Kitabı oku: «Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season», sayfa 16
Chapter Twenty Five
The Ghosts at the Grange
Whether I believe in ghosts, fetches, hobgoblins, table spirits, and the rest of the lights and shades of the supernatural world, is a question that we will not stop to discuss, but if these pages should meet the eye of any person who can introduce me to a haunted house, I shall be his debtor. Now, when I say a haunted house, I must place a few stipulations upon my acceptance of the said house, so I will at once state what I want.
I want one of those comfortably (old-fashioned) furnished, quaint, gabled houses, shut up and deserted on account of supernatural tenants who will not be evicted; a house sacred to dust, spiders, and silence, where the damp has crept in here, and the mildew there, where dry rot and desolation have fixed their abodes, where the owl hoots and the chimney swallow builds, undisturbed by the cheering fumes of a fire; where the once trim garden is weed-grown and wild; pedestals overturned; moss and ivy rampant; fountains choked, and nature having it all her own way as she has had it for years. That’s the sort of place I want to meet with, one that nobody will take, and when I present myself, the agent will laugh in his sleeve, and gladly accept me as tenant on lease for a trivial rent. Yes, the agent will laugh in his sleeve at my folly in taking the place on lease, and eagerly getting the document prepared and signed.
But then about the murder once committed in the far chamber – the noises – the rustling of silk dresses – the groans – the spots on the floor – the steps along the passages – the opening and closing doors – and other horrors that have scared people to death? Well, by God’s help, and the exercise of a little observation, and putting of that and that together, I fancy I could get over those little troubles in time, for if the released souls of Hades, that once strutted upon this world’s stage, can come back to perform such pitiful duties as to get in table legs and hats, bang doors, rattle chains, and rustle about o’ nights, why e’en let them; and as I before hinted, I’ll try and get used to that part of the trouble. The birds would still be welcome visitants, for I must own to a weakness for the feathered tribe, while on their part I can easily conceive that they would be discriminating in their choice of chimneys; the mildew and damp must, of course, be ousted, along with the dust and dry rot, while, as to the spiders and their works, why, much as their untiring industry and patience must be admired, out they must go too. And after all said and done, I fancy that a spider deserves a little better treatment at our hands. As to his character: it is too bad to associate him with so much craft and insidiousness. Why, what does the poor thing do but toil hard for its living? and I maintain that friend Arachne is as reputable a member of insect society as the much-vaunted busy bee.
“Oh!” some one will say; “but look at the nasty murdering thing and the poor flies struggling in its net, while the dear bees live upon nectar and honey!”
Who killed and murdered most wilfully all those poor unfortunate chuckle-headed drones this summer, eh?
But to my haunted house once more. What a crusade against rats and mice – what inspecting of old furniture – and sending this to the lumber-room, and that to be polished and rubbed up – what choosing of suitable new objects, and fitting up the old-fashioned rooms again, mingling just enough of the modern to add to the comfort of the old, without destroying its delicious quaintness. For I like an old house, with its crooks and corners, and bo-peep passages, and closets, and steps, and ins and outs, wainscots, old pictures, and memories of the past. Why, no one with a thinking apparatus of his own can be dull in such a place for calling up the scenes of the past, and trying to trace the old place’s history.
Then, again, the garden. How glorious to leave to nature her beauties, and only take away the foul and rank; cutting back here and rescuing there, and bringing the neglected place into a charming wilderness – a place that nature has robbed of its old formal primness, and, setting art at defiance, made it her own.
Yes, if some one will kindly put me in the way of getting such a place for a residence I shall be his or her debtor, while for recompense, as soon as ever matters have been a bit seen to, and the place is habitable, they shall have the honour of first sleeping in the most haunted room in the house.
This is, I am well aware, a very choice kind of house, but that there are such places every one is aware, and my story is to be about one of these old man-forsaken spots, that years ago existed in Hertfordshire. I say years ago existed, for though the house still stands, it is in a dreadfully modernised form. Wings were pulled down, wainscotings torn out, and the place so altered that a tenant was found, and the haunters so disgusted with their home that the noises ceased, and the old reputation was forgotten.
I write this story as it was told to me by a friend, in whose word I have faith sufficient to vouch for the truth of what he heard.
There was an old legend attached to the place, something relating to the right of possession, and some one coming home to oust the then holder of the estate; then followed midnight murder, the concealment of the deed, and, as ’tis said, the spirits of the murderer and murdered haunted the scene of the dread deed.
Be that as it may, family after family took the house and left in a very short time. Strange noises were heard, strange stories got about the village; servants at first could only be sent from one room to another in twos or threes for mutual protection. Jane fell down in a fit; Mary was found staring, with her eyes fixed on nothingness, and her mouth wide open; Betsey was lost, but afterwards found in the best bedroom, with the whole of her person buried beneath the clothes, when she struggled and screamed horribly at their being dragged off; cooks Number 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 used to go about after dark with their aprons over their heads; Mary Hann would not sleep alone; Thomas said nothing, but took to wearing his hair standing on end like quills upon the fretful etcetera, or better still, in this case, like a hedgehog; and all ended by giving notice one after the other, so fast, that at last it came to a fresh servant reaching the village, hearing the character of the house, and then going back without even testing the place, for, like a snowball, the horrors said to abound, increased at a fearful ratio when slipping glibly off Rumour’s many tongues. At last the house stood empty year after year. The agent who was empowered to let it did his best. House-hunters came, looked at it, asked questions, and then, after a few inquiries, house-hunters went, and the house stood empty, when, as season after season passed, the forlorn aspect of the place became worse; the paint peeled off the window frames; the gutters rotted; green mould settled upon the doors; grass grew up between the steps; while the large slab was raised right out of its place by a growth of fungus; idle boys threw stones at the windows, and then ran for their lives; shutters became loose and flapped about; while neglect and ruin were everywhere, and the house was said to be more haunted than ever.
Fortunately, The Grange was the property of a wealthy man, who did not feel the loss of the rent, and as time wore on the place was known as “The Harnted House,” and no attempt was made to let it, so that it became at last almost untenable.
At length a new agent came to the neighbouring town, and after a few months’ stay his curiosity became aroused, and being a quiet sensible fellow, he talked to first one acquaintance and then another, heard the story of the haunted house from different sources, and the upstart was, that a party of half a dozen, of whom my friend was one, agreed to sit up with the agent in the ghostly place, and try and investigate the matter, so as to place the strange rumours in a better light if possible.
The night fixed upon came, and well provided with creature comforts, the party adjourned to the Grange; Mr Hemson, the agent, having been in the afternoon, and seen that a supply of fuel was placed ready, and at the same time had all he could done towards making what had evidently been a little breakfast-room comfortable.
On reaching the hall door the snow was falling heavily, while a sad moaning wind swept round the house, and blew the large flakes in the unwonted visitors’ faces. Dreary and dismal looked the old Elizabethan Grange, and more than one of the venturesome party felt a shiver – perhaps of cold – pass through him as a large key was thrust into the lock, and with a groan the door turned upon its hinges.
Mr Hemson had brought with him a bull’s-eye dark lanthorn, and now turning it on, the party found themselves in a small square hall with a wide staircase in front, and about three doors on either side. All looked gloomy and weird, while a sensation of chill fell upon one and all as they passed across the earthy-smelling place, followed Mr Hemson down a few stairs to the right, and then stood in the little breakfast-room, where a few sparks yet remained of the large fire that had been lit.
Every man had come loaded and ready for passing a cold winter’s night in the forsaken house; and soon candles were lit, a large fire was roaring up the chimney, and a cloth having been spread over an old table, spirit bottles, glasses, lemons, and sugar, all tended towards making the room a little more cheering, while, in spite of dust and cobwebs, there was some very good furniture about the place.
“Choose wood-seat chairs, gentlemen,” said Mr Hemson, “for everything is terribly damp.”
The advice was followed, after closing the shutters, and bringing down a cloud of dust in the performance.
Glasses round became the order of the night, and whether for the sake of getting Dutch courage or not, I cannot say, but Hollands gin was a favoured spirit. After this refresher, candles were trimmed, the lanthorn turned on, and beginning with the cellars, a careful investigation of the place was made, walls were tapped, fastenings tried, shutters shaken, and all perfectly satisfied that no one but themselves was in or could gain entrance to the place. Go where they would, there was the same dull, damp, mephitic odour; dust and cobwebs, and mildew everywhere.
But for these traces of the lapse of time, the place might have been left but a few weeks or months. The rooms were well-furnished, good carpets were down, the library shelves were full of books, and ornaments upon the chimney-pieces. In the drawing-room was an old square pianoforte, while from every wall gloomy and dark faces looked down upon the intruders. And thus the tour of the house was completed, not a closet even being left unscanned, while as they left each room the keys were turned, and at length, joking and laughing, they returned to the comparatively snug room, and assembled round the fire.
“Now,” said my friend, “presuming that we have come here to listen for the strange sounds that are heard, what course are we to adopt in the event of anything taking our attention?”
“Not much fear,” laughed one.
“Then let’s have a little smoke and a song,” said another.
“But really,” said Mr Hemson, “I think we ought to do something, gentlemen; for mind you, I for one fully expect that we shall hear some strange noise, and what I want is for us to find out what it is, and see if we can’t stop it for the future.”
“Did you bring any holy water, Hemson?” said one of the party.
“Come, come, gentlemen,” said my friend, “business, business. Now, I tell you what: we will all sit here and of course the first man who thinks he hears a sound will advise the others, when we will all go together and try and find out what it was, but in silence, mind. No man is to speak till we get back to this room, when here is paper and you have, most of you, pencils; let each man write down what impression that which he has seen and heard made upon him, writing it down in as few words as possible, and so we can compare impressions, and there will not be, as is often the case, one person modelling his ideas upon those of another.”
“Very good; I second that,” said Mr Hemson, while, after a few remarks, first one and then another agreed that the plan would be excellent.
Ten – eleven struck by the old church-clock, and the wind roared round the old place, rumbling in the chimney and sending the snow with soft pats up against the window-panes, so that more than once a member of the party started and looked round, but the warm glow of the fire, the social cheer, and perhaps, more than all, the spirits, tended to drive away any dread that might otherwise have taken possession of those present, and the night wore on.
Twelve struck by the old church-clock, and the wind lulled.
“Now is the witching – what’s the rest of it?” said one of the party.
“Ah,” said another, “now’s the ghostly time.”
“Don’t you wish you were at home, Hemson?” said another.
“Not I,” said the agent. “I’m perfectly cool, so far.”
“Well, I’m not,” said the first speaker, “for my shins are scorching.”
“Pass the kettle this way,” said my friend, “and – ”
“Hush!” exclaimed Mr Hemson, and a dead silence fell upon the group.
“Well, what is it?” said my friend, holding his glass to the kettle-spout.
“I fancied I heard a noise,” said Mr Hemson, while all listened attentively.
“Pooh,” said my friend; “the wind,” and he then filled up his glass and placed it upon the table, but the next moment he started up.
“Well, what now?” said Mr Hemson.
“Didn’t you hear that?” exclaimed my friend.
“No, what?” said Mr Hemson.
“Why that noise – there!” he exclaimed, and now every man started to his feet, having distinctly heard some sounds proceeding from the direction of the hall.
“Hush, be quiet,” whispered Mr Hemson, hastily examining his lanthorn. “Now then, follow me,” and all hastily passed up the few steps and stood in the hall listening to the sound as of some one talking in the room right in front – the dining-room.
The hall was quite dark save where the light from the breakfast-parlour shone out and cast a long streak upon the dining-room door, while there, each man holding his breath, and armed as they were with stout walking-sticks, pokers, or whatever came to their reach, the party stood listening as the loud utterance of some voice reached their ears, succeeded by various noises, as if there were some occupant of the room.
“Now then,” whispered Mr Hemson, “are you all ready?”
“Yes,” was the whispered response.
Mr Hemson turned on his dark lanthorn, almost with one movement turned key and handle, threw open the door, and as every man rushed in, the light was flashed all over the room, but no one was visible. There stood the old-fashioned dining-room chairs formally against the walls, the pictures looked down grimly, the wine cooler beneath the sideboard yawned gloomily and black, but nothing more could be seen; not even a chair was out of place, though every eye was now directed to a large closet in one corner.
“Come along, gentlemen,” said Mr Hemson, and he swung the door of the empty closet open.
“But the table cover,” whispered my friend, pointing to the large dust-covered cloth, whose corners touched the floor.
To whisk off the great pall-like cloth from the long dining-table was but the work of an instant, and then the light was flashed beneath the table; but nothing save a cloud of penetrating dust rewarded the searchers, who then stood, pale and puzzled, looking at one another, till Mr Hemson proposed an adjournment to the little room, where, after carefully locking the dining-room door, they retook their places, every man feeling uncomfortable and put out.
But attention was soon drawn by my friend to the arrangement agreed upon, when pencils were eagerly seized, and for a quarter of an hour not a word was spoken, when the last man laid down his pencil.
“Has every man signed his name?” asked my friend.
This caused another trifling delay, for no man had placed his name at the bottom of his manuscript; but this being done, the first man’s paper was read over. It was, of course, very brief, but to the effect that, while standing in the hall, he had heard the sound as of a man talking to himself in a wild, agitated manner; that it seemed that a book was thrown hastily down upon the table by some one, who then hurriedly pushed his chair back, so that it scraped along the floor, while at the same time the table gave way and cracked audibly. Then followed the hurried pacing of some one up and down the room, till the door was thrown open and all became silent.
“Precisely what I have stated,” exclaimed Mr Hemson.
“Mine is almost word for word the same,” cried my friend; while, with trifling exceptions, the narratives of the other watchers tallied.
Rather pale and uncomfortable, the party now eat talking in whispers, starting at every loud gust of wind or loud pat of snow upon the window, while the rattling of casement or door was enough to send a shiver through the stoutest man present. But as the night wore on and nothing more alarming was heard, first one and then another dropped off to sleep, though the majority sat watching till the cold grey light of the winter’s morning dawned; and then, after another glance at the dining-room, now looking more weird than ever as seen by the light streaming through the round, eye-like holes in the window shutters, the party gladly left the house, and doubtless made the best of their way to bed.
Now, I make no defence of this story, for I have placed it upon paper in much the same form that it was told to me. What the noise was that the convivial watchers heard I cannot say, but though I consider my informant worthy of credence, and though it was singular that the impression made on all was the same, yet I cannot help thinking that the best thing to imbibe while sitting up o’ night is tea.
Chapter Twenty Six
Caught in his own Trap
Fancy being almost born a DD, like unto Mr Dagon Dodd, a gentleman who resided, when in what he called his prime, at Number Nine, Inkermann Villas, Balaclava-road, Russiaville – who resided there for the simple reason that he paid his rent and rates with the same punctuality that he did his Income Tax, or it is within the range of probability that Number Nine would soon have possessed another tenant.
Now, although Mr Dagon Dodd had a great right to the letters DD, since they formed his initials; yet he was in no wise related to a celebrated doctor of the same name. Mr Dodd was a bachelor – rather a bald bachelor, with a great deal of very smooth white crown, surrounded by a neat little stubbly fence of very black bristly hair. You never caught Mr DD with his hair brushed in greasy streaks across his head, for the simple reason that his was hair that would not brush, nor yet comb; it grew in a particular way, and stuck to that way most obstinately, besides which what hair existed was so much like a brush itself, that when the well-known toilet appendage came into contact with Mr DD’s head there was such violent antagonism that electricity was evolved, and my only wonder is that Mr DD had not brought the powerful current into use in some way.
Mr Dodd was in person slightly stout, slightly asthmatical, and decidedly short; and though a single person, report said that it was not the fault of the gentleman, for he had once proposed to a lady and been rejected. At all events, Mr Dodd was a single gentleman in the popular acceptation of the term, but decidedly not so in appearance, for in addition to his person, which might have been called after the contents of certain brewers’ barrels, “Double Stout,” he wore double-breasted coats and waistcoats, double-soled shoes, with large black ferret strings, tied in bows, even in snowy weather, while his double chin and double show of importance made the little gentleman do very great credit to Number Nine, Inkermann Villas.
But though a bachelor, Mr Dodd was wedded – wedded to science – science as applied to domestic economy – social science, and he experimentalised largely, greatly to the disgust of his staff of servants – cook, housemaid, and buttons, – who stigmatised him as messy. For the fact is, Mr Dodd delighted in patents, and was in himself a little fortune to those men who are for ever trying to perfect that steam-engine which shall draw corks. Though far from sneering at improvements, what a blessing it would be if some ingenious mortal would invent a patent noiseless dressing-machine – a dressing-machine for babies. Oh, bliss! bliss!! bliss!!! However such an invention could not be expected from a single gentleman, who had, though, patent locks on all his doors; a patent rotary knife-cleaner polished the knives; a patent boot-cleaner the boots; a patent roasting-jack nearly drove the cook mad, as it basted the meat itself, and all the while splashed the clean hearth and wasted the perquisites. Then there was a patent potato-peeler, a patent potato-masher – egg-beater – carpet-sweeper – cinder-sifter – and prize Kitchener. Patent something with an unpronounceable name covered the hall; patent candles burned in patent lamps; patent enamel saucepans cooked the viands; while Mr Dodd almost fed himself by means of a little chewing thing, which turned with a handle, for teeth and digestion were failing, and in spite of a patent base artificial teeth will prove more ornamental than useful. There was a patent ventilator for regulating the temperature of every room – instruments that were remarkable for their awkward propensities, for, like the greater part of the machinery in Mr Dodd’s establishment, these ventilators always made a point of doing the very opposite to what was required of them. For instance, they always stuck and remained open in winter, to give entrance to all the tooth-chattering winds; and as obstinately remained closed when the summer heats prevailed, and a little fresh air would have been a blessing. The patent, or rather to be made patent, coal-scuttle of Mr Dodd’s own designing was certainly a noble invention, only that, like Artemus Ward’s first novel, it was far from “perfeck,” for in consequence of working with a crank the article was cranky, and always put on either too much or too little of the heat-affording mineral, while it had been known to scatter a knubbly shower all over the hearthrug.
But scarcely anything had taken up more of Mr Dodd’s attention, than the springs which opened and closed his doors. He very reasonably said that such a trivial matter might easily be worked by machinery sympathising with the approaching feet; but in spite of all his care and trouble, the springs beneath the boards of the floor would not be regulated to the required strength, they would go either too stiffly or too easily. Now this was very often most troublesome, as exemplified upon one occasion, when Mr Dodd was bowing out a lady visitor, taking leave with her husband. The owner of the inventions stood too long upon the spring board, and just in the midst of one of his most profound bows, clap-to came the door, shooting Mr Dodd forward, as if out of a Roman catapult, and making him butt his male friend, ram fashion, right in the region known to us in school days as “the wind,” when the effects were most disastrous: the gentleman’s watch-glass was broken, and the visitor doubled up in the large umbrella-stand, with his internal inflatable organs in a state of vacuum, while by the recoil, Mr Dodd came down in a sitting posture upon the door mat, where he remained staring at his collapsed friend until he thought better of it, and helped him to rise.
He was often on the very point of becoming a martyr to science was Mr Dodd, and never nearer than upon one dismal, dreary, snowy, scrawmy morning, one of those cheerful times when people are wont to feel put out with everything and everybody – a sort of three-cornered time – a Boxing-day in fact, when, after a little extra jollity on the previous night, there was a strong suspicion of headache and disordered liver. Mr Dodd began the day all askew, by getting out of bed the wrong way, and then felt as if all the skin was off his temper which as naturally became chafed, as that people who have sore places, manage to hit them in preference to other parts of their body however sound. Everything went wrong with Mr Dodd upon that morning. His shaving water was nearly cold, and in spite of the patent guard razor, Mr Dodd cut himself severely; then there was hard water in place of soft, in the ewer, and his face was chapped with the previous day’s cutting wind; he felt as if he had taken cold, for the ventilator had not closed when Mr Dodd went to bed, even when he stood upon a chair and hammered it with a poker; while, worse than all, an irritating cough tickled and tormented him, tried as it was by the smoke which ascended the staircase and penetrated his bedroom.
Descending at last through the clouds, like an angry Jove, Mr Dodd encountered Mary, housemaid, with an angry – “Where does all this smoke come from?”
“Oh, it’s all that nasty jester, sir, as won’t keep up. It’s only propped up now by two little deary pieces of firewood, a waiting to be burnt through and let it down again.”
Mary’s angry master seemed to think the “nasty jester” was no joker; but a little examination soon enabled him to put the register right, and dispense with the “two little deary pieces of firewood;” but directly after Mr Dodd summoned the maiden to the dining-room, by apparently trying to play a tune upon some instrument, whose ivory mouthpiece projected from the wall.
“No stove fire alight in the hall this morning, Mary?” said Mr Dodd, as his attendant brought, in some very badly made dry toast.
“Won’t burn a bit, sir,” said Mary. “It’s wuss than this, and smokes awful.”
“Did you turn the little knob by the pipe?”
“No, sir, I didn’t, sir.”
“Tutt – tutt – tutt,” exclaimed Mr Dodd impatiently, as he went to the foot of the well staircase, opened the stove damper, and then stooped down to open the door and see whether a spark yet remained.
It was well for Mr Dodd that he stooped as he did, for with a fearful crash down came a coal-scuttle from the second floor, striking from side to side of the well staircase, and bestowing upon the stooping gentleman’s bald head a regular douche of knubbly coals, mingled with dust, while the copper scuttle itself fell upon the stove, and knocked off the pineapple knob which formed its apex.
“Lawk-a-mercy, sir, what a good job as it wasn’t the scuttle,” exclaimed Mary, as her master shook himself free from the cheerful coal, and gazed up at the skylight at the top of the staircase, to see whence came the fearful shower, but only to find his eyes resting upon the fat, round, inanimate countenance of the page staring over the bannisters, perfectly aghast at the mischief.
The explanation Mr Dodd sought was most simple. Mr Dodd had not yet fitted his house with a hydraulic lift, after the fashion of those used in our Brobdignagian hotels, but had contented himself with a crane and winch for drawing up coals and other loads. This machine, too, was a failure from the ignorance and apathy of the page, who was a regular grit in Mr Dodd’s cog-wheels, and who this very morning, from some mismanagement, had nearly offered up his master as a sacrifice upon the altar of science.
Under these untoward circumstances Mr Dodd went and acted in the most sensible of ways, that is to say, he went and washed himself; but it is not surprising that he should afterwards feel more gritty than ever when he sat down to partake of his matutinal coffee, made in a patent pot with an impossible name. He boiled his eggs, too, himself, by means of a small tin affair – patent, of course – in which a certain quantity of spirit of wine was burned, and when extinct the eggs were done.
Mr Dodd finished his breakfast in a very excitable and vicious manner. He felt sore, mentally and bodily sore, for his inventions and patents were his hobby, and they either would not work right, or people would not take the trouble to comprehend them. He suffered terribly; but for all that he persevered, and, being a bachelor, he did as he liked. And, being a bachelor, what wonder that he should have a sewing-machine, and amuse himself with his Wheeler and Lathe in stitching round the half-dozen new table-cloths? But the sewing-machine was useless for buttons, so Mr Dodd set to, to invent one that should meet that want, and so be a blessing for every single man. A week passed – two weeks – three weeks; and then, after no end of brain work and modelling for the new machine, to be called the patent button-fixer, invented by Mr Dagon Dodd, that gentleman didn’t do it, and gave up, if not in despair, at all events in despair’s first cousin.
But Boxing-day seemed to have set in badly; while Mr Dodd felt ill-disposed to suffer the stings and arrows. According to the old saying, “it never rains but it pours” – in this case coals – and while the hero of these troubles was sternly gazing upon his fire, with a foot planted against each bright cheek of the stove, Mary came to announce the arrival of a tradesman, now in attendance to take certain orders.
Mr Dodd tried to place himself in a less American position, but found that he was a fixture. It was a wet, slushy morning, and Mr D had determined to try the new patent compo-ment-elastical-everlasting-soled boots – a new patent, and one which should have been devoted to the practice of walking upon ceilings, for they were now tightly fixed to the sides of the fireplace, and Mr Dodd in them, to his unutterable discomfort and annoyance. At the first he imagined that it must be owing to the tar he burned upon his fire – a coke fire, whose combustion was aided by the drips from a small vessel behind the register, containing tar; but Mr D soon found that the material of his new impervious boot-soles was alone to blame; and consequently while the man waited he unlaced and set himself at liberty, a culmination at which he did not arrive without slipping off his chair once, and coming into sharp contact with the fender.
