“These rooms were in a beautiful house on Fifth Avenue; the number of the house you will find on consulting the court records. I have forgotten it. It was a large, broad, brown-stone structure, and must have been over one hundred and fifty feet in depth. Such fittings I never saw before; everything was in the height of luxury, and I am quite certain that among beings to whom money is a measure of possibility no such magnificence is attainable. The paintings on the walls were by the most famous artists of our own and other days. The rugs on the superbly polished floors were worth fortunes, not only for their exquisite beauty, but also for their extreme rarity.
In keeping with these were the furniture and bric-à-brac. In short, my dear sir, I had never dreamed of anything so dazzlingly, so superbly magnificent as that apartment into which I was ushered by the ghost of my quondam friend Hawley Hicks.
“At first I was speechless with wonder, which seemed to amuse Hicks very much.”
“‘Pretty fine, eh?’ he said, with a short laugh.
“‘Well,’ I replied, in a moment, ‘considering that you can get along without money, and that all the resources of the world are at your disposal, it is not more than half bad. Have you a library?’
“I was always fond of books,” explained 5010 in parenthesis to me, “and so was quite anxious to see what the club of ghosts could show in the way of literary treasures. Imagine my surprise when Hawley informed me that the club had no collection of the sort to appeal to the bibliophile.
“‘No,’ he answered, ‘we have no library.’
“‘Rather strange,’ I said, ‘that a club to which men like Shakespeare, Milton, Edgar Allan Poe, and other deceased literati belong should be deficient in that respect.’
“‘Not at all,’ said he. ‘Why should we want books when we have the men themselves to tell their tales to us? Would you give a rap to possess a set of Shakespeare if William himself would sit down and rattle off the whole business to you any time you chose to ask him to do it? Would you follow Scott’s printed narratives through their devious and tedious periods if Sir Walter in spirit would come to you on demand, and tell you all the old stories over again in a tenth part of the time it would take you to read the introduction to one of them?’
“‘I fancy not,’ I said. ‘Are you in such luck?’
“‘I am,’ said Hawley; ‘only personally I never send for Scott or Shakespeare. I prefer something lighter than either—Douglas Jerrold or Marryat. But best of all, I like to sit down and hear Noah swap animal stories with Davy Crockett. Noah’s the brightest man of his age in the club. Adam’s kind of slow.’
“‘How about Solomon?’ I asked, more to be flippant than with any desire for information. I was much amused to hear Hawley speak of these great spirits as if he and they were chums of long standing.
“‘Solomon has resigned from the club,’ he said, with a sad sigh. ‘He was a good fellow, Solomon was, but he thought he knew it all until old Doctor Johnson got hold of him, and then he knuckled under. It’s rather rough for a man to get firmly established in his belief that he is the wisest creature going, and then, after a couple of thousand years, have an Englishman come along and tell him things he never knew before, especially the way Sam Johnson delivers himself of his opinions. Johnson never cared whom he hurt, you know, and when he got after Solomon, he did it with all his might.’
“I wonder if Boswell was there?” I ventured, interrupting 5010 in his extraordinary narrative for an instant.
“Yes, he was there,” returned the prisoner. “I met him later in the evening; but he isn’t the spook he might be. He never had much spirit anyhow, and when he died he had to leave his nose behind him, and that settled him.”
“Of course,” I answered. “Boswell with no nose to stick into other people’s affairs would have been like 0thello with Desdemona left out. But go on. What did you do next?”
“Well,” 5010 resumed, “after I’d looked about me, and drunk my fill of the magnificence on every hand, Hawley took me into the music-room, and introduced me to Mozart and Wagner and a few other great composers. In response to my request, Wagner played an impromptu version of ‘Daisy Bell’ on the organ. It was great; not much like ‘Daisy Bell,’ of course; more like a collision between a cyclone and a simoom in a tin-plate mining camp, in fact, but, nevertheless, marvellous. I tried to remember it afterwards, and jotted down a few notes, but I found the first bar took up seven sheets of fool’s-cap, and so gave it up. Then Mozart tried his hand on a banjo for my amusement, Mendelssohn sang a half-dozen of his songs without words, and then Gottschalk played one of Poe’s weird stories on the piano.
“Then Carlyle came in, and Hawley introduced me to him, he was a gruff old gentleman, and seemingly anxious to have Froude become an eligible, and I judged from the rather fierce manner in which he handled a club he had in his hand, that there were one or two other men of prominence still living he was anxious to meet. Dickens, too, was desirous of a two-minute interview with certain of his at present purely mortal critics; and, between you and me, if the wink that Bacon gave Shakespeare when I spoke of Ignatius Donnelly meant anything, the famous cryptogrammarian will do well to drink a bottle of the elixir of life every morning before breakfast, and stave off dissolution as long as he can. There’s no getting around the fact, sir,”
Surrennes added, with a significant shake of the head, “that the present leaders of literary thought with critical tendencies are going to have the hardest kind of a time when they cross the river and apply for admission to the Ghost Club. I don’t ask for any better fun than that of watching from a safe distance the initiation ceremonies of the next dozen who go over. And as an Englishman, sir, who thoroughly believes in and admires Lord Wolseley, if I were out of jail and able to do it. I’d write him a letter, and warn him that he would better revise his estimates of certain famous soldiers no longer living if he desires to find rest in that mysterious other world whither he must eventually betake himself. They’ve got their swords sharpened for him, and he’ll discover an instance when he gets over there in which the sword is mightier than the pen.
“After that, Hawley took me up-stairs and introduced me to the spirit of Napoleon Bonaparte, with whom I passed about twenty-five minutes talking over his victories and defeats. He told me he never could understand how a man like Wellington came to defeat him at Waterloo, and added that he had sounded the Iron Duke on the subject, and found him equally ignorant.
“So the afternoon and evening passed. I met quite a number of famous ladies—Catherine, Marie Louise, Josephine, Queen Elizabeth, and others. Talked architecture with Queen Anne, and was surprised to learn that she never saw a Queen Anne cottage. I took Peg Woffington down to supper, and altogether had a fine time of it.”
“But, my dear Surrennes,” I put in at this point, “I fail to see what this has to do with your defence in your trial for stealing spoons.”
“I am coming to that,” said 5010, sadly. “I dwell on the moments passed at the club because they were the happiest of my life, and am loath to speak of what followed, but I suppose I must.
It was all due to Queen Isabella that I got into trouble. Peg Woffington presented me to Queen Isabella in the supper-room, and while her majesty and I were talking, I spoke of how beautiful evcrything in the club was, and admired especially a half-dozen old Spanish spoons upon the side-board. When I had done this, the Queen called to Ferdinand, who was chatting with Columbus on the other side of the room, to come to her, which he did with alacrity. I was presented to the King, and then my troubles began.
“‘Mr. Surrennes admires our spoons, Ferdinand,’ said the Queen.
The King smiled, and turning to me observed, ‘Sir, they are yours. Er—waiter, just do these spoons up and give them to Mr. Surrennes.’
“Of course,” said 5010, “I protested against this; whereupon the King looked displeased.<
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“It is a rule of our club, sir, as well as an old Spanish custom, for us to present to our guests anything that they may happen openly to admire. You are surely sufficiently well acquainted with the etiquette of club life to know that guests may not with propriety decline to be governed by the regulations of the club whose hospitality they are enjoying.’
“‘I certainly am aware of that, my dear King,’ I replied, ‘and of course I accept the spoons with exceeding deep gratitude. My remonstrance was prompted solely by my desire to explain to you that I was unaware of any such regulation, and to assure you that when I ventured to inform your good wife that the spoons had excited my sincerest admiration, I was not hinting that it would please me greatly to be accounted their possessor.’
“‘Your courtly speech, sir,’ returned the King, with a low bow, ‘is ample assurance of your sincerity, and I beg that you will put the spoons in your pocket and say no more. They are yours. Verb. sap.’
I thanked the great Spaniard and said no more, pocketing the spoons with no little exultation, because, having always been a lover of the quaint and beautiful, I was glad to possess such treasures, though I must confess to some misgivings as to the possibility of their being unreal.
Shortly after this episode I looked at my watch and discovered that it was getting well on towards eleven o’clock, and I sought out Hawley for the purpose of thanking him for a delightful evening and of taking my leave. I met him in the hall talking to Euripides on the subject of the amateur stage in the United States. What they said I did not stop to hear, but offering my hand to Hawley informed him of my intention to depart.
“‘Well, old chap,’ he said, affectionately, ‘I’m glad you came. It’s always a pleasure to see you, aid I hope we may meet again some time soon.’ And then, catching sight of my bundle, he asked, ‘What have you there?’
I informed him of the episode in the supper-room, and fancied I perceived a look of annoyance on his countenance.
“‘I didn’t want to take them, Hawley,’ I said; ‘but Ferdinand insisted.’
“‘Oh, it’s all right!’ returned Hawley. ‘Only I’m sorry! You’d better get along home with them as quickly as you can and say nothing; and, above all, don’t try to sell them.’
“‘But why?’ I asked. ‘I’d much prefer to leave them here if there is any question of the propriety of my—’
“Here,” continued 5010, “Hawley seemed to grow impatient, for he stamped his foot angrily, and bade me go at once or there might be trouble. I proceeded to obey him, and left the house instanter, slamming the door somewhat angrily behind me. Hawley’s unceremonious way of speeding his parting guest did not seem to me to be exactly what I had a right to expect at the time. I see now what his object was, and acquit him of any intention to be rude, though I must say if I ever catch him again, I’ll wring an explanation from him for having introduced me into such bad company.
“As I walked down the steps,” said 5010, “the chimes of the neighboring church were clanging out the hour of eleven. I stopped on the last step to look for a possible hansom-cab, when a portly gentleman accompanied by a lady started to mount the stoop. The man eyed me narrowly for a moment, and then, sending the lady up the steps, he turned to me and said,
“‘What are you doing here?’
“‘I’ve just left the club,’ I answered. ‘It’s all right. I was Hawley Hicks’s guest. Whose ghost are you?’
“‘What the deuce are you talking about?’ he asked, rather gruffly, much to my surprise and discomfort.
“‘I tried to give you a civil answer to your question,’ I returned, indignantly.
“‘I guess you’re crazy—or a thief,’ he rejoined.
“‘See here, friend,’ I put in, rather impressively, ‘just remember one thing. You are talking to a gentleman, and I don’t take remarks of that sort from anybody, spook or otherwise. I don’t care if you are the ghost of the Emperor Nero, if you give me any more of your impudence I’ll dissipate you to the four quarters of the universe—see?’
“Then he grabbed me and shouted for the police, and I was painfully surprised to find that instead of coping with a mysterious being from another world, I had two hundred and ten pounds of flesh and blood to handle. The populace began to gather. The million and a half of small boys of whom I have already spoken—mostly street gamins, owing to the lateness of the hour—sprang up from all about us. Hansom-cab drivers, attracted by the noise of our altercation, drew up to the sidewalk to watch developments, and then, after the usual fifteen or twenty minutes, the blue-coat emissary of justice appeared.
“‘Phat’s dthis?’ he asked.
“‘I have detected this man leaving my house in a suspicious manner,’ said my adversary. ‘I have reason to suspect him of thieving.’
“‘Your house!’ I ejaculated, with fine scorn. ‘I’ve got you there; this is the house of the New York Branch of the Ghost Club. If you want it proved,’ I added, turning to the policeman, ‘ring the bell, and ask.’
“‘Oi t’ink dthat’s a fair prophosition,’ observed the policeman. ‘Is the motion siconded?’
“‘Oh, come now!’ cried my captor. ‘Stop this nonsense, or I’ll report you to the department. This is my house, and has been for twenty years. I want this man searched.’
“‘Oi hov no warrant permithin’ me to invistigate the contints ov dthe gintlemon’s clothes,’ returned the intelligent member of the force. ‘But av yez‘ll take yer solemn alibi dthat yez hov rayson t’ belave the gintlemon has worked ony habeas corpush business on yure propherty, oi’ll jug dthe blagyard.’
“‘I’ll be responsible,’ said the alleged owner of the house. ‘Take him to the station.’
“‘I refuse to move,’ I said.
“‘Oi’ll not carry yez,’ said the policeman, ‘and oi’d advoise ye to furnish yure own locomotion. Av ye don’t, oi’ll use me club. Dthot’s th’ ounly waa yez’ll git dthe ambulanch.’
“‘Oh, well, if you insist,’ I replied, ‘of course I’ll go. I have nothing to fear.’
(“You see,” added 5010 to me, in parenthesis, “the thought suddenly flashed across my mind that if all was as my captor said, if the house was really his and not the Ghost Club’s, and if the whole thing was only my fancy, the spoons themselves would turn out to be entirely fanciful; so I was all right—or at least I thought I was. So we trotted along to the police station. On the way I told the policeman the whole story, which impressed him so that he crossed himself a half-dozen times, and uttered numerous ejaculatory prayers—‘Maa dthe shaints presharve us,’ and ‘Hivin hov mershy,’ and others of a like import.)
“‘Waz dthe ghosht ov Dan O’Connell dthere?’ he asked.
“‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I shook hands with it.’
“‘Let me shaak dthot hana,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion, and then he whispered in my ear: ‘Oi belave yez to be innoshunt; but av yez ain’t, for the love of Dan, oi’ll let yez eshcape.’
“‘Thanks, old fellow,’ I replied. ‘But I am innocent of wrong-doing, as I can prove.’
“Alas!” sighed the convict, “it was not to be so. When I arrived at the station-house, I was dumfounded to learn that the spoons were all, too real. I told my story to the sergeant, and pointed to the monogram, ‘G. C.,’ on the spoons as evidence that my story was correct; but even that told against me, for the alleged owner’s initials were G. C.—his name I withhold—and the monogram only served to substantiate his claim to the spoons. Worst of all, he claimed that he had been robbed on several occasions before this, and by midnight I found myself locked up in a dirty cell to await trial.
“I got a lawyer, and, as I said before, even he declined to believe my story, and suggested the insanity dodge. Of course I wouldn’t agree to that. I tried to get him to subpoena Ferdinand and Isabella and Euripi
des and Hawley Hicks in my behalf, and all he’d do was to sit there and shake his head at me. Then I suggested going up to the Metropolitan Opera-house some fearful night as the clock struck twelve, and try to serve papers on Wagner’s spook—all of which he treated as unworthy of a moment’s consideration. Then I was tried, convicted, and sentenced to live in this beastly hole; but I have one strong hope to buoy me up, and if that is realized, I’ll be free tomorrow morning.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Why,” he answered, with a sigh, as the bell rang summoning him to his supper—“why, the whole horrid business has been so weird and uncanny that I’m beginning to believe it’s all a dream. If it is, why, I’ll wake up, and find myself at home in bed; that’s all. I’ve clung to that hope for nearly a year now, but it’s getting weaker every minute.”
“Yes, 5010,” I answered, rising and shaking him by the hand in parting; “that’s a mighty forlorn hope, because I’m pretty wide awake myself at this moment, and can’t be a part of your dream. The great pity is you didn’t try the insanity dodge.”
“Tut!” he answered. “That is the last resource of a weak mind.”
THE SHADOWS OF THE DEAD, by Louis Becke
“It is bad to speak of the ghosts of the dead when their shadows may be near,” said Tulpé, the professed Christian, but pure, unsophisticated heathen at heart; “no one but a fool—or a careless white man such as thee, Tenisoni—would do that.”
Denison laughed, but Kusis, the stalwart husband of black-browed Tulpé, looked at him with grave reproval, and said in English, as he struck his paddle into the water—
“Tulpé speak true, Mr. Denison. This place is a bad place at night-time, suppose you no make fire before you sleep. Plenty men—white men—been die here, and now us native people only come here when plenty of us come together. Then we not feel much afraid. Oh, yes, these two little island very bad places; long time ago many white men die here in the night. And sometimes, if any man come here and sleep by himself, he hear the dead white men walk about and cry out.”
The Ghost Story Megapack Page 9
