“I’ve rented from landlords, and landladies, and trustees, but never yet from a company. It’s all one to me, and I shall see their agent in town tomorrow.” Then Mr. Stackpoole took a farewell look at the room on the ground floor, immediately under the cheerful room at the head of the stairs that he had assigned to his wife’s prospective use, and decided that it was exactly adapted to his requirements, after which they threaded their way back to the gates through the neglected maze of the garden.
“And how do you like the look of Harbledon Hall?” he asked his wife as they drove away; “what do you think of the old place?”
“I confess that I was not very favourably impressed with it, though it is a handsome, well-built house, and might be made very comfortable, no doubt. But it struck me with a kind of chill.”
“So would any place, my dear, that had been shut up for seven years. I feel it in my back now; I wish it may not mean an attack of lumbago for me.” Mrs. Stackpoole smiled at the literal interpretation of her words.
“I don’t mean that kind of chill, but a sort of depressed, foreboding feeling that I have never had before in any of the houses you and I have been over together, and their name is legion.”
“Why, Anna, you don’t mean to say that the tedious old sexton has frightened you with his gossip! It was merely some nonsense or other he had made up to increase his importance. If I take the place I shall put an army of workmen in an army of workmen in a week from now, and when next you see it, with good fires drying the rooms, windows bright and clean, and paperers and painters busy upon it, it will look very different, I can assure you. Any house that has been uninhabited as long as Harbledon Hall wears a forlorn look, but for all that I see the possibilities of it, and I could make it the prettiest place we have lived in yet.” And Mrs. Stackpoole felt certain that her husband would take the old house.
* * * *
The following day, when Mr. Stackpoole saw the company’s agent, he was surprised at the very moderate rent asked for the house. Whether he wished to take it on lease or as a yearly tenant, the sum demanded was small enough to arouse suspicion in the most unwary.
“Why do you ask such a low rent for a fine old place likethat?” he asked.
“It is so much out of repair from standing empty so long, that I suppose the company is willing to submit to a certain loss, for the sake of having it inhabited again.”
“But with such a temptingly low rent, how is it that it has not been taken long ago?”
“There have been any number of applications for it.”
“Indeed! The old fellow in charge of the keys who showed me over the place yesterday said that no one had inquired about it for four years.” A peculiar expression passed over the agent’s face, but it was not one of surprise.
“He said so, did he? I’ve had plenty of inquiries.”
“He certainly said so. He was a talkative old man, and anxious to impress us with the idea that Sir Eoland Shawe left Harbledon Hall suddenly, some considerable time before his lease was up, in consequence of an absurd notion that the house was haunted. Now, personally I care nothing about it, but my wife is sometimes nervous, and I thought I would ask you if you know anything of any unusual circumstances connected with his leaving so abruptly.”
“Judd is a chattering old fool! Did he tell you anything definite about it himself?” asked the agent.
“Nothing whatever, but he said some nonsense about ghosts driving them away from the place.”
“Of course there was an absurd story that got about at the time! It was some hocus-pocus with a magic-lantern, I believe, got up by the young fellows to frighten the servants, with pictures of a skeleton on a sheet hung up somewhere or other. The whole thing was a stupid practical joke, only too successful, for the scare spread to the ladies of the house, and of course Sir Eoland had to leave; they made the place too hot for him,” and the agent laughed uproariously. “I remember all about it now you come to ask me. The young Shawes got up the panic for their own purposes. They found the country too slow for them, they wanted to live in London, so with the simple apparatus of a magic-lantern and a sheet or blind they frightened the family back into town and got what they wanted. Naturally Sir Eoland used not to speak of it when he found it out, for no one is proud of having been made a fool of. And now, my dear sir,” he said, assuming an air of great candour, “you know as much about this childish folly as I do myself. It has been magnified into something wonderful till we’ve had that tempting property on our hands all these years in consequence.”
Mr. Stackpoole was pleased and amused with the agent’s frank explanation of the basis of Mr. Judd’s mysterious allusions and he and his wife laughed at it together over their evening dinner. Mrs. Stackpoole was now willing that her husband should take Harbledon Hall, which he did as a yearly tenant, with the right of taking the property on a lease, if at the end of three years he felt inclined to prolong his stay.
Then began all the delightful bustle that Mr. Stackpoole’s soul loved—the drying, warming, painting, lighting, decorating, and furnishing of the house; the taming and reclaiming of the garden; the stubbing up of old lawns and laying down of new turf; the cleaning and regravelling of weed-grown paths. Such an army of workmen was engaged that Mr. Stackpoole calculated that in less than five months the house would be ready to go into, and the gardens be all clean, smooth, and bare in their winter tidiness. “It must be finished by the middle of December,” he said, “that I may keep Christmas here with my family; and if every man has done his work well, and is out of the house by the twelfth of December, I will give each one a bonus on his wages, and a Christmas supper to you all.”
No wonder that the workmen caught something of Mr. Stackpoole’s enthusiasm, and that every time he brought his wife to see what was going on she was delighted with the progress made. All their friends were informed of the lucky find of the beautiful old house in Surrey, and invitations were issued long before for a series of entertainments, dances, and private theatricals that they intended to give at Harbledon Hall in the following January, when their daughter, Mrs. Beaumont, and her husband would be staying with them.
Shortly before Mr. and Mrs. Stackpoole removed to Harbledon Hall they were dining out one evening, and after the ladies had left the room and the gentlemen had rearranged their chairs comfortably and were seated at their wine, Mr. Stackpoole began on his favourite theme, the furnishing and repairing of the old house in Surrey. As most of those present had frequently heard him on the subject before, he was not much heeded, and prosed on without interruption till a tall, bald-headed gentleman opposite him caught the words Harbledon Hall and became an attentive listener.
“Harbledon Hall, did you say? Do you mean the old gabled, red-brick house three miles from Mendleton in Surrey? I hope no friend of yours is thinking of taking it.”
Mr. Stackpoole smiled. “Not exactly a friend of mine, though probably I know him better than anyone else. I have taken Harbledon Hall myself and intend moving into it next December.”
“The deuce you do!” said the bald-headed gentleman, setting down his glass.
“I don’t know why it should surprise you,” said Mr. Stackpoole.
“Surprise me? Certainly not. Only I thought that the house was empty and likely to remain so.”
“Surely it has stood empty long enough for seven years. It requires an immense deal doing to it, of course, but I took a fancy to the place, and am putting it into thorough repair, introducing the electric light among other modern improvements; in fact, I am sparing no expense. Do you know anything about Harbledon Hall?”
“I used to do. Sir Eoland Shawe, the last tenant, is my brother,” and the bald-headed gentleman spoke in a dry and uncommunicative manner. But a hint was not enough for Mr. Stackpoole.
“Then you are the very person to tell me about an absurd story I have hea
rd it had something to do with a magic-lantern, I believe, some kind of scare the young people got up to pretend there were bogies in the house, and frighten their parents back to town, where they preferred to live. You see, I’ve heard all about it, and I only want it corroborating by a member of the family,” and he laughed heartily, as though it were the best joke in the world. But the gentleman opposite him grew grave to severity, and said, “I am unable to understand your allusion to a magic-lantern performance which is supposed to have tried my brother’s nerves, and absurd is the last word applicable to the circumstances under which Sir Roland was compelled to leave Harbledon Hall.”
“Then I must have been misinformed in the matter,” replied the undaunted Mr. Stackpoole, whose curiosity was now thoroughly aroused. “As I am about to live in the house, will you not tell me the real circumstances, that I may be able to contradict the foolish stories that one hears?”
“Why should it be necessary for you to contradict gossip on the subject? Sir Roland never mentions it. It is possible that some time you may learn for yourself why my brother left the house; then I think you will be satisfied that he acted wisely, and if not, I should be sorry to prejudice you against Harbledon Hall.” And the gentlemen rose to join the ladies, and Mr. Stackpoole remained in a state of mystification., Evidently something had happened to drive Sir Roland Shawe and his family from Harbledon Hall with which neither old Judd nor the agent was acauainted. What could it be? For himself, so long as it was neither rats nor drains, he did not care; but with his wife it was different. If she had the least inkling that there was anything uncanny about the house, she would refuse to go into it at the eleventh hour, or, if she went, would make a point of seeing a ghost the very first dark night.
But she must hear no silly talk about it. Any ghosts that former inhabitants of the Hall had imagined they saw was when they went about the house starting at their own shadows by the dim light of oil-lamps. The electric light would put all that to rights. It was the best cure for such preposterous folly, and in its illumination Mr. Stackpoole felt that he should be more than a match for all the powers of darkness.
But shortly after meeting Sir Roland Shawe’s brother an odd coincidence happened that drew his attention again to the subject of their conversation. Mrs. Stackpoole had written to her son at Malta telling him that his father had taken an old house in Surrey with which he had fallen in love, how beautifully he was fitting it up, that they expected to keep Christmas in it, and that it was at Harbledon Hall that they hoped to welcome him on his return to England. In reply Jack wrote, “So my father is again on the move. Well, this time I am glad he is taking you to a thoroughly accessible place, and not to Cornwall or Cumberland. But is the old house he has taken a fancy to not far from Mendleton? I suppose there can’t be two Harbledon Halls in the county, but it is odd if it is the house of that name I have lately heard something about. There was a young civilian out here for his health he has gone to Egypt now and he told me that his uncle, a Sir Roland Smith, or some such name, had been fairly driven out of an old house in Surrey by ghosts. I’m sure he called it Harbledon Hall, and he said that his uncle was not in the least a nervous man, but it was more than he could stand, and he had to leave. I wish now that I had asked him all about it, but he was such a dull chap nothing he said interested me, so I lost the chance of learning particulars. Don’t you be timid, dear mother. Let me tackle the bogies when I come home; I should enjoy nothing better.”
Mrs. Stackpoole did not like this at all. It produced an eerie and creepy sensation, and her husband took care not to increase her discomfort by telling her of his conversation with Mr. Shawe.
“It is odd, my dear, very odd,” he said in his most cheerful tones, “and we are obliged to confess that, somehow or other, someone or other received some sort of a fright at Harbledon Hall. Nothing can be more vague, and yet that is all that is known about it. A pity the whole silly business was not inquired into on the spot, for of course it would admit of a perfectly simple solution. Very likely one of the maids had supped rather more heavily than usual on cold pork, and in a paroxysm of indigestion walked in her sleep; someone saw her in her white nightgown, took her for a ghost, screamed, and got up a scare for it is always easier to cry out than to investigate. And there you have the whole history of a ghost story in a nutshell, my dear in a nutshell.”
The workmen were punctually out of Harbledon Hall on the day agreed upon, and as punctually received their pay and their Christmas supper, and the house was ready for the reception of the new tenant, with the good wishes of all who had helped to prepare it for him. Mr. Stackpoole arranged that they should arrive after dark at Harbledon Hall, that he might surprise his wife with the electric light in every room and passage, and introduce her to her new home under its most cheerful and attractive aspect.
As they approached the house both Mrs. Stackpoole and her daughter exclaimed with delight, and Ella said it was too pretty to be real, it was like something on the stage. From every window of the house, from the basement to the garret, streamed the pure radiance of the electric light, undimmed by curtain or blind, sending shafts of light far into the surrounding darkness. From the porch the white light illumined the drive like a cold sunshine, and showed every pebble on the ground and every twig on the bare boughs.
“There, my dears,” said Mr. Stackpoole triumphantly, as he led his wife and daughter into the brilliant hall; “this is how modern science drives away foolish fears of darkness by turning night into day. No one could be nervous or afraid of ghosts in a house lighted like this.”
“No, indeed the thing would be impossible.” replied Mrs. Stackpoole, her daughter, and son-in-law in confident chorus.
Christmas was kept with much festivity at Harbledon Hall, and it was impossible to say who was most delighted with the house the host or hostess, or the guests under its hospitable roof. Each was charmed with his own room, but Mrs. Stackpoole’s morning-room was the general favourite, and afternoon-tea was frequently taken there in preference to the more stately drawing room. The grandchildren played in the empty rooms upstairs on rainy days, and every evening watched the miracle of lighting the house with the electric light with breathless interest. They regarded Grandpapa as a light-producing wizard, so that something of awe was mingled with their wildest frolics, and they did not dare to open the door of his own particular room, which was respectfully called the study, though its principal use was to smoke in, or to take a quiet nap before dinner.
It was the end of January, and the Stackpooles were daily congratulating themselves on their good fortune in meeting with a house so perfectly suited to all their requirements, when they wound up their New Year’s festivities with a fancy ball. Several young people were staying in the house for the occasion who were to depart the day after the ball, leaving their host and hostess alone for the first time in their new house. Numbers of guests were coming from a distance, many of whom had accepted the invitation out of curiosity, as a dance afforded a good opportunity of spending a night under cheerful auspices in a house with the reputation of being haunted.
All their entertainments so far had been successful, but the last was to be the best, and the host and hostess threw their whole souls into the preparations to ensure its complete success. The room was charming, the floor perfect, the band that came from town the most renowned of the season. The costumes to be worn were of no special time or country, and the Stackpooles themselves set an example, of reckless catholicity in the matter, the hostess being dressed as Queen Elizabeth, and her husband as an Admiral of the Fleet of today, while Mrs. and Mr. Beaumont figured respectively as a Japanese lady and Spanish matador. By the time that the guests had arrived, clad in the garb of all ages and countries, the ball-room appeared to contain such a motley throng as the Day of Judgment alone could bring together. Here an ancient Greek danced with a Swedish peasant, and the Black Prince with a female captain of the Salvatio
n Army, and there a clown and a nun waltzed gaily past Mahomet and a ballet-girl.
The electric light was a greater novelty then than it is now, and the guests were loud in their admiration of the fairy-palace appearance of the house as they approached, and of its brilliance within. Mr. Stackpoole was as delighted as a child with a new toy, and led his friends about showing them how by merely turning a button on the wall he could plunge a room in darkness or flood it with radiant light.
Dancing was kept up with great spirit till the small hours, and as the clock in the hall chimed a quarter-past three the old house resounded to the half sad and wholly romantic strains of a waltz by Waldteufel. The guests who came from a distance had begun to depart, and Mr. Beaumont stood in the porch, laughingly seeing Lady Jane Grey and Flora Macdonald into their carriage. Just then a maid gave a message to one of the footmen to Mrs. Beaumont, who sat fanning herself near the door of the ball-room. “If you please, ma’am, nurse says Master Harry is awake and crying with the music, and says he won’t go to sleep till he sees you, ma’am.”
“Tell nurse I will come directly,” and, excusing herself to the lady who sat next to her, she slipped out of the room. In the hall she met her father as he was entering his study.
“I’m going to put this miserable encumbrance by,” he said, smiling and nourishing the Admiral’s cocked hat, which he had gallantly carried the whole evening to his great inconvenience.
“And I am on my way to the nursery to see little Harry,” and Mrs. Beaumont ran upstairs, softly singing to the sweet music that floated from the ball-room. Mr. Stackpoole laid his hat on the table, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “A quarter-past three! I’m tired, and the young people ought to be. Heigh-ho! I’d rather give ten dinners than one dance,” and he yawned profoundly, sank into a low chair by the fire, stretched his legs out before him, and closed his eyes. Sleep fell upon him instantly, and for several minutes he was lost in its depths, light and sound had ceased to exist for him, his brain was steeped in silent darkness.
The Third Ghost Story Megapack: 26 Classic Ghost Stories Page 37
