THE HOUSE OF STRANGE STORIES.
The House of Strange Stories, as I prefer to call it (though it is notknown by that name in the county), seems the very place for a ghost. Yet,though so many peoples have dwelt upon its site and in its chambers,though the ancient Elizabethan oak, and all the queer tables and chairsthat a dozen generations have bequeathed, might well be tenanted byancestral spirits, and disturbed by rappings, it is a curious fact thatthere is _not_ a ghost in the House of Strange Stories. On my earliestvisit to this mansion, I was disturbed, I own, by a not unpleasingexpectancy. There _must_, one argued, be a shadowy lady in green in thebedroom, or, just as one was falling asleep, the spectre of a Jesuitwould creep out of the priest's hole, where he was starved to death inthe "spacious times of great Elizabeth," and would search for a morsel ofbread. The priest was usually starved out, sentinels being placed in allthe rooms and passages, till at last hunger and want of air would drivethe wretched man to give himself up, for the sake of change ofwretchedness. Then perhaps he was hanged, or he "died in our hands," asone of Elizabeth's officers euphemistically put it, when the Jesuit wastortured to death in the Tower. No "House of Seven Gables" across theAtlantic can have quite such memories as these, yet, oddly enough, I donot know of more than one ghost of a Jesuit in all England. _He_appeared to a learned doctor in a library, and the learned doctordescribed the phantom, not long ago, in the Athenaeum.
"Does the priest of your 'priest-hole' walk?" I asked the squire onewinter evening in the House of Strange Stories.
Darkness had come to the rescue of the pheasants about four in theafternoon, and all of us, men and women, were sitting at afternoon tea inthe firelit study, drowsily watching the flicker of the flame on theblack panelling. The characters will introduce themselves, as they takepart in the conversation.
"No," said the squire, "even the priest does not walk. Somehow very fewof the Jesuits have left ghosts in country houses. They are just thecustomers you would expect to 'walk,' but they don't."
There is, to be sure, one priestly ghost-story, which you may or may notknow, and I tell it here, though I don't believe it, just as I heard itfrom the Bishop of Dunchester himself. According to this most affableand distinguished prelate, now no more, he once arrived in a largecountry house shortly before dinner-time; he was led to his chamber, hedressed, and went downstairs. Not knowing the plan of the house, hefound his way into the library, a chamber lined with the books of manystudious generations. Here the learned bishop remained for a fewminutes, when the gong sounded for dinner, and a domestic, entering theapartment showed the prelate the way to the drawing-room, where the otherguests were now assembled. The bishop, when the company appearedcomplete, and was beginning to manoeuvre towards the dining-room,addressed his host (whom we shall call Lord Birkenhead), and observedthat the ecclesiastic had not yet appeared.
"What ecclesiastic?" asked his lordship.
"The priest," replied the bishop, "whom I met in the library."
Upon this Lord Birkenhead's countenance changed somewhat, and, with acasual remark, he put the question by. After dinner, when the ladies hadleft the men to their wine, Lord Birkenhead showed some curiosity as to"the ecclesiastic," and learned that he had seemed somewhat shy andstiff, yet had the air of a man just about to enter into conversation.
"At that moment," said the bishop, "I was summoned to the drawing-room,and did not at first notice that my friend the priest had not followedme. He had an interesting and careworn face," added the bishop.
"You have certainly seen the family ghost," said Lord Birkenhead; "heonly haunts the library, where, as you may imagine, his retirement is butseldom disturbed." And, indeed, the habits of the great, in England, arenot studious, as a rule.
"Then I must return, Lord Birkenhead, to your library," said the bishop,"and that without delay, for this appears to be a matter in which theservices of one of the higher clergy, however unworthy, may prove ofincalculable benefit."
"If I could only hope," answered Lord Birkenhead (who was a Catholic)with a deep sigh, "that his reverence would recognize Anglican orders!"
The bishop was now, as may be fancied, on his mettle, and without furtherparley, retired to the library. The rest of the men awaited his return,and beguiled the moments of expectation with princely havannas.
In about half an hour the bishop reappeared, and a close observer mighthave detected a shade of paleness on his apostolic features, yet his facewas radiant like that of a good man who has performed a good action.Being implored to relieve the anxiety of the company, the worthy prelatespoke as follows:
"On entering the library, which was illuminated by a single lamp, I foundmyself alone. I drew a chair to the fire, and, taking up a volume of M.Renan's which chanced to be lying on the table, I composed myself todetect the sophistries of this brilliant but unprincipled writer. Thus,by an effort of will, I distracted myself from that state of 'expectantattention' to which modern science attributes such phantoms and spectralappearances as can neither be explained away by a morbid condition of theliver, nor as caused by the common rat (Mus rattus). I should observe bythe way," said the learned bishop, interrupting his own narrative, "thatscepticism will in vain attempt to account, by the latter cause, namelyrats, for the spectres, Lemures, simulacra, and haunted houses of theancient Greeks and Romans. With these supernatural phenomena, as theyprevailed in Athens and Rome, we are well acquainted, not only from theMostellaria of Plautus, but from the numerous ghost-stories of Pliny,Plutarch, the Philopseudes of Lucian, and similar sources. But it willat once be perceived, and admitted even by candid men of science, thatthese spiritual phenomena of the classical period cannot plausibly, noreven possibly, be attributed to the agency of rats, when we recall thefact that the rat was an animal unknown to the ancients. As the learnedM. Selys Longch observes in his Etudes de Micromammalogie (Paris, 1839,p. 59), 'the origin of the rat is obscure, the one thing certain is thatthe vermin was unknown to the ancients, and that it arrived in Europe,introduced, perhaps, by the Crusaders, after the Middle Ages.' I think,"added the prelate, looking round, not without satisfaction, "that I havecompletely disposed of the rat hypothesis, as far, at least, as theghosts of classical tradition are concerned."
"Your reasoning, bishop," replied Lord Birkenhead, "is worthy of yourreputation; but pray pardon the curiosity which entreats you to returnfrom the simulacra of the past to the ghost of the present."
"I had not long been occupied with M. Renan," said the bishop, thusadjured, "when I became aware of the presence of another person in theroom. I think my eyes had strayed from the volume, as I turned a page,to the table, on which I perceived the brown strong hand of a young man.Looking up, I beheld my friend the priest, who was indeed a man of sometwenty-seven years of age, with a frank and open, though somewhatcareworn, aspect. I at once rose, and asked if I could be of service tohim in anything, and I trust I did not betray any wounding suspicion thathe was other than a man of flesh and blood.
"'You can, indeed, my lord, relieve me of a great burden,' said the youngman, and it was apparent enough that he _did_ acknowledge the validity ofAnglican orders. 'Will you kindly take from the shelf that volume ofCicero "De Officiis," he said, pointing to a copy of an Elzevir variorumedition,--not the small duodecimo Elzevir,--'remove the paper you willfind there, and burn it in the fire on the hearth.'
"'Certainly I will do as you say, but will you reward me by explainingthe reason of your request?'
"'In me,' said the appearance, 'you behold Francis Wilton, priest. I wasborn in 1657, and, after adventures and an education with which I neednot trouble you, found myself here as chaplain to the family of the LordBirkenhead of the period. It chanced one day that I heard in confession,from the lips of Lady Birkenhead, a tale so strange, moving, and, but forthe sacred circumstances of the revelation, so incredible, that my soulhad no rest for thinking thereon. At last, neglecting my vow, andfearful that I might become forgetful of any portion of so marvellous anarrative
, I took up my pen and committed the confession to the securityof manuscript. Litera scripta manet. Scarcely had I finished my unholytask when the sound of a distant horn told me that the hunt (to whichpleasure I was passionately given) approached the demesne. I thrust thewritten confession into that volume of Cicero, hurried to the stable,saddled my horse with my own hands, and rode in the direction whence Iheard the music of the hounds. On my way a locked gate barred myprogress. I put Rupert at it, he took off badly, fell, and my spiritpassed away in the fall. But not to the place of repose did my sinfulspirit wing its flight. I found myself here in the library, where,naturally, scarcely any one ever comes except the maids. When I wouldimplore them to destroy the unholy document that binds me to earth, theymerely scream; nor have I found any scion of the house, nor any guest,except your lordship, of more intrepid resolution or more charitablemood. And now, I trust, you will release me.'
"I rose (for I had seated myself during his narrative), my heart wasstirred with pity; I took down the Cicero, and lit on a sheet of yellowpaper covered with faded manuscript, which, of course, I did not read. Iturned to the hearth, tossed on the fire the sere old paper, which blazedat once, and then, hearing the words pax vobiscum, I looked round. But Iwas alone. After a few minutes, devoted to private ejaculations, Ireturned to the dining-room; and that is all my story. Your maids needno longer dread the ghost of the library. He is released."
"Will any one take any more wine?" asked Lord Birkenhead, in tones ofdeep emotion. "No? Then suppose we join the ladies."
"Well," said one of the ladies, the Girton girl, when the squire hadfinished the prelate's narrative, "_I_ don't call that much of a story.What was Lady Birkenhead's confession about? That's what one reallywants to know."
"The bishop could not possibly have read the paper," said the Bachelor ofArts, one of the guests; "not as a gentleman, nor a bishop."
"I wish _I_ had had the chance," said the Girton girl.
"Perhaps the confession was in Latin," said the Bachelor of Arts.
The Girton girl disdained to reply to this unworthy sneer.
"I have often observed," she said in a reflective voice, "that the mostauthentic and best attested bogies don't come to very much. They appearin a desultory manner, without any context, so to speak, and, like otherdifficulties, require a context to clear up their meaning."
These efforts of the Girton girl to apply the methods of philology tospectres, were received in silence. The women did not understand them,though they had a strong personal opinion about their learned author.
"The only ghost _I_ ever came across, or, rather, came within measurabledistance of, never appeared at all so far as one knew."
"Miss Lebas has a story," said the squire, "Won't she tell us her story?"
The ladies murmured, "Do, please."
"It really cannot be called a ghost-story," remarked Miss Lebas, "it wasonly an uncomfortable kind of coincidence, and I never think of itwithout a shudder. But I know there is not any reason at all why itshould make any of _you_ shudder; so don't be disappointed.
"It was the Long Vacation before last," said the Girton girl, "and I wenton a reading-party to Bantry Bay, with Wyndham and Toole of Somerville,and Clare of Lady Margaret's. Leighton coached us."
"Dear me! With all these young men, my dear?" asked the maiden aunt.
"They were all women of my year, except Miss Leighton of Newnham, who wasour coach," answered the Girton girl composedly.
"Dear me! I beg your pardon for interrupting you," said the maiden aunt.
"Well, term-time was drawing near, and Bantry Bay was getting prettycold, when I received an invitation from Lady Garryowen to stay with themat Dundellan on my way south. They were two very dear, old, hospitableIrish ladies, the last of their race, Lady Garryowen and her sister, MissPatty. They were _so_ hospitable that, though I did not know it,Dundellan was quite full when I reached it, overflowing with youngpeople. The house has nothing very remarkable about it: a grey, plainbuilding, with remains of the chateau about it, and a high park wall. Inthe garden wall there is a small round tower, just like those in theprecinct wall at St. Andrews. The ground floor is not used. On thefirst floor there is a furnished chamber with a deep round niche, almosta separate room, like that in Queen Mary's apartments in Holy Rood. Thefirst floor has long been fitted up as a bedroom and dressing-room, butit had not been occupied, and a curious old spinning-wheel in the corner(which has nothing to do with my story, if you can call it a story), musthave been unused since '98, at least. I reached Dublin late--our trainshould have arrived at half-past six--it was ten before we toiled intothe station. The Dundellan carriage was waiting for me, and, after anhour's drive, I reached the house. The dear old ladies had sat up forme, and I went to bed as soon as possible, in a very comfortable room. Ifell asleep at once, and did not waken till broad daylight, between sevenand eight, when, as my eyes wandered about, I saw, by the pictures on thewall, and the names on the books beside my bed, that Miss Patty must havegiven up her own room to me. I was quite sorry and, as I dressed,determined to get her to let me change into any den rather than acceptthis sacrifice. I went downstairs, and found breakfast ready, butneither Lady Garryowen nor Miss Patty. Looking out of the window intothe garden, I heard, for the only time in my life, the wild Irish _keen_over the dead, and saw the old nurse wailing and wringing her hands andhurrying to the house. As soon as she entered she told me, with a burstof grief, and in language I shall not try to imitate, that Miss Patty wasdead.
"When I arrived the house was so full that there was literally no roomfor me. But 'Dundellan was never beaten yet,' the old ladies had said.There was still the room in the tower. But this room had such an evilreputation for being 'haunted' that the servants could hardly be got togo near it, at least after dark, and the dear old ladies never dreamed ofsending any of their guests to pass a bad night in a place with a badname. Miss Patty, who had the courage of a Bayard, did not think twice.She went herself to sleep in the haunted tower, and left her room to me.And when the old nurse went to call her in the morning, she could notwaken Miss Patty. She was dead. Heart-disease, they called it. Ofcourse," added the Girton girl, "as I said, it was only a coincidence.But the Irish servants could not be persuaded that Miss Patty had notseen whatever the thing was that they believed to be in the garden tower.I don't know what it was. You see the context was dreadfully vague, amere fragment."
There was a little silence after the Girton girl's story.
"I never heard before in my life," said the maiden aunt, at last, "of anyhost or hostess who took the haunted room themselves, when the househappened to be full. They always send the stranger within their gates toit, and then pretend to be vastly surprised when he does not have a goodnight. I had several bad nights myself once. In Ireland too."
"Tell us all about it, Judy," said her brother, the squire.
"No," murmured the maiden aunt. "You would only laugh at me. There wasno ghost. I didn't hear anything. I didn't see anything. I didn't even_smell_ anything, as they do in that horrid book, 'The Haunted Hotel.'"
"Then why had you such bad nights?"
"Oh, I _felt_" said the maiden aunt, with a little shudder.
"What did _you feel_, Aunt Judy?"
"I _know_ you will laugh," said the maiden aunt, abruptly entering on hernervous narrative. "I felt all the time _as if somebody was lookingthrough the window_. Now, you know, there _couldn't_ be anybody. It wasin an Irish country house where I had just arrived, and my room was onthe second floor. The window was old-fashioned and narrow, with a deeprecess. As soon as I went to bed, my dears, I _felt_ that some one waslooking through the window, and meant to come in. I got up, and boltedthe window, though I knew it was impossible for anybody to climb upthere, and I drew the curtains, but I could not fall asleep. If ever Ibegan to dose, I would waken with a start, and turn and look in thedirection of the window. I did not sleep all night, and next night,though I was dreadfully
tired, it was just the same thing. So I had totake my hostess into my confidence, though it was extremely disagreeable,my dears, to seem so foolish. I only told her that I thought the air, orsomething, must disagree with me, for I could not sleep. Then, as someone was leaving the house that day, she implored me to try another room,where I slept beautifully, and afterwards had a very pleasant visit. But,the day I went away, my hostess asked me if I had been kept awake byanything in particular, for instance, by a feeling that some one wastrying to come in at the window. Well, I admitted that I _had_ a nervousfeeling of that sort, and she said that she was very sorry, and thatevery one who lay in the room had exactly the same sensation. Shesupposed they must all have heard the history of the room, in childhood,and forgotten that they had heard it, and then been consciously remindedof it by reflex action. It seems, my dears, that that is the newscientific way of explaining all these things, presentiments and dreamsand wraiths, and all that sort of thing. We have seen them before, andremember them without being aware of it. So I said I'd never heard thehistory of the room; but she said I _must_ have, and so must all thepeople who felt as if some one was coming in by the window. And I saidthat it was rather a curious thing they should _all_ forget they knew it,and _all_ be reminded of it without being aware of it, and that, if shedid not mind, I'd like to be reminded of it again. So she said thatthese objections had all been replied to (just as clergymen always say insermons), and then she told me the history of the room. It only came tothis, that, three generations before, the family butler (whom every onehad always thought a most steady, respectable man), dressed himself uplike a ghost, or like his notion of a ghost, and got a ladder, and camein by the window to steal the diamonds of the lady of the house, and hefrightened her to death, poor woman! That was all. But, ever since,people who sleep in the room don't sleep, so to speak, and keep thinkingthat some one is coming in by the casement. That's all; and I told youit was not an interesting story, but perhaps you will find more interestin the scientific explanation of all these things."
The story of the maiden aunt, so far as it recounted her own experience,did not contain anything to which the judicial faculties of the mindrefused assent. Probably the Bachelor of Arts felt that something a gooddeal more unusual was wanted, for he instantly started, without beingasked, on the following narrative:--
"I also was staying," said the Bachelor of Arts, "at the home of myfriends, the aristocracy in Scotland. The name of the house, and theprecise rank in the peerage of my illustrious host, it is not necessaryfor me to give. All, however, who know those more than feudal andbaronial halls, are aware that the front of the castle looks forth on asomewhat narrow drive, bordered by black and funereal pines. On thenight of my arrival at the castle, although I went late to bed, I did notfeel at all sleepy. Something, perhaps, in the mountain air, or in thevicissitudes of baccarat, may have banished slumber. I had been in luck,and a pile of sovereigns and notes lay, in agreeable confusion, on mydressing-table. My feverish blood declined to be tranquillized, and atlast I drew up the blind, threw open the latticed window, and looked outon the drive and the pine-wood. The faint and silvery blue of dawn wasjust wakening in the sky, and a setting moon hung, with a peculiarlyominous and wasted appearance, above the crests of the forest. Butconceive my astonishment when I beheld, on the drive, and right under mywindow, a large and well-appointed hearse, with two white horses, withplumes complete, and attended by mutes, whose black staffs were tippedwith silver that glittered pallid in the dawn.
I exhausted my ingenuity in conjectures as to the presence of thisremarkable vehicle with the white horses, so unusual, though, when onethinks of it, so appropriate to the chariot of Death. Could some belatedvisitor have arrived in a hearse, like the lady in Miss Ferrier's novel?Could one of the domestics have expired, and was it the intention of myhost to have the body thus honourably removed without casting a gloomover his guests?
Wild as these hypotheses appeared, I could think of nothing better, andwas just about to leave the window, and retire to bed, when the driver ofthe strange carriage, who had hitherto sat motionless, turned, and lookedme full in the face. Never shall I forget the appearance of this man,whose sallow countenance, close-shaven dark chin, and small, blackmoustache, combined with I know not what of martial in his air, struckinto me a certain indefinable alarm. No sooner had he caught my eye,than he gathered up his reins, just raised his whip, and started themortuary vehicle at a walk down the road. I followed it with my eyestill a bend in the avenue hid it from my sight. So wrapt up was myspirit in the exercise of the single sense of vision that it was not tillthe hearse became lost to view that I noticed the entire absence of soundwhich accompanied its departure. Neither had the bridles and trappingsof the white horses jingled as the animals shook their heads, nor had thewheels of the hearse crashed upon the gravel of the avenue. I wascompelled by all these circumstances to believe that what I had lookedupon was not of this world, and, with a beating heart, I sought refuge insleep.
"Next morning, feeling far from refreshed, I arrived among the latest ata breakfast which was a desultory and movable feast. Almost all the menhad gone forth to hill, forest, or river, in pursuit of the furred,finned, or feathered denizens of the wilds--"
"You speak," interrupted the schoolboy, "like a printed book! I like tohear you speak like that. Drive on, old man! Drive on your hearse!"
The Bachelor of Arts "drove on," without noticing this interruption. "Itried to 'lead up' to the hearse," he said, "in conversation with theyoung ladies of the castle. I endeavoured to assume the languid andpreoccupied air of the guest who, in ghost-stories, has had a bad nightwith the family spectre. I drew the conversation to the topic ofapparitions, and even to warnings of death. I knew that every familyworthy of the name has its omen: the Oxenhams a white bird, another housea brass band, whose airy music is poured forth by invisible performers,and so on. Of course I expected some one to cry, 'Oh, _we've_ got ahearse with white horses,' for that is the kind of heirloom an ancienthouse regards with complacent pride. But nobody offered any remarks onthe local omen, and even when I drew near the topic of _hearses_, one ofthe girls, my cousin, merely quoted, 'Speak not like a death's-head, goodDoll' (my name is Adolphus), and asked me to play at lawn-tennis.
In the evening, in the smoking-room, it was no better, nobody had everheard of an omen in this particular castle. Nay, when I told my story,for it came to that at last, they only laughed at me, and said I musthave dreamed it. Of course I expected to be wakened in the night by someawful apparition, but nothing disturbed me. I never slept better, andhearses were the last things I thought of during the remainder of myvisit. Months passed, and I had almost forgotten the vision, or dream,for I began to feel apprehensive that, after all, it _was_ a dream. Socostly and elaborate an apparition as a hearse with white horses andplumes complete, could never have been got up, regardless of expense, forone occasion only, and to frighten one undergraduate, yet it was certainthat the hearse was not 'the old family coach.' My entertainers hadundeniably never heard of it in their lives before. Even tradition atthe castle said nothing of a spectral hearse, though the house wascredited with a white lady deprived of her hands, and a luminous boy.
Here the Bachelor of Arts paused, and a shower of chaff began.
"Is that really all?" asked the Girton girl.
"Why, this is the third ghost-story to-night without any ghost in it!"
"I don't remember saying that it _was_ a ghost-story," replied theBachelor of Arts; "but I thought a little anecdote of a mere 'warning'might not be unwelcome."
"But where does the warning come in?" asked the schoolboy.
"That's just what I was arriving at," replied the narrator, "when I wasinterrupted with as little ceremony as if I had been Mr. Gladstone in themiddle of a most important speech. I was going to say that, in theEaster Vacation after my visit to the castle, I went over to Paris with afriend, a fellow of my college. We drove to the Hotel d'Alsace (Ibel
ieve there is no hotel of that name; if there is, I beg the spiritedproprietor's pardon, and assure him that nothing personal is intended).We marched upstairs with our bags and baggage, and jolly high stairs theywere. When we had removed the soil of travel from our persons, my friendcalled out to me, 'I say, Jones, why shouldn't we go down by the lift.'{256} 'All right,' said I, and my friend walked to the door of themechanical apparatus, opened it, and got in. I followed him, when theporter whose business it is to 'personally conduct' the inmates of thehotel, entered also, and was closing the door.
"His eyes met mine, and I knew him in a moment. I had seen him oncebefore. His sallow face, black, closely shaven chin, furtive glance, andmilitary bearing, were the face and the glance and bearing of the driverof that awful hearse!
"In a moment--more swiftly than I can tell you--I pushed past the man,threw open the door, and just managed, by a violent effort, to drag myfriend on to the landing. Then the lift rose with a sudden impulse, fellagain, and rushed, with frightful velocity, to the basement of the hotel,whence we heard an appalling crash, followed by groans. We rusheddownstairs, and the horrible spectacle of destruction that met our eyes Ishall never forget. The unhappy porter was expiring in agony; but thewarning had saved my life and my friend's."
"_I was that friend_," said I--the collector of these anecdotes; "and sofar I can testify to the truth of Jones's story."
At this moment, however, the gong for dressing sounded, and we went toour several apartments, after this emotional specimen of "Evenings atHome."
In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories Page 20
