by Ruskin Bond
' "Well, there's one thing, Sanders," I replied; "if appearances are anything to go by, Farington will not be giving you much trouble. The fellow looks as strong as an ox."
' "You haven't answered my question," persisted the doctor. "Forget your cloth, Father, and tell me exactly what you think of Joseph Farington. Don't you agree that he is a man to give you the shudders?"
' "You—a doctor—talking about getting the shudders!" I gently scoffed because I did not want to give my real opinion of Joseph Farington.
' "I can't help it—I have an instinctive horror of the fellow. This afternoon I was called up to The Gables'. Farington, like ever so many of his ox-like kind, is really a bit of a hypochondriac. He thought there was something wrong with his heart, he said."
' "And was there?"
' "The man ought to live to a hundred! But, I tell you, Father, I hated having to be near the fellow, there's something uncanny about him. I felt frightened—yes, frightened—all the time I was in the house. I had to talk to someone about it and as you are the safest person in —— I dropped in…. You haven't said anything yourself, I notice."
'"I prefer to wait," I replied. It seemed the safest answer.
'Two months after that conversation with Sanders, not only —— but the whole of the country was startled and horrified by a terrible crime. A girl of eighteen, the belle of the district, was found dead in a field. Her face, in life so beautiful, was revolting in death because of the expression of dreadful horror it held.
'The poor girl had been murdered—but in a manner which sent shudders of fear racing up and down people's spines…. There was a great hole in the throat, as though a beast of the jungle had attacked….
'It is not difficult to say how suspicion for this fiendish crime first started to fasten itself on Joseph Farington, preposterous as the statement may seem. Although he had gone out of his way to become sociable, the man had made no real friends. Sanders, although a clever doctor, was not the most tactful of men and there is no doubt that his refusal to visit Farington professionally—he had hinted as much on the night of his visit to me, you will remember—got noised about. In any case, public opinion was strongly roused; without a shred of direct evidence to go upon, people began to talk of Farington as being the actual murderer. There was some talk among the wild young spirits of setting fire to "The Gables" one night, and burning Farington in his bed.
'It was whilst this feeling was at its height that, very unwillingly, as you may imagine, I was brought into the affair. I received a note from Farington asking me to dine with him one night.
' "I have something on my mind which I wish to talk over with you; so please do not fail me."
'These were the concluding words of the letter.
'Such an appeal could not be ignored by a man of religion and so I replied accepting.
'Farington was a good host; the food was excellent; on the surface there was nothing wrong. But—and here is the curious part—from the moment I faced the man I knew there was something wrong. I had the same uneasiness as Sanders, the doctor: I felt afraid. The man had an aura of evil; he was possessed of some devilish force or quality which chilled me to the marrow.
'I did my best to hide my discomfiture, but when, after dinner, Farington began to speak about the murder of that poor, innocent girl, this feeling increased. And at once the terrible truth leaped into my mind: I knew it was Farington who had done this crime: the man was a monster!
'Calling upon all my strength, I challenged him.
' "You wished to see me tonight for the purpose of easing your soul of a terrible burden," I said; "you cannot deny that it was you who killed that unfortunate girl."
' "Yes," he replied slowly, "that is the truth. I killed the girl. The demon which possesses me forced me to do it. But you, as a priest, must hold this confession sacred—you must preserve it as a secret. Give me a few more hours; then I will decide myself what to do."
'I left shortly afterwards. The man would not say anything more.
'"Give me a few hours," he repeated.
'That night I had a horrible dream. I felt I was suffocating. Scarcely able to breathe, I rushed to the window, pulled it open—and then fell senseless to the floor. The next thing I remember was Dr Sanders, who had been summoned by my faithful housekeeper, bending over me.
'"What happened?" he asked. "You had a look on your face as though you had been staring into hell."
'"So I had," I replied.
'"Had it anything to do with Farington?" he asked bluntly.
'"Sanders," and I clutched him by the arm in the intensity of my feeling, "does such a monstrosity as a vampire exist nowadays? Tell me, I implore you!"
'The good fellow forced me to take another nip of brandy before he would reply.
'Then he put a question himself.
'"Why do you ask that?" he said.
'"It sounds incredible—and I hope I really dreamed it—but I fainted tonight because I saw—or imagined I saw—the man Farington flying past the window that I had just opened."
'"I am not surprised," he nodded. "Ever since I examined the mutilated body of that poor girl I came to the conclusion that she had come to her death through some terrible abnormality.
'"Although we hear practically nothing about vampirism nowadays," he continued, "that is not to say that ghoulish spirits do not still take up their abode in a living man or woman, thus conferring upon them supernatural powers. What form was the shape you thought you saw?"
'"It was like a huge bat," I replied shuddering.
'"Tomorrow," said Sanders determinedly, "I'm going to London to see Scotland Yard. They may laugh at me at first, but——"
'Scotland Yard did not laugh. But criminals with supernatural powers were rather out of their line, and, besides, as they told Sanders, they had to have proof before they could convict Farington. Even my testimony—had I dared to break my priestly pledge, which, of course, I couldn't in any circumstances do—would not have been sufficient.
'Farington solved the terrible problem by committing suicide. He was found in bed with a bullet wound in his head.
'But, according to Sanders, only the body is dead—the vile spirit is roaming free, looking for another human habitation.
'God help its luckless victim.'
The Bordeaux Diligence
LORD HALIFAX
A French gentleman, who had lost his wife and was in much sadness and misery, was walking down the Rue de Bac one day when he saw three men, who looked at him very pleasantly, and pointing to a woman at the end of the street, said, 'Pardon us, sir, but would you do us a favour?'
'Certainly,' he replied.
'Would you mind asking that lady at the end of the street at what time the Bordeaux diligence starts?'
He thought the request odd, but went to the end of the street, and said to the lady, 'I beg your pardon, but could you tell me at what hour the Bordeaux diligence starts?'
She answered hurriedly, 'Don't ask me; go and ask the gendarme.'
So he went up to the agent de police and put the same question to him.
'What?' said the man.
'At what time does the Bordeaux diligence start?'
At this, the agent de police turned round, arrested him, and took him to the police station, where the man was put in a cell and presently brought up before the magistrate, who asked what was his crime.
The agent de police replied, 'He asked at what time the Bordeaux diligence starts.'
'He asked that, did he?' said the magistrate. 'Put him in the dark cell.'
'But,' protested the gentleman, 'I only asked what time the Bordeaux diligence starts, to oblige some men, who asked me to ask a woman, who told me to ask the agent de police.'
'Put him in the dark cell,' was the only reply.
Later on, the gentleman was brought up before a judge and jury, and the judge said, 'What is this man accused of?'
The agent de police answered, 'He came and asked me at what time t
he Bordeaux diligence starts.'
'He said that!' exclaimed the judge. 'Gentlemen of the jury, is this prisoner guilty or not guilty?
'Guilty!' they all cried.
'Take him away,' said the judge. 'Seven years at Cayenne.'
So the wretched man was taken out in a convict ship and kept a close prisoner at Cayenne. After a time, he struck up a friendship with the other prisoners there, and one day they decided that each should tell the reason why he came to be sent to the Island. One said one thing, another another, until it came to the turn of the latest arrival to explain why he had been sent there.
'Oh,' he said, 'I was walking down the Rue de Bac one day, when I saw three men, who asked me if I would ask a lady at the end of the street at what time the Bordeaux diligence started, just to oblige them. I went and asked her and she told me to ask the agent de police, but when I asked him he turned round and arrested me and I was taken to the police station, and before the magistrate, and then before a judge and jury, who sent me here.'
When he had finished speaking there was silence, and from that time forward everyone shunned him.
After a while the Governor of the prison came to investigate the crimes of the various prisoners, so that some of them might be let off with easier work. At last the gentleman was brought before the Governor, who asked him what had been the nature of his offence. He repeated his story.
'That!' said the Governor. 'Give him solitary confinement.'
The poor man applied for the ministrations of the chaplain, who asked him what his crime had been, but when he repeated his story the chaplain went away and left him.
So he continued in misery and agony for seven years, until at last he was allowed to return home, without money, without relations and without friends. One day, shortly after his return, he thought he would walk down the Rue de Bac once again, and as he did so he saw the same woman at the end of the street, but looking very old and horrible. He accosted her and said, 'You are the author of all my misfortunes.'
She replied, 'Don't touch me, but if you like I will tell you why I asked you to do what I did. Go to the Champs-Elysées tonight at twelve o'clock and you will find a hut. Knock at the door and go in and I will explain to you why you have suffered all this misery.'
He went to the Champs-Elysées at the time mentioned, identified the hut, knocked, entered, and found the woman inside.
'Now,' he said, 'tell me why I have suffered all this.'
'Give me a glass of cognac,' was the answer.
He took a bottle from the shelf above her head and poured out a glass of brandy, which she drank.
'Now,' he said, 'tell me.'
'Give me some more cognac,' she said.
He gave her some more and she began to speak. 'Put your ear down here,' she said. 'I am very weak and cannot speak loudly.'
He put his ear down to her and she immediately sank her teeth into it and fell back with a heavy sigh—dead.
*A diligence was a public stage-coach.
The Doctor's Ghost
DR NORMAN MACLEOD
A friend of mine, a medical man, once went on a fishing expedition with an old college acquaintance, an army surgeon, whom he had not met for many years, from his having been in India with his regiment. McDonald, the army surgeon, was a thorough Highlander, and slightly tinged with what is called the superstition of his countrymen, and at the time I speak of was liable to rather depressed spirits from an unsound liver. His native air was, however, rapidly renewing his youth; and when he and his old friend paced along the banks of the fishing stream in a lonely part of Argyllshire, and sent their lines like airy gossamers over the pools, and touched the water over a salmon's nose, so temptingly that the best-principled and wisest fish could not resist the bite, McDonald had apparently regained all his buoyancy of spirit.
They had been fishing together for about a week with great success, when McDonald proposed to pay a visit to a family with which he was acquainted, that would separate him from his friend for some days. But whenever he spoke of their intended separation, he sank down into his old gloomy state, at one time declaring that he felt as if they were never to meet again. My friend tried to rally him, but in vain. They parted at the trouting stream, McDonald's route being across a mountain pass, with which, however, he had been well acquainted in his youth, though the road was lonely and wild in the extreme.
The doctor returned early in the evening to his resting-place, which was a shepherd's house lying on the very outskirts of the 'settlements', and beside a foaming mountain stream. The shepherd's only attendants at the time were two herd lads and three dogs. Attached to the hut, and communicating with it by a short passage, was rather a comfortable room which 'the Laird' had fitted up to serve as a sort of lodge for himself in the midst of his shooting-ground, and which he had put for a fortnight at the disposal of my friend.
Shortly after sunset, on the day I mention, the wind began to rise suddenly to a gale, the rain descended in torrents, and the night became extremely dark. The shepherd seemed uneasy, and several times went to the door to inspect the weather. At last he roused the fears of the doctor for McDonald's safety, by expressing the hope that by this time he was 'owre that awfu' black moss, and across the red burn.'
Every traveller in the Highlands knows how rapidly these mountain streams rise, and how confusing the moor becomes in a dark night. The confusion of memory once a doubt is suggested, the utter mystery of places, becomes, as I know from experience, quite indescribable.
'The black moss and red burn' were words that were never after forgot by the doctor, from the strange feelings they produced when first heard that night; for there came into his mind terrible thoughts and forebodings about poor McDonald, and reproaches for never having considered his possible danger in attempting such a journey alone. In vain the shepherd assured him that he must have reached a place of safety before the darkness and the storm came on. A presentiment which he could not cast off made him so miserable that he could hardly refrain from tears. But nothing could be done to relieve the anxiety now become so painful.
The doctor at last retired to bed about midnight. For a long time he could not sleep. The raging of the stream below the small window, and the thuds of the storm, made him feverish and restless. But at last he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep. Out of this, however, he was suddenly roused by a peculiar noise in his room, not very loud, but utterly indescribable. He heard tap, tap, tap at the window, and he knew, from the relation which the wall of the room bore to the rock, that the glass could not be touched by human hand.
After listening for a moment, and forcing himself to smile at his nervousness, he turned round, and began again to seek repose. But now a noise began too near and loud to make sleep possible. Starting and sitting up in bed, he heard repeated in rapid succession, as if someone was spitting in anger, and close to his bed,—'Fit! fit! fit!' and then a prolonged 'whir-r-r' from another part of the room, while every chair began to move, and the table to jerk!
The doctor remained in breathless silence, with every faculty intensely acute. He frankly confessed that he heard his heart beating, for the sound was so unearthly, so horrible, and something seemed to come so near him, that he began seriously to consider whether or not he had some attack of fever which affected his brain—for, remember, he had not tasted a drop of the shepherd's small store of whisky! He felt his pulse, composed his spirits, and compelled himself to exercise a calm judgment. Straining his eyes to discover anything, he plainly saw at last a white object moving, but without sound, before him. He knew that the door was shut and the window also.
An overpowering conviction then seized him, which he could not resist, that his friend McDonald was dead! By an effort he seized a lucifer-box on a chair beside him, and struck a light. No white object could be seen. The room appeared to be as when he went to bed. The door was shut. He looked at his watch, and particularly marked that the hour was twenty-two minutes past three. But the match was hardly extingui
shed when, louder than ever, the same unearthly cry of 'Fit! fit! fit!' was heard, followed by the same horrible whir-r-r-r, which made his teeth chatter. Then the movement of the table and every chair in the room was resumed with increased violence, while the tapping on the window was heard above the storm. There was no bell in the room, but the doctor, on hearing all this frightful confusion of sounds again repeated, and beholding the white object moving towards him in terrible silence, began to thump the wooden partition and to shout at the top of his voice for the shepherd, and having done so, he dived his head under the blankets!
The shepherd soon made his appearance, in his night-shirt, with a small oil-lamp, or 'crusey', over his head, anxiously inquiring as he entered the room:
'What is't, doctor? What's wrang? Pity me, are ye ill?'
'Very!' cried the doctor. But before he could give any explanation a loud whir-r-r was heard, with the old cry of 'Fit!' close to the shepherd, while two chairs fell at his feet! The shepherd sprang back, with a half scream of terror the lamp was dashed to the ground, and the door violently shut.
'Come back!' shouted the doctor. 'Come back, Duncan, instantly, I command you!'
The shepherd opened the door very partially, and said, in terrified accents:
'Gude be aboot us, that was awfu'! What under heaven is't?'
'Heaven knows, Duncan,' ejaculated the doctor with agitated voice, 'but do pick up the lamp, and I shall strike a light.'
Duncan did so in no small fear; but as he made his way to the bed in the darkness to get a match from the doctor, something caught his foot; he fell; and then, amidst the same noises and tumults of chairs, which immediately filled the apartment, the 'Fit! fit! fit! fit!' was prolonged with more vehemence than ever!