary, I feel so sorry that I absolutely
fail to find words to express my sympathy. I tried, however, to show it
in other ways, by the attentions I paid him and by anticipating his
every wish. Yet there were many things that were astonishing about his actions,
things that I wonder now I did not realise must have been impossible for
him to do for himself, and that yet were done. But he was so
surprisingly dexterous with his lips, and feet too, when he was in his
cabin that I suppose I put them down to that. I remember waking up one night and looking out of my bunk to see him
standing on the floor. The cabin was only faintly lit by a moonbeam
which found its way through the porthole. I could not see clearly, but I
fancied that he walked to the door and opened it, and closed it behind
him. He did it all very quickly, as quickly as I could have done it. As
I say, I was very sleepy, but the sight of the door opening and shutting
like that woke me thoroughly. Sitting up I shouted at him. He heard me and opened the door again, easily, too, much more easily
than he seemed to be able to shut it when he saw me looking at him. "Hullo! Awake, old chap?" he said. "What is it?" "Er--nothing," I said. "Or rather I suppose I was only half awake; but
you seemed to open that door so easily that it quite startled me." "One does not always like to let others see the shifts to which one has
to resort," was all the answer he gave me. But I worried over it. The thing bothered me, because he had made no
attempt to explain. That was not the only thing I noticed. Two or three days later we were sitting together on deck. I had offered
to read to him. I noticed that he got up out of his chair. Suddenly I
saw the chair move. It gave me a great shock, for the chair twisted
apparently of its own volition, so that when he sat down again the
sunlight was at his back and not in his eyes, as I knew it had been
previously. But I reasoned with myself and managed to satisfy myself
that he must have turned the chair round with his foot. It was just
possible that he could have done so, for it had one of those light
wicker-work seats. We had a lovely voyage for three-quarters of the way, and the sea was as
calm as any duck-pond. But that was all altered when we passed Cape
Finisterre. I have done a lot of knocking about on the ocean one way and
another, but I never saw the Bay of Biscay deserve its reputation
better. I'd much rather see what is going on than be cooped up below, and after
lunch I told Bob I was going up on deck. "I'll only stay there for a bit," I said. "You make yourself comfortable
down here." I filled his pipe, put it in his mouth, and gave him a match; then I
left him. I made my way up and down the deck for a time, clutching hold of
everything handy, and rather enjoyed it, though the waves drenched me to
the skin. Presently I saw Masters come out of the companion-way and make his way
very skilfully towards me. Of course it was fearfully dangerous for him. I staggered towards him, and, putting my lips to his ear, shouted to him
to go below at once. "Oh, I shall be all right!" he said, and laughed. "You'll be drowned--drowned," I screamed. "There was a wave just now
that--well, if I hadn't been able to cling on with both hands like grim
death, I should have gone overboard. Go below." He laughed again and shook his head. And then what I dreaded happened. A vast mountain of green water lifted
up its bulk and fell upon us in a ravening cataract. I clutched at
Masters, but trying to save him and myself handicapped me badly. The
strength of that mass of water was terrible. It seemed to snatch at
everything with giant hands, and drag all with it. It tossed a hen-coop
high, and carried it through the rails. I felt the grip of my right hand loosen, and the next instant was
carried, still clutching Masters with my left, towards that gap in the
bulwark. I managed to seize the end of the broken rail. It held us for a moment,
then gave, and for a moment I hung sheer over the vessel's side. In that instant I felt fingers tighten on my arm, tighten till they bit
into the flesh, and I was pulled back into safety. Together we staggered back, and got below somehow. I was trembling like
a leaf, and the sweat dripped from me. I almost screamed aloud. It was not that I was frightened of death. I've seen too much of that in
many parts of the earth to dread it greatly. It was the thought of those
fingers tightening on me where no fingers were. Masters did not speak a word, nor did I, until we found ourselves in the
cabin. I tore the wet clothes off me and turned my arm to the mirror. I knew I
could not have been mistaken when I felt them. There on the upper arm, above the line of sunburn that one gets from
working with sleeves rolled up, there on the white skin showed _the red
marks of four slender fingers and a thumb_! I sat down suddenly at sight
of them, and pulling open a drawer, found a flask of neat brandy, and
gulped it down, emptied it in one gulp. Then I turned to him and pointed to the marks. "In God's name, how came these here?" I said. "What--what happened up
there on deck?" He looked at me very gravely. "I saved you," he said, "or rather I didn't, for I could not. But _she_
did." "What do you mean?" I stammered. "Let me get these clothes off," he said, "and some dry ones on; and I'll
tell you." Words fail to describe my feelings as I watched the clothes come off him
and dry ones go on just as if hands were arranging them. I sat and shuddered. I tried to close my eyes, but the weird, unnatural
sight drew them as a lodestone. "I'm sorry that you should have had this shock," he said. "I know what
it must have been like, though it was not so bad for me when they seemed
to come, for they came gradually as time went on." "What came gradually?" I asked. "Why, these arms! They're what I'm telling you about. You asked me to
tell you, I thought?" "Did I?" I said. "I don't know what I'm saying or asking. I think I'm
going mad, quite mad." "No," he said, "you're as sane as I am, only when you come across
something strange, unique for that matter, you are naturally terrified. Well, it was like this. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
I told you about my adventures with the niggers
up country. That was quite true. They cut off both my arms--you can see
the stumps for that matter. And I told you that I came home to find my
wife dying. Her heart had always been weak, I'd known that, and it had
gradually grown more feeble. There must have been, indeed there was, a
strange sort of telepathy between us. She had had fearful attacks of
heart failure on both occasions when the niggers had mutilated me, I
learnt on comparing notes. "But I had known too, somehow, that I must escape at all costs. It was
the knowledge that made me try again after each failure. I should have
gone on trying to escape as long as I had lived, or rather as long as
she had lived. I knelt beside her bed and she put out her arms and laid
them round my neck. "'So you have come back to me before I go,' she said. 'I knew you must,
because I called you so. But you have been long in coming, almost too
long. But I knew I had to see you again before I died.' "I broke down then. I was sorely tried. No arms even to put round her! "'Darling, stay with me for a little, only for a little while!' I
sobbed. "She shook her head feebly. 'It is no use, my dear,' she said, 'I must
go.' "'I'll come with you,' I said, 'I'll not live without you.' "She shook her head again. "'You must be brave, Bob. I shall be watching you afterwards just as
much as if I still lived on earth. If only I could give you my arms! A
poor, weak woman's arms, but better than none, dear.' "She died some weeks later. I spent all the time at her bedside, I
hardly left her. Her arms were round me when she died. Shall I ever feel
them round me again? I wonder! You see, they are mine now. "They came to me gradually. It was very strange at first to have arms
and hands which one couldn't see. I used to keep my eyes shut as much as
possible, and try to fancy that I had never lost my arms. "I got used to them in time. But I have always been careful not to let
people see me do things that they would know to be impossible for an
armless man. That was what took me to Africa again, because I could get
lost there and do things for myself with these hands." "'And they twain shall be one flesh,'" I muttered. "Yes," he said, "I think the explanation must be something of that sort. There's more than that in it, though; these arms are other than flesh." He sat silent for a time with his head bowed on his chest. Then he spoke
again:
"I got sick of being alone at last, and was coming back when I met you
at Fourteen Streams. I don't know what I shall do when I do get home. I
can never rest. I have--what do they call it--_Wanderlust_?" "Does she ever speak to you from that other world?" I asked him. He shook his head sadly. "No, never. But I know she lives somewhere beyond this world of ours. She must, because these arms live. So I try always to act as if she
watches everything. I always try to do the right thing, but, anyway,
these arms and hands would do good of their own accord. Just now up on
the deck I was very frightened. I'd have saved myself at any cost
almost, and let you go. But I could not do that. The hands clutched you. It is her will, so much stronger and purer than mine, that still
persists. It is only when she does not exert it that I control these
arms." That was how I learnt the strangest tale that ever a man was told, and
knew the miracle to which I owed my life. It may be that Bob Masters was a coward. He always said that he was. Personally I do not believe it, for he had the sweetest nature I ever
met. He had nowhere to go to in England and seemed to have no friends. So I
made him come down with me to Englehart, that dear old country seat of
my family in the Western shires which was now mine. Nancy lived in that country, too. There was no reason why we should not get married at once. We had waited
long enough. I can see again the old, ivy-grown church where Nancy and I were wed,
and Bob Masters standing by my side as best man. I remember feeling in his pocket for the ring, and as I did so, I felt a
hand grasp mine for a moment. Then there was the reception afterwards, and speech-making--the usual
sort of thing. Later Nancy and I drove off to the station. We had not said good-bye to Bob, for he'd insisted on driving to the
station with the luggage; said he was going to see the last of us there. He was waiting for us in the yard when we reached it, and walked with us
on to the platform. We stood there chatting about one thing and another, when I noticed that
Nancy was not talking much and seemed rather pale. I was just going to
remark on it when we heard the whistle of the train. There is a sharp
curve in the permanent way outside the station, so that a train is on
you all of a sudden. Suddenly to my horror I saw Nancy sway backwards towards the edge of the
platform. I tried vainly to catch her as she reeled and fell--right in
front of the oncoming train. I sprang forward to leap after her, but
hands grasped me and flung me back so violently that I fell down on the
platform. It was Bob Masters who took the place that should have been mine, and
leapt upon the metals. I could not see what happened then. The station-master says he saw Nancy
lifted from before the engine when it was right upon her. He says it was
as if she was lifted by the wind. She was quite close to Masters. "Near
enough for him to have lifted her, sir, if he'd had arms." The two of
them staggered for a moment, and together fell clear of the train. Nancy was little the worse for the awful accident, bruised, of course,
but poor Masters was unconscious. We carried him into the waiting-room, laid him on the cushions there,
and sent hot-foot for the doctor. He was a good country practitioner, and, I suppose, knew the ordinary
routine of his work quite well. He fussed about, hummed and hawed a lot. "Yes, yes," he said, as if he were trying to persuade himself. "Shock,
you know. He'll be better presently. Lucky, though, that he had no
arms." I noticed then, for the first time, that the sleeves of the coat had
been shorn away. "Doctor," I said, "how is he? Surely, if he isn't hurt he would not look
like that. What exactly do you mean by shock?" "Hum--er," he hesitated, and applied his stethoscope to Masters' heart
again. "The heart is very weak," he said at length. "Very weak. He's always
very anæmic, I suppose?" "No," I answered. "He's anything but that. He's----Good Lord, he's
bleeding to death! Put ligatures on his arms. Put ligatures on his
arms." "Please keep quiet, Mr. Riverston," the doctor said. "It must have been
a dreadful experience for you, and you are naturally very upset." I raved and cursed at him. I think I should have struck him, but the
others held me. They said they would take me away if I did not keep
quiet. Bob Masters opened his eyes presently, and saw them holding me. "Please let him go," he said. "It's all right, old man. It's no use your
arguing with them, they would not understand. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
I could never explain to
them now, and they would never believe you. Besides, it's all for the
best. Yes, the train went over them and I'm armless for the second time. But--not for long!" I knelt by his side and sobbed. It all seemed so dreadful, and yet, I
don't think that then I would have tried to stay his passing. I knew it
was best for him. He looked at me very affectionately. "I'm so sorry that this should happen on your wedding-day," he said. "But it would have been so much worse for you if _she_ had not helped." His voice grew fainter and died away. There was a pause for a time, and his breath came in great sighing sobs. Then suddenly he raised himself on the cushions until he stood upright
on his feet, and a smile broke over his face--a smile so sweet that I
think the angels in Paradise must look like that. His voice came strong and loud from his lips. "Darling!" he cried. "Darling, your arms are round me once again! I
come! I come!" * * * * *
"One of the most extraordinary cases I have ever met with," the doctor
told the coroner at the inquest. "He seemed to have all the symptoms of
excessive hæmorrhage." III
THE TOMTOM CLUE
I had just settled down for a comfortable evening over the fire in a
saddle-bag chair drawn up as close to the hearth as the fender would
allow, with a plentiful supply of literature and whisky, and pipe and
tobacco, when the telephone bell rang loudly and insistently. With a
sigh I rose and took up the receiver. "That you?" said a voice I recognised as that of Jack Bridges. "Can I
come round and see you at once? It's most important. No, I can't tell
you now. I'll be with you in a few minutes." I hung the receiver up again, wondering what business could fetch Jack
Bridges round at that time of the evening to see me. We had been the
greatest of pals at school and at the 'Varsity, and had kept the
friendship up ever since, despite my intermittent wanderings over the
face of the globe. But during the last few days or so Jack had become
engaged to Miss Glanville, the daughter of old Glanville, of South
African fame, and as a love-sick swain I naturally expected to see very
little of him, until after the wedding at any rate. At this time of the evening, according to my ideas of engaged couples,
he should be sitting in the stalls at some theatre, and not running
round to see bachelor friends with cynical views on matrimony. I had not arrived at a satisfactory solution when the door opened and
Jack walked in. One glance at his face told me that he was in trouble,
and without a word I pushed him into my chair and handed him a drink. Then I sat down on the opposite side of the fire and waited for him to
begin, for a man in need of sympathy does not want to be worried by
questions. He gulped down half his whisky and sat for a moment gazing into the
fire. "Jim, old man," he said at length, "I've had awful news." "Not connected with Miss Glanville?" I asked. "In a way, yes. It's broken off, but there's worse than that--far worse. I can hardly realise it; I feel numbed at present; it's too horrible. You remember that when you and I were at Winchester together my father
was killed during the Matabele War?" I nodded. "Well," continued Jack, "I heard to-day that he was not killed by the
Matabele, but was hanged in Bulawayo for murder. In other words, I am
the son of a murderer." "Hanged for murder!" I exclaimed in horror. "Surely there's some
mistake?" "No," groaned Jack, "it's true enough. I've seen the newspaper cutting
of the time, and I'm the son of a murderer, who was also a forger, a
thief, and a card-sharper. Old Glanville told me this evening. It was
then that our engagement was broken off." "Your mother?" I asked. "Have you seen her?" Jack nodded. "Poor little woman!" he groaned. "She has known all along, and her one
aim and object in life has been to keep the awful truth from me. That
was why I was told he died an honourable death during the war. I've
often wondered why the little mother was always so sad, and so weighed
down by trouble. Now I know. Good God, what her life must have been!" He rose from his chair and paced up and down the room for a minute; then
he stopped and stood in front of me, his face working with emotion. "But I don't believe it, Jim," he said, and there was a ring in his
voice. "I don't believe it, and neither does the little mother. It's
impossible to reconcile the big, bluff man with the heart of a child,
that I remember as my father, with murder, forgery, or any other crime. And yet, according to Glanville and the old newspapers he showed me,
Richard Bridges was one of the most unscrupulous ruffians in South
Africa. In my heart of hearts I know he didn't do it, and though on the
face of it there's no doubt, I'm going to try and clear his name. I am
sailing for South Africa on Friday." "Sailing for South Africa!" I exclaimed. "What about your work?" "My work can go hang!" replied Jack heatedly. "I want to wipe away the
stain from my father's name, and I mean to do it somehow. That's why
I've run round to see you, old pal, for I want you to come with me. Knowing Rhodesia as you do, you're just the man to help me. Say you'll
come?" he pleaded. It seemed quite the forlornest hope I had ever heard of, but Jack's
distress was so acute that I hadn't the heart to refuse. "All right, Jack," I said, "I'm with you. But don't foster any vain
hopes. Remember, it's twenty years ago. It will be a pretty tough job to
prove anything after all these years." During the voyage out we had ample time to go through the small amount
of information about the long-forgotten case that Jack had been able to
collect from the family solicitors. In the year 1893, Richard Bridges, who was a mining engineer of some
standing, had made a trip to Rhodesia with a view to gold and diamond
prospecting. He had been accompanied by a friend, Thomas Symes, who, so
far as we could ascertain, was an ex-naval officer; and the two, after a
short stay at Bulawayo, had gone northward across the Guai river into
what was in those days a practically unknown land. In a little over a
year's time Bridges had returned alone--his companion having been, so he
stated, killed by the Matabele, and for six months or so he led a
dissolute life in Bulawayo and the district, which ended ultimately in
his execution for murder. There was no doubt whatever about the murder,
or the various thefts and forgeries that he was accused of, as he had
made a confession at his trial, and we seemed to be on a wild-goose
chase of the worst variety so far as I could see; but Jack, confident of
his father's innocence, would not hear of failure. "It's impossible to make surmises at this stage," he said. "On the face
of it there appears to be little room for doubt, but no one who knew my
father could possibly connect him with any sort of crime. Somehow or
other, Jim, I've got to clear his name." | Various - Uncanny Tales |
My memory went back to a tall, sunburnt man with a kindly manner who had
come down to the school one day and put up a glorious feed at the tuck
shop to Jack and his friends. Afterwards, at his son's urgent request,
he had bared his chest to show us his tattooing of which Jack had,
boy-like, often boasted to us. I recalled how we had gazed admiringly at
the skilfully worked picture of Nelson with his empty sleeve and closed
eye and the inscription underneath: "England expects that every man this
day will do his duty." Jack had explained with considerable pride that
this did not constitute all, as on his father's back was a wonderful
representation of the _Victory_, and on other parts of his body a lion,
a snake, and other _fauna_, but Richard Bridges had protested laughingly
and refused to undress further for our delectation. We reached Bulawayo, but no one in the city appeared to recall the case
at all; indeed, Bulawayo had grown out of all recognition since Richard
Bridges had passed through it on his prospecting trip. It was difficult
to know where to start. Even the police could not help, and had no
knowledge of where the murderer had been buried. No one but an old
saloon-keeper and a couple of miners could recollect the execution even,
and they, so far as they could remember, had never met Richard Bridges
in the flesh, though his unsavoury reputation was well known to them. In despair, Jack suggested a trek up country towards Barotseland, which
was the district that Bridges and Symes had proposed to prospect,
though, according to all accounts, Symes had been murdered by the
Matabele before they reached the Guai river. For the next month we trekked steadily northwards, having very fair
sport; but, as I expected, extracting no information whatever from the
natives about the two prospectors who had passed that way years before. At length, Jack became more or less reconciled to failure, and realising
the futility of further search suggested a return to Bulawayo. As our
donkey caravan was beginning to suffer severely from the fly, I
concurred, and we started to travel slowly back to Bulawayo, shooting by
the way. One night after a particularly hard trek we inspanned at an old _kraal_,
the painted walls of which told that at one time it had served as a
royal residence, and as I had shot an eland cow that afternoon, which
provided far more meat than we could consume, we invited the induna and
his tribe to the feast. Not to be outdone in hospitality, the old chief
produced the kaffir beer of the country, a liquid which has nothing to
recommend it beyond the fact that it intoxicates rapidly. A meat feast and a beer drink is a great event in the average kaffir's
life, and as the evening wore on a general jollification started to the
thump of tomtoms and the squeak of kaffir fiddles. There was one very
drunk old Barotse, who sat close to me, and, accompanying himself with
thumps on his tomtom, sang in one droning key a song about a man who
kept snakes and lions inside him, and from whose chest the evil eye
looked out. At least, so far as I could gather that was roughly the gist
of the song; but as his tomtom was particularly large and most obnoxious
I politely took it away from him, and Jack and I used it as a table for
our gourds of kaffir beer, which we were pretending to consume in large
quantities. A gourd, however, is a top-heavy sort of drinking vessel, and in a very
short time I had succeeded in spilling half a pint or so of my drink on
the parchment of the drum. Not wishing to spoil the old gentleman's
plaything, which he evidently valued above all things, I mopped up the
beer with my handkerchief, and in doing so removed from the parchment a
portion of the accumulated filth of ages. "Hullo!" said Jack, taking the instrument from me and holding it up to
the firelight. "There's a picture of some sort here. It looks like a man
in a cocked hat." He rubbed it hard with his pocket handkerchief, and the polishing
brought more of the picture to light, till, plain enough in places and
faded in others, there stood out, the portrait of a man in an
old-fashioned naval uniform with stars on his breast, and underneath
some letters in the form of a scroll. "That's not native work," I exclaimed. "These are English letters," for
I could distinctly make out the word "man" followed by a "t" and an "h."
"Rub it hard, Jack." The grease on the parchment refused to give way to further polishing,
however, and remembering a bottle of ammonia I kept for insect bites, I
mixed some with kaffir beer and poured it on the head of the tomtom. One
touch of the handkerchief was sufficient once the strong alkali got to
work, and out came the grand old face of Nelson and underneath his
motto:
"England expects that every man this day will do his duty." Jack dropped the drum as if it had bitten him. "What does it mean?" he gasped. "My father had this on his chest. I
remember it well!" I was, however, too busy with the reverse end of the drum to heed him. On the other side the ammonia brought out a picture of the _Victory_,
with the head of a roaring lion below it. "Good God!" exclaimed Jack. "My father had that on his back. Quick, Jim,
rub hard! There should be the family crest to the right--an eagle with a
snake in its talons and R. B. underneath." I rubbed in the spot indicated, and out came the crest and initials
exactly as Jack had described them. There was something horribly uncanny
and gruesome in finding the tattoo marks of the dead man on the
parchment of a Barotse tomtom two hundred miles north of the Zambesi,
and for a moment I was too overcome with astonishment to grasp exactly
what it meant. Then it came to my mind in a flash that the parchment was
nothing else than human skin, and Richard Bridges' skin at that. I put
it down with sudden reverence, and, beckoning to its owner, demanded its
full history. At first he showed signs of fear, but promising him a
waist length of cloth if he told the truth, he squatted on his hams
before us and began. "Many, many moons ago, before the white men came to trade across the Big
Water as they do now, two white baases came into this country to look
for white stones and gold. One baas was bigger than the other, and on
his chest and on his body were pictures of birds, and beasts, and
strange things. On his chest was a great inkoos with one eye covered,
and on his back a hut with trees growing straight up into the air from
it. On his loins was a lion of great fierceness, and coiled round his
waist was a hissing mamba (snake). We were sore afraid, for the white
baas told us he was bewitched, and that if harm came to either he would
uncover the closed eye of the great inkoos upon his chest, which was the
Evil Eye, and command him to blast the Barotse and their land for ever. "So the white men were suffered to come and go in peace, for we dreaded
the Evil Eye of the great inkoos. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
They toiled, these white baases,
digging in the hillside and searching the riverbed; and then one day it
came to pass that they quarrelled and fought, and the baas with the
pictures was slain. We knew then that his medicine was bad medicine,
otherwise the white baas without the pictures could not have killed him. So we were wroth and made to slay the other baas, but he shot us down
with a fire stick and returned to his own country in haste. Then did I
take the skin from the dead baas, for I loved him for his pictures, and
I made them into a tomtom. I have spoken." "Good heavens!" exclaimed Jack when I had translated the story. "Then my
father was killed here in Barotseland, and it was Symes, his murderer,
who went back to Bulawayo. It was that fiend Symes, also, who took my
father's name, probably to draw any money that might have been left
behind, and who, as Richard Bridges, was hanged for murder. Poor old
dad," he added brokenly, "murdered, and his body mutilated by savages! But how glad I am to know that he died an honest man!" With the evidence at hand it was easy to prove the identity of the
murderer of twenty years ago, and, having settled the matter
satisfactorily and cleared the dead man's name, Jack and I returned to
England, where a few weeks later I had to purchase wedding garments in
order that I might play the part of best man at Jack's wedding. IV
THE CASE OF SIR ALISTER MOERAN
"Ethne?" My aunt looked at me with raised brows and smiled. "My dear
Maurice, hadn't you heard? Ethne went abroad directly after Christmas,
with the Wilmotts, for a trip to Egypt. She's having a glorious time!" I am afraid I looked as blank as I felt. I had only landed in England
three days ago, after two years' service in India, and the one thing I
had been looking forward to was seeing my cousin Ethne again. "Then, since you did not know she was away, you, of course, have not
heard the other news?" went on my aunt. "No," I answered in a wooden voice. "I've heard nothing." She beamed. "The dear child is engaged to a Sir Alister Moeran, whom she
met in Luxor. Everyone is delighted, as it is a splendid match for her. Lady Wilmott speaks most highly of him, a man of excellent family and
position, and perfectly charming to boot." I believe I murmured something suitable, but it was absurd to pretend to
be overjoyed at the news. The galling part of it was that Aunt Linda
knew, and was chuckling, so to speak, over my discomfiture. "If you are going up to Wimberley Park," she went on sweetly, "you will
probably meet them both, as your Uncle Bob has asked us all there for
the February house-party. He cabled an invitation to Sir Alister as soon
as he heard of the engagement. Wasn't it good of him?" I replied that it was; then, having heard quite enough for one day of
the charms of Ethne's _fiancé_, I took my leave. That night, after cursing myself for a churl, I wrote and wished her
good luck. The next morning I received a letter from Uncle Bob asking me
to go to Wimberley; and early in the following week I travelled up to
Cumberland. I received a warm welcome from the old General. As a boy I
used to spend the greater part of my holidays with him, and being
childless himself, he regarded me more or less as a son. On February 16th Ethne, her mother, and Sir Alister Moeran arrived. I
motored to the station to meet them. The evening was cold and raw and so
dark that it was almost impossible to distinguish people on the badly
lighted little platform. However, as I groped my way along, I recognised
Ethne's voice, and thus directed, hurried towards the group. As I did so
two gleaming, golden eyes flashed out at me through the darkness. "Hullo!" I thought. "So she's carted along the faithful Pincher!" But
the next moment I found I was mistaken, for Ethne was holding out both
hands to me in greeting. There was no dog with her, and in the bustle
that followed, I forgot to seek further for the solution of those two
fiery lights. "It was good of you to come, Maurice," Ethne said with unmistakable
pleasure, then, turning to the man at her side, "Alister, this is my
cousin, Captain Kilvert, of whom you have heard me speak." We murmured the usual formalities in the usual manner, but as my fingers
touched his, I experienced the most curious sensation down the region of
my spine. It took me back to Burma and a certain very uncomfortable
night that I once passed in the jungle. But the impression was so
fleeting as to be indefinable, and soon I was busy getting everyone
settled in the car. So far, except that he possessed an exceptionally charming voice, I had
no chance of forming an opinion of my cousin's _fiancé_. It was
half-past seven when we got back to the house, so we all went straight
up to our rooms to dress for dinner. Everyone was assembled in the drawing-room when Sir Alister Moeran came
in, and I shall never forget the effect his appearance made. Conversation ceased entirely for an instant. There was a kind of
breathless pause, which was almost audible as my uncle rose to greet
him. In all my life I had never seen a handsomer man, and I don't
suppose anyone else there had either. It was the most startling,
arresting style of beauty one could possibly imagine, and yet, even as I
stared at him in admiration, the word "Black!" flashed into my mind. Black! I pulled myself up sharply. We English, who have lived out in the
East, are far too prone to stigmatise thus anyone who shows the smallest
trace of being a "half breed"; but in Sir Alister's case there was not
even a suspicion of this. He was no darker than scores of men of my own
nationality, and besides, he belonged, I knew, to a very old Scottish
family. Yet, try as I would to strangle the idea, all through the
evening the same horrible, unaccountable notion clung to me. That he was the personality of the gathering there was not the slightest
doubt. Men and women alike seemed attracted by him, for his
individuality was on a par with his looks. Several times during dinner I glanced at Ethne, but it was easy to see
that all her attention was taken up by her lover. Yet, oddly enough, I
was not jealous in the ordinary way. I saw the folly of imagining that I
could stand a chance against a man like Moeran, and, moreover, he
interested me too deeply. His knowledge of the East was extraordinary,
and later, when the ladies had retired, he related many curious
experiences. "Might I ask," said my uncle's friend, Major Faucett, suddenly, "whether
you were in the Service, or had you a Government appointment out there?" Sir Alister smiled, and under his moustache I caught the gleam of
strong, white teeth. "As a matter of fact, neither. I am almost ashamed to say I have no
profession, unless I may call myself an explorer." "And why not?" put in Uncle Bob. "Provided your explorations were to
some purpose and of benefit to the community in general, I consider you
are doing something worth while." "Exactly," Sir Alister replied. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
"From my earliest boyhood I have always
had the strangest hankering for the East. I say strange, because to my
parents it was inexplicable, neither of them having the slightest
leaning in that direction, though to me it seemed the most natural
desire in the world. I was like an alien in a foreign land, longing to
get home. I recollect, as a child, my nurse thought me a beastly uncanny
kid because I loved to lie in bed and listen to the cats howling and
fighting outside. I used to put my head half under the blankets and
imagine I was in my lair in the jungle, and those were the jackals and
panthers prowling around outside." "I suppose you'd been reading adventure books," Uncle Bob said, with a
laugh. "I played at much the same game when I was a youngster, only in
my case it was Redskins." "Possibly," Sir Alister answered with a slight shrug, "only mine wasn't
a game that I played with any other boys, it was a gnawing desire, which
simply had to be satisfied; and the opportunity came. When I was
fourteen, the father of a school friend of mine, who was going out to
India, asked me to go out with him and the boy for the trip. Of course,
I went." "I wonder," the Major remarked, "that you ever came back once you got
there, since you were so frightfully keen." "I was certain I should return," he replied grimly. A pause followed his last words, then Uncle Bob rose and led the way to
the drawing-room, where for the remainder of the evening Sir Alister was
chiefly monopolised by the ladies. * * * * *
"Well, Maurice," Uncle Bob said, when on the following evening I was
sitting in his study having my usual before-dinner chat with him, "and
how do you like Ethne's future husband?" I hesitated. "I--I really don't know," I replied. "Come, boy," he said, with his whimsical smile, "why not be frank and
own to a very natural jealousy?" "Because," I answered simply, "the feeling Sir Alister Moeran inspires
in me is not jealousy, curiously enough. It's something else, something
indefinable that comes over me now and again. Dogs don't like him, and
that's always a bad sign, to my thinking." My uncle's bushy eyebrows went up slightly. "When did you make this discovery?" "This morning," I replied. "You know I took him and Ethne round the
place. Well, the first thing I noticed was that Mike refused to come
with us, although both Ethne and I called him. As we passed through the
hall he slunk away into the library. I thought it a bit strange, as he's
usually so frantic to go out with me. Still, I didn't attach any
significance to the matter until later, when we visited the kennels. I
don't know why, but one takes it for granted that a man is keen on dogs
somehow and----"
"Isn't Sir Alister?" "They are not keen on him, anyhow," I answered grimly. "They had heard
my voice as we approached and were all barking with delight, but
directly we entered the place there was a dead silence, save for a few
ominous growls from Argo. It was a most extraordinary sight. They all
bristled up, so to speak, sniffing the air though on the scent of
something. I let Bess and Fritz loose, but instead of jumping up, as
they usually do, they hung back and showed the whites of their eyes in a
way I've never seen before. I actually had to whistle to them sharply
several times before they came, and then it was in a slinking manner,
taking good care to put Ethne and me between themselves and Moeran, and
looking askance at him the whole while." "H'm!" murmured the General with puckered brows. "That was certainly
odd, very odd!" "It was," I agreed, warming to the subject, "but there's odder still to
come. I dare say you'll think it all my fancy, but the minute those
animals put their heads up and sniffed in that peculiar way, I
distinctly smelt the musky, savage odour of wild beasts. You know it
well, anyone who has been through a jungle does." Uncle Bob nodded. "I know it, too; 'Musky' is the very word--the smell
of sun-warmed fur. Jove, how it carries me back! I remember once, years
ago, coming upon a litter of lion cubs, in a cave, when I was out in
Africa----"
"Yes! Yes!" I cried eagerly. "And that is what I smelt this morning. Those dogs smelt it, too. They felt that there was something alien,
abnormal in their midst." "That something being--Sir Alister Moeran?" I felt myself flush up under his gaze. I got up and walked about the
room. "I don't understand it," I said doggedly. "I tell you plainly, Uncle
Bob, I don't understand. My impression of the man last night was
'black,' but he's not black, I know that perfectly well, no more than
you or I are, and yet I can't get over the behaviour of those hounds. It wasn't only one of 'em, it was the whole lot. They seemed to regard
him as their natural enemy! And that smell! I'm sure Ethne detected it
too, for she kept glancing about her in a startled, mystified way." "And Sir Alister?" queried the General. "Do you mean to say he did not
notice anything amiss?" I shrugged my shoulders. "He didn't appear to. I called attention myself
to the singular attitude of the hounds, and he said quite casually:
'Dogs never do take to me much.'" Uncle Bob gave a short laugh. "Our friend is evidently not sensitive." He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then added: "It certainly is
rather curious, but, for Heaven's sake, boy, don't get imagining all
sorts of things!" This nettled me and made me wish I had held my tongue. I was quite aware
that my story might have sounded somewhat fantastic from a stranger;
still, he ought to have known me better than to accuse me of
imagination. I abruptly changed the subject, and shortly after left the
room. But I could not banish from my mind the incident of the morning. I could
not forget the appealing faces of those dogs. Ethne and Sir Alister had
left me there and returned to the house together, and, after their
departure, those poor, dumb beasts had gathered round me in a way that
was absolutely pathetic, licking and fondling my hands, as though
apologising for their previous misconduct. Still, I understood. That
bristling up their spines was precisely the same sensation I had
experienced when I first met Sir Alister Moeran. As I was slowly mounting the stairs on my way up to dress, I heard
someone running up after me, and turned round to find Ethne beside me. "Maurice," she said, rather breathlessly, "tell me, you did not punish
Fritz and Bess for not coming at once when you called them this
morning?" "No," I answered. She gave a nervous little laugh. "I'm glad of that. I thought
perhaps----" She stopped short, then rushed on, "You know how queer
mother is about cats--can't bear one in the room, and how they always
fly out directly she comes in? Well, dogs are the same with Alister. He--he told me so himself. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
It seems funny to me, and I suppose to you,
because we're so fond of all kinds of animals; but I don't really see
why it should be any more extraordinary to have an antipathy for dogs
than for cats, and no one thinks anything of it if you dislike cats." "That is so," I said thoughtfully. "Anyway," she went on, "it is not our own fault if a certain animal does
not instinctively take to us." "Of course not," I replied stoutly. "You're surely not worrying about
it, are you?" She hastened to assure me that she was not, but I could see that my
indorsing her opinion was a great relief to her. She had been afraid
that I should think it unnatural. I did for that matter, but I could
not, of course, tell her so. That night Sir Alister and I sat up late talking after the other men had
retired. We had got on the subject of India and had been comparing notes
as to our different adventures. From this we went on to discussing
perilous situations and escapes, and it was then that he narrated to me
a very curious incident. "It happened when I was only twenty-one," he said, "the year after my
father died. I think I told you that as soon as ever I became my own
master, I packed up and was off to the East. I had a friend with me, a
boy who had been my best pal at school. They used to call us 'Black and
White.' He was fair and girlish-looking, and his name was Buchanan. He
was just as keen on India as I was, and purposed writing a book
afterwards on our experiences. "Our intention was to explore the wildest, most savage districts, and as
a start we selected the province of Orissa. The forests there are
wonderful, and it is there, if anywhere, that the almost extinct Indian
lion is still to be found. We engaged two sturdy hillmen to accompany us
and pushed our way downwards from Calcutta over mountains, rivers and
through some of the densest jungles I've ever traversed. It was on the
outskirts of one of the latter that the tragedy took place. We had
pitched our tents one evening after a long, tiring day, and turned in
early to sleep, Buchanan and I in one, and the two Bhils in the other." Sir Alister paused for a few moments, toying with his cigar in an
abstracted manner, then continued in the same clear, even voice:
"When I awoke next morning, I found my friend lying beside me dead, and
blood all round us! His throat was torn open by the teeth of some wild
beast, his breast was horribly mauled and lacerated, and his eyes were
wide, staring open, and their expression was awful. He must have died a
hideous death and known it!" Again he stopped, but I made no comment, only waited with breathless
interest till he went on. "I called the two men. They came and looked, and for the first time I
saw terror written on their faces. Their nostrils quivered as though
scenting something; then 'Tiger!' they gasped simultaneously. "One of them said he had heard a stifled scream in the night, but had
thought it merely some animal in the jungle. The whole thing was a
mystery. How I came to sleep undisturbed through it all, how I escaped
the same fate, and why the tiger did not carry off his prey----"
"You are sure it was a tiger?" I put in. "I think there was no doubt of it," Sir Alister replied. "The Bhils
swore the teeth-marks were unmistakable, and not only that, but I saw
another case seven years later. The body of a young woman was found in
the compound outside my bungalow, done to death in precisely the same
way. And several of the natives testified as to there being a tiger in
that vicinity, for they had found three or four young goats destroyed in
similar fashion." "Who was the girl?" I asked. Moeran slowly turned his lucent, amber eyes upon me as he answered. "She
was a German, a sort of nursery governess at the English doctor's. He
was naturally frightfully upset about it, and a regular panic sprang up
in the neighbourhood. The natives got a superstitious scare--thought
one of their gods was wroth about something and demanded sacrifice; but
the white people were simply out to kill the tiger." "And did they?" I queried eagerly. Sir Alister shook his head. "That I can't say, as I left the place very
soon afterwards and went up to the mountains." A long silence followed, during which I stared at him in mute
fascination. Then an unaccountable impulse made me say abruptly:
"Moeran, how old are you?" His finely-marked eyebrows went up in surprise at the irrelevance of my
question, but he smiled. "Funny you should ask! It so happens that it's my birthday to-morrow. I
shall be thirty-five." "Thirty-five!" I repeated. Then with a shiver I rose from my seat. The
room seemed to have turned suddenly cold. "Come," I said, "let's go to bed." * * * * *
Next night at dinner I proposed Sir Alister's health, and we all drank
to him and his "bride-to-be." They had that day definitely settled the
date of their marriage for two months ahead; Ethne was looking radiant
and everyone seemed in the best of spirits. We danced and romped and played rowdy games like a pack of children. Nothing was too silly for us to attempt. While a one-step was in full
swing some would-be wag suddenly turned off all the lights. It was then
that for a moment I caught sight of a pair of glowing, fiery eyes
shining through the darkness. Instantly my thoughts flew back to that
meeting at the station, when I had fancied that Ethne had her dog in her
arms. A chill, sinister feeling crept over me, but I kept my gaze fixed
steadily in the same direction. The next minute the lights went up, and
I found myself staring straight at Sir Alister Moeran. His arm was round
Ethne's waist and she was smiling up into his face. Almost immediately
they took up the dance again, and I and my partner followed suit. But
all my gaiety had departed. An indefinable oppression seized me and
clung to me for the rest of the evening. As I emerged from my room next morning I saw old Giles, the butler,
hurrying down the corridor towards me. "Oh, Mr. Maurice--Captain Kilvert, sir!" he burst out, consternation in
every line of his usually stolid countenance. "A dreadful thing has
happened! How it's come about I can't for the life of me say, and how
we're going to tell the General, the Lord only knows!" "What?" I asked, seizing him by the arm. "What is it?" "The dawg, sir," he answered in a hoarse whisper, "Mike--in the
study----"
I waited to hear no more, but strode off down the stairs, Giles hobbling
beside me as fast as he could, and together we entered the study. In the middle of the floor lay the body of Mike. A horrible foreboding
gripped me, and I quickly knelt down and raised the dog's head. His neck
was torn open, bitten right through to the windpipe, the blood still
dripping from it into a dark pool on the carpet. A cold, numbing sensation stole down my spine and made my legs grow
suddenly weak. Beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead as I
slowly rose to my feet and faced Giles. "What's the meaning of it, sir?" | Various - Uncanny Tales |
he asked, passing his hand across his
brow in utter bewilderment. "That dawg was as right as possible when I
shut up last night, and he couldn't have got out." "No," I answered mechanically, "he couldn't have got out." "Looks like some wild beast had attacked him," muttered the old man, in
awed tones, as he bent over the lifeless body. "D'ye see the teeth
marks, sir? But it's not possible--not possible." "No," I said again, in the same wooden fashion. "It's not possible." "But how're we going to account for it to the General?" he cried
brokenly. "Oh, Mr. Maurice, sir, it's dreadful!" I nodded. "You're right, Giles! Still, it isn't your fault, nor mine. Leave the matter to me. I'll break it to my uncle." It was a most unenviable task, but I did it. Poor Uncle Bob! I shall
never forget his face when he saw the mutilated body of the dog that for
years had been his faithful companion. He almost wept, only rage and
resentment against the murderer were so strong in him that they thrust
grief for the time into the background. The mysterious, incomprehensible
manner of the dog's death only added to his anger, for there was
apparently no one on whom to wreak his vengeance. The news caused general concern throughout the house, and Ethne was
frightfully upset. "Oh, Alister, isn't it awful?" she exclaimed, tears standing in her
pretty blue eyes. "Poor, darling Mike!" "Yes," he answered rather absently. "It's most unfortunate. Valuable
dog, too, wasn't it?" I walked away. The man's calm, handsome face filled me suddenly with
unspeakable revulsion. The atmosphere of the room seemed to become heavy
and noisome. I felt compelled to get out into the open to breathe. I found the General tramping up and down the drive in the rain, his chin
sunk deep into the collar of his overcoat, his hat pulled low down over
his eyes. I joined him without speaking, and in silence we paced side by
side for another quarter of an hour. "Uncle Bob," I said abruptly at last, "take my advice. Have one of the
hounds indoors to-night--Princep, he's a good watch-dog." The General stopped short in his walk and looked at me. "You've something on your mind, boy. What is it?" "This," I answered grimly. "Whoever, or whatever killed Mike was in the
house last night, or got in, after Giles shut up. It may still be there
for all we know. In the dark, dark deeds are done, and--well, I think
it's wise to take precautions." "Good God, Maurice, if there is any creature in hiding, we'll soon have
it out! I'll have the place searched now. But the thing's impossible,
absurd!" I shrugged my shoulders. "Then Mike died a natural death?" "Natural?" he echoed fiercely. "Don't talk rubbish!" "In that case," I said quietly, "you'll agree to let one of the dogs
sleep in." He gave me a long, troubled, searching look, then said gruffly: "Very
well, but don't make any fuss about it. Women are such nervous beings
and we don't want to upset anyone." "You needn't be afraid of that," I replied, "I'll manage it all right." There was no further talk of Mike that day. The visitors, seeing how
distressed the General was, by tacit consent avoided the subject, but
everyone felt the dampening effect. That night, before I retired to my room, I took a lantern, went out to
the kennels and brought in Princep, a pure-bred Irish setter. He was a
dog of exceptional intelligence, and when I spoke to him, explaining the
reason of his presence indoors, he seemed to know instinctively what was
required of him. As I passed the study I noticed a light coming from under the door. Somewhat surprised, I turned the handle and looked in. My uncle was
seated before his desk in the act of loading a revolver. He glanced up
sharply as I entered. "Oh, it's you, is it? Got the dog in?" "Yes," I replied, "I've left him in the library with the door open." He regarded the revolver pensively for a few moments, then laid it down
in front of him. "You've no theory as to this--this business?" I shook my head, I could offer no explanation. Yet all the while there
lurked, deep down in my heart, a hideous suspicion, a suspicion so
monstrous that had I voiced it, I should probably have been considered
mad. And so I held my peace on the subject and merely wished my uncle
good-night. It was about one o'clock when I got into bed, but my brain was far too
agitated for sleep. Something I had heard years ago, some old wives'
tales about a man's life changing every seven years, kept dinning in my
head. I was striving to remember how the story went, when a slight sound
outside caught my ear. In a second I was out of bed and had silently
opened the door. As I did so, someone passed close by me down the
corridor. Cautiously, with beating heart, I crept out and followed. However, I
almost exclaimed aloud in my amazement, for the light from a window fell
full on the figure ahead of me, and I recognised my cousin Ethne. She
was sleep-walking, a habit she had had from her childhood, and which
apparently she had never outgrown. For some minutes I stood there, undecided how to act, while she passed
on down the stairs, out of sight. To wake her I knew would be wrong. I
knew, also, that she had walked thus a score of times without coming to
any harm. There was, therefore, no reason why I should not return to my
room and leave her to her wandering, yet still I remained rooted to the
spot, all my senses strained, alert. And then suddenly I heard Princep
whine. A series of low, stertorous growls followed, growls that made my
blood run cold! With swift, noiseless steps, I stole along to the
minstrel's gallery which overlooked that portion of the hall that
communicated with the library. As I did so, there arose from immediately
below me a succession of sharp snarls, such as a dog gives when he is
in deadly fear or pain. A shaft of moonlight fell across the polished floor, and by its aid I
was just able to distinguish the form of Princep crouched against the
wainscoting. He was breathing heavily, his head turned all the while
towards the opposite side of the room. I looked in the same direction. Out of the darkness gleamed two fiery, golden orbs, two eyes that moved
slowly to and fro, backwards and forwards, as though the Thing were
prowling round and round. Now it seemed to crouch as though ready to
spring, and I could hear the savage growling as of some beast of prey. As I watched, horrified, fascinated, a _portière_ close by was lifted,
and the white-robed figure of Ethne appeared. All heedless of danger she
came on across the hall, and the Thing, with soft, stealthy tread, came
after her. I knew then that there was not an instant to be lost, and
like a flash I darted along the gallery and down the stairs. But ere I
gained the hall a piercing scream rent the air, and I was just in time
to see Ethne borne to the ground by a great, dark form, which had sprung
at her like a tiger. Half frantic, I dashed forward, snatching as I did so a rapier from the
wall, the only weapon handy. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
But before I reached the spot, a voice from
the study doorway called: "Stop!" and the next moment the report of a
pistol rang out. "Good God!" I cried. "Who have you shot?" "Not the girl," answered the grim voice of my uncle, "you may trust my
aim for that! I fired at the eyes of the Thing. Here, quick, get lights
and let's see what has happened." But my one and only thought was for Ethne. Moving across to the dark
mass on the floor, I stretched out my hand. My fingers touched a smooth,
fabric-like cloth, but the smell was the smell of fur, the musky,
sun-warmed fur of the jungle! With sickening repugnance, I seized the
Thing by its two broad shoulders and rolled it over. Then I carefully
raised Ethne from the ground. At that moment Giles and a footman
appeared with candles. In silence my uncle took one and came towards me,
the servants with scared, blanched countenances following. The light fell full upon the dead, upturned face of Sir Alister Moeran. His upper lip was drawn back, showing the strong, white teeth. The two
front ones were tipped with blood. Instantly my eyes turned to Ethne's
throat, and there I saw deep, horrible marks, like the marks of a
tiger's fangs; but, thank God, they had not penetrated far enough to do
any serious injury! My uncle's shot had come just in time to save her. "Merely fainted, hasn't she?" he asked anxiously. I nodded. My relief at finding this was so, was too great for words. "Heaven be praised!" I heard him mutter. Then lifting my beautiful,
unconscious burden in my arms, I carried her upstairs to her room. * * * * *
Can I explain, can anyone explain, the mysterious vagaries of atavism? I
only know that there are amongst us, rare instances fortunately, but
existent nevertheless--men with the souls of beasts. They may be
cognisant of the fact or otherwise. In the case of Sir Alister I feel
sure it was the latter. He had probably no more idea than I what
far-reaching, evil strain it was that came out in his blood and turned
him, every seven years, practically into a vampire. V
THE KISS
The quiet of the deserted building incircled the little, glowing room as
the velvet incircles the jewel in its case. Occasionally faint sounds
came from the distance--the movements of cleaners at work, a raised
voice, the slamming of a door. The man sat at his desk, as he had sat through the busy day, but he had
turned sideways in his seat, the better to regard the other occupant of
the room. She was not beautiful--had no need to be. Her call to him had been the
saner call of mind to mind. That he desired, besides, the passing
benediction of her hands, the fragrance of her corn-gold hair, the sight
of her slenderness: this she had guessed and gloried in. Till now, he
had touched her physical self neither in word nor deed. To-night, she
knew, the barriers would be down; to-night they would kiss. Her quiet eyes, held by his during the spell that had bound them
speechless, did not flinch at the breaking of it. "The Lord made the world and then He made this rotten old office," the
man said quietly. "Into it He put you--and me. What, before that day,
has gone to the making and marring of me, and the making and perfecting
of you, is not to the point. It is enough that we have realised, heart,
and soul, and body, that you are mine and I am yours." "Yes," she said. He fell silent again, his eyes on her hungrily. She felt them and longed
for his touch. But there came only his voice. "I want you. The first moment I saw you I wanted you. I thought then
that, whatever the cost, I would have you. That was in the early days of
our talks here--before you made it so courageously clear to me that it
would never be possible for you to ignore my marriage and come to me. That is still so, isn't it?" She moved slightly, like a dreamer in pain, as again she faced the creed
she had hated through many a sleepless night. "It is so," she agreed. "And because it is so, you are going away
to-morrow." "Yes." They looked at each other across the foot or two of intervening space. It was a look to bridge death with. But even beneath their suffering,
her eyes voiced the tremulous waiting of her lips. At last he found words. "You are the most wonderful woman in the world--the pluckiest, the most
completely understanding; you have the widest charity. I suppose I ought
to thank you for it all; I can't--that's not my way. I have always
demanded of you, demanded enormously, and received my measure pressed
down and running over. Now I am going to ask this last thing of you:
will you, of your goodness, go away--upstairs, anywhere--and come back
in ten minutes' time? By then I shall have cleared out." She looked at him almost incredulously, lips parted. Suddenly she seemed
a child. "You--I----" she stammered. Then rising to her feet, with a superb
simplicity: "But, you must kiss me before you go. You must! You--simply
_must_." For the space of a flaming moment it seemed that in one stride he would
have crossed to her side, caught and held her. "For God's sake----!" he muttered, in almost ludicrous fear of himself. Then, with a big effort, he regained his self-control. "Listen," he said hoarsely. "I want to kiss you so much that I daren't
even get to my feet. Do you understand what that means? Think of it,
just for a moment, and then realise that _I am not going to kiss you_. And I have kissed many women in my time, too, and shall kiss more, no
doubt." "But it's not because of that----?" "That I'm holding back? No. Neither is it because I funk the torture of
kissing you once and letting you go. It's because I'm afraid--for
_you_." "For me?" "Listen. You have unfolded your beliefs to me and, though I don't hold
them--don't attempt to live up to your lights--the realisation of them
has given me a reverence for you that you don't dream of. I have put you
in a shrine and knelt to you; every time you have sat in that chair and
talked with me, I have worshipped you." "It would not alter--all that," the girl said faintly, "if you kissed
me." "I don't believe that; neither do you--no, you don't! In your heart of
hearts you admit that a woman like you is not kissed for the first and
last time by a man like me. Suppose I kissed you now? I should awaken
something in you as yet half asleep. You're young and pulsing with life,
and there are--thank Heaven!--few layers of that damnable young-girl
shyness over you. The world would call you primitive, I suppose." "But I don't----"
"Oh, Lord, you must see it's all or nothing! You surely understand that
after I had left you you would not go against your morality, perhaps,
but you would adjust it, in spite of yourself, to meet your desires! I
cannot--safely--kiss you." "But you are going away for good!" "For good! Child, do you think my going will be your safeguard? If you
wanted me so much that you came to think it was right and good to want
me, wouldn't you find me, send for me, call for me? And I should come. God! | Various - Uncanny Tales |
I can see the look in your eyes now, when the want had been
satisfied, and you could not drug your creed any more." Her breath came in a long sigh. Then she tried to speak; tried again. "It is so, isn't it?" he asked. She nodded. Speech was too difficult. With the movement a strand of the
corn-gold hair came tumbling down the side of her face. "Then, that being the case," said the man, with infinite gentleness, his
eyes on the little, tumbling lock, "I shall not attempt so much as to
touch your hand before you leave the room." At the door she turned. "Tell me once again," she said. "You _want_ to kiss me?" He gripped the arms of his chair; from where she stood, she could see
the veins standing out on his hands. "I want to kiss you," he said fiercely. "I want to kiss you. If there
were any way of cutting off to-morrow--all the to-morrows--with the
danger they hold for us--I would kiss you. I would kiss you, and kiss
you, and kiss you!" II
Where her feet took her during the thousand, thousand years that was his
going she could never afterwards say; but she found herself at last at
the top of the great building, at an open window, leaning out, with the
rain beating into her eyes. Far below her the lights wavered and later she remembered that echoes of
a far-off tumult had reached her as she sat. But her ears held only the
memory of a man's footsteps--the eager tread that had never lingered so
much as a second's space on its way to her; that had often stumbled
slightly on the threshold of her presence; that she had heard and
welcomed in her dreams; that would not come again. The raindrops lay like tears upon her face. She brushed them aside, and, rising, put up her hands to feel the wet
lying heavy on her hair. The coldness of her limbs surprised her
faintly. Downstairs she went again, the echoes mocking every step. She closed the door of the room behind her and idly cleared a scrap of
paper from a chair. Mechanically her hands went to the litter on his
desk and she had straightened it all before she realised that there was
no longer any need. To-morrow would bring a voice she did not know;
would usher a stranger into her room to take her measure from behind a
barrier of formality. For the rest there would be work, and food, and
sleep. These things would make life--life that had been love. She put on her hat and coat. The room seemed smaller somehow and
shabbier. The shaded lights that had invited, now merely irritated; the
whimsical disorder of books and papers spoke only of an uncompleted
task. Gone was the glamour and the promise and the good comradeship. He
had taken them all. She faced to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
empty-handed--in her heart the memory of words that had seared and
healed in a breath, and the dead dream of a kiss. Her throat ached with
the pain of it. And then suddenly she heard him coming back! She stiffened. For one instant, mind and body, she was rigid with the
sheer wonder of it. Then, as the atmosphere of the room surged back,
tense with vitality, her mind leapt forward in welcome. He was coming
back, coming back! The words hammered themselves out to the rhythm of
the eager tread that never lingered so much as a second's space on its
way to her, that stumbled slightly on the threshold of her presence. By some queer, reflex twist of memory, her hands brushed imaginary
raindrops from her face and strayed uncertainly to where the wet had
lain on her hair. The door opened and closed behind him. "I've come back. I've come back to kiss you. Dear--_dear_!" Her outflung hand checked him in his stride towards her. Words came
stammering to her lips. "Why--but--this isn't--I don't understand! All you said--it was true,
surely? It was cruel of you to make me know it was true and then come
back!" "Let me kiss you--let me, let me!" He was overwhelming her, ignoring her
resistance. "I must kiss you, I must kiss you." He said it again and
again. "No, no, you shan't--you can't play with me! You said you were afraid
for me, and you made me afraid, too--of my weakness--of the danger--of
my longing for you----"
"Let me kiss you! Yes, you shall let me; you _shall_ let me." His arms
held her, his face touched hers. "Aren't you afraid any more? Has a miracle happened--may we kiss in
spite of to-morrow?" Inch by inch she was relaxing. All thought was slipping away into a
great white light that held no to-morrows, nor any fear of them, nor of
herself, nor of anything. The light crept to her feet, rose to her
heart, her head. Through the radiance came his words. "Yes, a miracle. Oh, my dear--my little child! I've come back to kiss
you, little child." "Kiss me, then," she said against his lips. III
Hazily she was aware that he had released her; that she had raised her
head; that against the rough tweed of his shoulder there lay a long,
corn-gold hair. She laughed shakily and her hand went up to remove it; but he caught her
fingers and held them to his face. And with the movement and his look
there came over her in a wave the shame of her surrender, a shame that
was yet a glory, a diadem of pride. She turned blindly away. "Please," she heard herself saying, "let me go now. I want to be alone. I want to--please don't tell me to-night. To-morrow----"
She was at the door, groping for the handle. Behind her she heard his
voice; it was very tender. "I shall always kneel to you--in your shrine." Then she was outside, and the chilly passages were cooling her burning
face. She had left him in the room behind her; and she knew he would
wait there long enough to allow her to leave the building. Almost
immediately, it seemed, she was downstairs in the hall, had reached the
entrance. She confronted a group of white-faced, silent men. "Why, is anything the matter? What has happened? O'Dell?" The porter stood forward. He cleared his throat twice, but for all that,
his words were barely audible. "Yes, Miss Carryll. Good-night, miss. You'd best be going on, miss, if
you'll excuse----"
Behind O'Dell stood a policeman; behind him again, a grave-eyed man
stooped to an unusual task. It arrested her attention like the flash of
red danger. "Why is the door of your room being locked, O'Dell?" She knew her
curiosity was indecent, but some powerful premonition was stirring in
her, and she could not pass on. "Has there been an accident? Who is in
there?" Then, almost under her feet, she saw a dark pool lying sluggishly
against the tiles; nearer the door another--on the pavement outside
another--and yet another. She gasped, drew back, felt horribly sick;
and, as she turned, she caught O'Dell's muttered aside to the policeman. "Young lady's 'is seccereterry--must be the last that seen 'im alive. All told, 'tain't more'n 'arf-an-'our since 'e left. 'Good-night,
O'Dell,' sez 'e. 'Miss Carryll's still working--don't lock 'er in,' sez
'e. Would 'ave 'is joke. Must 'ave gone round the corner an' slap inter
the car. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
Wish to God the amberlance----"
Her cry cut into his words as she flung herself forward. Her fingers
wrenched at the key of the locked door and turned it, in spite of the
detaining hands that seemed light as leaves upon her shoulder, and as
easily shaken off. Unhearing, unheeding, she forced her way into the
glare of electric light flooding the little room--beating down on to the
table and its sheeted burden. Before she reached it, knowledge had
dropped upon her like a mantle. Her face was grey as the one from which she drew the merciful coverings,
but her eyes went fearlessly to that which she sought. Against the rough tweed of the shoulder lay a long, corn-gold hair. VI
THE GOTH
Young Cargill smiled as Mrs. Lardner finished her account. "And do you really think that the fact that the poor chap was drowned
had anything to do with it?" he asked. "Why, you admit yourself that he
was known to have been drinking just before he fell out of his boat!" "You may say what you like," returned his hostess impressively, "but
since first we came to live at Tryn yr Wylfa only four people besides
poor Roberts have defied the Fates, and each of them was drowned within
the year. "They were all tourists," she added with something suspiciously like
satisfaction. "I am not a superstitious man myself," supplemented the Major. "But you
can't get away from the facts, you know, Cargill." Cargill said no more. He perceived that they had lived long enough in
retirement in the little Welsh village to have acquired a pride in its
legend. The legend and the mountains are the two attractions of Tryn yr
Wylfa--the official guidebook devotes an equal amount of space to each. It will tell you that the bay, across which the quarry's tramp steamers
now sail, was once dry land on which stood a village. Deep in the water
the remains of this village can still be seen in clear weather. But
whosoever dares to look upon them will be drowned within the year. A
local publication gives full details of those who have looked--and
perished. The legend had received an unexpected boom in the drowning of Roberts,
which had just occurred. Roberts was a fisherman who had recently come
from the South. One calm day in February he had rowed out into the bay
in fulfilment of a drunken boast. He was drowned three days before
Midsummer. After dinner young Cargill forgot about it. He forgot almost everything
except Betty Lardner. But, oddly enough, as he walked back to the hotel
it was just Betty Lardner who made him think again of the legend. He was
in love, and, being very young, wanted to do something insanely heroic. To defy the Fates by looking on the sunken village was an obvious outlet
for heroism. He must have thought a good deal about it before he fell asleep, for he
remembered his resolution on the following morning. After breakfast he sauntered along the brief strip of asphalt which the
villagers believe to be a promenade. He was not actually thinking of the
legend; to be precise, he was thinking of Betty Lardner, but he was
suddenly reminded of it by a boatman pressing him for his custom. "Yes," he said abruptly. "I will hire your boat if you will row me out
to the sunken village. I want to look at it." The Welshman eyed him suspiciously, perceived that he was not joking,
and shook his head. "Come," persisted Cargill, "I will make it a sovereign if you care to do
it." "Thank you, but indeed, no, sir," replied the Welshman. "Not if it wass
a hundred sofereigns!" "Surely you are not afraid?" "It iss not fit," retorted the Welshman, turning on his heel. It was probably this opposition that made young Cargill decide that it
would be really worth while to defy the legend. He did not approach the only other boatman. He considered the question
of swimming. The knowledge that the distance there and back was nearly
five miles did not render the feat impossible, for he was a champion
swimmer. But he soon thought of a better way. He went back to the hotel and
sought out Bissett. Bissett was a fellow member of the Middle Temple, as
contentedly briefless as himself. And Bissett possessed a motor-boat. Bissett was not exactly keen on the prospect. "Don't you think it is rather a silly thing to do?" he reasoned. "Of
course it's all rot in a way--it must be. But isn't it just as well to
treat that sort of thing with respect?" Eventually he agreed to take the motor-boat to within a few hundred
yards of the spot. They would tow a dinghy, in which young Cargill could
finish the journey. It took young Cargill half-an-hour to find the spot. But he did find it,
and he did look upon, and actually see, all that remained of the sunken
village. He felt vaguely ashamed of himself when he returned to dry land. He
noticed that several of the villagers gave him unfriendly glances; and
he resolved that he would say nothing of the matter to the Lardners. They were having tea on the lawn when he dropped in. He thought that
Mrs. Lardner's welcome was a trifle chilly. After tea Betty executed a
quite deliberate man[oe]uvre to avoid having him for a partner at
tennis. But he ran her to earth later, when they were picking up the
balls. "How _could_ you?" was all she said. "I--I didn't know you knew," he stammered weakly. "Of course everybody knows! It was all over the village before you
returned. "Can't you see what that legend meant to us?" she went on. "It was a
thing of beauty. And now you have spoilt it. It's like burning down the
trees of the Fairy Glen. You--you _Goth_!" "But suppose I am drowned before the year is out--like Roberts?" he
suggested jocularly. "Then I will forgive you," she said. And to Cargill it sounded exactly
as if she meant what she said. A few days later he returned to town. For six months he thought little
about the legend. Then he was reminded of it. He had been spending a week-end at Brighton. On the return journey he
had a first-class smoker in the rear of the train to himself. Towards
the end of the hour he dozed and dreamt of the day he had looked on the
sunken village. He was awakened when the train made its usual stop on
the bridge outside Victoria. It had been a pleasant dream, and he was still trying to preserve the
illusion when his eye fell lazily on the window, and he noticed that
there was a dense fog. "Bit rough on the legend that I happened to be a Londoner!" he mused. "It isn't easy to drown a man in town!" He stood up with the object of removing his dressing-case from the rack. But before he reached it there was the shriek of a whistle, a violent
shock, and he was hurled heavily into the opposite seat. It was not a collision in the newspaper sense of the word. No one was
hurt. A local train, creeping along at four miles an hour, had simply
missed its signal in the fog and bumped the Brighton train. Young Cargill, in common with most other passengers put his head out of
the window. He saw nothing--except the parapet of the bridge. "By God!" he muttered. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
"If that other train had been going a little
faster----"
He could just hear the river gurgling beneath him. He had got over his fright by the time he reached Victoria. "Just a common-place accident," he assured himself, as he drove in a
taxi-cab to his chambers. "That's the worst of it! If I happened to be
drowned in the ordinary way they'd swear it was the legend. I suppose,
for that reason, I had better not take any risks. Anyhow, I needn't go
near the sea until the year is out!" The superstitious would doubtless affirm that the Fates had sent him one
warning and, angered at his refusal to accept it, had determined to
drive home the lesson of his own impotence. For when he arrived at his
chambers he found a cablegram from Paris awaiting him. "Hullo, this must be from Uncle Peter!" he exclaimed, as he tore open
the envelope. "_Fear uncle dying. Come at once.--Machell._"
Machell was the elder Cargill's secretary, and young Cargill was the old
man's heir. It was not until he was in the boat-train that he realised that he was
about to cross the sea. It was a coincidence--an odd coincidence. When the ship tossed in an
unusually rough crossing he was prepared to admit to himself that it was
an uncanny coincidence. He stayed a week in Paris for his uncle's funeral. When he made the
return journey the Channel was like the proverbial mill pond. But it was
not until the ship had actually put into Dover that he laughed at the
failure of the Fates to take the opportunity to drown him. He laughed, to be exact, as he was stepping down the gangway. At the end
of the gangway the fold of the rug which he was carrying on his arm,
caught in the railings. He turned sharply to free it and stepping back,
cannoned into an officer of the dock. It threw him off his balance on
the edge of the dockside. Even if the official had not grabbed him, it is highly probable that he
could have saved himself from falling into the water, because the
gangway railing was in easy reach; and if you remember that he was a
champion swimmer, you will agree that it is still more probable that he
would not have been drowned, even if he had fallen. But the incident made its impression. His thoughts reverted to it
constantly during the next few days. Then he told himself that his
attendance at the last rites of his uncle had made him morbid, and was
more or less successful in dismissing the affair from his mind. He had many friends in common with the Lardners. Early in February he
was invited for a week's hunting to a house at which Betty Lardner was
also a guest. She had not forgotten. She did her best to avoid him, and succeeded
remarkably well, in spite of the fact that their hostess, knowing
something of young Cargill's feelings, made several efforts to throw
them together. One day at the end of the hunt he came alongside of her and they walked
their horses home together. When he was sure that they were out of
earshot he asked:
"You haven't forgiven me yet?" "You know the conditions," she replied banteringly. "You leave me no alternative to suicide," he protested. "That would be cheating," she said. "You must be drowned honestly, or
it's no good." Then he made a foolish reply. He thought her humour forced and it
annoyed him. Remember that he was exasperated. He had looked forward to
meeting her, and now she was treating him with studied coldness over
what still seemed to him a comparatively trifling matter. "I am afraid," he said, "that that is hardly likely to occur. The fact
of my being a townsman instead of a drunken boatman doesn't give your
legend a fair chance!" Less than an hour afterwards he was having his bath before dressing for
dinner. The water was deliciously hot, and the room was full of steam. As he lay in the bath a drowsiness stole over him. Enjoying the keen
physical pleasure of it, he thought what a wholly delightful thing was a
hot bath after a day's hard hunting. His mind, bordering on sleep, dwelt
lazily on hot baths in general. And then with a startling suddenness
came the thought that, before now, men had been drowned in their baths! With a shock he realised that he had almost fallen asleep. He tried to
rouse himself, but a faintness had seized him. That steam--he could not
breathe! He was certain he was going to faint. With a desperate effort of the will he hurled himself out of the bath
and threw open the window. It must have been the bath episode that first aroused the sensation of
positive fear in Cargill. For it was almost a month later when he
surprised the secretary of that swimming club of which he was the main
pillar by his refusal to take part in any events for the coming season. He was beginning to take precautions. Late one night, when taxi-cabs were scarce, he found that his quickest
way to reach home would be by means of one of the tubes. He was in the
descending lift when he suddenly remembered that that particular tube
ran beneath the river. Suppose an accident should occur--a leakage! After all such a thing was within the bounds of possibility. Instantly
there rose before him the vision of a black torrent roaring through the
tunnel. Without waiting for the lift to ascend he rushed to the staircase, and
sweating with terror gained the street and bribed a loafer to find him a
cab. He made an effort to take himself seriously in hand after that. More
than one acquaintance had lately told him that he was looking "nervy." In the last few weeks his sane and normal self seemed to have shrunk
within him. But it was still capable of asserting itself under
favourable conditions. It would talk aloud to the rest of him as if to a
separate individual. "Look here, old man, this superstitious nonsense is becoming an
obsession to you," it said one fine April morning. "Yes, I mean what I
say--an obsession! You must pull yourself together or you'll go stark
mad, and then you'll probably go and throw yourself over the Embankment. That legend is all bosh! You're in the twentieth century, and you're not
a drunken fisherman----"
"Hullo, young Cargill!" The door burst open and Stranack, oozing health and sanity, glared at
him. "Jove! What a wreck you look!" continued Stranack. "You've been
frousting too much. I'm glad I came. The car's outside, and we'll run
down to Kingston, take a skiff and pull up to Molesey." The river! Young Cargill felt the blood singing in his ears. "I'm afraid I can't manage it. I--I've got an appointment this
afternoon," he stammered. Stranack perceived that he was lying, and wondered. For a few minutes
he gossiped, while young Cargill was repeating to himself:
"You must pull yourself together. It's becoming an obsession. You must
pull yourself together." He was vaguely conscious that Stranack was about to depart. Stranack was
already in the doorway. His chance of killing the obsession was slipping
from him! A special effort and then:
"Stop!" cried Cargill. "I--I'll come with you, Stranack." Oddly enough, he felt much better when they were actually on the river. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
He had never been afraid of water, as such. And the familiar scenery,
together with the wholesome exercise of sculling, acted as a tonic to
his nerves. They pulled above Molesey lock. When they were returning, Stranack said:
"You'll take her through the lock, won't you?" It was a needless remark, and if Stranack had not made it all might have
been well. As a fact, it set Cargill asking himself why he should not
take her through the lock. He was admitted to be a much better boatman
than Stranack, and everyone knew that it required a certain amount of
skill to manage a lock properly. Locks were dangerous if you played the
fool. Before now people had been drowned in locks. The rest was inevitable. He lost his head as the lower gates swung open,
and broke the rule of the river by pushing out in front of a launch. The
launch was already under way, and young Cargill trying to avoid it
better, thrust with his boat-hook at the side of the lock. The thrust
was nervous and ill-calculated, and the next instant the skiff had
blundered under the bows of the launch. It happened very quickly. The skiff was forced, broadside on, against
the lock gates, and was splintered like firewood. Cargill fell
backwards, struck his head heavily against the gates--and sank. He returned to consciousness in the lock-keeper's lodge. He had been
under water a dangerously long time before Stranack, who had suffered no
more than a wetting, had found him. It had been touch and go for his
life, but artificial respiration had succeeded. He soon went to pieces after that. From one of the windows of his chambers the river was just visible. One
morning he deliberately pulled the blind down. The action was important. It signified that he had definitely given up pretending that he had the
power of shaking off the obsession. But if he could not shake it off, he could at least keep it temporarily
at bay. He started a guerilla campaign against the obsession with the
aid of the brandy bottle. He was rarely drunk, and as rarely sober. He was sober the day he was compelled to call on an aunt who lived in
the still prosperous outskirts of Paddington. It was one of his good
days and, in spite of his sobriety, he had himself in very good control
when he left his aunt. In his search for a cab it became necessary for him to cross the canal. On the bridge he paused and, gripping the parapet, made a surprise
attack upon his enemy. Some children, playing on the tow path, helped him considerably. Their
delightful sanity in the presence of the water was worth more to him
than the brandy. He was positively winning the battle, when one of the
children fell into the water. For an instant he hesitated. Then, as on the night of the Tube episode,
panic seized him. The next instant the man who was probably the best
amateur swimmer in England, was running with all his might away from the
canal. When he reached his chambers he waited, with the assistance of the
brandy, until his man brought him the last edition of the evening paper. A tiny paragraph on the back sheet told him of the tragedy. An hour later his man found him face downwards on the hearthrug and,
wrongly attributing his condition wholly to the brandy, put him to bed. He was in bed about three weeks. The doctor, who was also a personal
friend, was shrewd enough to suspect that the brandy was the effect,
rather than the cause of the nerve trouble. About the first week in June Cargill was allowed to get up. "You've got to go away," said the doctor one morning. "You are probably
aware that your nerves have gone to pieces. The sea is the place for
you!" The gasp that followed was scarcely audible, and the doctor missed it. "You went to Tryn yr Wylfa about this time last year," continued the
doctor. "Go there again! Go for long walks on the mountains, and put up
at a temperance hotel." He went to Tryn yr Wylfa. The train journey of six hours knocked him up for another week. By the
time he was strong enough for the promenade it was the fourteenth of
June. He noticed the date on the hotel calendar, and realised that the
Fates had another ten days in which to drown him. He did not call on the Lardners. He felt that he couldn't--after the
canal episode. Four of the ten days had passed before Betty Lardner ran
across him on the promenade. She noticed at once the change in him, and was kinder than she had ever
been before. "Next Saturday," he said, "is the anniversary!" For answer she smiled at him, and he might have smiled back if he had
not remembered the canal. She met him each morning after that, so that she was with him on the day
when he made his atonement. There had been a violent storm in the early morning. It had driven one
of the quarry steamers on to the long sand-bank that lies submerged
between Tryn yr Wylfa and Puffin Island. The gale still lasted, and the
steamer was in momentary danger of becoming a complete wreck. There is no lifeboat service at Tryn yr Wylfa. It was impossible to
launch an ordinary boat in such a sea. Colonel Denbigh, the owner of the quarry and local magnate, who had been
superintending what feeble efforts had been made to effect a rescue,
answered gloomily when Betty Lardner asked him if there were any hope. "It's a terrible thing," he jerked. "First time there has been a wreck
hereabouts. It's hopeless trying to launch a boat----"
"Suppose a fellow were to swim out to the wreck with a life-line in
tow?" It was young Cargill who spoke. The Colonel glared at him contemptuously. "He would need to be a pretty fine swimmer," he returned. "I don't want to blow my own trumpet, but I am considered to be one of
the best amateur swimmers in the country," replied Cargill calmly. "If
you will tell your men to get the line ready, I will borrow a bathing
suit from somewhere." They both stared at him in amazement. "But you are still an invalid," cried Betty Lardner. "You----"
She stopped short and regarded him with fresh wonder. Somehow he no
longer looked an invalid. Mechanically she walked by his side to the little bathing office. Suddenly she clutched his arm. "Jack," she said, "have you forgotten the--the legend?" "Betty," he replied, "have you forgotten the crew?" While he was undressing the attendant asked him some trivial question. He did not hear the man. His thoughts were far away. He was thinking of
a group of children playing on the bank of a canal. To the accompaniment of the Colonel's protests they fixed a belt on him,
to which was attached the life-line. He walked along the sloping wooden projection that is used as a landing
stage for pleasure skiffs, walked until the water splashed over him. Then he dived into the boiling surf. Thus it was that he earned Betty Lardner's forgiveness. VII
THE LAST ASCENT
The extraordinary rapidity with which a successful airman may achieve
fame was well shown in the case of my friend, Radcliffe Thorpe. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
One week
known merely to a few friends as a clever young engineer, the next his
name was on the lips of the civilised world. His first success was
followed by a series of remarkable feats, of which his flight above the
Atlantic, his race with the torpedo-boat-destroyers across the North
Sea, and his sensational display during the military man[oe]uvres on
Salisbury Plain, impressed his name and personality firmly upon the
fickle mind of the public, and explains the tremendous excitement caused
by his inexplicable disappearance during the great aviation meeting at
Attercliffe, near London, towards the end of the summer. Few people, I suppose, have forgotten the facts. For some time
previously he had been devoting himself more especially to ascending to
as great a height as possible. He held all the records for height, and
it was known that at Attercliffe he meant to endeavour to eclipse his
own achievements. It was a lovely day, not a breath of wind stirring, not a cloud in the
sky. We saw him start. We saw him fly up and up in great sweeping
spirals. We saw him climb higher and ever higher into the azure space. We watched him, those of us whose eyes could bear the strain, as he
dwindled to a dot and a speck, till at last he passed beyond sight. It was a stirring thing to see a man thus storm, as it were, the walls
of Heaven and probe the very mysteries of space. I remember I felt quite
annoyed with someone who was taking a cinematograph record. It seemed
such a sordid, business-like thing to be doing at such a moment. Presently the aeroplane came into sight again and was greeted with a
sudden roar of cheering. "He is doing a glide down," someone cried excitedly, and though someone
else declared that a glide from such a height was unthinkable and
impossible, yet it was soon plain that the first speaker was right. Down through unimaginable thousands of feet, straight and swift swept
the machine, making such a sweep as the eagle in its pride would never
have dared. People held their breath to watch, expecting every moment
some catastrophe. But the machine kept on an even keel, and in a few
moments I joined with the others in a wild rush to the field at a little
distance where the machine, like a mighty bird, had alighted easily and
safely. But when we reached it we doubted our own eyes, our own sanity. There
was no sign anywhere of Radcliffe Thorpe! No one knew what to say; we looked blankly at our neighbours, and one
man got down on his hands and knees and peered under the body of the
machine as if he suspected Radcliffe of hiding there. Then the chairman
of the meeting, Lord Fallowfield, made a curious discovery. "Look," he said in a high, shaken voice, "the steering wheel is jammed!" It was true. The steering wheel had been carefully fastened in one
position, and the lever controlling the planes had also been fixed so as
to hold them at the right angle for a downward glide. That was strange
enough, but in face of the mystery of Radcliffe's disappearance little
attention was paid it. Where, then, was its pilot? That was the question that was filling
everybody's mind. He had vanished as utterly as vanishes the mist one
sees rising in the sunshine. It was supposed he must have fallen from his seat, but as to how that
had happened, how it was that no fragment of his body or his clothing
was ever found, above all, how it was that his aeroplane had returned,
the engine cut off, the planes secured in correct position, no even
moderately plausible explanation was ever put forward. The loss to aeronautics was felt to be severe. From childhood Radcliffe
had shown that, in addition to this, he had a marked aptitude for
drawing, usually held at the service of his profession, but now and
again exercised in producing sketches of his friends. Among those who knew him privately he was fairly popular, though not,
perhaps, so much so as he deserved; certainly he had a way of talking
"shop" which was a trifle tiring to those who did not figure the world
as one vast engineering problem, while with women he was apt to be
brusque and short-mannered. My surprise, then, can be imagined when, calling one afternoon on him
and having to wait a little, I had noticed lying on his desk a crayon
sketch of a woman's face. It was a very lovely face, the features almost
perfect, and yet there was about it something unearthly and spectral
that was curiously disturbing. "Smitten at last?" I asked jestingly, and yet aware of a certain odd
discomfort. When, he saw what I was looking at he went very pale. "Who is it?" I asked. "Oh, just--someone!" he answered. He took the sketch from me, looked at it, frowned and locked it away. As
he seemed unwilling to pursue the subject, I went on to talk of the
business I had come about, and I congratulated him on his flight of the
day before in which he had broken the record for height. As I was going
he said:
"By the way, that sketch--what did you think of it?" "Why, that you had better be careful," I answered, laughing; "or you'll
be falling from your high estate of bachelordom." He gave so violent a start, his face expressed so much of apprehension
and dismay, that I stared at him blankly. Recovering himself with an
effort, he stammered out:
"It's not--I mean--it's an imaginary portrait." "Then," I said, amazed in my turn, "you've a jolly sight more
imagination than anyone ever credited you with." The incident remained in my mind. As a matter of fact, practical
Radcliffe Thorpe, absorbed in questions of strain and ease, his head
full of cylinders and wheels and ratchets and the Lord knows what else,
would have seemed to me the last man on earth to create that haunting,
strange, unearthly face, human in form, but not in expression. It was about this time that Radcliffe began to give so much attention to
the making of very high flights. His favourite time was in the early
morning, as soon as it was light. Then in the chill dawn he would rise
and soar and wing his flight high and ever higher, up and up, till the
eye could no longer follow his ascent. I remember he made one of these strange, solitary flights when I was
spending the week-end with him at his cottage near the Attercliffe
Aviation Grounds. I had come down from town somewhat late the night before, and I remember
that just before we went to bed we went out for a few minutes to enjoy
the beauty of a perfect night. The moon was shining in a clear sky, not
a sound or a breath disturbed the sublime quietude; in the south one
wondrous star gleamed low on the horizon. Neither of us spoke; it was
enough to drink in the beauty of such rare perfection, and I noticed how
Radcliffe kept his eyes fixed upwards on the dark blue vault of space. "Are you longing to be up there?" I asked him jestingly. He started and flushed, and he then went very pale, and to my surprise I
saw that he was shivering. "You are getting cold," I said. "We had better go in." | Various - Uncanny Tales |
He nodded without answering, and, as we turned to go in, I heard quite
plainly and distinctly a low, strange laugh, a laugh full of a honeyed
sweetness that yet thrilled me with great fear. "What's that?" I said, stopping short. "What?" Radcliffe asked. "Someone laughed," I said, and I stared all round and then upwards. "I
thought it came from up there," I said in a bewildered way, pointing
upwards. He gave me an odd look and, without answering, went into the cottage. He
had said nothing of having planned any flight for the next morning; but
in the early morning, the chill and grey dawn, I was roused by the
drumming of his engine. At once I jumped up out of bed and ran to the
window. The machine was raising itself lightly and easily from the ground. I
watched him wing his god-like way up through the still, soft air till he
was lost to view. Then, after a time, I saw him emerge again from those
immensities of space. He came down in one long majestic sweep, and
alighted in a field a little way away from the house, leaving the
aeroplane for his mechanics to fetch up presently. "Hullo!" I greeted him. "Why didn't you tell me you were going up?" As I spoke I heard plainly and distinctly, as plainly as ever I heard
anything in my life, that low, strange laugh, that I had heard before,
so silvery sweet and yet somehow so horrible. "What's that?" I said, stopping short and staring blankly upwards, for,
absurd though it seems, that weird sound seemed to come floating down
from an infinite height above us. "Not high enough," he muttered like a man in an ecstasy. "Not high
enough yet." He walked away from me then without another word. When I entered the
cottage he was seated at the table sketching a woman's face--the same
face I had seen in that other sketch of his, spectral, unreal, and
lovely. "What on earth----?" I began. "Nothing on earth," he answered in a strange voice. Then he laughed and
jumped up, and tore his sketch across. He seemed quite his old self again, chatty and pleasant, and with his
old passion for talking "shop." He launched into a long explanation of
some scheme he had in mind for securing automatic balancing. I never told anyone about that strange, mocking laugh, in fact, I had
almost forgotten the incident altogether when something brought every
detail back to my memory. I had a letter from a person who signed
himself "George Barnes." Barnes, it seemed, was the operator who had taken the pictures of that
last ascent, and as he understood I had been Mr. Thorpe's greatest
friend, he wanted to see me. Certain expressions in the letter aroused
my curiosity. I replied. He asked for an appointment at a time that was
not very convenient, and finally I arranged to call at his house one
evening. It was one of those smart little six-room villas of which so many have
been put up in the London suburbs of late. Barnes was buying it on the
instalment system, and I quite won his heart by complimenting him on it. But for that, I doubt if anything would have come of my visit, for he
was plainly nervous and ill at ease and very repentant of ever having
said anything. But after my compliment to the house we got on better. "It's on my mind," he said; "I shan't be easy till someone else knows." We were in the front room where a good fire was burning--in my honour, I
guessed, for the apartment had not the air of being much used. On the
table were some photographs. Barnes showed them me. They were
enlargements from those he had taken of poor Radcliffe's last ascent. "They've been shown all over the world," he said. "Millions of people
have seen them." "Well?" I said. "But there's one no one has seen--no one except me." He produced another print and gave it to me. I glanced at it. It seemed
much like the others, having been apparently one of the last of the
series, taken when the aeroplane was at a great height. The only thing
in which it differed from the others was that it seemed a trifle
blurred. "A poor one," I said; "it's misty." "Look at the mist," he said. I did so. Slowly, very slowly, I began to see that that misty appearance
had a shape, a form. Even as I looked I saw the features of a human
countenance--and yet not human either, so spectral was it, so unreal and
strange. I felt the blood run cold in my veins and the hair bristle on
the scalp of my head, for I recognised beyond all doubt that this face
on the photograph was the same as that Radcliffe had sketched. The
resemblance was absolute, no one who had seen the one could mistake the
other. "You see it?" Barnes muttered, and his face was almost as pale as mine. "There's a woman," I stammered, "a woman floating in the air by his
side. Her arms are held out to him." "Yes," Barnes said. "Who was she?" The print slipped from my hands and fluttered to the ground. Barnes
picked it up and put it in the fire. Was it fancy or, as it flared up,
and burnt and was consumed, did I really hear a faint laugh floating
downwards from the upper air? "I destroyed the negative," Barnes said, "and I told my boss something
had gone wrong with it. No one has seen that photograph but you and me,
and now no one ever will." VIII
THE TERROR BY NIGHT
Maynard disincumbered himself from his fishing-creel, stabbed the butt
of his rod into the turf, and settled down in the heather to fill a
pipe. All round him stretched the undulating moor, purple in the late
summer sunlight. To the southward, low down, a faint haze told where the
sea lay. The stream at his feet sang its queer, crooning moor-song as it
rambled onward, chuckling to meet a bed of pebbles somewhere out of
sight, whispering mysteriously to the rushes that fringed its banks of
peat, deepening to a sudden contralto as it poured over granite boulders
into a scum-flecked pool below. For a long time the man sat smoking. Occasionally he turned his head to
watch with keen eyes the fretful movements of a fly hovering above the
water. Then a sudden dimple in the smooth surface of the stream arrested
his attention. A few concentric ripples widened, travelled towards him,
and were absorbed in the current. His lips curved into a little smile
and he reached for his rod. In the clear water he could see the origin
of the ripples; a small trout, unconscious of his presence, was waiting
in its hover for the next tit-bit to float downstream. Presently it rose
again. "The odds are ten to one in your favour," said the man. "Let's see!" He dropped on one knee and the cast leapt out in feathery coils. Once,
twice it swished; the third time it alighted like thistledown on the
surface. There was a tiny splash, a laugh, and the little greenheart
rod flicked a trout high over his head. It was the merest
baby--half-an-ounce, perhaps--and it fell from the hook into the herbage
some yards from the stream. "Little ass!" said Maynard. "That was meant for your big brother." He recovered his cast and began to look for his victim. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
Without avail he
searched the heather, and as the fateful seconds sped, at last laid down
his rod and dropped on hands and knees to probe among the grass-stems. For a while he hunted in vain, then the sunlight showed a golden sheen
among some stones. Maynard gave a grunt of relief, but as his hand
closed round it a tiny flutter passed through the fingerling; it gave a
final gasp and was still. Knitting his brows in almost comical vexation,
he hastened to restore it to the stream, holding it by the tail and
striving to impart a life-like wriggle to its limpness. "Buck up, old thing!" he murmured encouragingly. "Oh, buck up! You're
all right, really you are!" But the "old thing" was all wrong. In fact, it was dead. Standing in the wet shingle, Maynard regarded the speckled atom as it
lay in the palm of his hand. "A matter of seconds, my son. One instant in all eternity would have
made just the difference between life and death to you. And the high
gods denied it you!" On the opposite side of the stream, set back about thirty paces from the
brink, stood a granite boulder. It was as high as a man's chest, roughly
cubical in shape; but the weather and clinging moss had rounded its
edges, and in places segments had crumbled away, giving foothold to
clumps of fern and starry moor-flowers. On three sides the surrounding
ground rose steeply, forming an irregular horseshoe mound that opened to
the west. Perhaps it was the queer amphitheatrical effect of this
setting that connected up some whimsical train of thought in Maynard's
brain. "It would seem as if the gods had claimed you," he mused, still holding
the corpse. "You shall be a sacrifice--a burnt sacrifice to the God of
Waste Places." He laughed at the conceit, half-ashamed of his own childishness, and
crossing the stream by some boulders, he brushed away the earth and weed
from the top of the great stone. Then he retraced his steps and gathered
a handful of bleached twigs that the winter floods had left stranded
along the margin of the stream. These he arranged methodically on the
cleared space; on the top of the tiny pyre he placed the troutlet. "There!" he said, and smiling gravely struck a match. A faint column of
smoke curled up into the still air, and as he spoke the lower rim of the
setting sun met the edge of the moor. The evening seemed suddenly to
become incredibly still, even the voice of the stream ceasing to be a
sound distinct. A wagtail bobbing in the shallows fled into the waste. Overhead the smoke trembled upwards, a faint stain against a cloudless
sky. The stillness seemed almost acute. It was as if the moor were
waiting, and holding its breath while it waited. Then the twigs upon his
altar crackled, and the pale flames blazed up. The man stepped back with
artistic appreciation of the effect. "To be really impressive, there ought to be more smoke," he continued. Round the base of the stone were clumps of small flowers. They were
crimson in colour and had thick, fleshy leaves. Hastily, he snatched a
handful and piled it on the fire. The smoke darkened and rose in a thick
column; there was a curious pungency in the air. Far off the church-bell in some unseen hamlet struck the hour. The
distant sound, coming from the world of men and every-day affairs,
seemed to break the spell. An ousel fluttered across the stream and
dabbled in a puddle among some stones. Rabbits began to show themselves
and frisk with lengthened shadows in the clear spaces. Maynard looked at
his watch, half-mindful of a train to be caught somewhere miles away,
and then, held by the peace of running water, stretched himself against
the sloping ground. The glowing world seemed peopled by tiny folk, living out their timid,
inscrutable lives around him. A water-rat, passing bright-eyed upon his
lawful occasion, paused on the border of the stream to consider the
stranger, and was lost to view. A stagnant pool among some reeds caught
the reflection of the sunset and changed on the instant into raw gold. Maynard plucked a grass stem and chewed it reflectively, staring out
across the purple moor and lazily watching the western sky turn from
glory to glory. Over his head the smoke of the sacrifice still curled
and eddied upwards. Then a sudden sound sent him on to one elbow--the
thud of an approaching horse's hoofs. "Moor ponies!" he muttered, and, rising, stood expectant beside his
smoking altar. Then he heard the sudden jingle of a bit, and presently a horse and
rider climbed into view against the pure sky. A young girl, breeched,
booted and spurred like a boy, drew rein, and sat looking down into the
hollow. For a moment neither spoke; then Maynard acknowledged her presence by
raising his tweed hat. She gave a little nod. "I thought it was somebody swaling--burning the heather." She considered
the embers on the stone, and then her grey eyes travelled back to the
spare, tweed-clad figure beside it. He smiled in his slow way--a rather attractive smile. "No. I've just concluded some pagan rites in connection with a small
trout!" He nodded gravely at the stone. "That was a burnt sacrifice." With whimsical seriousness he told her of the trout's demise and high
destiny. For a moment she looked doubtful; but the inflection of breeding in his
voice, the wholesome, lean face and humorous eyes, reassured her. A
smile hovered about the corners of her mouth. "Oh, is that it? I wondered ..."
She gathered the reins and turned her horse's head. "Forgive me if I dragged you out of your way," said Maynard, never swift
to conventionality, but touched by the tired shadows in her eyes. The
faint droop of her mouth, too, betrayed intense fatigue. "You look
fagged. I don't want to be a nuisance or bore you, but I wish you'd let
me offer you a sandwich. I've some milk here, too." The girl looked round the ragged moor, brooding in the twilight, and
half hesitated. Then she forced a wan little smile. "I am tired, and hungry, too. Have you enough for us both?" "Lots!" said Maynard. To himself he added: "And what's more, my child,
you'll have a little fainting affair in a few minutes, if you don't have
a feed." "Come and rest for a minute," he continued aloud. He spoke with pleasant, impersonal kindliness, and as he turned to his
satchel she slipped out of the saddle and came towards him, leading her
horse. "Drink that," he said, holding out the cup of his flask. She drank with
a wry little face, and coughed. "I put a little whisky in it," he
explained. "You needed it." She thanked him and sat down with the bridle linked over her arm. The
colour crept back into her cheeks. Maynard produced a packet of
sandwiches and a pasty. "I've been mooning about the moor all the afternoon and lost myself
twice," she explained between frank mouthfuls. "I'm hopelessly late for
dinner, and I've still got miles to go." "Do you know the way now?" he asked. "Oh, yes! It won't take me long. My family are sensible, too, and don't
fuss." | Various - Uncanny Tales |
She looked at him, her long-lashed eyes a little serious. "But
you--how are you going to get home? It's getting late to be out on the
moor afoot." Maynard laughed. "Oh, I'm all right, thanks!" He sniffed the warm September night. "I
think I shall sleep here, as a matter of fact. I'm a gipsy by instinct--
"'Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly Heaven above----'"
He broke off, arrested by her unsmiling eyes. She was silent a moment. "People don't as a rule sleep out--about here." The words came jerkily,
as if she were forcing a natural tone into her voice. "No?" He was accustomed to being questioned on his unconventional mode
of life, and was prepared for the usual expostulations. She looked
abruptly towards him. "Are you superstitious?" He laughed and shook his head. "I don't think so. But what has that got to do with it?" She hesitated, flushing a little. "There is a legend--people about here say that the moor here is haunted. There is a Thing that hunts people to death!" He laughed outright, wondering how old she was. Seventeen or eighteen,
perhaps. She had said her people "didn't fuss." That meant she was left
to herself to pick up all these old wives' tales. "Really! Has anyone been caught?" She nodded, unsmiling. "Yes; old George Toms. He was one of Dad's tenants, a big purple-faced
man, who drank a lot and never took much exercise. They found him in a
ditch with his clothes all torn and covered with mud. He had been run to
death; there was no wound on his body, but his heart was broken." Her
thoughts recurred to the stone against which they leant, and his quaint
conceit. "You were rather rash to go offering burnt sacrifices about
here, don't you think? Dad says that stone is the remains of an old
Ph[oe]nician altar, too." She was smiling now, but the seriousness lingered in her eyes. "And I have probably invoked some terrible heathen deity--Ashtoreth, or
Pugm, or Baal! How awful!" he added, with mock gravity. The girl rose to her feet. "You are laughing at me. The people about here are superstitious, and I
am a Celt, too. I belong here." He jumped up with a quick protest. "No, I'm not laughing at you. Please don't think that! But it's a little
hard to believe in active evil when all around is so beautiful." He
helped her to mount and walked to the top of the mound at her stirrup. "Tell me, is there any charm or incantation, in case----?" His eyes were
twinkling, but she shook her fair head soberly. "They say iron--cold iron--is the only thing it cannot cross. But I must
go!" She held out her hand with half-shy friendliness. "Thank you for
your niceness to me." Her eyes grew suddenly wistful. "Really, though, I
don't think I should stay there if I were you. Please!" He only laughed, however, and she moved off, shaking her impatient
horse into a canter. Maynard stood looking after her till she was
swallowed by the dusk and surrounding moor. Then, thoughtfully, he
retraced his steps to the hollow. * * * * *
A cloud lay across the face of the moon when Fear awoke Maynard. He
rolled on to one elbow and stared round the hollow, filled with
inexplicable dread. He was ordinarily a courageous man, and had no
nerves to speak of; yet, as his eyes followed the line of the ridge
against the sky, he experienced terror, the elementary, nauseating
terror of childhood, when the skin tingles, and the heart beats at a
suffocating gallop. It was very dark, but momentarily his eyes grew
accustomed to it. He was conscious of a queer, pungent smell, horribly
animal and corrupt. Suddenly the utter silence broke. He heard a rattle of stones, the
splash of water about him, realised that it was the brook beneath his
feet, and that he, Maynard, was running for his life. Neither then nor later did Reason assert herself. He ran without
question or amazement. His brain--the part where human reasoning holds
normal sway--was dominated by the purely primitive instinct of flight. And in that sudden rout of courage and self-respect one conscious
thought alone remained. Whatever it was that was even then at his heels,
he must not see it. At all costs it must be behind him, and, resisting
the sudden terrified impulse to look over his shoulder, he unbuttoned
his tweed jacket and disengaged himself from it as he ran. The faint
haze that had gathered round the full moon dispersed, and he saw the
moor stretching before him, grey and still, glistening with dew. He was of frugal and temperate habits, a wiry man at the height of his
physical powers, with lean flanks and a deep chest. At Oxford they had said he was built to run for his life. He was running
for it now, and he knew it. The ground sloped upwards after a while, and he tore up the incline,
breathing deep and hard; down into a shallow valley, leaping gorse
bushes, crashing through whortle and meadowsweet, stumbling over
peat-cuttings and the workings of forgotten tin-mines. An idiotic
popular tune raced through his brain. He found himself trying to frame
the words, but they broke into incoherent prayers, still to the same
grotesque tune. Then, as he breasted the flank of a boulder-strewn tor, he seemed to
hear snuffling breathing behind him, and, redoubling his efforts,
stepped into a rabbit hole. He was up and running again in the twinkling
of an eye, limping from a twisted ankle as he ran. He sprinted over the crest of the hill and thought he heard the sound
almost abreast of him, away to the right. In the dry bed of a
watercourse some stones were dislodged and fell with a rattle in the
stillness of the night; he bore away to the left. A moment later there
was Something nearly at his left elbow, and he smelt again the nameless,
f[oe]tid reek. He doubled, and the ghastly truth flashed upon him. The
Thing was playing with him! He was being hunted for sport--the sport of
a horror unthinkable. The sweat ran down into his eyes. He lost all count of time; his wrist watch was smashed on his wrist. He
ran through a reeling eternity, sobbing for breath, stumbling, tripping,
fighting a leaden weariness; and ever the same unreasoning terror urged
him on. The moon and ragged skyline swam about him; the blood drummed
deafeningly in his ears, and his eyeballs felt as if they would burst
from their sockets. He had nearly bitten his swollen tongue in two
falling over an unseen peat-cutting, and blood-flecked foam gathered on
his lips. God, how he ran! But he was no longer among bog and heather. He was
running--shambling now--along a road. The loping pursuit of that
nameless, shapeless Something sounded like an echo in his head. He was nearing a village, but saw nothing save a red mist that swam
before him like a fog. The road underfoot seemed to rise and fall in
wavelike undulations. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
Still he ran, with sobbing gasps and limbs that
swerved under his weight; at his elbow hung death unnamable, and the
fear of it urged him on while every instinct of his exhausted body
called out to him to fling up his hands and end it. Out of the mist ahead rose the rough outline of a building by the
roadside; it was the village smithy, half workshop, half dwelling. The
road here skirted a patch of grass, and the moonlight, glistening on the
dew, showed the dark circular scars of the turf where, for a generation,
the smith's peat fires had heated the great iron hoops that tyred the
wheels of the wains. One of these was even then lying on the ground with
the turves placed in readiness for firing in the morning, and in the
throbbing darkness of Maynard's consciousness a voice seemed to speak
faintly--the voice of a girl:
"_There's a Thing that hunts people to death. But iron--cold iron--it
cannot cross._"
The sweat of death was already on his brow as he reeled sideways,
plunging blindly across the uneven tufts of grass. His feet caught in
some obstruction and he pitched forward into the sanctuary of the huge
iron tyre--a spasm of cramp twisting his limbs up under him. As he fell a great blackness rose around him, and with it the bewildered
clamour of awakened dogs. * * * * *
Dr. Stanmore came down the flagged path from the smith's cottage,
pulling on his gloves. A big car was passing slowly up the village
street, and as it came abreast the smithy the doctor raised his hat. The car stopped, and the driver, a fair-haired girl, leant sideways from
her seat. "Good-morning, Dr. Stanmore! What's the matter here? Nothing wrong with
any of Matthew's children, is there?" The Doctor shook his head gravely. "No, Lady Dorothy; they're all at school. This is no one belonging to
the family--a stranger who was taken mysteriously ill last night just
outside the forge, and they brought him in. It's a most queer case, and
very difficult to diagnose--that is to say, to give a diagnosis in
keeping with one's professional--er--conscience." The girl switched off the engine, and took her hand from the
brake-lever. Something in the doctor's manner arrested her interest. "What is the matter with him?" she queried. "What diagnosis have you
made, professional or otherwise?" "Shock, Lady Dorothy; severe exhaustion and shock, heart strained,
superficial lesions, bruises, scratches, and so forth. Mentally he is in
a great state of excitement and terror, lapsing into delirium at
times--that is really the most serious feature. In fact, unless I can
calm him I am afraid we may have some brain trouble on top of the other
thing. It's most mysterious!" The girl nodded gravely, holding her underlip between her white teeth. "What does he look like--in appearance, I mean? Is he young?" The shadow of a smile crossed the doctor's eyes. "Yes, Lady Dorothy--quite young, and very good-looking. He is a man of
remarkable athletic build. He is calmer now, and I have left Matthew's
wife with him while I slip out to see a couple of other patients." Lady Dorothy rose from her seat and stepped down out of the car. "I think I know your patient," she said. "In fact, I had taken the car
to look for him, to ask him to lunch with us. Do you think I might see
him for a minute? If it is the person I think it is I may be able to
help you diagnose his illness." Together they walked up the path and entered the cottage. The doctor led
the way upstairs and opened a door. A woman sitting by the bed rose and
dropped a curtsey. Lady Dorothy smiled a greeting to her and crossed over to the bed. There, his face grey and drawn with exhaustion, with shadows round his
closed eyes, lay Maynard; one hand lying on the counterpane opened and
closed convulsively, his lips moved. The physician eyed the girl
interrogatively. "Do you know him?" he asked. She nodded, and put her firm, cool hand over the twitching fingers. "Yes," she said. "And I warned him. Tell me, is he very ill?" "He requires rest, careful nursing, absolute quiet----"
"All that he can have at the Manor," said the girl softly. She met the
doctor's eyes and looked away, a faint colour tingeing her cheeks. "Will
you go and telephone to father? I will take him back in the car now if
he is well enough to be moved." "Yes, he is well enough to be moved," said the doctor. "It is very kind
of you, Lady Dorothy, and I will go and telephone at once. Will you stay
with him for a little while?" He left the room, and they heard his feet go down the narrow stairs. The
cottage door opened and closed. The two women, the old and the young, peasant and peer's daughter,
looked at each other, and there was in their glance that complete
understanding which can only exist between women. "Do 'ee mind old Jarge Toms, my lady?" Lady Dorothy nodded. "I know, I know! And I warned him! They won't believe, these men! They
think because they are so big and strong that there is nothing that can
hurt them." "'Twas th' iron that saved un, my lady. 'Twas inside one of John's new
tyres as was lyin' on the ground that us found un. Dogs barkin' wakened
us up. But it'd ha' had un, else----" A sound downstairs sent her flying
to the door. "'Tis the kettle, my lady. John's dinner spilin', an' I
forgettin'." She hurried out of the room and closed the door. The sound of their voices seemed to have roused the occupant of the bed. His eyelids fluttered and opened; his eyes rested full on the girl's
face. For a moment there was no consciousness in their gaze; then a
whimsical ghost of a smile crept about his mouth. "Go on," he said in a weak voice. "Say it!" "Say what?" asked Lady Dorothy. She was suddenly aware that her hand was
still on his, but the twitching fingers had closed about hers in a calm,
firm grasp. "Say 'I told you so'!" She shook her head with a little smile. "I told you that cold iron----"
"Cold iron saved me." He told her of the iron hoop on the ground outside
the forge. "You saved me last night." She disengaged her hand gently. "I saved you last night--since you say so. But in future----"
Someone was coming up the stairs. Maynard met her eyes with a long look. "I have no fear," he said. "I have found something better than cold
iron." The door opened and the doctor came in. He glanced at Maynard's face and
touched his pulse. "The case is yours, Lady Dorothy!" he said with a little bow. IX
THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR"
The Boy at the corner of the table flicked the ash of his cigar into the
fire. "Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared. "I don't know," the Host reflected thoughtfully. "One hears queer
stories sometimes." "Which reminds me----" started the Bore. But before he could proceed any further the little French Judge
ruthlessly cut him short. "Bah!" Contempt and geniality were mingled in his tone. "Who are we,
poor ignorant worms, that we should dare to say 'is' or 'is not'? Your
Shakespeare, he was right! | Various - Uncanny Tales |
'There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'" The faces of the four Englishmen instantly assumed that peculiarly
stolid expression always called forth by the mention of Shakespeare. "But Spiritualism----" started the Host. Again the little French Judge broke in:
"I who you speak, I myself know of an experience, of the most
remarkable, to this day unexplained save by Spiritualism, Occultism,
what you will! You shall hear! The case is one I conducted
professionally some two years ago, though, of course, the events which I
now tell in their proper sequence, came out only in the trial. I string
them together for you, yes?" The Bore, who fiercely resented any stories except his own, gave vent to
a discontented grunt; the other three prepared to listen carefully. From
the drawing-room, whither the ladies had retired after dinner, sounded
the far-away strains of a piano. The little French Judge held out his
glass for a crème de menthe; his eyes were sparkling with suppressed
excitement; he gazed deep into the shining green liquid as if seeing
therein a moving panorama of pictures, then he began:
On a dusky autumn evening, a young man, tall, olive-skinned, tramps
along the road leading from Paris to Longchamps. He is walking with a
quick, even swing. Now and again a hidden anxiety darkens his face. Suddenly he branches off to the left; the path here is steep and muddy. He stops in front of a blurred circle of yellow light; by this can one
faintly perceive the outlines of a building. Above the narrow doorway
hangs a creaking sign which announces to all it may concern that this is
the "Loup Noir," much sought after for its nearness to the racecourse
and for its excellent _ménage_. "_Voilà!_" mutters our friend. On entering, he is met by the burly innkeeper, a shrewd enough fellow,
who has seen something of life before settling down in Longchamps. The
young man glances past him as if seeking some other face, then
recollecting himself demands shelter for the night. "I greatly fear----" began the innkeeper, then pauses, struck by an
idea. "Holà, Gaston! Have monsieur and madame from number fourteen yet
departed?" "Yes, monsieur; already early this morning; you were at the market, so
Mademoiselle settled the bill." "Mademoiselle Jehane?" the stranger looks up sharply. "My niece, monsieur; you have perhaps heard of her, for I see by your
easel you are an artist. She is supposed to be of a rare beauty; I think
it myself." Jean Potin keeps up a running flow of talk as he conducts
his visitor down the long bare passages, past blistered yellow doors. "It is a double room I must give you, vacated, as you heard, but this
very morning. They were going to stay longer, Monsieur and Madame
Guillaumet, but of a sudden she changed her mind. Oh, she was of a
temper!" Potin raises expressive eyes heavenwards. "It is ever so when
May weds with December." "He was much older than his wife, then?" queries the artist, politely
feigning an interest he is far from feeling. "_Mais non, parbleu!_ It was she who was the older--by some fifteen
years; and not a beauty. But rich--he knew what he was about, giving his
smooth cheek for her smooth louis!" Left alone, Lou Arnaud proceeds to unpack his knapsack; he lingers over
it as long as possible; the task awaiting him below is no pleasant one. Finally he descends. The small smoky _salle à manger_ is full of people. There is much talk and laughter going on; the clatter of knives and
forks. At the desk near the door, a young girl is busy with the
accounts. Her very pale gold hair, parted and drawn loosely back over
the ears, casts a faint shadow on her pure, white skin. Arnaud, as he
chooses a seat, looks at her critically. "Bah, she is insignificant!" he thinks. "What can have possessed
Claude?" Suddenly she raises her eyes. They meet his in a long, steady gaze. Then
once again the lids are lowered. The artist sets down his glass with a hand that shakes. He is not
imaginative, as a rule, but when one sees the soul of a mocking devil
look out, dark and compelling, from the face of a Madonna, one is
disconcerted. He wonders no more what had possessed Claude. On his way to the door a
few moments later, he pauses at her desk. "Monsieur wishes to order breakfast for to-morrow morning?" "Monsieur wishes to speak with you." She smiles demurely. Many have wished to speak with her. Arnaud divines
her thoughts. "My name is Lou Arnaud!" he adds meaningly. "Ah!" she ponders on this for an instant; then: "It is a warm night; if
you will seat yourself at one of the little tables in the courtyard at
the back of the house, I will try to join you, when these pigs have
finished feeding." She indicates with contempt the noisily eating crowd. They sit long at that table, for the man has much to tell of his young
brother Claude; of the ruin she has made of his life; of the little
green devils that lurk in a glass of absinthe, and clutch their victim,
and drag him down deeper, ever deeper, into the great, green abyss. But she only laughs, this Jehane of the wanton eyes. "But what do you want from me? I have no need of this Claude. He
wearies me--now!" Arnaud springs to his feet, catching her roughly by the wrist. He loves
his young brother much. His voice is raised, attracting the notice of
two or three groups who take coffee at the iron tables. "You had need of him once. You never left him in peace till you had
sucked him of all that makes life good. If I could----"
Jean Potin appears in the doorway. "Jehane, what are you doing out here? You know I do not permit it that
you speak with the visitors. Pardon her, monsieur, she is but a child." "A child?" The artist's brow is black as thunder. "She has wrecked a
life, this child you speak of!" He strides past the amazed innkeeper, up the narrow flight of stairs,
and down the passage to his room. Sitting on the edge of the huge curtained four-poster bed, he ponders on
the events of the evening. But his thoughts are not all of Claude. That girl--that girl with her
pale face and her pale hair, and eyes the grey of a storm cloud before
it breaks, she haunts him! Her soft murmuring voice has stolen into his
brain; he hears it in the drip, drip of the rain on the sill outside. Soon heavy feet are heard trooping up the stairs; doors are heard to
bang; cheery voices wish each other good-night. Then gradually the
sounds die away. They keep early hours at the "Loup Noir"; it is not yet
ten o'clock. Still Arnaud remains sitting on the edge of the bed; the dark plush
canopy overhead repels him, he does not feel inclined for sleep. Jehane! what a picture she would make! He _must_ paint her! Obsessed by this idea, he unpacks a roll of canvas, spreads it on the
tripod easel, and prepares crayons and charcoal; he will start the
picture as soon as it is day. He will paint her as Circe, mocking at her
grovelling herd of swine! He creeps into bed and falls asleep. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
* * * * *
Softly the rain patters against the window-pane. A distant clock booms out eleven strokes. Lou Arnaud raises his head. Then noiselessly he slides out of bed on the
chill wooden boarding. As in a trance he crosses the room, seizes
charcoal, and feverishly works at the blank canvas on the easel. For twenty minutes his hand never falters, then the charcoal drops from
his nerveless fingers! Groping his way with half-closed eyes back to the
bed, he falls again into a heavy, dreamless slumber. * * * * *
The early morning sun chases away the raindrops of the night before. Signs of activity are abroad in the inn; the swish of brooms; the noisy
clatter of pails. A warm aroma of coffee floats up the stairs and under
the door of number fourteen, awaking Arnaud to pleasant thoughts of
breakfast. He is partly dressed before his eye lights on the canvas he
had prepared. "_Nom de Dieu!_"
He falls back against the wall, staring stupefied at the picture before
him. It is the picture of a girl, crouching in a kneeling position, all
the agony of death showing clearly in her upturned eyes. At her throat,
cruelly, relentlessly doing their murderous work, are a pair of
hands--ugly, podgy hands, but with what power behind them! The face is the face of Jehane--a distorted, terrified Jehane! Arnaud
recoils, covering his eyes with his hands. Who could have drawn this
unspeakable thing? He looks again closely; the style is his own! There
is no mistaking those bold, black lines, that peculiar way of indicating
muscle beneath the tightly stretched skin--it _is_ his own work! Anywhere would he have known it! A knock at the door! Jean Potin enters, radiating cheerfulness. "Breakfast in your room, monsieur? We are busy this morning; I share in
the work. Permit me to move the table and the easel--_Sacré-bleu!_"
Suddenly his rosy lips grow stern. "This is Jehane. Did she sit for
you--and when? You only came last night. What devil's work is this?" "That is what I would like to find out; I know no more about it than you
yourself. When I awoke this morning the picture was there!" "Did you draw it?" suspiciously. "Yes. At least, no! Yes, I suppose I did. But I----"
Potin clenches his fist: "I will have the truth from the girl herself! There is something here I do not like!" Roughly he pushes past the
artist and mounts to Jehane's room. She is not there, neither is she at her desk. Nor yet down in the
village. They search everywhere; there is a hue and cry; people rush to
and fro. Then suddenly a shout; and a silence, a dreadful silence. Something is carried slowly into the "Loup Noir." Something that was
found huddled up in the shadow of the wall that borders the courtyard. Something with ugly purple patches on the white throat. It is Jehane, and she is dead; strangled by a pair of hands that came
from behind. The story of the picture is rapidly passed from mouth to mouth. People
look strangely at Lou Arnaud; they remember his loud, strained voice and
threatening gestures on the preceding night. Finally he is arrested on the charge of murder. * * * * *
I was the judge, gentlemen, on the occasion of the Arnaud trial. The prisoner is questioned about the picture. He knows nothing; can tell
nothing of how it came there. His fellow-artists testify to its being
his work. From them also leaks out the tale of his brother Claude, of
the latter's infatuation and ruin. No need now to explain the quarrel in
the courtyard. The accused has good reason to hate the dead girl. The Avocat for the defence does his best. The picture is produced in
court; it creates a sensation. If only Lou Arnaud could complete it--could sketch in the owner of those
merciless hands. He is handed the charcoal; again and again he tries--in
vain. The hands are not his own; but that is a small point in his favour. Why
should he have incriminated himself by drawing his own hands? But again,
why should he have drawn the picture at all? There is nobody else on whom falls a shadow of suspicion. I sum up
impartially. The jury convict on circumstantial evidence, and I sentence
the prisoner to death. A short time must elapse between the sentence and carrying it into
force. The Avocat for the defence obtains for the prisoner a slight
concession; he may have picture and charcoal in his cell. Perhaps he can
yet free himself from the web which has inmeshed him! Arnaud tries to blot out thought by sketching in and erasing again
fanciful figures twisted into a peculiar position; he cannot adjust the
pose of the unknown murderer. So in despair he gives it up. One morning, three days before the execution, the innkeeper comes to
visit him and finds him lying face downwards on the narrow pallet. Despite his own grief, he is sorry for the young man; nor is he
convinced in his shrewd bourgeois mind of the latter's guilt. "You _must_ draw in the second figure," he repeats again and again. "It
is your last, your only chance! Think of the faces you saw at the 'Loup
Noir.' Do none of them recall anything to you? You quarrelled with
Jehane in the garden about your brother. Then you went to your room. Oh,
what did you think in your room?" "I thought of your niece," responds Arnaud wildly. "How very beautiful
she was, and what a model she would make. Then I prepared a blank
canvas for the morning, and went to bed. When I woke up the picture was
there." "And you remember nothing more--nothing at all?" insists Jean Potin. "You fell asleep at once? You heard no sound?" Against the barred window of the cell the rain patters softly. A distant
clock booms out eleven strokes. Something in the artist's brain seems to snap. He raises his head. He
slides from the bed. As in a trance he crosses the cell, seizes a piece
of charcoal, and feverishly works at the picture on the easel! Not daring to speak, Jean Potin watches him. The figure behind the hands
grows and grows beneath Arnaud's fingers. A woman's figure! Then the face: a coarse, malignant face, distorted by evil passions. "Ah!" It is a cry of recognition from the breathless innkeeper. It breaks the
spell. The charcoal drops, and the prisoner, passing his hand across his
eyes, gazes bewildered at his own work. "Who? What?" "But I know her! It is the woman in whose room you slept! She was
staying at the 'Loup Noir' the very night before you arrived, and she
left that morning. She and her husband, Monsieur Guillaumet. But it is
incredible if _she_ should have----"
I will be short with you, gentlemen. Madame Guillaumet was traced to her
flat in Paris. Arnaud's Avocat confronted her with the now completed
picture. She was confounded--babbled like a mad woman--confessed! A reprieve for further inquiry was granted by the State. Finally Arnaud
was cleared, and allowed to go free. The motive for the murder? A woman's jealousy. Monsieur and Madame
Guillaumet had been married only ten months. Her age was forty-nine; his
twenty-seven. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
Every second of their married life was to her weighted
with intolerable suspicions; how soon would this young husband, so dear
to her, forsake her for another, now that his debts were paid? It preyed
upon her mind, distorting it, unbalancing it; each glance, each movement
of his she exaggerated into an intrigue. On their way to Paris they stayed a few days at the "Loup Noir"; Charles
Guillaumet was interested in racing. Also, he became interested in a
certain Mdlle. Jehane. Madame, quick to see, insisted on an instant
departure. The evening of the day of their departure she missed her husband, and
found he had taken the car. Where should he have gone? Back to the inn,
of course, only half-an-hour's run from Paris. She hired another car and
followed him, driving it herself. It was not a pleasant journey. The
first car she discovered forsaken, about half-a-mile distant from the
inn. Her own car she left beside it, and trudged the remaining distance
on foot. The rest was easy. Finding no sign of Guillaumet in front of the house, she stole round to
the back. There she found a door in the wall of the courtyard--a door
that led into the lane. That door was slightly ajar. She slipped in and
crouched down in the shadow. Yes, there they were, her husband and Jehane; the latter was laughing,
luring him on--and she was young; oh, so young! The woman watched, fascinated. Charles bade Jehane good-bye, promising to come again. He kissed her
tenderly, passed through the gate; his steps were heard muffled along
the lane. Jehane blew him a kiss, and then fastened the little door. A distant clock boomed out eleven strokes, and a pair of hands stole
round the girl's throat, burying themselves deep, deep in the white
flesh. * * * * *
"And the husband, was he an accessory after the fact?" inquired the Boy. "Possibly he guessed at the deed, yes; but, being a weakling, said
nothing for fear of implicating himself. It wasn't proved." The Host moved uneasily in his chair. "Do you mean to tell me that the mystery of the picture has never been
cleared up?" he asked. "Could Arnaud have actually seen the murder from
his window, and fixed it on the canvas?" The little French Judge shook his head. "Did I not tell you that his window faced front?" he replied. "No, that
point has not yet been explained. It is beyond us!" He made a sweeping gesture, knocking over his liqueur glass; it fell
with a crash on the parquet floor. The Bore woke with a start. "And did they marry?" he queried. "Who should marry?" "That artist-chap and the girl--what was her name?--Jehane." "Monsieur," quoth the little French Judge very gently and ironically, "I
grieve to state that was impossible, Jehane being dead." The Boy at the corner of the table stood up and threw the stump of his
cigar into the fire. "I think Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared. MILLER, SON, & COMPY., LIMITED,
PRINTERS,
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SEVENTY YEARS A SHOWMAN
MY ADVENTURES IN CAMP AND CARAVAN THE WORLD OVER. By "LORD" GEORGE SANGER. _Illustrated._
In this volume the famous Showman relates many exciting experiences
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By C. L. MCCLUER STEVENS,
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THE LIFE STORY OF JEM MACE. (_Formerly Champion of the World._)
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PEARSON'S HUMOROUS RECITER AND READER. PLAYS FOR AMATEUR ACTORS. Containing Nine Original Plays. Six for
Adults, two for Children, and one for Scouts. PLAYS AND DISPLAYS FOR SCOUT ENTERTAINMENTS. This volume contains six
long plays, also several shorter plays, and recitations. PRACTICE STROKES AT BILLIARDS. For Tables of all Sizes. From the Match
Play of John Roberts and other leading players. RECITATIONS FOR CHILDREN. Selected by JEAN BELFRAGE. With Three Original
Plays for Children. SIMPLE CONJURING TRICKS THAT ANYBODY CAN PERFORM. By WILL GOLDSTON. | Various - Uncanny Tales |
The Voice from the Inner World
Second Honorable Mention in the $500 Prize Cover Contest
Awarded to A. Hyatt Verrill, New York City,
for “A Voice from the Inner World.”
[Illustration: ... And it was evident that the others were equally
afraid of me ... they stood regarding me with an odd mixture of wonder
and terror on their huge faces.] The Voice from the Inner World
by A. Hyatt Verrill
Author of “The Plague of the Living Dead,” “Through the Crater’s Rim,” etc. The author of this story, well known to our readers, in
submitting his prize story, adopts a treatment entirely
different from that of practically all the rest of the
winners. He has submitted a tale so characteristic and so
original that it holds your interest by sheer strength. That
there should be a cannibalistic race of females somewhere in
our world is, after all, not impossible nor improbable. There are still cannibals at large, at the present writing,
and probably will be for many generations to come. While the
story has its gruesome moments, it also contains good
science and Mr. Verrill certainly knows how to treat his
subject and get the most from it. As a “different” sort of
story, we highly recommend it to your attention. On the eighteenth of October, the New York papers reported the
appearance of a remarkable meteor which had been seen in mid-Pacific,
and the far more startling announcement that it was feared that the
amazing celestial visitor had struck and destroyed a steamship. “At eleven-fifteen last evening,” read the account in the _Herald_, “the
Panama-Hawaiian Line steamship _Chiriqui_ reported by radio the
appearance of an immense meteor which suddenly appeared above the
horizon to the southeast, and which increased rapidly in size and
brilliance. Within ten minutes from the time the phenomenon was first
sighted, it appeared as a huge greenish sphere of dazzling brilliance
high in the sky, and heading, apparently, directly for the _Chiriqui_. Almost at the same time as reported by the _Chiriqui_, several other
ships, among them the Miners and Merchants Line _Vulcan_, and the
Japanese liner _Fujiama Maru_ also reported the meteorite, although they
were more than one thousand miles apart and equidistant from the
position of the _Chiriqui_. “In the midst of a sentence describing the appearance of the rapidly
approaching meteor, the _Chiriqui’s_ wireless message came to an abrupt
end, and all attempts to get into further communication with her
operator failed. The other vessels reported that a scintillating flash,
like an explosion, was followed by the meteor’s disappearance, and it is
feared that the immense aerolite may have struck the _Chiriqui_, and
utterly destroyed her with all on board. As no S O S has been received,
and as the ship’s radio broke off with the words: ‘It is very close and
the sea is as bright as day. Below the immense mass of green fire are
two smaller spheres of intense red. It is so near we can hear it roaring
like a terrific wind. It is headed--’ It is probable that the vessel, if
struck, was instantly destroyed. It has been suggested, however, that it
is possible that the meteor or meteors were accompanied by electrical
phenomena which may have put the _Chiriqui’s_ wireless apparatus out of
commission and that the ship may be safe.”
Later editions of the press announced that no word had been received
from the _Chiriqui_, that other ships had reported the meteor, and that
two of these had radioed that the aerolite, instead of exploding, had
been seen to continue on its way and gradually disappear beyond the
horizon. These reports somewhat allayed the fears that the _Chiriqui_
had been struck by the meteor, and prominent scientists expressed the
opinion that the supposed explosion had been merely an optical illusion
caused by its passage through some dense or cloudy layer of air. They
also quoted numerous cases of immense meteors having been seen by
observers over immense distances, and declared their belief that the
aerolite had not reached the earth, but had merely passed through the
outer atmosphere. When asked regarding the possibility of the meteor
having affected the ship’s wireless apparatus, experts stated that such
might have been the case, although, hitherto, severe electrical
disturbances had never been associated with the passage of meteors. Moreover, they declared that even if the wireless had been injured, it
could have been repaired in a few hours, and that they could not explain
the continued silence of the _Chiriqui_. Word also came from Panama that
the naval commandant at Balboa had despatched a destroyer to search for
the _Chiriqui_, or any survivors of the catastrophe if the ship had been
destroyed. A few hours later, despatches were received from various points in
Central and South America, reporting the meteor of the previous night. All of these agreed that the fiery mass had swept across the heavens in
a wide arc and had vanished in the east beyond the summits of the Andes. It was, therefore, fairly certain that the _Chiriqui_ had not been
struck by the meteor, and in a few days the incident was completely
forgotten by the public at large. But when, ten days later, the warship reported that no sign of the
missing ship could be found, and the officials of the Panama-Hawaiian
Line admitted that the _Chiriqui_ was four days overdue, interest was
again aroused. Then came the startling news, featured in screaming
headlines, that the meteor or its twin had been again reported by
various ships in the Pacific, and that the U. S. S. _McCracken_, which
had been scouring the seas for traces of the missing _Chiriqui_, had
sent in a detailed report of the meteor’s appearance, and that her
wireless had gone “dead,” exactly as had that of the _Chiriqui_. And when, after every effort, no communication could be established with
the war vessel, and when two weeks had elapsed without word from her, it
was generally conceded that both ships had been destroyed by the amazing
celestial visitor. For a time the double catastrophe filled the papers
to the exclusion of nearly everything else, and such everyday features
as scandals and murder trials were crowded to the back pages of the
dailies to make room for long articles on meteors and missing ships and
interviews with scientists. But as no more meteors appeared, and as no
more ships vanished, the subject gradually lost interest and was no
longer news. About three months after the first report of the green meteor appeared
(on January fifteenth, to be exact) I was in Peru, visiting my daughter,
when I received a communication of such an utterly amazing character
that it appeared incredible, and yet was so borne out by facts and
details that it had all the earmarks of truth. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
So astounding was this
communication that, despite the fact that it will unquestionably be
scoffed at by the public, I feel that it should be given to the world. As soon as I had received the story I hurried with it to the American
Minister in Lima, and related all that I had heard. He agreed with me
that the authorities at Washington should be acquainted with the matter
at once, and together we devoted many hours to coding the story which
was cabled in the secret cipher of the State Department. The officials,
however, were inclined to regard the matter as a hoax, and, as far as I
am aware, no steps have yet been taken to follow out the suggestions
contained in the communication which I received, and thus save humanity
from a terrible fate. Personally, I am convinced that the amazing tale
which came to me in such an astounding and unexpected manner is
absolutely true, incredible as it may seem, but whether fact or fiction,
my readers may decide for themselves. My son-in-law was intensely interested in radio, and devoted all of his
spare time to devising and constructing receiving sets, and in his home
in the delightful residential suburb of Miraflores, were a number of
receiving sets of both conventional and original design. Having been
closely in touch with the subject for several years, I was deeply
interested in Frank’s experiments, and especially in a new type of
hook-up which had given most remarkable results in selectivity and
distance. Practically every broadcasting station in America, and many in
Europe, had been logged by the little set, and on several occasions
faint signals had been heard which, although recognizable as English,
evidently emanated from a most remote station. These, oddly enough, had
come in at the same hour each night, and each time had continued for
exactly the same length of time. We were discussing this, and trying to again pick up the unintelligible
and unidentified signals on that memorable January evening, when,
without warning, and as clearly as though sent from the station at
Buenos Ayres, came the most astounding communication which ever greeted
human ears, and which, almost verbatim, was as follows:[1]
“LISTEN! For God’s sake, I implore all who may hear my words to listen! And believe what I say no matter how unbelievable it may seem, for the
fate of thousands of human beings, the fate of the human race may depend
upon you who by chance may hear this message from another world. My name
is James Berry, my home is Butte, Montana, my profession a mining
engineer, and I am speaking through the short wave transmitter of the
steamship _Chiriqui_ on which I was a passenger when the terrible, the
incredible events occurred which I am about to relate. On the evening of
October sixteenth[2] the _Chiriqui_ was steaming across the Pacific in
calm weather when our attention was attracted by what appeared to be an
unusually brilliant meteor of a peculiar greenish color. It first
appeared above the horizon to the southeast, and very rapidly increased
in size and brilliancy. At the time I was particularly struck by the
fact that it left no trail of light or fire behind it, as is usual with
large meteorites, but so rapidly did it approach that I had little time
to wonder at this. Within a few moments from the time that it was first
seen, the immense sphere of green incandescence had grown to the size of
the moon, and the entire sea for miles about our ship was illuminated by
a sickly green light. It appeared to be headed directly towards our
ship, and, standing as I was on the bridge-deck near the wheel-house, I
heard the chief officer cry out: ‘My God, it will strike us!’ By now the
mass of fire had altered in appearance, and a short distance below the
central green mass could be seen two smaller spheres of blinding red,
like huge globes of molten metal. By now, too, the noise made by the
meteor was plainly audible, sounding like the roar of surf or the sound
of a tornado. “Everyone aboard the ship was panic-stricken; women screamed, men cursed
and shouted, and the crew rushed to man the boats, as everyone felt that
the _Chiriqui_ was doomed. What happened next I can scarcely describe,
so rapidly did the events occur. As the meteor seemed about to hurl
itself upon the ship, there was a blinding flash of light, a terrific
detonation, and I saw men and women falling to the decks as if struck
down by shell fire. The next instant the meteor vanished completely, and
intense blackness followed the blinding glare. At the same moment, I was
aware of a peculiar pungent, suffocating odor which, perhaps owing to my
long experience with deadly gases in mining work, I at once recognized
as some noxious gas. Almost involuntarily, and dully realizing that by
some miracle the ship had escaped destruction, I dashed below and
reached my cabin almost overcome by the fumes which now penetrated every
portion of the ship. Among my possessions was a new type of gas-mask
which had been especially designed for mine work, and my idea was to don
this, for I felt sure that the meteor had exploded close to the ship and
had released vast quantities of poisonous gases which might hang about
for a long time. “Although almost overcome by the choking fumes, I managed to find and
put on the apparatus, for one of its greatest advantages was the
rapidity and ease with which it could be adjusted, it having been
designed for emergency use. But before it was fairly in place over my
face, the electric light in my room went out and I was in complete
darkness. Also, the ship seemed strangely still, and as I groped my way
to the stateroom door it suddenly dawned upon me that the engines had
stopped, that there was no longer the whirr of dynamos from the depths
of the hull. Not a light glimmered in the passageway, and twice, as I
felt my way towards the social hall, I stumbled over the sprawled bodies
of men, while in the saloon itself I several times stepped upon the soft
and yielding flesh of passengers who lay where they had been struck down
by the poisonous gas. In all probability, I thought, I was the sole
survivor aboard the ship, unless some of the firemen and engineers
survived, and I wondered how I would manage to escape, if the vessel
should be sighted by some other ship, or if it should be my gruesome
task to search the _Chiriqui_ from stem to stern, drag the bodies of the
dead to the deck and cast them into the sea, and remain--perhaps for
weeks--alone upon the ship until rescued by some passing vessel. But as
I reached the door and stepped upon the deck all such thoughts were
driven from my brain as I blinked my eyes and stared about in dumfounded
amazement. I had stepped from Stygian darkness into dazzling light. Blinded for the moment, I closed my eyes, and when I again opened them I
reeled to the rail with a cry of terror. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
Poised above the ship’s masts,
and so enormous that it appeared to shut out half the sky, was the
stupendous meteor like a gigantic globe of green fire, and seemingly
less than one hundred feet above me. Still nearer, and hanging but a few
yards above the bow and stern of the ship, were the two smaller spheres
of glowing red. Cowering against the rail, expecting to be shrivelled
into a charred cinder at any instant, I gazed transfixed and paralyzed
at the titanic masses of flaming light above the ship. “Then reason came back to me. My only chance to escape was to leap into
the sea, and I half clambered upon the rail prepared to take the plunge. A scream, like that of a madman, came from my lips. Below me was no sign
of the waves, but a limitless void, while, immeasurably distant beneath
the ship, I could dimly see the crinkled surface of the sea. The
_Chiriqui_ was floating in space! “It was impossible, absolutely preposterous, and I felt convinced that I
had gone mad, or that the small quantity of gas I had breathed had
affected my brain and had induced the nightmarish vision. Perhaps, I
thought, the meteors above the ship were also visionary, and I again
stared upward. Then, I knew that I was insane. The spheres of green and
red light were rushing upward as I could see by the brilliant stars
studding the sky, and the ship upon which I stood was following in their
wake! Weak, limp as a rag, I slumped to the deck and lay staring at the
great globes above me. But the insanely impossible events which had
crowded upon my overwrought senses were as nothing to the amazing
discovery I now made. “As my eyes became accustomed to the glare of the immense green sphere,
I saw that instead of being merely a ball of fire it had definite form. About its middle extended a broad band from which slender rods of light
extended. Round or ovoid spots seemed placed in definite order about it,
and from the extremities of its axes lines or cables, clearly outlined
by the glare, extended downward to the red spheres above the ship. By
now, I was so firmly convinced that I was irrational, that these new and
absolutely stunning discoveries did not excite or surprise me in the
least, and as if in a particularly vivid dream, I lay there gazing
upward, and dully, half consciously speculating on what it all meant. Gradually, too, it dawned upon me that the huge sphere with its
encircling band of duller light was rotating. The circular markings,
which I thought were marvelously like the ports of a ship, were
certainly moving from top to bottom of the sphere, and I could
distinctly hear a low, vibrant humming. “The next second I jerked upright with a start and my scalp tingled. Reason had suddenly returned to me. The thing was no meteor, no
celestial body, but some marvelous machine, some devilish invention of
man, some gigantic form of airship which--God only knew why--had by some
incredible means captured the _Chiriqui_, had lifted the twenty thousand
ton ship into the air and was bearing her off with myself, the only
survivor of all the ship’s company, witnessing the miraculous happening! It was the most insane thought that had yet entered my brain, but I knew
now for a certainty that I was perfectly sane, and, oddly enough, now
that I was convinced that the catastrophe which had overtaken the
_Chiriqui_ was the devilish work of human beings, I was no longer
frightened and my former nightmarish terror of things unknown, gave
place to the most intense anger and an inexpressible hatred of the
fiends who, without warning or reason, had annihilated hundreds of men
and women by means of this new and irresistible engine of destruction. But I was helpless. Alone upon the stolen and stricken ship I could do
nothing. By what tremendous force the spherical airship was moving
through space, by what unknown power it was lifting the ship and
carrying it,--slung like the gondola of a Zeppelin beneath the
sphere,--were matters beyond my comprehension. Calmly, now that I felt
assured that I was rational and was the victim of my fellow
men--fiendish as they might be,--I walked aft to where one red sphere
hung a few yards above the ship’s deck. * * * * *
“There seemed no visible connection between it and the vessel, but I
noticed that everything movable upon the deck, the iron cable, the wire
ropes, the coiled steel lines of the after derrick, all extended upward
from the deck, as rigid as bars of metal, while crackling blue sparks
like electrical discharges scintillated from the ship’s metal work below
the red sphere. Evidently, I decided, the red mass was actuated by some
form of electrical energy or magnetism, and I gave the area beneath it a
wide berth. Retracing my way to the bow of the ship, I found similar
conditions there. As I walked towards the waist of the ship again I
mounted the steps to the bridge, hoping from that height to get a better
view of the monstrous machine holding the _Chiriqui_ captive. I knew
that in the chart-house I would find powerful glasses with which to
study the machine. Upon the bridge the bodies of the quartermaster, the
first officer and an apprentice lay sprawled grotesquely, and across the
chart-house door lay the captain. Reaching down I lifted him by the
shoulders to move him to one side, and to my amazement I discovered that
he was not dead. His heart beat, his pulse, though slow and faint, was
plain, he was breathing and his face, still ruddy, was that of a
sleeping man rather than of a corpse. “A wild thought rushed through my brain, and hastily I rushed to the
other bodies. There was no doubt of it. All were alive and merely
unconscious. The gas had struck them down, but had not killed them, and
it came to me as a surprise, though I should long before have realized
it, that the fumes had been purposely discharged by the beings who had
captured the vessel. Possibly, I mentally decided, they had made a
mistake and had failed in their intention to destroy the persons upon
the ship, or again, was it not possible that they had intentionally
rendered the ship’s company unconscious, and had not intended to destroy
their lives? Forgetting my original purpose in visiting the bridge, I
worked feverishly to resuscitate the captain, but all to no purpose. Many gases, I knew, would render a man unconscious without actually
injuring him, and I was also aware, that when under the influence of
some of these, the victims could not be revived until the definite
period of the gases’ effect had passed. So, feeling certain that in due
time the captain and the others would come to of their own accord, I
entered the chartroom and, securing the skipper’s binoculars, I again
stepped upon the bridge. As I could not conveniently use the glasses
with my gas-mask in place, and as I felt sure there was no longer any
danger from the fumes, I started to remove the apparatus. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
But no sooner
did a breath of the air enter my mouth than I hastily readjusted the
contrivance, for the gas which had struck down everyone but myself was
as strong as ever. Indeed, the mere whiff of the fumes made my head reel
and swim, and I was forced to steady myself by grasping the bridge-rail
until the dizzy spell passed. “Once more myself, I focussed the glasses as best I could upon the
whirling sphere above the ship. But I could make out little more than by
my naked eyes. The band about the center or equator of the globular
thing was, I could now see, divided into segments, each of which bore a
round, slightly convex, eye-like object from the centers of which
extended slender rods which vibrated with incalculable speed. Indeed,
the whole affair reminded me of the glass models of protozoans which I
had seen in the American Museum of Natural History. These minute marine
organisms I knew, moved with great rapidity by means of vibrating,
hair-like appendages or cilia, and I wondered if the enormous spherical
machine at which I was gazing, might not move through space in a similar
manner by means of vibrating rods moving with such incredible speed
that, slender as they were, they produced enormous propulsive power. Also, I could now see that the two extremities of the sphere, or as I
may better express it, the axes, were equipped with projecting bosses or
shafts to which the cables supporting the red spheres were attached. And
as I peered through the glasses at the thing, the huge green sphere,
which had been hitherto traveling on an even keel, or, in other words,
with the central band vertical, now shifted its position and one end
swung sharply upward, throwing the band about the centre at an acute
angle. Involuntarily I grasped the rail of the bridge expecting to be
thrown from my feet by the abrupt uptilting of the ship. But to my utter
amazement the _Chiriqui_ remained on an even plane and I then saw that
as the sphere tilted, the cable at the uppermost axis ran rapidly out so
that the two red spheres, which evidently supported the captive ship,
remained, in their original relative horizontal position. No sign of
life was visible upon the machine above me, and I surmised that whoever
might be handling the thing was within the sphere. “Wondering how high we had risen above the sea, I stepped to the
starboard end of the bridge and glanced down, and an involuntary
exclamation escaped my lips. Far beneath the ship and clearly visible
through the captain’s glasses was land! I could distinguish the white
line marking surf breaking on a rocky shore, and ahead I could make out
the cloud-topped, serried summits of a mighty range of mountains. Not
until then did I realize the terrific speed at which the machine and
captive vessel were traveling. I had been subconsciously aware that a
gale had been blowing, but I had not stopped to realize that this was no
ordinary wind, but was the rush of air caused by the rapidity of motion. But as I peered at the mountains through the binoculars, and saw the
distant surface of the earth whizzing backward far beneath the
_Chiriqui’s_ keel, I knew that we were hurtling onward with the speed of
the fastest scout airplane. “Even as I gazed, the mountains seemed to rush towards me until, in a
few minutes after I had first seen them, they appeared almost directly
under the ship. Then the gigantic machine above me suddenly altered its
course, it veered sharply to one side and swept along the range of
summits far beneath. For some reason, just why I cannot explain, I
dashed to the binnacle and saw that we were traveling to the south, and
it flashed across my mind, that I had a dim recollection of noticing,
when I first realized the nature of the machine which had been mistaken
for a meteor, that by the stars, we were moving eastward. In that case,
my suddenly alert mind told me, the land below must be some portion of
America, and if so, judging by the altitude of the mountains, that they
must be the Andes. All of this rushed through my brain instantly, and in
the brief lapse of time in which I sprang to the binnacle and back to my
observation point at the bridge-rail. “Now, I saw, we were rapidly descending, and focussing my glasses upon
the mountains, I made out an immense conical peak in the top of which
was a gigantic black opening. Without doubt it was the crater of some
stupendous extinct volcano, and, with a shock, I realized that the
machine and the ship were headed directly for the yawning opening in the
crater. The next instant we were dropping with lightning speed towards
it, and so terrified and dumfounded had I become that I could not move
from where I stood. Even before I could grasp the fact, the _Chiriqui_
was enclosed by towering, rocky walls, inky blackness surrounded me,
there was an upward breath-taking rush of air, a roar as of a thousand
hurricanes. The _Chiriqui_ rocked and pitched beneath my feet, as if in
a heavy sea; I clung desperately to the bridge-rail for support and I
felt sure that the ship had been dropped into the abysmal crater, that
the next instant the vessel would crash into fragments as it struck
bottom, or worse, that it would sink into the molten incandescent lava
which might fill the depths of the volcano. For what seemed hours, the
awful fall continued, though like as not the terrible suspense lasted
for only a few minutes, and then, without warning, so abruptly that I
lost my balance and was flung to the bridge, the ship ceased falling, an
indescribable blue light succeeded the blackness, and unable to believe
my senses I found the ship floating motionless, still suspended from the
giant mechanism overhead, above a marvelous landscape. * * * * *
“On every hand, as far as I could see, stretched jagged rocks, immense
cliffs, stupendous crags and rugged knife-ridged hills of the most
dazzling reds, yellows and purples. Mile-deep canons cut the forbidding
plains, which here and there showed patches of dull green, and in one
spot I saw a stream of emerald-hued water pouring in a foaming cataract
into a fathomless rift in the rock. But I gave little attention to these
sights at the time. My gaze was riveted upon a strange, weird city which
capped the cliffs close to the waterfall, and almost directly beneath
the _Chiriqui_. Slowly we were dropping towards it, and I could see that
the buildings which at first sight had appeared of immense height and
tower-like form, were in reality gigantic basaltic columns capped with
superimposed edifices of gleaming yellow. “The next second the glasses dropped from my shaking, nerveless hands. Gathered on an open space of greenish plain were hundreds of human
beings! But were they human? | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
In form and features, as nearly as I could
judge at that distance, they were human, but in color they were scarlet,
and surmounting the head and extending along the arms to the elbows on
every individual was a whitish, membraneous frill, which at first sight,
reminded me of an Indian’s war bonnet. The beings appeared to be of
average height, but as the _Chiriqui’s_ keel touched solid ground and,
keeling to one side, she rested upon one of her bilges, I saw with a
shock, that the scarlet creatures were of gigantic size, fully thirty
feet in height, and that, without exception, all were females! All were
stark naked; but despite the frills upon their heads and shoulders,
despite their bizarre scarlet skins, despite their gigantic proportions,
they were unquestionably human beings, women without doubt, and of the
most perfect proportions, the most graceful forms and the most regular
and even handsome features. Beside the stranded ship, they loomed as
giants; but against the stupendous proportions of their land and city,
they appeared no larger than ordinary mortals. By now they were
streaming from their houses and even in the surprise and excitement of
that moment I noticed that the giant rocky columns were perforated by
windows and doors, and had obviously been hollowed out to form
dwellings. Meantime, too, the huge machine which had captured the
_Chiriqui_ had descended and was lying at rest, and no longer emitting
its green light, upon a cradle erected near the waterfall, and from
openings in its central band several of the scarlet, giant Amazons were
emerging. How long, I wondered, would I remain undiscovered? How long
would it be before one of the female giants spied me? And then, what
would be my fate? Why had they captured the ship? Where was I? What was
this strange land reached through a crater? “All these thoughts rushed through my brain as I peered cautiously down
at the giant women who swarmed about the ship. But I had not long to
wait for an answer to my first mental question. With a sudden spring,
one of the women leaped to the _Chiriqui’s_ anchor, with a second bound
she was on the fore deck, and close at her heels came a score of others. Standing upon the deck with her head fringed by its erect vibrating
membrane level with the boat-deck, she gazed about for an instant. Then,
catching sight of the form of a sailor sprawled upon the deck, she
uttered a shrill, piercing cry, leaped forward, and, before my
unbelieving, horror-stricken eyes, tore the still living, palpitating
body to pieces and ravenously devoured it. “Unable to stir through the very repulsiveness of the scene, realizing
that my turn might be next, I gazed fascinated. But the giant cannibal
female was not to feast in peace. As her companions reached the deck,
they rushed upon her and fought viciously for a portion of the reeking
flesh. The struggle of these awful giants, as smeared with human blood,
scratching and clawing, uttering shrill cries of rage, they rolled and
fought on the deck, was indescribably terrible and disgusting. But it
came to an abrupt end. With a bound, a giantess of giantesses, a
powerfully-muscled female, appeared, and like cowed beasts, the others
drew aside, licking their chops, the membranes on their heads rising and
falling in excitement, like the frills on an iguana lizard, and watching
the newly-arrived giantess with furtive eyes. Evidently she was the
leader or chieftainess, and in curt but strangely shrill and, of course,
to me, utterly unintelligible words, she gave orders to the others. Instantly, the horde of women began swarming over the ship, searching
every nook and corner, and, wherever they discovered the inert bodies of
the ship’s company, dragged them on deck and piled them in heaps. Shaking with abject terror, I crouched back of the bridge, and racked my
brains for thought of some safe spot in which to hide. But before I
could make up my mind, one of the terrifying, monstrous females sprang
upon the bridge and rushed towards me. With a maniacal scream, I turned
and fled. Then, before me, blocking my way, there appeared another of
the creatures. And then a most marvelous and surprising thing happened. Instead of falling upon me as I expected her to do, the giantess turned,
and with a scream that equalled my own, leaped over the rail and fled to
the uttermost extremity of the deck. “I forgot my terror in my amazement. Why should this giant, cannibal
woman fear me? Why should she run from me when, a few moments before,
she had been fighting over a meal of an unconscious sailor? And it was
evident that the others were equally afraid of me, for at her cry, and
my appearance, all had rushed as far from me as possible, and stood
regarding me with an odd mixture of wonder and terror on their huge
faces. And then it occurred to me that their fear was, perhaps, due to
my gas-mask, to the apparatus that transformed me from a human being to
a weird-looking monster. At any rate, I was evidently safe from
molestation for the time being, and thanking my lucky stars that I had
on the mask, I descended from the bridge, the giantesses retreating as I
advanced. I entered the captain’s cabin and locked the door. “Here I breathed more freely, for even if the women overcame their fear
of me and attempted to capture me, the steel doors and walls of the
cabin would be impregnable defenses. Moreover, upon the wall above the
bunk, was a rifle, in a drawer of the dresser was a loaded revolver, and
a short search revealed a plentiful supply of cartridges. Yes, if I were
attacked, I could give a good account of myself, and I determined, if
worst came to the worst, that I would blow out my brains rather than
fall a victim to the female cannibal horde. “Dully, through the thick walls of the cabin, I could hear the sounds of
the women on the deck, but I had no desire to witness what was going on,
and seated upon the captain’s chair, I thought over the events which had
transpired during the past few hours and tried to find a reasonable
solution to the incredible happenings. “That I was within the earth seemed certain, though utterly fantastic,
but who the giant women were, why they had captured the _Chiriqui_ or by
what unknown, tremendous power their marvelous airship was operated,
were all utterly beyond my comprehension. But I must hurry on and relate
the more important matters, for my time is limited and the important
thing is to let the world know how the human race may be saved from the
terrible fate which has befallen me and all those upon the _Chiriqui_,
and upon the destroyer _McCracken_, for that vessel, too, has fallen a
victim to these horrible cannibalistic giantesses here within the centre
of the earth. * * * * *
“Hunger and thirst drove me at last from my refuge in the captain’s
cabin, and armed with the loaded rifle and revolver, I cautiously peered
out and stepped upon the deck. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
Only one woman was in sight, and
instantly, at sight of me, she fled away. Not a body of the hundreds of
men and women aboard the ship was visible, and feeling relieved that I
was for a time safe, I stepped to the ship’s rail and peered over. Scores of the women were carrying the inert forms of the unconscious men
and women towards the nearby city. Stealthily I hurried below in search
of food and drink. Fears assailed me that the women had, in all
probability, preceded me and carried off everything edible. But I need
not have worried about food. I was yet to learn the horrible truth and
the gruesome habits of these red giantesses. The saloon, the corridors,
the staterooms, everything, had been searched, and every person upon the
vessel removed. In the pantry I found an abundance of food, and quickly
satisfied my hunger and thirst. I pondered on my next move. The
skipper’s cabin seemed my safest refuge. I placed a supply of provisions
within it, and locked myself in the little room again. For several days
nothing of great importance occurred. I say days, but there are no days
in this terrible place. There is no sun, no moon, no stars and no
darkness. The whole place is illuminated by a brilliant, greenish light
that issues from a distant mountain range, and which seems to be of the
same character as that which emanated from the spherical air machine. Fortunately I had presence of mind enough to keep my watch going, as
well as the captain’s chronometer, for otherwise I would have had no
knowledge of the passage of time. Once or twice the scarlet women
visited the ship, but seemed nervous and wary, and made no effort to
approach or molest me, merely gazed about as if searching for
something--perhaps for me--and then retiring. Several times, too, I
ventured on deck, and peered over the ship’s side, but saw none of the
giantesses, although with the glasses I could see crowds of the beings
about the city in the distance. “Also, I noticed among them, several individuals who were much smaller
than the rest, and who appeared to be men, although I could not be sure. I also discovered, and almost lost my life in the discovery, that the
atmosphere of this place is unfit for human beings to breathe, and is
thick with sulphurous fumes. Close to the ground these fumes are so
dense that a person would succumb in a few moments, but at the height of
the _Chiriqui’s_ decks, nearly seventy feet above the rocky bed on which
she rests, the air is breathable, although it causes one to choke and
cough after a few minutes. And I am sure that the houses of these giant
beings have been built on the summits of the basalt columns in order to
avoid the suffocating fumes of the lower levels. Later, too, I learned
that the membrane-like frills upon these creatures are a sort of gills,
or as I might say, natural gas-masks, which by some means enable the
beings to breathe the sulphur-laden air. But even with these, they avoid
the lower areas where the fumes are the worst, and only visit them when
necessity arises, which accounts for my being left in peace, with none
of the horrible women near the ship, for days at a time. I discovered
the presence of the sulphur gas on the first day when, attempting to
eat, I removed my gas-mask. Suffocating as I found the fumes, I was
compelled to endure them, and gradually I became slightly accustomed to
them, so that now I have little trouble in breathing during the short
time it takes me to eat my meals. At all other times I must wear the
apparatus, and I thank God that this is so, for I know now that it is
the gas-mask which so far has preserved my life. “On the tenth day after my arrival I noticed a number of the giantesses
gathering about the huge, spherical airship which still rested on its
cradle near the _Chiriqui_, but which, I have forgotten to state, ceased
to emit its green or red lights after it had landed. Lying there it
resembled nothing so much as a gigantic can-buoy or a floating mine, if
one can imagine a buoy two hundred yards in diameter. “On the day I mentioned, all interests seemed to be centered on the
thing, and cautiously peering from the shelter of the deck-house, I
watched the proceedings. Presently several of the women entered the
sphere through an opening in its middle band; the aperture closed behind
them, and immediately there was a low, humming sound as of machinery. As
the sounds issued from the sphere, the cables to which were attached the
smaller spheres (which glowed red when carrying the _Chiriqui_ through
the air) were drawn in until the two smaller spheres were resting in
recesses at the axes of the large sphere, and where they appeared merely
as hemi-spherical projections. Then, slowly at first, but with ever
increasing speed, the slender rods about the large sphere began to move
back and forth, or rather in an oscillating manner, until they were
vibrating with such rapidity that they appeared merely rays of light. Slowly, majestically, the immense globe rose from its cradle, and
gathering headway, leaped upward to an immense height. Then, tilting at
an angle, it passed over the city and headed for an immense pinnacle of
rock, which, fully seven miles from where I stood, reminded me of a
gigantic chimney or funnel. “Although it was barely visible to the naked eye, I could see it
distinctly through the glasses, and I watched it with the most intense
and concentrated interest. For a few moments it remained, poised a
hundred feet or so above the pinnacle. Then, from the towering, tapering
rock, a terrific jet of steam roared forth, and striking the great
spherical machine above it, hurled it upward and beyond my vision. Give
close heed to these words, whoever may, by God’s grace, be listening to
what I say, for upon them may hinge the fate of the human race. Only by
this means, by being shot upward by this titanic jet of steam, can the
airship leave this subterranean land and emerge through the crater by
which it entered bearing the _Chiriqui_. Within this place it can sail
at will; once above the crater opening it can travel anywhere, although
it cannot land; but by some unknown force or magnetic attraction or
freak of gravitation the machine cannot ascend through the crater,
although, when over it, it will drop like a plummet through the opening. And herein--for the sake of humanity, listen to this and remember my
words--lies a means of destroying the machine, for by surrounding the
crater with powerful guns the sphere can be shelled as it emerges and
utterly destroyed. To attempt to do so as it returns to the crater would
be suicidal, for once in the outer air, it emanates vast quantities of
most poisonous gas, and all living things within a radius of several
miles would be struck down unconscious, as were my companions on the
_Chiriqui_. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |