Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 334
The loneliness of Gilroyd, too — insupportable, had it not been for the vicinity of Violet — made his company very welcome. So, falling into discourse, it naturally befell that William came to talk of that which lay nearest his heart at that moment — his unaccountable adventure of the night before.
“Very curious, and, as it seems to me, quite inexplicable,” said Doctor Wagget, very much interested. “The best authenticated thing I’ve heard — much the best — of the kind. You must tell it all over again. It’s the best and most satisfactory case I know.”
Thus oddly encouraged, William again recounted his strange story, and unfolded something of the horror with which his doubts were fraught.
“You said nothing?” asked the parson.
“Nothing.”
“Ha! It is the very best case I ever heard of or read. Everyone knows, in fact, there have been such things. I believe in apparitions. I don’t put them in my sermons, though, because so many people don’t, and it weakens one’s influence to run unnecessarily into disputed subjects, and it is time enough to talk of such things when people are visited, as you have been. You must not be frightened, though; you’ve no need. If these things be, they form part of the great scheme of nature, and any evil that may befall you in consequence is as much a subject for legitimate prayer as sickness or any other affliction; indeed, more obviously so, because we are furnished with no other imaginable means than prayer alone, and a life’ conformable to God’s will to resist them. Poor little thing! She talked very flightily. I had a great deal of conversation, and latterly she listened, and I had hoped with some effect. Especially I urged her to clear her mind of all idea of spiritual action, except such as is presented for our comfort and warning in the Holy Scriptures. But here, you see, she, poor little thing, is restless, and you troubled.
It’s the oddest case I ever heard of.”
“Pray don’t mention what I’ve told you, Sir, to anyone.”
“Certainly not, for the world — not a human being, not even my sister. By-the-bye, couldn’t you come over and dine with us, and sleep? you must sleep tonight by way of experiment.”
So William promised, well pleased, and went; but, alas! this was a day of disappointments. Violet had gone again to make a short stay at the Mainwarings.
“What can the Mainwarings want of her? She’s always going there; what is there about them so charming?” demanded William of himself; and an outline of the military son of the family, Captain Mainwaring, possibly on leave and at home, disturbed him.
Now, to the further wonderment, and even delight of Doctor Wagget, a very curious result followed from the “experiment” of William’s one night sojourn at the Rectory. At his host’s request, he had locked his bedroom door, just as he had done at Gilroyd, and in the morning he found his stick, which he had left in the hall, tied fast in the loops in which in the daytime the curtains were gathered. There it hung across the bed over his head, an image, as it seemed to him, of suspended castigation.
The doctor was early at William’s door, and found his guest’s toilet half completed. In real panic, Maubray pointed out the evidence of this last freak.
“What an absurd ghost!” thought Mr. Wagget, in a pleasing terror, as he examined and pondered over the arrangement “It only shows that change of place won’t do,” said the rector. “Consider this, however,” he resumed, after an interval consumed in search of consolation, “these manifestations, and very characteristic they are, if we assume they come from my poor friend, are made in furtherance of what she conceives your interests, in the spirit of that love which she manifested for you all her life, and you may be well assured they will never be pushed to such a point as to hurt you.”
William got on the bed, and untied his stick, which on his way home he broke to pieces, as a thing bewitched, in a nervous paroxysm, and flung into the little brook that runs by Revington.
At breakfast, Miss Wagget asked of her brother, —
“Did you hear the noise at the hat-stand in the hall last night? Your hat was knocked down, and rolled all across the hall.” (The parson and William glanced at one another here.) “It was certainly that horrid gray cat that comes in at the lobby window.”
At mention of the gray cat the remembrance of poor Aunt Dinah’s simile struck William.
“By Jove! my stick was at the hat-stand,” exclaimed he.
“Your stick? but this was a hat,” replied Miss Wagget, who did not see why he should be so floored by the recollection of his stick.
“Ha! your stick? so it was — was it?” exclaimed Doctor Wagget, with a sudden awe, equally puzzling.
And staring at her brother, and then again at William, Miss Wagget suffered the water from the tea-urn to overflow her cup and her saucer in succession.
CHAPTER LXIV.
AN AMBUSCADE.
GILROYD was awfully slow, and even the town of Saxton dull. Cricket was quite over. There was no football there. William Maubray used to play at the ancient game of quoits with Arthur Jones, Esq., the Saxton attorney, who was a little huffy when he lost, and very positive on points of play; but on the whole a good fellow. Sometimes in the smoking-room, under the reading-room, he and Doctor Drake played clattering games of backgammon, with sixpenny stakes, and called their throws loudly, and crowed ungenerously when they won.
But these gaieties and dissipations failed to restore William altogether to his pristine serenity. Although he had been now for four nights quite unmolested, he could not trust Gilroyd. It was a haunted house, and he the sport of a spirit. The place was bewitched, but so, unhappily, was the man. His visit to the Rectory proved that change of place could not deliver him. He was watched, and made to feel that hi? liberty was gone.
Violet Darkwell was not to return to the Rectory for a week or more, and William called on Doctor Wagget, looking ill, and unquestionably in miserable spirits. To the rector he had confessed something vaguely of his being in love, and cherishing hopes contrary to the terms which poor Aunt Dinah had sought to impose upon him.
A few nights later, emboldened by his long respite, he had written some stanzas, addressed to the young lady’s carte de visite, expressive of his hopes, and in the morning he had found his desk in his bedroom, though he had left it in the drawingroom, and his bedroom door was as usual locked. His desk was not open, nor was there any sign of the papers having been disturbed, but the verses he had that night written had been taken out and torn into small pieces, which were strewn on top of the desk.
Since then he had not had a single quiet night, and the last night was the oddest, and in this respect the most unpleasant, that they had set the servants talking.
“Tom, he’s a very steady old fellow, you know,” related William, “waked me up last night at about two o’clock. I called through the door not knowing but that it might be something.”
“I know” said the rector, with a mysterious nod.
“Yes, Sir; and he told me he had been awake and heard a loud knocking in the drawingroom, like the hammering of a nail, as indeed it proved to be; and he ran up to the drawingroom, and saw nothing unusual there, and then to the lobby, and there he saw a tall figure in a white dress run up the stairs, with a tread that sounded like bare feet, and as it reached the top it threw a hammer backward which hopped down the steps to his feet. It was the kitchen hammer, unhung from the nail there which we found had been pulled out of the wall. Without waiting to get my clothes on, down I went with him, but our search showed nothing but one very curious discovery.”
“Ha! Go on, Sir.”
“I must tell you, Sir, there was a print, a German coloured thing. I had forgotten it — it was in my poor aunt’s portfolio in a drawer there, of a great tabby cat pretending to doze, and in reality slyly watching a mouse that half emerges from its hole, approaching a bit of biscuit, and this we found nailed to the middle of the door.”
“The inside?”
“Yes.”
“You did not see anything of the apparition yourself?” asked Doctor Wagget.
“No, I was asleep. I’ve seen nothing whatever but such things as I’ve described; and the fact is I’m worried to death, and I don’t in the least know what to do.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said the clergyman, after a pause. “I’ll go down and spend the night at Gilroyd, if you allow me, and we’ll get Doctor Drake to come also, if you approve, and we’ll watch, Sir — we’ll spy it out — we’ll get at the heart of the mystery. Drake’s afraid of nothing, no more am I — and what do you say, may we go?”
So the bargain was concluded, and at nine o’clock that evening the parson and Doctor Drake in friendly chat together walked up to the door of Gilroyd, and were welcomed by William, who led these learned witch-finders into his study, which commanded easy access to both drawingroom and parlour, and to the back and the great staircase.
The study looked bright and pleasant — a cheery fire flashed on the silver teapot and cream-ewer, and old China tea things, and glimmered warmly over the faded gilded backs of the books. This and the candles lighted up the room so brightly that it needed an effort — notwithstanding the dark wainscot — to admit a thought of a ghost.
I don’t know whether the parson had really any faith in ghosts or not. He thought he had and cultivated in private a taste for that curious luxury, though he was reserved on the subject among his parishioners. I don’t think, however, if his nerves had been as much engaged as they might, he could have turned over the old tomes of the late Dean of Crutched Friars with so much interest as he did, or commented so energetically upon the authors and editions.
Doctor Drake was utterly sceptical, and being “threatened with one of his ugly colds,” preferred brandy and water to tea — a little stimulus seasonably applied, often routing the enemy before he had time to make an impression. So, very snugly they sat round their table. The conversation was chiefly between the rector and the doctor, William being plainly out of spirits and a good deal in the clouds. The Churchman sipped his tea, and the physician his strong drink, and there was adjusted a plan for the operations of the night.
“Now, Mr. Maubray, you must do as we order; when we bid you, you go to bed — do you see? — everything must proceed precisely as usual, and Doctor Drake and I will sit up and watch here — you go, at your accustomed hour, and lock your door — mind, as usual — and we’ll be on the alert, and ready to — to— “
“To arrest the cabinet — egad! — and garrotte the clock, if either so much as cracks while we are on duty,” interposed Doctor Drake, poking William’s flagging spirits with a joke, in vain.
“I dare say,” was William’s parting observation; “just because you are both here there will be nothing whatever tonight — I’m quite certain; but I’m awfully obliged to you all the same.”
He was quite wrong, however, as all who please may learn from the sequel.
CHAPTER LXV.
PURSUIT.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY, in obedience to orders, went to his bed, having locked his chamber door. He grew tired of listening for sound or signal from the picket in the parlour; as he lay in his bed reading, his eyes failed him. He had walked fifteen miles that day, and in spite of his determination to remain awake, perhaps partly in consequence of it he fell into a profound slumber, from which he was awakened in a way that surprised him.
The sages in the study had drawn their armchairs about the fire. The servants had gone to bed — all was quiet, and it was now past one o’clock. The conversation was hardly so vigorous as at first — there were long pauses, during which the interlocutors yawned furtively into their hands, and I am sorry to add, that while Mr. Wagget was, at the physician’s request, expounding to him the precise point on which two early heresies differed, Doctor Drake actually sank into a deep slumber, and snored so loud as to interrupt the speaker, who smiled, shrugged, shook his head, and being a charitable man, made excuses for his drowsiness, and almost immediately fell fast asleep himself.
The clergyman was wakened by some noise. He must have been asleep a long time, for the fire had subsided, and he felt cold, and was so stiff from long sitting in the same posture that he could hardly get up — one of the candles had burned out in the socket, and the other was very low.
On turning in the direction of the noise, the clergyman saw a gaunt figure in white gliding from the room. On seeing this form I am bound to confess the clergyman was so transported with horror, that he seized the sleeping doctor by the head, and shook it violently.
Up started the doctor, and also saw in the shadow the spectre which had paused in the hall, looking awfully tall.
The doctor’s hand was on the candlestick, and uttering a prayer, he flung it, in a paroxysm of horror; but it was a wild shot, and hit the sofa near the study door, and rebounded under the table. The study was now dark, but not so the hall. One tall window admitted a wide sheet of moonlight. The clatter of the doctor’s projectile seemed to affect the apparition, for it suddenly began to run round and round the hall, in wide circles, regularly crossing the broad strip of moonlight, and displaying its white draperies every time for half a second; the philosophers in the study could not tell whether each new revolution might not bring it into the room, to deal with them in some unknown way. One word they did not utter, but groped and pulled one another fiercely, and groaned, and panted, and snorted, like two men wrestling, and I am afraid that each would have liked to get his friend between himself and the object, which, after whirling some half dozen times round the hall, passed off as it seemed in the direction of the kitchen or the backstair.
The gentlemen in the study, still holding one another, though with a relaxed grasp, were now leaning with their backs to the chimneypiece.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” panted Doctor Drake nervously, and the rector sighed two or three times in great exhaustion. The physician was first to speak.
“Well! Hey! Where’s your scepticism now?” said he.
“My friend — my good friend,” replied the parson, “don’t be alarmed. Where’s your faith?”
“Was there a noise?” whispered the doctor; and they both listened.
“No,” said the parson. “Pray shut the door. We must not be so — so unmanned, and we’ll light the candle, if you can find it.”
“Come along then,” said the physician, who preferred the cleric’s company just then.
“To the door,” said the clergyman, gently pushing him before him.
When the candle was found and relighted, the gentlemen were much more cheerful. They looked about them. They stole into the hall and listened. They looked like Christian and Hopeful making their escape from Doubting Castle.
They hastened toward the back stair and the kitchen, and were satisfied without exploring. Then side by side they mounted the great stair, and reached William’s door. They had to knock loudly before he awaked.
“Hollo! — I say!” shouted William from his bed.
“Let us in; Doctor Drake and I; we’ve a word to say” said the clergyman mildly.
“Will you open the door, Sir?” wildly shouted Doctor Drake, who hated the whole affair.
And they heard the bound of William’s feet on the floor as he got out of bed, and in another moment the key turned, and William, candle in hand, stood at the open door.
“Well, any news — anything?” asked William.
“Get some clothes on and come down with us. Yes, We have seen something odd,” said the clergyman.
“Could it have been Rebecca?” inquired William.
“Hoo! no, Sir — two feet taller,” said the rector.
“Four feet taller,” said Doctor Drake.
“Did you see its face?” asked William, using, awfully, the neuter gender.
“No,” said the parson.
“But I did,” said Drake— “as long as my arm.”
The learned gentlemen stood very close together on the lobby, and looked over their shoulders.
“Come into my room, Sir — won’t you? You may as well” (the “Sir” applying to both gentlemen), said William, doing the honours in his nightshirt.
“I don’t see any great good,” observed Doctor Drake, turning the key again in the door, as he followed the clergyman in, “we can do by going down again. It there was a chance of finding anything, but whatever it is it’s gone by this time, and — and going down would be a mere flourish, don’t you think?”
“I wish we had the bottle of Old Tom that’s in the locker,” said William, who, behind the curtain, was making an imperfect toilet; “but I suppose it’s too far— “and they all looked a little uneasy.
“No, no,” said the clergyman, morally, “we’ve had enough — quite enough.”
“Unless we all went down together for it,” said Doctor Drake.
“No, no, pray no more tonight,” said the rector, peremptorily.
—— I’ve pipes and a lot of latachia here,” said William emerging in trowsers and dressing-gown. “I’ve been, trying it for the last ten days. Suppose we smoke a little.’
“Very good idea,” said the rector, who had no objection to an occasional pipe under the rose.
So they poked up the fire, and laid a block of coal on, and found that it was halfpast four o’clock, and they chatted, thoughtfully, but no more upon the subject of the apparition; and when daylight appeared they made a hasty toilet, had an early breakfast in the parlour; and the good Doctor Wagget, with his eyes very red, and looking as rakish as so respectable a clergyman could, appointed William an hour to meet him at the Rectory that day and the party broke up.
CHAPTER LXVI.
THE GHOST REAPPEARS.
So soon as he was alone the real horror of his situation overpowered William Maubray. “They won’t say so, but the rector and Doctor Drake, from totally different points — with minds constituted as dissimilarly as minds can be — have both come to the conclusion that these persecutions are supernatural. No jury on their oaths, having all the facts before them, could find otherwise. I see and know that they are unaccountable, except in this way; and go where I will, I am dogged by the same cruel influence. Five years’ bondage! Where shall I be at the end of that time? What will have become of Violet Darkwell? I must abandon all my hopes — honestly abandon them — it is the price I must pay for the removal of this curse, which otherwise will extend itself, if there be meaning in the threat, to the unconscious object of my hopes.”
