And, to mention another case, there is the gentleman who is returning home late at night, from a Freemasons’ dinner, and who, noticing a light issuing from a ruined abbey, creeps up, and looks through the keyhole. He sees the ghost of a ‘gray sister’ kissing the ghost of a brown monk, and is so inexpressibly shocked and frightened that he faints on the spot, and is discovered there the next morning, lying in a heap against the door, still speechless, and with his faithful latch-key clasped tightly in his hand.
All these things happen on Christmas Eve, they are all told of on Christmas Eve. For ghost stories to be told on any other evening than the evening of the twenty-fourth of December would be impossible in English society as at present regulated. Therefore, in introducing the sad but authentic ghost stories that follow hereafter, I feel that it is unnecessary to inform the student of Anglo-Saxon literature that the date on which they were told and on which the incidents took place was—Christmas Eve.
Nevertheless, I do so.
HOW THE STORIES CAME TO BE TOLD
It was Christmas Eve! Christmas Eve at my Uncle John’s; Christmas Eve (There is too much ‘Christmas Eve’ about this book. I can see that myself. It is beginning to get monotonous even to me. But I don’t see how to avoid it now.) at No. 47 Laburnham Grove, Tooting! Christmas Eve in the dimly-lighted (there was a gas-strike on) front parlour, where the flickering fire-light threw strange shadows on the highly colored wall-paper, while without, in the wild street, the storm raged pitilessly, and the wind, like some unquiet spirit, flew, moaning, across the square, and passed, wailing with a troubled cry, round by the milk-shop.
We had had supper, and were sitting round, talking and smoking.
We had had a very good supper—a very good supper, indeed. Unpleasantness has occurred since, in our family, in connection with this party. Rumors have been put about in our family, concerning the matter generally, but more particularly concerning my own share in it, and remarks have been passed which have not so much surprised me, because I know what our family are, but which have pained me very much. As for my Aunt Maria, I do not know when I shall care to see her again. I should have thought Aunt Maria might have known me better.
But although injustice—gross injustice, as I shall explain later on—has been done to myself, that shall not deter me from doing justice to others; even to those who have made unfeeling insinuations. I will do justice to Aunt Maria’s hot veal pasties, and toasted lobsters, followed by her own special make of cheesecakes, warm (there is no sense, to my thinking, in cold cheesecakes; you lose half the flavor), and washed down by Uncle John’s own particular old ale, and acknowledge that they were most tasty. I did justice to them then; Aunt Maria herself could not but admit that.
After supper, Uncle brewed some whisky-punch. I did justice to that also; Uncle John himself said so. He said he was glad to notice that I liked it.
Aunt went to bed soon after supper, leaving the local curate, old Dr. Scrubbles, Mr. Samuel Coombes, our member of the County Council, Teddy Biffles, and myself to keep Uncle company. We agreed that it was too early to give in for some time yet, so Uncle brewed another bowl of punch; and I think we all did justice to that—at least I know I did. It is a passion with me, is the desire to do justice.
We sat up for a long while, and the Doctor brewed some gin-punch later on, for a change, though I could not taste much difference myself. But it was all good, and we were very happy—everybody was so kind.
Uncle John told us a very funny story in the course of the evening. Oh, it was a funny story! I forget what it was about now, but I know it amused me very much at the time; I do not think I ever laughed so much in all my life. It is strange that I cannot recollect that story too, because he told it us four times. And it was entirely our own fault that he did not tell it us a fifth. After that, the Doctor sang a very clever song, in the course of which he imitated all the different animals in a farmyard. He did mix them a bit. He brayed for the bantam cock, and crowed for the pig; but we knew what he meant all right.
I started relating a most interesting anecdote, but was somewhat surprised to observe, as I went on, that nobody was paying the slightest attention to me whatever. I thought this rather rude of them at first, until it dawned upon me that I was talking to myself all the time, instead of out aloud, so that, of course, they did not know that I was telling them a tale at all, and were probably puzzled to understand the meaning of my animated expression and eloquent gestures. It was a most curious mistake for any one to make. I never knew such a thing happen to me before.
Later on, our curate did tricks with cards. He asked us if we had ever seen a game called the “Three Card Trick.” He said it was an artifice by means of which low, unscrupulous men, frequenters of race-meetings and such like haunts, swindled foolish young fellows out of their money. He said it was a very simple trick to do: it all depended on the quickness of the hand. It was the quickness of the hand deceived the eye.
He said he would show us the imposture so that we might be warned against it, and not be taken in by it; and he fetched Uncle’s pack of cards from the tea-caddy, and, selecting three cards from the pack, two plain cards and one picture card, sat down on the hearthrug, and explained to us what he was going to do.
He said: “Now I shall take these three cards in my hand—so—and let you all see them. And then I shall quietly lay them down on the rug, with the backs uppermost, and ask you to pick out the picture card. And you’ll think you know which one it is.” And he did it.
Old Mr. Coombes, who is also one of our churchwardens, said it was the middle card.
“You fancy you saw it,” said our curate, smiling.
“I don’t ‘fancy’ anything at all about it,” replied Mr. Coombes, “I tell you it’s the middle card. I’ll bet you half a dollar it’s the middle card.”
“There you are, that’s just what I was explaining to you,” said our curate, turning to the rest of us; “that’s the way these foolish young fellows that I was speaking of are lured on to lose their money. They make sure they know the card, they fancy they saw it. They don’t grasp the idea that it is the quickness of the hand that has deceived their eye.”
He said he had known young men go off to a boat race, or a cricket match, with pounds in their pocket, and come home, early in the afternoon, stone broke; having lost all their money at this demoralising game.
He said he should take Mr. Coombes’s half-crown, because it would teach Mr. Coombes a very useful lesson, and probably be the means of saving Mr. Coombes’s money in the future; and he should give the two-and-sixpence to the blanket fund.
“Don’t you worry about that,” retorted old Mr. Coombes. “Don’t you take the half-crown out of the blanket fund: that’s all.”
And he put his money on the middle card, and turned it up.
Sure enough, it really was the queen!
We were all very much surprised, especially the curate.
He said that it did sometimes happen that way, though—that a man did sometimes lay on the right card, by accident.
Our curate said it was, however, the most unfortunate thing a man could do for himself, if he only knew it, because, when a man tried and won, it gave him a taste for the so-called sport, and it lured him on into risking again and again; until he had to retire from the contest, a broken and ruined man.
Then he did the trick again. Mr. Coombes said it was the card next the coal-scuttle this time, and wanted to put five shillings on it.
We laughed at him, and tried to persuade him against it. He would listen to no advice, however, but insisted on plunging.
Our curate said very well then: he had warned him, and that was all that he could do. If he (Mr. Coombes) was determined to make a fool of himself, he (Mr. Coombes) must do so.
Our curate said he should take the five shillings and that would put things right again with the blanket fund.
So Mr. Coombes put two half-crowns on the card next the coal-scuttle and turned it up.
After that, Uncle John had a florin on, and he won.
And then we all played at it; and we all won. All except the curate, that is. He had a very bad quarter of an hour. I never knew a man have such hard luck at cards. He lost every time.
We had some more punch after that; and Uncle made such a funny mistake in brewing it: he left out the whisky. Oh, we did laugh at him, and we made him put in double quantity afterwards, as a forfeit.
Oh, we did have such fun that evening!
And then, somehow or other, we must have got on to ghosts; because the next recollection I have is that we were telling ghost stories to each other.
TEDDY BIFFLES’ STORY
Teddy Biffles told the first story, I will let him repeat it here in his own words.
(Do not ask me how it is that I recollect his own exact words—whether I took them down in shorthand at the time, or whether he had the story written out, and handed me the MS. afterwards for publication in this book, because I should not tell you if you did. It is a trade secret.)
Biffles called his story—
JOHNSON AND EMILY OR THE FAITHFUL GHOST (TEDDY BIFFLES’ STORY)
I was little more than a lad when I first met with Johnson. I was home for the Christmas holidays, and, it being Christmas Eve, I had been allowed to sit up very late. On opening the door of my little bedroom, to go in, I found myself face to face with Johnson, who was coming out. It passed through me, and uttering a long low wail of misery, disappeared out of the staircase window.
I was startled for the moment—I was only a schoolboy at the time, and had never seen a ghost before—and felt a little nervous about going to bed. But, on reflection, I remembered that it was only sinful people that spirits could do any harm to, and so tucked myself up, and went to sleep.
In the morning I told the Pater what I had seen.
“Oh yes, that was old Johnson,” he answered. “Don’t you be frightened of that; he lives here.” And then he told me the poor thing’s history.
It seemed that Johnson, when it was alive, had loved, in early life, the daughter of a former lessee of our house, a very beautiful girl, whose Christian name had been Emily. Father did not know her other name.
Johnson was too poor to marry the girl, so he kissed her good-bye, told her he would soon be back, and went off to Australia to make his fortune.
But Australia was not then what it became later on. Travellers through the bush were few and far between in those early days; and, even when one was caught, the portable property found upon the body was often of hardly sufficiently negotiable value to pay the simple funeral expenses rendered necessary. So that it took Johnson nearly twenty years to make his fortune.
The self-imposed task was accomplished at last, however, and then, having successfully eluded the police, and got clear out of the Colony, he returned to England, full of hope and joy, to claim his bride. He reached the house to find it silent and deserted. All that the neighbors could tell him was that, soon after his own departure, the family had, on one foggy night, unostentatiously disappeared, and that nobody had ever seen or heard anything of them since, although the landlord and most of the local tradesmen had made searching inquiries.
Poor Johnson, frenzied with grief, sought his lost love all over the world. But he never found her, and, after years of fruitless effort, he returned to end his lonely life in the very house where, in the happy bygone days, he and his beloved Emily had passed so many blissful hours.
He had lived there quite alone, wandering about the empty rooms, weeping and calling to his Emily to come back to him; and when the poor old fellow died, his ghost still kept the business on.
It was there, the Pater said, when he took the house, and the agent had knocked ten pounds a year off the rent in consequence.
After that, I was continually meeting Johnson about the place at all times of the night, and so, indeed, were we all. We used to walk round it and stand aside to let it pass, at first; but, when we grew at home with it, and there seemed no necessity for so much ceremony, we used to walk straight through it. You could not say it was ever much in the way.
It was a gentle, harmless, old ghost, too, and we all felt very sorry for it, and pitied it. The women folk, indeed, made quite a pet of it, for a while. Its faithfulness touched them so.
But as time went on, it grew to be a bit a bore. You see it was full of sadness. There was nothing cheerful or genial about it. You felt sorry for it, but it irritated you. It would sit on the stairs and cry for hours at a stretch; and, whenever we woke up in the night, one was sure to hear it pottering about the passages and in and out of the different rooms, moaning and sighing, so that we could not get to sleep again very easily. And when we had a party on, it would come and sit outside the drawing-room door, and sob all the time. It did not do anybody any harm exactly, but it cast a gloom over the whole affair.
“Oh, I’m getting sick of this old fool,” said the Pater, one evening (the Dad can be very blunt, when he is put out, as you know), after Johnson had been more of a nuisance than usual, and had spoiled a good game of whist, by sitting up the chimney and groaning, till nobody knew what were trumps or what suit had been led, even. “We shall have to get rid of him, somehow or other. I wish I knew how to do it.”
“Well,” said the Mater, “depend upon it, you’ll never see the last of him until he’s found Emily’s grave. That’s what he is after. You find Emily’s grave, and put him on to that, and he’ll stop there. That’s the only thing to do. You mark my words.”
The idea seemed reasonable, but the difficulty in the way was that we none of us knew where Emily’s grave was any more than the ghost of Johnson himself did. The Governor suggested palming off some other Emily’s grave upon the poor thing, but, as luck would have it, there did not seem to have been an Emily of any sort buried anywhere for miles round. I never came across a neighborhood so utterly destitute of dead Emilies.
I thought for a bit, and then I hazarded a suggestion myself.
“Couldn’t we fake up something for the old chap?” I queried. “He seems a simple-minded old sort. He might take it in. Anyhow, we could but try.”
“By Jove, so we will,” exclaimed my father; and the very next morning we had the workmen in, and fixed up a little mound at the bottom of the orchard with a tombstone over it, bearing the following inscription:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF EMILY HER LAST WORDS WERE—“TELL JOHNSON I LOVE HIM”
“That ought to fetch him,” mused the Dad as he surveyed the work when finished. “I am sure I hope it does.”
It did!
We lured him down there that very night; and—well, there, it was one of the most pathetic things I have ever seen, the way Johnson sprang upon that tombstone and wept. Dad and old Squibbins, the gardener, cried like children when they saw it.
Johnson has never troubled us any more in the house since then. It spends every night now, sobbing on the grave, and seems quite happy.
“There still?” Oh yes. I’ll take you fellows down and show you it, next time you come to our place: 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. are its general hours, 10 to 2 on Saturdays.
INTERLUDE—THE DOCTOR’S STORY
It made me cry very much, that story, young Biffles told it with so much feeling. We were all a little thoughtful after it, and I noticed even the old Doctor covertly wipe away a tear. Uncle John brewed another bowl of punch, however, and we gradually grew more resigned.
The Doctor, indeed, after a while became almost cheerful, and told us about the ghost of one of his patients.
I cannot give you his story. I wish I could. They all said afterwards that it was the best of the lot—the most ghastly and terrible—but I could not make any sense of it myself. It seemed so incomplete.
He began all right and then something seemed to happen, and then he was finishing it. I cannot make out what he did with the middle of the story.
It ended up, I know, however, with somebo
dy finding something; and that put Mr. Coombes in mind of a very curious affair that took place at an old Mill, once kept by his brother-in-law.
Mr. Coombes said he would tell us his story, and before anybody could stop him, he had begun.
Mr. Coombes said the story was called—
THE HAUNTED MILL OR THE RUINED HOME (MR. COOMBES’S STORY)
Well, you all know my brother-in-law, Mr. Parkins (began Mr. Coombes, taking the long clay pipe from his mouth, and putting it behind his ear: we did not know his brother-in-law, but we said we did, so as to save time), and you know of course that he once took a lease of an old Mill in Surrey, and went to live there.
Now you must know that, years ago, this very mill had been occupied by a wicked old miser, who died there, leaving—so it was rumored—all his money hidden somewhere about the place. Naturally enough, every one who had since come to live at the mill had tried to find the treasure; but none had ever succeeded, and the local wiseacres said that nobody ever would, unless the ghost of the miserly miller should, one day, take a fancy to one of the tenants, and disclose to him the secret of the hiding-place.
My brother-in-law did not attach much importance to the story, regarding it as an old woman’s tale, and, unlike his predecessors, made no attempt whatever to discover the hidden gold.
“Unless business was very different then from what it is now,” said my brother-in-law, “I don’t see how a miller could very well have saved anything, however much of a miser he might have been: at all events, not enough to make it worth the trouble of looking for it.”
Still, he could not altogether get rid of the idea of that treasure.
One night he went to bed. There was nothing very extraordinary about that, I admit. He often did go to bed of a night. What was remarkable, however, was that exactly as the clock of the village church chimed the last stroke of twelve, my brother-in-law woke up with a start, and felt himself quite unable to go to sleep again.
Joe (his Christian name was Joe) sat up in bed, and looked around.
The Second Christmas Megapack Page 48