Weird and Witty Tales of Mystery (20 page)

There was nothing more. Dyson let the little pocket-book fall, and
turned and looked again at the opal with its flaming inmost light, and
then, with unutterable irresistible horror surging up in his heart,
grasped the jewel, and flung it on the ground, and trampled it beneath
his heel. His face was white with terror as he turned away, and for a
moment stood sick and trembling, and then with a start he leapt across
the room and steadied himself against the door. There was an angry
hiss, as of steam escaping under great pressure, and as he gazed,
motionless, a volume of heavy yellow smoke was slowly issuing from the
very centre of the jewel, and wreathing itself in snake-like coils
above it. And then a thin white flame burst forth from the smoke, and
shot up into the air and vanished; and on the ground there lay a thing
like a cinder, black, and crumbling to the touch.

I am sure that Nature never intended me to be a self-made man. There
are times when I can hardly bring myself to realize that twenty years
of my life were spent behind the counter of a grocer's shop in the East
End of London, and that it was through such an avenue that I reached a
wealthy independence and the possession of Goresthorpe Grange. My
habits are Conservative, and my tastes refined and aristocratic. I have
a soul which spurns the vulgar herd. Our family, the D'Odds, date back
to a prehistoric era, as is to be inferred from the fact that their
advent into British history is not commented on by any trustworthy
historian. Some instinct tells me that the blood of a Crusader runs in
my veins. Even now, after the lapse of so many years, such exclamations
as "By'r Lady!" rise naturally to my lips, and I feel that, should
circumstances require it, I am capable of rising in my stirrups and
dealing an infidel a blow—say with a mace—which would considerably
astonish him.

Goresthorpe Grange is a feudal mansion—or so it was termed in the
advertisement which originally brought it under my notice. Its right to
this adjective had a most remarkable effect upon its price, and the
advantages gained may possibly be more sentimental than real. Still, it
is soothing to me to know that I have slits in my staircase through
which I can discharge arrows: and there is a sense of power in the fact
of possessing a complicated apparatus by means of which I am enabled to
pour molten lead upon the head of the casual visitor. These things
chime in with my peculiar humour, and I do not grudge to pay for them.
I am proud of my battlements and of the circular uncovered sewer which
girds me round. I am proud of my portcullis and donjon and keep. There
is but one thing wanting to round off the mediævalism of my abode, and
to render it symmetrically and completely antique. Goresthorpe Grange
is not provided with a ghost.

Any man with old-fashioned tastes and ideas as to how such
establishments should be conducted would have been disappointed at the
omission. In my case it was particularly unfortunate. From my childhood
I had been an earnest student of the supernatural, and a firm believer
in it. I have revelled in ghostly literature until there is hardly a
tale bearing upon the subject which I have not perused. I learned the
German language for the sole purpose of mastering a book upon
demonology. When an infant I have secreted myself in dark rooms in the
hope of seeing some of those bogies with which my nurse used to
threaten me; and the same feeling is as strong in me now as then. It
was a proud moment when I felt that a ghost was one of the luxuries
which my money might command.

It is true that there was no mention of an apparition in the
advertisement. On reviewing the mildewed walls, however, and the
shadowy corridors, I had taken it for granted that there was such a
thing on the premises. As the presence of a kennel pre-supposes that of
a dog, so I imagined that it was impossible that such desirable
quarters should be untenanted by one or more restless shades. Good
heavens, what can the noble family from whom I purchased it have been
doing during these hundreds of years! Was there no member of it
spirited enough to make away with his sweetheart, or take some other
steps calculated to establish a hereditary spectre? Even now I can
hardly write with patience upon the subject.

For a long time I hoped against hope. Never did a rat squeak behind the
wainscot, or rain drip upon the attic-floor, without a wild thrill
shooting through me as I thought that at last I had come upon traces of
some unquiet soul. I felt no touch of fear upon these occasions. If it
occurred in the night-time, I would send Mrs. D'Odd—who is a
strong-minded woman—to investigate the matter while I covered up my
head with the bed-clothes and indulged in an ecstasy of expectation.
Alas, the result was always the same! The suspicious sound would be
traced to some cause so absurdly natural and commonplace that the most
fervid imagination could not clothe it with any of the glamour of
romance.

I might have reconciled myself to this state of things had it not been
for Jorrocks of Havistock Farm. Jorrocks is a coarse, burly,
matter-of-fact fellow whom I only happen to know through the accidental
circumstance of his fields adjoining my demesne. Yet this man, though
utterly devoid of all appreciation of archæological unities, is in
possession of a well authenticated and undeniable spectre. Its
existence only dates back, I believe, to the reign of the Second
George, when a young lady cut her throat upon hearing of the death of
her lover at the battle of Dettingen. Still, even that gives the house
an air of respectability, especially when coupled with bloodstains upon
the floor. Jorrocks is densely unconscious of his good fortune; and his
language when he reverts to the apparition is painful to listen to. He
little dreams how I covet every one of those moans and nocturnal wails
which he describes with unnecessary objurgation. Things are indeed
coming to a pretty pass when democratic spectres are allowed to desert
the landed proprietors and annul every social distinction by taking
refuge in the houses of the great unrecognized.

I have a large amount of perseverance. Nothing else could have raised
me into my rightful sphere, considering the uncongenial atmosphere in
which I spent the earlier part of my life. I felt now that a ghost must
be secured, but how to set about securing one was more than either Mrs.
D'Odd or myself was able to determine. My reading taught me that such
phenomena are usually the outcome of crime. What crime was to be done,
then, and who was to do it? A wild idea entered my mind that Watkins,
the house-steward, might be prevailed upon—for a consideration—to
immolate himself or someone else in the interests of the establishment.
I put the matter to him in a half jesting manner; but it did not seem
to strike him in a favourable light. The other servants sympathized
with him in his opinion—at least, I cannot account in any other way
for their having left the house in a body the same afternoon.

"My dear," Mrs. D'Odd remarked to me one day after dinner as I sat
moodily sipping a cup of sack—I love the good old names—"my dear,
that odious ghost of Jorrocks' has been gibbering again."

"Let it gibber!" I answered recklessly.

Mrs. D'Odd struck a few chords on her virginal and looked thoughtfully
into the fire.

"I'll tell you what it is, Argentine," she said at last, using the pet
name which we usually substituted for Silas, "we must have a ghost sent
down from London."

"How can you be so idiotic, Matilda?" I remarked severely. "Who could
get us such a thing?"

"My cousin, Jack Brocket, could," she answered confidently.

Now, this cousin of Matilda's was rather a sore subject between us. He
was a rakish clever young fellow, who had tried his hand at many
things, but wanted perseverance to succeed at any. He was, at that
time, in chambers in London, professing to be a general agent, and
really living, to a great extent, upon his wits. Matilda managed so
that most of our business should pass through his hands, which
certainly saved me a great deal of trouble, but I found that Jack's
commission was generally considerably larger than all the other items
of the bill put together. It was this fact which made me feel inclined
to rebel against any further negotiations with the young gentleman.

"O yes, he could," insisted Mrs. D., seeing the look of disapprobation
upon my face. "You remember how well he managed that business about the
crest?"

"It was only a resuscitation of the old family coat-of-arms, my dear,"
I protested.

Matilda smiled in an irritating manner. "There was a resuscitation of
the family portraits, too, dear," she remarked. "You must allow that
Jack selected them very judiciously."

I thought of the long line of faces which adorned the walls of my
banqueting-hall, from the burly Norman robber, through every gradation
of casque, plume, and ruff, to the sombre Chesterfieldian individual
who appears to have staggered against a pillar in his agony at the
return of a maiden MS. which he grips convulsively in his right hand. I
was fain to confess that in that instance he had done his work well,
and that it was only fair to give him an order—with the usual
commission—for a family spectre, should such a thing be attainable.

It is one of my maxims to act promptly when once my mind is made up.
Noon of the next day found me ascending the spiral stone staircase
which leads to Mr. Brocket's chambers, and admiring the succession of
arrows and fingers upon the whitewashed wall, all indicating the
direction of that gentleman's sanctum. As it happened, artificial aids
of the sort were entirely unnecessary, as an animated flap-dance
overhead could proceed from no other quarter, though it was replaced by
a deathly silence as I groped my way up the stair. The door was opened
by a youth evidently astounded at the appearance of a client, and I was
ushered into the presence of my young friend, who was writing furiously
in a large ledger—upside down, as I afterwards discovered.

After the first greetings, I plunged into business at once.

"Look here, Jack," I said, "I want you to get me a spirit, if you can."

"Spirits you mean!" shouted my wife's cousin, plunging his hand into
the waste-paper basket and producing a bottle with the celerity of a
conjuring trick. "Let's have a drink!"

I held up my hand as a mute appeal against such a proceeding so early
in the day; but on lowering it again I found that I had almost
involuntarily closed my fingers round the tumbler which my adviser had
pressed upon me. I drank the contents hastily off, lest anyone should
come in upon us and set me down as a toper. After all there was
something very amusing about the young fellow's eccentricities.

"Not spirits," I explained smilingly; "an apparition—a ghost. If such
a thing is to be had, I should be very willing to negotiate."

"A ghost for Goresthorpe Grange?" inquired Mr. Brocket, with as much
coolness as if I had asked for a drawing-room suite.

"Quite so," I answered.

"Easiest thing in the world," said my companion, filling up my glass
again in spite of my remonstrance. "Let us see!" Here he took down a
large red notebook, with all the letters of the alphabet in a fringe
down the edge. "A ghost you said, didn't you? That's G.
G—gems—gimlets—gaspipes—gauntlets—guns—galleys. Ah, here we are.
Ghosts. Volume nine, section six, page forty-one. Excuse me!" And Jack
ran up a ladder and began rummaging among a pile of ledgers on a high
shelf. I felt half inclined to empty my glass into the spittoon when
his back was turned; but on second thoughts I disposed of it in a
legitimate way.

"Here it is!" cried my London agent, jumping off the ladder with a
crash, and depositing an enormous volume of manuscript upon the table.
"I have all these things tabulated, so that I may lay my hands upon
them in a moment. It's all right—it's quite weak" (here he filled our
glasses again). "What were we looking up, again?"

"Ghosts," I suggested.

"Of course; page 41. Here we are. 'J. H. Fowler & Son, Dunkel Street,
suppliers of mediums to the nobility and gentry; charms
sold—love-philtres—mummies—horoscopes cast.' Nothing in your line
there, I suppose?"

I shook my head despondingly.

"Frederick Tabb," continued my wife's cousin, "solo channel of
communication between the living and dead. Proprietor of the spirits of
Byron, Kirke White, Grimaldi, Tom Cribb, and Inigo Jones. That's about
the figure!"

"Nothing romantic enough there," I objected. "Good heavens! Fancy a
ghost with a black eye and a handkerchief tied round its waist, or
turning summersaults, and saying, 'How are you to-morrow?'" The very
idea made me so warm that I emptied my glass and filled it again.

"Here is another," said my companion, "Christopher McCarthy; bi-weekly
seances—attended by all the eminent spirits of ancient and modern
times. Nativities—charms—abracadabras, messages from the dead. He
might be able to help us. However, I shall have a hunt round myself
to-morrow, and see some of these fellows. I know their haunts, and it's
odd if I can't pick up something cheap. So there's an end of business,"
he concluded, hurling the ledger into the corner, "and now we'll have
something to drink."

We had several things to drink—so many that my inventive faculties
were dulled next morning, and I had some little difficulty in
explaining to Mrs. D'Odd why it was that I hung my boots and spectacles
upon a peg along with my other garments before retiring to rest. The
new hopes excited by the confident manner in which my agent had
undertaken the commission caused me to rise superior to alcoholic
reaction, and I paced about the rambling corridors and old-fashoned
rooms, picturing to myself the appearance of my expected acquisition,
and deciding what part of the building would harmonize best with its
presence. After much consideration, I pitched upon the banqueting-hall
as being, on the whole, most suitable for its reception. It was a long
low room, hung round with valuable tapestry and interesting relics of
the old family to whom it had belonged. Coats of mail and implements of
war glimmered fitfully as the light of the fire played over them, and
the wind crept under the door, moving the hangings to and fro with a
ghastly rustling. At one end there was the raised dais, on which in
ancient times the host and his guests used to spread their table, while
a descent of a couple of steps led to the lower part of the hall, where
the vassals and retainers held wassail. The floor was uncovered by any
sort of carpet, but a layer of rushes had been scattered over it by my
direction. In the whole room there was nothing to remind one of the
nineteenth century; except, indeed, my own solid silver plate, stamped
with the resuscitated family arms, which was laid out upon an oak table
in the centre. This, I determined, should be the haunted room,
supposing my wife's cousin to succeed in his negotiation with the
spirit mongers. There was nothing for it now but to wait patiently
until I heard some news of the result of his inquiries.