by M. R. James
After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to his golfing costume—fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him for a partner—when one of the maids came in.
“Oh, if you please,” she said, “would you like any extra blankets on your bed, sir?”
“Ah! Thank you,” said Parkins. “Yes, I think I should like one. It seems likely to turn rather colder.”
In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.
“Which bed should I put it on, sir?” she asked.
“What? Why, that one—the one I slept in last night,” he said, pointing to it.
“Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of ’em; leastways, we had to make ’em both up this morning.”
“Really? How very absurd!” said Parkins. “I certainly never touched the other, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to have been slept in?”
“Oh yes, sir!” said the maid. “Why, all the things was crumpled and throwed about all ways, if you’ll excuse me, sir, quite as if anyone ’adn’t passed but a very poor night, sir.”
“Dear me,” said Parkins. “Well, I may have disordered it more than I thought when I unpacked my things. I’m very sorry to have given you the trouble, I’m sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by the way—a gentleman from Cambridge—to come occupy it for a night or two. That will be all right, I suppose, won’t it?”
“Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s no trouble, I’m sure,” said the maid, and departed to giggle with her colleagues.
Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game.
I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in this enterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the prospect of a second day’s play in his company, became quite chatty as the morning advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as certain also of our own minor poets have said, “like some great bourdon in a minster tower.”
“Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night,” he said. “In my old home we should have said someone had been whistling for it.”
“Should you, indeed!” said Parkins. “Is there a superstition of that kind still current in your part of the country?”
“I don’t know about superstition,” said the Colonel. “They believe in it all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast. And my experience is, mind you, that there’s generally something at the bottom of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for generations. But it’s your drive” (or whatever it might have been: the golfing reader will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper intervals).
When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:
“Apropos of what you were saying just now, Colonel, I think I ought to tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, in fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the ‘supernatural.’”
“What!” said the Colonel, “do you mean to tell me you don’t believe in second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?”
“In nothing whatever of that kind,” returned Parkins firmly.
“Well,” said the Colonel, “but it appears to me at that rate, sir, that you must be little better than a Sadducee.”
Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, the Sadducees were the most sensible sons he had ever read of in the Old Testament. But, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them was to be found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.
“Perhaps I am,” he said, “but—Here, give me my club, boy! Excuse me one moment, Colonel.” A short interval. ‘Now, as to whistling for the wind, let me give you my theory about it.
“The laws which govern winds are really not at all perfectly known—to fisher-folk and such, of course, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric habits, perhaps, or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour, and is heard whistling.
“Soon afterward a violent wind rises. A man who could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have foretold that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no barometers, and only a few rough rules for prophesying weather. What more natural than that the eccentric personage I postulated should be regarded as having raised the wind, or that he or she should clutch eagerly at the reputation of being able to do so?
“Now, take last night’s wind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew a whistle twice, and the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call. If anyone had seen me—”
The audience had been a little restive under this harangue, and Parkins had, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer. But at the last sentence the Colonel stopped.
“Whistling, were you?” he said. “And what sort of whistle did you use? Play this stroke first.” Interval.
“About that whistle you were asking, Colonel. It’s rather a curious one. I have it in my—No; I see I’ve left it in my room. As a matter of fact, I found it yesterday.”
And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the whistle, upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins’s place, he should himself be careful about using a thing that had belonged to a set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be affirmed that you never knew what they might not have been up to.
From this topic he diverged to the enormities of the Vicar, who had given notice on the previous Sunday that Friday would be the Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be service at eleven o’clock in the church. This and other similar proceedings constituted in the Colonel’s view a strong presumption that the Vicar was a concealed Papist, if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily follow the Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him.
In fact, they got along so well together in the morning that there was no talk on either side of their separating after lunch.
Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or, at least, well enough to make them forget everything else until the light began to fail them. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do some more investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance, he reflected. One day was as good as another. He might as well go home with the Colonel.
As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was almost knocked down by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed, and then, instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting.
The first words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof and objurgation, but he quickly discerned that the boy was almost speechless with fright. Inquiries were useless at first. When the boy got his breath he began to howl, and still clung to the Colonel’s legs. He was at last detached, but continued to howl.
“What in the world is the matter with you? What have you been up to? What have you seen?” said the two men.
“Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder,” wailed the boy, “and I don’t like it.”
“What window?” said the irritated Colonel. “Come, pull yourself together, my boy.”
“The front winder it was, at the ’otel,” said the boy.
At this point Parkins was in favor of sending the boy home, but the Colonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he said. It was most dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one had had, and if it turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should suffer for it in some way.
And by a series of questions he made out this story: The boy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with some others. Then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going, when he happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving at him.
It seemed to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as he knew—couldn’t see its face; but it wived at him, and it warn’t a right thing—not to say not a right person.
Was there a light in the room? No, he didn’t think to look if there was a light. Which wa
s the window? Was it the top one or the second one? The seckind one it was—the big winder what got two little uns at the sides.
“Very well, my boy,” said the Colonel, after a few more questions. “You run away home now. I expect it was some person trying to give you a start. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw a stone—well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter, or to Mr. Simpson, the landlord, and—yes—and say that I advised you to do so.”
The boy’s face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the likelihood of Mr. Simpson’s lending a favorable ear to his complaint, but the Colonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:
“And here’s a sixpence—no, I see it’s a shilling—and you be off home, and don’t think any more about it.”
The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel and Parkins went around to the front of the Globe and reconnoitered. There was only one window answering to the description they had been hearing.
“Well, that’s curious,” said Parkins. “It’s evidently my window the lad was talking about. Will you come up for a moment, Colonel Wilson? We ought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties in my room.”
They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the door. Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.
“This is more serious than I thought,” was his next remark. “I remember now that before I started this morning I locked the door. It is locked now, and, what is more, here is the key.” And he held it up. “Now,” he went on, “if the servants are in the habit of going into one’s room during the day when one is away, I can only say that—well, that I don’t approve of it at all.”
Conscious of a somewhat weak climax, he busied himself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in lighting candles. “No,” he said, “nothing seems disturbed.”
“Except your bed,” put in the Colonel.
“Excuse me, that isn’t my bed,” said Parkins. “I don’t use that one. But it does look as if someone had been playing tricks with it.”
It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted together in a most tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered.
“That must be it,” he said at last: “I disordered the clothes last night in unpacking, and they haven’t made it since. Perhaps they came in to make it, and that boy saw them through the window; and then they were called away and locked the door after them. Yes, I think that must be it.”
“Well, ring and ask,” said the Colonel, and this appealed to Parkins as practical.
The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed that she had made the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room, and hadn’t been there since. No, she hadn’t no other key. Mr. Simpson he kep’ the keys; he’d be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.
This was a puzzle.
Investigation showed that nothing of value had been taken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small objects on tables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks had been played with them. Mr. and Mrs. Simpson furthermore agreed that neither of them had given the duplicate key of the room to any person whatever during the day.
Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was, detect anything in the demeanor of master, mistress or maid that indicated guilt. He was much more inclined to think that the boy had been imposing on the Colonel.
The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and throughout the evening. When he bade good night to Parkins, he murmured in a gruff undertone:
“You know where I am if you want me during the night.”
“Why, yes, thank you, Colonel Wilson, I think I do. But there isn’t much prospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way,” he added, “did I show you that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it is.”
The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.
“Can you make anything of the inscription?” asked Parkins, as he took it back.
“No, not in this light. What do you mean to do with it?”
“Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit it to some of the archeologists there, and see what they think of it. And very likely, if they consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the museums.”
“’M!” said the Colonel. “Well, you may be right. All I know is that, if it were mine, I should chuck it straight into the sea. It’s no use talking, I’m well aware, but I expect that with you it’s a case of live and learn. I hope so, I’m sure, and I wish you a good night.”
He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the bottom of the stair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.
By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor curtains to the windows of the Professor’s room. The previous night he had thought little of this, but tonight there seemed every prospect of a bright moon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later on.
When he noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with an ingenuity which I can only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the help of a railway-rug, some safety-pins and a stick and umbrella, a screen which, if it only held together, would completely keep the moonlight off his bed.
And shortly afterward he was comfortably in that bed.
When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to produce a decided wish for sleep, he cast a drowsy glance around the room, blew out the candle, and fell back upon the pillow.
He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a sudden clatter shook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized what had happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a very bright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highly annoying. Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? Or could he manage to sleep if he did not?
For some minutes he lay and pondered over the possibilities; then he turned over sharply, and with all his eyes open lay breathlessly listening.
There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed on the opposite side of the room. Tomorrow he would have it moved, for there must be rats or something playing about in it.
It was quiet now. No! The commotion began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely more than any rat could cause.
I can figure to myself something of the Professor’s bewilderment and horror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thing happen. But the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it was to him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an empty bed.
He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash toward the window, where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had propped his screen.
This was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could have done, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden motion, slipped from the bed and took up a position, with outspread arms, between the two beds, and in front of the door.
Parkins watched it in a horrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of getting past it and escaping through the door was intolerable to him. He could not have borne—he didn’t know why—to touch it; and as for its touching him, he would sooner dash himself through the window than have that happen.
It stood for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what its face was like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and all at once the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that it must be blind, for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms in a groping and random fashion.
Turning half-away from him, it became suddenly conscious of the bed he had just left, and darted toward it, and bent over and felt the pillows in a way which made Parkins shudder as he had never in his life thought it possible.
In a very few moments it seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then, moving forward into the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the first time what manner of thing it was.
Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did once des
cribe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumpled linen. What expression he read upon it he could not or would not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is certain.
But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidable quickness it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped and waved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins’s face. He could not—though he knew how perilous a sound was—he could not keep back a cry of disgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue.
It leapt toward him upon the instant, and the next moment he was halfway through the window backward, uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch of his voice, and the linen face was thrust close into his own.
At this, almost the last possible second, deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonel burst the door open, and was just in time to see the dreadful group at the window.
When he reached the figures only one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint, and before him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bedclothes.
Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in keeping everyone else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed; and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed for the rest of the night.
Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he would have been a day before, and the three of them held a very long consultation in the Professor’s room. At the end of it the Colonel left the hotel door carrying a small object between his finger and thumb, which he cast as far into the sea as a very brawny arm could send it. Later on the smoke of a burning ascended from the back premises of the Globe.
Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and visitors at the hotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was somehow cleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens, and the hotel of the reputation of a troubled house.
There is not much question as to what would have happened to Parkins if the Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have fallen out of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident what more the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done than frighten.