by Bret Harte
THE GHOSTS OF STUKELEY CASTLE.
There should have been snow on the ground to make the picture seasonableand complete, but the Western Barbarian had lived long enough in Englandto know that, except in the pages of a holiday supplement, this wasrarely the accompaniment of a Christmas landscape, and he cheerfullyaccepted, on the 24th of December, the background of a low, broodingsky, on which the delicate tracery of leafless sprays and blackerchevaux de frise of pine was faintly etched, as a consistent settingto the turrets and peacefully stacked chimneys of Stukeley Castle. Yet,even in this disastrous eclipse of color and distance, the harmoniousoutlines of the long, gray, irregular pile seemed to him as wonderfulas ever. It still dominated the whole landscape, and, as he had oftenfancied, carried this subjection even to the human beings who hadcreated it, lived in it, but which it seemed to have in some dull,senile way dozed over and forgotten. He vividly recalled the previoussunshine of an autumnal house party within its walls, where somedescendants of its old castellans, encountered in long galleries or atthe very door of their bedrooms, looked as alien to the house as theBarbarian himself.
For the rest it may be found described in the local guide-books, with aview of its "South Front," "West Front," and "Great Quadrangle." Itwas alleged to be based on an encampment of the Romans--that highlyapocryphal race who seemed to have spent their time in getting uppicnics on tessellated pavements, where, after hilariously emptyingtheir pockets of their loose coin and throwing round their dishes, theyinstantly built a road to escape by, leaving no other record of theirexistence. Stow and Dugdale had recorded the date when a Norman favoriteobtained the royal license to "embattle it;" it had done duty onChristmas cards with the questionable snow already referred to laidon thickly in crystal; it had been lovingly portrayed by a faircountrywoman--the vivacious correspondent of the "East MachiasSentinel"--in a combination of the most delightful feminine disregardof facts with the highest feminine respect for titles. It was rich in areal and spiritual estate of tapestries, paintings, armor, legends, andghosts. Everything the poet could wish for, and indeed some things thatdecent prose might have possibly wished out of it, were there.
Yet, from the day that it had been forcibly seized by a ParliamentaryGeneral, until more recently, when it had passed by the no lessdesperate conveyance of marriage into the hands of a Friendly Noblemanknown to the Western Barbarian, it had been supposed to suggestsomething or other more remarkable than itself. "Few spectators," saidthe guide-book, "even the most unimpassioned, can stand in the courtyardand gaze upon those historic walls without feeling a thrill of awe,"etc. The Western Barbarian had stood there, gazed, and felt no thrill."The privileged guest," said the grave historian, "passing in review thelineaments of the illustrious owners of Stukeley, as he slowly paces thesombre gallery, must be conscious of emotions of no ordinary character,"etc., etc. The Barbarian had been conscious of no such emotions. Andit was for this reason, and believing he MIGHT experience them if leftthere in solitude, with no distracting or extraneous humanity aroundhim, it had been agreed between him and the Friendly Nobleman, who hadfine Barbarian instincts, that as he--the Friendly Nobleman--and hisfamily were to spend their holidays abroad, the Barbarian should beallowed, on the eve and day of Christmas, to stay at Stukeley alone."But," added his host, "you'll find it beastly lonely, and although I'vetold the housekeeper to look after you--you'd better go over to dine atAudley Friars, where there's a big party, and they know you, and it willbe a deuced deal more amusing. And--er--I say--you know--you're reallyNOT looking out for ghosts, and that sort of thing, are you? You knowyou fellows don't believe in them--over there." And the Barbarian,assuring him that this was a part of his deficient emotions, it wassettled then and there that he should come. And that was why, on the24th of December, the Barbarian found himself gazing hopefully on thelandscape with his portmanteau at his feet, as he drove up the avenue.
The ravens did NOT croak ominously from the battlements as he entered.And the housekeeper, although neither "stately" nor "tall," nor fullof reminiscences of "his late lordship, the present Earl's father," wasvery sensible and practical. The Barbarian could, of course, have hischoice of rooms--but--she had thought--remembering his tastes the lasttime, that the long blue room? Exactly! The long, low-arched room,with the faded blue tapestry, looking upon the gallery--capital! Hehad always liked that room. From purely negative evidence he had everyreason to believe that it was the one formidable-looking room in Englandthat Queen Elizabeth had not slept in.
When the footman had laid out his clothes, and his step grew fainteralong the passage, until it was suddenly swallowed up with theclosing of a red baize door in the turret staircase, like a trap in anoubliette, the whole building seemed to sink back into repose. Quiet itcertainly was, but not more so, he remembered, than when the chambers oneither side were filled with guests, and floating voices in the corridorwere lost in those all-absorbing walls. So far, certainly, this was nonew experience. It was past four. He waited for the shadows to gather.Light thickened beyond his windows; gradually the outflanking wall andpart of a projecting terrace crumbled away in the darkness, as if Nightwere slowly reducing the castle. The figures on the tapestry in his roomstood out faintly. The gallery, seen through his open door, barredwith black spaces between the mullioned windows, presently becameobliterated, as if invaded by a dull smoke from without. But nothingmoved, nothing glimmered. Really this might become in time very stupid.
He was startled, however, while dressing, to see from his windows thatthe great banqueting hall was illuminated, but on coming down was amusedto find his dinner served on a small table in its oaken solitude litby the large electric chandelier--for Stukeley Castle under its presentlord had all the modern improvements--shining on the tattered bannersand glancing mail above him. It was evidently the housekeeper's readingof some written suggestion of her noble master. The Barbarian, in aflash of instinct, imagined the passage:--
"Humor him as a harmless lunatic; the plate is quite safe."
Declining the further offer of an illumination of the picture gallery,grand drawing-room, ball-room, and chapel, a few hours later he foundhimself wandering in the corridor with a single candle and a growingconviction of the hopelessness of his experiment. The castle had as yetyielded to him nothing that he had not seen before in the distraction ofcompany and the garishness of day. It was becoming a trifle monotonous.Yet fine--exceedingly; and now that a change of wind had lifted thefog, and the full moon shone on the lower half of the pictures of thegallery, starting into the most artificial simulation of life a numberof Van Dyke legs, farthingales, and fingers that would have deceivednobody, it seemed gracious, gentle, and innocent beyond expression.Wandering down the gallery, conscious of being more like a ghost thanany of the painted figures, and that they might reasonably object tohim, he wished he could meet the original of one of those picturedgallants and secretly compare his fingers with the copy. He rememberedan embroidered pair of gloves in a cabinet and a suit of armor on thewall that, in measurement, did not seem to bear out the delicacy of theone nor the majesty of the other. It occurred to him also to satisfy ayearning he had once felt to try on a certain breastplate and steel capthat hung over an oaken settle. It will be perceived that he was gettinga good deal bored. For thus caparisoned he listlessly, and, as willbe seen, imprudently, allowed himself to sink back into a very modernchair, and give way to a dreamy cogitation.
What possible interest could the dead have in anything that was here?Admitting that they had any, and that it was not the LIVING, whom theBarbarian had always found most inclined to haunt the past, would nota ghost of any decided convictions object to such a collection as hisdescendant had gathered in this gallery? Yonder idiot in silk and steelhad blunderingly and cruelly persecuted his kinsman in leather and steelonly a few panels distant. Would they care to meet here? And if theirhuman weaknesses had died with them, what would bring them here at all?And if not THEM--who then? He stopped short. The door at the lower endof the gallery had opened
! Not stealthily, not noiselessly, but in anordinary fashion, and a number of figures, dressed in the habiliments ofa bygone age, came trooping in. They did not glide in nor float in, buttrampled in awkwardly, clumsily, and unfamiliarly, gaping about them asthey walked. At the head was apparently a steward in a kind of livery,who stopped once or twice and seemed to be pointing out and explainingcertain objects in the room. A flash of indignant intelligence filledthe brain of the Barbarian! It seemed absurd!--impossible!--but itwas true! It was a holiday excursion party of ghosts, being shown overStukeley Castle by a ghostly Cicerone! And as his measured, monotonousvoice rose on the Christmas morning air, it could be heard that he wasactually showing off, not the antiquities of the Castle, but the MODERNIMPROVEMENTS!
"This 'ere, gossips,"--the Barbarian instantly detected the fallacy ofall the so-called mediaeval jargon he had read,--"is the HelectricBell, which does away with our hold, hordinary 'orn blowin', and thehattendant waitin' in the 'all for the usual 'Without there, who waits?'which all of us was accustomed to in mortal flesh. You hobserve thisbutton. I press it so, and it instantly rings a bell in the kitchen'all, and shows in fair letters the name of this 'ere gallery--as wewill see later. Will hany good dame or gaffer press the button? WillYOU, mistress?" said the Cicerone to a giggling, kerchief-coifed lass.
"Oi soy, Maudlin!--look out--will yer!--It's the soime old gag as thembloomin' knobs you ketched hold of when yer was 'ere las' Whitsuntide,"called out the mediaeval 'Arry of the party.
"It is NOT the Galvanic-Magnetic machine in 'is lordship's library,"said the Cicerone, severely, "which is a mere toy for infants, andhold-fashioned. And we have 'ere a much later invention. I open thislittle door, I turn this 'andle--called a switch--and, has you perceive,the gallery is hinstantly hilluminated."
There was a hoarse cry of astonishment from the assemblage. TheBarbarian felt an awful thrill as this searching, insufferable lightof the nineteenth century streamed suddenly upon the up-turned,vacant-eyed, and dull faces of those sightseers of the past. But therewas no responsive gleam in their eyes.
"It be the sun," gasped an old woman in a gray cloak.
"Toime to rouse out, Myryan, and make the foire," said the mediaeval'Arry. The custodian smiled with superior toleration.
"But what do 'ee want o' my old lanthorne," asked a yellow-jerkinedstable boy, pointing to an old-fashioned horned lantern, tempus EdwardIII., "with this brave loight?"
"You know," said the custodian, with condescending familiarity, "thesemortals worship what they call 'curios' and the 'antique,' and 'islordship gave a matter of fifty pounds for that same lanthern. That'swhat the modern folk come 'ere to see--like as ye."
"Oi've an old three-legged stool in Whitechapel oi'll let his lordship'ave cheap--for five quid," suggested the humorist.
"The 'prentice wight knows not that he speaks truly. For 'ere is abraver jest than 'is. Good folks, wilt please ye to examine yon coffer?"pointing to an oaken chest.
"'Tis but poor stuff, marry," said Maudlin.
"'Tis a coffer--the same being made in Wardour Street last year--'islordship gave one hundred pounds for it. Look at these would-beworm-holes,--but they were made with an AUGER. Marry, WE know whatworm-holes are!"
A ghastly grin spread over the faces of the spectral assembly as theygathered around the chest with silent laughter.
"Wilt walk 'ere and see the phonograph in the libry, made by Hedison,an Hamerican, which bottles up the voice and preserves it fresh for ahundred years? 'Tis a rare new fancy."
"Rot," said 'Arry. Then turning to the giggling Maudlin, he whispered:"Saw it las' toime. 'Is lordship got a piece o' moy moind that oireeled off into it about this 'ere swindle. Fawney that old bloke therecharging a tanner apiece to us for chaffin' a bit of a barrel."
"Have you no last new braveries to show us of the gallants and theirmistresses, as you were wont?" said Maudlin to the Cicerone. "'Twasa rare show last time--the modish silk gowns and farthingales in theclosets."
"But there be no company this Christmas," said the custodian, "and 'islordship does not entertain, unless it be the new fool 'is lordship sentdown 'ere to-day, who has been mopin' and moonin' in the corridors, asis ever the way of these wittol creatures when they are not heeded. Hewas 'ere in a rare motley of his own choosing, with which he thinks toraise a laugh, a moment ago. Ye see him not--not 'avin' the gift thatbelongs by right to my dread office. 'Tis a weird privilege I have--andmay not be imparted to others--save"--
"Save what, good man steward? Prithee, speak?" said Marian earnestly.
"'Tis ever a shillin' extra."
There was no response. A few of the more bashful ghosts thrust theirhands in their pockets and looked awkwardly another way. The Barbarianfelt a momentary relief followed by a slight pang of mortified vanity.He was a little afraid of them. The price was an extortion, certainly,but surely he was worth the extra shilling!
"He has brought but little braveries of attire into the Castle,"continued the Cicerone, "but I 'ave something 'ere which was found onthe top of his portmanteau. I wot ye know not the use of this." To theBarbarian's intense indignation, the Cicerone produced, from under his,his (the Barbarian's) own opera hat. "Marry, what should be this? Readme this riddle! To it--and unyoke!"
A dozen vacant guesses were made as the showman held it aloft. Thenwith a conjuror's gesture he suddenly placed his thumbs within the rim,released the spring and extended the hat. The assembly laughed againsilently as before.
"'Tis a hat," said the Cicerone, with a superior air.
"Nay," said Maudlin, "give it here." She took it curiously, examinedit, and then with a sudden coquettish movement lifted it towards her owncoifed head, as if to try it on. The Cicerone suddenly sprang forwardwith a despairing gesture to prevent her. And here the Barbarian wasconscious of a more startling revelation. How and why he could not tell,but he KNEW that the putting on of that article of his own dress wouldaffect the young girl as the assumption of the steel cap and corselethad evidently affected him, and that he would instantly become asvisible to her as she and her companions had been to him. He attemptedto rise, but was too late; she had evaded the Cicerone by ducking, and,facing in the direction of the Barbarian, clapped the hat on her head.He saw the swift light of consciousness, of astonishment, of sudden fearspring into her eyes! She shrieked, he started, struggled, and awoke!
But what was this! He was alone in the moonlit gallery, certainly; theghastly figures in their outlandish garb were gone; he was awake andin his senses, but, in this first flash of real consciousness, he couldhave sworn that something remained! Something terror-stricken, andretreating even then before him,--something of the world, modern,--and,even as he gazed, vanishing through the gallery door with the materialflash and rustle of silk.
He walked quietly to the door. It was open. Ah! No doubt he hadforgotten to shut it fast; a current of air or a sudden draught hadopened it. That noise had awakened him. More than that, remembering thelightning flash of dream consciousness, it had been the CAUSE of hisdream. Yet, for a few moments he listened attentively.
What might have been the dull reverberation of a closing door in thedirection of the housekeeper's room, on the lower story, was all heheard. He smiled, for even that, natural as it might be, was lessdistinct and real than his absurd vision.
Nevertheless the next afternoon he concluded to walk over to AudleyFriars for his Christmas dinner. Its hospitable master greeted himcordially.
"But do you know, my dear fellow," he said, when they were alone fora moment, "if you hadn't come by yourself I'd have sent over there foryou. The fact is that A--- wrote to us that you were down at Stukeleyalone, ghost-hunting or something of that sort, and I'm afraid it leakedout among the young people of our party. Two of our girls--I shan't tellyou which--stole over there last night to give you a start of some kind.They didn't see you at all, but, by Jove, it seems they got the biggestkind of a fright THEMSELVES, for they declare that something dreadful inarmor, you know, was sitting in the g
allery. Awfully good joke, wasn'tit? Of course YOU didn't see anything,--did you?"
"No," said the Barbarian, discreetly.
