Ghosts in the House

by A. C. Benson

  ‘I must tell you that straight away beneath the window lay a long walk; between sheets of dead leaves with laurels on either side, and the branches meeting overhead, so that it was very dark there even in summer; and at the end of the walk away from the house was the churchyard gate.’

  Father Macclesfield paused and blew his nose. Then he went on still without looking at us.

  ‘Well, the old man died; and he was carried along this laurel path, and buried.

  ‘His wife was in such a state that I simply dared not go away. She was frightened to death, and, indeed, the whole affair of her husband’s dying was horrible. But she would not leave the house. She had a fancy that it would be cruel to him. She used to go down twice a day to pray at the grave; but she never went along the laurel walk. She would go round by the garden and in at a lower gate, and come back the same way, or by the upper garden.

  ‘This went on for three or four days. The man had died on a Saturday, and was buried on Monday; it was in July; and he had died about eight o’clock.

  ‘I made up my mind to go on the Saturday after the funeral. My curate had managed along very well for a few days; but I did not like to leave him for a second Sunday.

  ‘Then on the Friday at lunch – her sister had come down, by the way, and was still in the house – on the Friday the widow said something about never daring to sleep in the room where the old man had died. I told her it was nonsense, and so on, but you must remember she was in a dreadful state of nerves, and she persisted. So I said I would sleep in the room myself. I had no patience with such ideas then.

  ‘Of course she said all sorts of things, but I had my way; and my things were moved in on Friday evening.

  ‘I went to my new room about a quarter before eight to put on my cassock for dinner. The room was very much as it had been – rather dark because of the trees at the end of the walk outside. There was the four-poster there with the damask curtains; the table and chairs, the cupboard where his clothes were kept, and so on.

  ‘When I had put my cassock on, I went to the window to look out. To right and left were the gardens, with the sunlight just off them, but still very bright and gay, with the geraniums, and exactly opposite was the laurel walk, like a long green shady tunnel, dividing the upper and lower lawns.

  ‘I could see straight down it to the churchyard gate, which was about a hundred yards away, I suppose. There were limes overhead, and laurels, as I said, on each side.

  ‘Well – I saw some one coming up the walk; but it seemed to me at first that he was drunk. He staggered several times as I watched; I suppose he would be fifty yards away – and once I saw him catch hold of one of the trees and cling against it as if he were afraid of falling. Then he left it, and came on again slowly, going from side to side, with his hands out. He seemed desperately keen to get to the house.

  ‘I could see his dress; and it astonished me that a man dressed so should be drunk; for he was quite plainly a gentleman. He wore a white top hat, and a grey cut-away coat, and grey trousers, and I could make out his white spats.

  ‘Then it struck me he might be ill; and I looked harder than ever, wondering whether I ought to go down.

  ‘When he was about twenty yards away he lifted his face; and it struck me as very odd, but it seemed to me he was extraordinarily like the old man we had buried on Monday; but it was darkish where he was, and the next moment he dropped his face, threw up his hands and fell flat on his back.

  ‘Well, of course, I was startled at that, and I leaned out of the window and called out something. He was moving his hands I could see, as if he were in convulsions; and I could hear the dry leaves rustling.

  ‘Well, then I turned and ran out and downstairs.’

  Father Macclesfield stopped a moment.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said abruptly, ‘when I got there, there was not a sign of the old man. I could see that the leaves had been disturbed, but that was all.’

  There was an odd silence in the room as he paused; but before any of us had time to speak he went on.

  ‘Of course I did not say a word of what I had seen. We dined as usual; I smoked for an hour or so by myself after prayers; and then I went up to bed. I cannot say I was perfectly comfortable, for I was not; but neither was I frightened.

  ‘When I got to my room I lit all my candles, and then went to a big cupboard I had noticed, and pulled out some of the drawers. In the bottom of the third drawer I found a grey cut-away coat and grey trousers; I found several pairs of white spats in the top drawer; and a white hat on the shelf above. That is the first incident.’

  ‘Did you sleep there, Father?’ said a voice softly.

  ‘I did,’ said the priest, ‘there was no reason why I should not. I did not fall asleep for two or three hours; but I was not disturbed in any way, and came to breakfast as usual.

  ‘Well, I thought about it all a bit; and finally I sent a wire to my curate telling him I was detained. I did not like to leave the house just then.’

  Father Macclesfield settled himself again in his chair and went on, in the same dry uninterested voice.

  ‘On Sunday we drove over to the Catholic Church, six miles off, and I said Mass. Nothing more happened till the Monday evening.

  ‘That evening I went to the window again about a quarter before eight, as I had done both on the Saturday and Sunday. Everything was perfectly quiet, till I heard the churchyard gate unlatch; and I saw a man come through.

  ‘But I saw almost at once that it was not the same man I had seen before; it looked to me like a keeper, for he had a gun across his arm; then I saw him hold the gate open an instant, and a dog came through and began to trot up the path towards the house with his master following.

  ‘When the dog was about fifty yards away he stopped dead and pointed.

  ‘I saw the keeper throw his gun forward and come up softly; and as he came the dog began to slink backwards. I watched very closely, clean forgetting why I was there; and the next instant something – it was too shadowy under the trees to see exactly what it was – but something about the size of a hare burst out of the laurels and made straight up the path, dodging from side to side, but coming like the wind.

  ‘The beast could not have been more than twenty yards from me when the keeper fired, and the creature went over and over in the dry leaves, and lay struggling and screaming. It was horrible! But what astonished me was that the dog did not come up. I heard the keeper snap out something, and then I saw the dog making off down the avenue in the direction of the churchyard as hard as he could go.

  ‘The keeper was running now towards me; but the screaming of the hare, or of whatever it was, had stopped; and I was astonished to see the man come right up to where the beast was struggling and kicking, and then stop as if he was puzzled.

  ‘I leaned out of the window and called to him.

  ‘“Right in front of you, man,” I said. “For God’s sake kill the brute.”

  ‘He looked up at me, and then down again.

  ‘“Where is it, sir?” he said. “I can’t see it anywhere.”

  ‘And there lay the beast, clear before him all the while, not a yard away, still kicking.

  ‘Well, I went out of the room and downstairs and out to the avenue.

  ‘The man was standing there still, looking terribly puzzled, but the hare was gone. There was not a sign of it. Only the leaves were disturbed, and the wet earth showed beneath.

  ‘The keeper said that it had been a great hare; he could have sworn to it; and that he had orders to kill all hares and rabbits in the garden enclosure. Then he looked rather odd.

  ‘“Did you see it plainly, sir?” he asked.

  ‘I told him, not very plainly; but I thought it a hare too.

  ‘“Yes, sir,” he said, “it was a hare, sure enough; but, do you know, sir, I thought it to be a kind of silver grey with white feet. I never saw one like that before!”

  ‘The odd thing was that not a dog would come near, his own dog was gone; bu
t I fetched the yard dog, a retriever, out of his kennel in the kitchen yard; and if ever I saw a frightened dog it was this one. When we dragged him up at last, all whining and pulling back, he began to snap at us so fiercely that we let go, and he went back like the wind to his kennel. It was the same with the terrier.

  ‘Well, the bell had gone, and I had to go in and explain why I was late; but I didn’t say anything about the colour of the hare. That was the second incident.’

  Father Macclesfield stopped again, smiling reminiscently to himself. I was very much impressed by his quiet air and composure. I think it helped his story a good deal.

  Again, before we had time to comment or question, he went on.

  ‘The third incident was so slight that I should not have mentioned it, or thought anything of it, if it had not been for the others; but it seemed to me there was a kind of diminishing gradation of energy, which explained. Well, now you shall hear.

  ‘On the other nights of that week I was at my window again; but nothing happened till the Friday. I had arranged to go for certain next day; the widow was much better and more reasonable, and even talked of going abroad herself in the following week.

  ‘On that Friday evening I dressed a little earlier, and went down to the avenue this time, instead of staying at my window, at about twenty minutes to eight.

  ‘It was rather a heavy depressing evening, without a breath of wind; and it was darker than it had been for some days.

  ‘I walked slowly down the avenue to the gate and back again; and I suppose it was fancy, but I felt more uncomfortable than I had felt at all up to then. I was rather relieved to see the widow come out of the house and stand looking down the avenue. I came out myself then and went towards her. She started rather when she saw me and then smiled.

  ‘“I thought it was some one else,” she said. “Father, I have made up my mind to go. I shall go to town tomorrow, and start on Monday. My sister will come with me.”

  ‘I congratulated her; and then we turned and began to walk back to the lime avenue. She stopped at the entrance, and seemed unwilling to come any further.

  ‘“Come down to the end,” I said, “and back again. There will be time before dinner.”

  ‘She said nothing, but came with me; and we went straight down to the gate and then turned to come back.

  ‘I don’t think either of us spoke a word; I was very uncomfortable indeed by now; and yet I had to go on.

  ‘We were half way back I suppose when I heard a sound like a gate rattling; and I whisked round in an instant, expecting to see someone at the gate. But there was no one.

  ‘Then there came a rustling overhead in the leaves; it had been dead still before. Then I don’t know why, but I took my friend suddenly by the arm and drew her to one side out of the path, so that we stood on the right hand, not a foot from the laurels.

  ‘She said nothing, and I said nothing; but I think we were both looking this way and that, as if we expected to see something.

  ‘The breeze died, and then sprang up again, but it was only a breath. I could hear the living leaves rustling overhead, and the dead leaves underfoot; and it was blowing gently from the churchyard.

  ‘Then I saw a thing that one often sees; but I could not take my eyes off it, nor could she. It was a little column of leaves, twisting and turning and dropping and picking up again in the wind, coming slowly up the path. It was a capricious sort of draught, for the little scurry of leaves went this way and that, to and fro across the path. It came up to us, and I could feel the breeze on my hands and face. One leaf struck me softly on the cheek, and I can only say that I shuddered as if it had been a toad. Then it passed on.

  ‘You understand, gentlemen, it was pretty dark; but it seemed to me that the breeze died and the column of leaves – it was no more than a little twist of them – sank down at the end of the avenue.

  ‘We stood there perfectly still for a moment or two; and when I turned, she was staring straight at me, but neither of us said one word.

  ‘We did not go up the avenue to the house. We pushed our way through the laurels, and came back by the upper garden.

  ‘Nothing else happened; and the next morning we all went off by the eleven o’clock train.

  ‘That is all, gentlemen.’

  THE RED CAMP

  A.C. Benson

  It was a sultry summer evening in the old days, when Walter Wyatt came to the house of his forefathers. It was in a quiet valley of Sussex, with the woods standing very steeply on the high hillsides. Among the woods were pleasant stretches of pasture, and a little stream ran hidden among hazels beside the road; here and there were pits in the woods, where the men of ancient times had dug for iron, pits with small sandstone cliffs, and full to the brim of saplings and woodland plants. Walter rode slowly along, his heart full of a happy content. Though it was the home of his family he had never seen Restlands – that was the peaceful name of the house. Walter’s father had been a younger son, and for many years the elder brother, a morose and selfish man, had lived at Restlands, often vowing that none of his kin should ever set foot in the place, and all out of a native malice and churlishness, which discharged itself upon those that were nearest to him. Walter’s father was long dead, and Walter had lived a very quiet homely life with his mother. But one day his uncle had died suddenly and silently, sitting in his chair; and it was found that he had left no will. So that Restlands, with its orchards and woods and its pleasant pasture-lands, fell to Walter; and he had ridden down to take possession. He was to set the house in order, for it was much decayed in his uncle’s time; and in a few weeks his mother was to follow him there.

  He turned a corner of the road, and saw in a glance a house that he knew must be his; and a sudden pride and tenderness leapt up within his heart, to think how fair a place he could call his own.

  An avenue of limes led from the road to the house, which was built of ancient stone, the roof tiled with the same. The front was low and many-windowed. And Walter, for he was a God-fearing youth, made a prayer in his heart, half of gratitude and half of hope.

  He rode up to the front of the house, and saw at once that it was sadly neglected; the grass grew among the paving-stones, and several of the windows were broken. He knocked at the door, and an old serving-man came out, who made an obeisance. Walter sent his horse to the stable; his baggage was already come; and his first task was to visit his new home from room to room. It was a very beautiful solidly built house, finely panelled in old dry wood, and had an abundance of solid oak furniture; there were dark pictures here and there; and that night Walter sate alone at his meat, which was carefully served him by the old serving-man, his head full of pleasant plans for his new life; he slept in the great bedroom, and many times woke wondering where he was; once he crept to the window, and saw the barns, gardens, and orchards lie beneath, and the shadowy woods beyond, all bathed in a cold clear moonlight.

  In the morning when he had breakfasted, the lawyer who had charge of his business rode in from the little town hard by to see him; and when Walter’s happiness was a little dashed; for though the estate brought in a fair sum, yet it was crippled by a mortgage which lay upon it; and Walter saw that he would have to live sparely for some years before he could have his estate unembarrassed; but this troubled him little, for he was used to a simple life. The lawyer indeed had advised him to sell a little of the land; but Walter was very proud of the old estate, and of the memory that he was the tenth Wyatt that had dwelt there, and he said that before he did that he would wait awhile and see if he could not arrange otherwise. When the lawyer was gone there came in the bailiff, and Walter went with him all over the estate. The garden was greatly overgrown with weeds, and the yew hedges were sprawling all uncut; they went through the byre, where the cattle stood in the straw; they visited the stable and the barn, the granary and the dovecote; and Walter spoke pleasantly with the men that served him; then he went to the ploughland and the pastures, the orchard and the woodland; and it ple
ased Walter to walk in the woodpaths, among the copse and under great branching oaks, and to feel that it was all his own.

  At last they came out on the brow of the hill, and saw Restlands lie beneath them, with the smoke of a chimney going up into the quiet air, and the doves wheeling about the cote. The whole valley was full of westering sunshine, and the country sounds came pleasantly up through the still air.

  They stood in a wide open pasture, but in the centre of it rose a small, dark, and thickly grown square holt of wood, surrounded by a high green bank of turf, and Walter asked what that was. The old bailiff looked at him a moment without speaking and then said, ‘That is the Red Camp, sir.’ Walter said pleasantly, ‘And whose camp is it?’ but it came suddenly into his head that long ago his father had told him a curious tale about the place, but he could not remember what the tale was. The old man answering his question said, ‘Ah, sir, who can say? perhaps it was the old Romans who made it, or perhaps older men still; but there was a sore battle hereabouts.’ And then he went on in a slow and serious way to tell him an old tale of how a few warriors had held the place against an army, and that they had all been put to the sword there; he said that in former days strange rusted weapons and bones had been ploughed up in the field, and then he added that the Camp had ever since been left desolate and that no one cared to set foot within it; yet for all that it was said that a great treasure lay buried within it, for that was what the men were guarding, though those that took the place and slew them could never find it; ‘and that was all long ago,’ he said.

  Walter, as the old man spoke, walked softly to the wood and peered at it over the mound; it was all grown up within, close and thick, an evil tangle of plants and briars. It was dark and even cold looking within the wood, though the air lay warm all about it. The mound was about breast high, and there was a grass-grown trench all round out of which the earth had been thrown up. It came into Walter’s head that the place had seen strange things. He thought of it as all rough and newly made, with a palisade round the mound, with spears and helmets showing over, and a fierce wild multitude of warriors surging all round; the Romans, if they had been Romans, within, grave and anxious, waiting for help that never came. All this came into his mind with a pleasant sense of security, as a man who is at ease looks on a picture of old and sad things, and finds it minister to his content. Yet the place kept a secret of its own, Walter felt sure of that. And the treasure, was that there all the time? buried in some corner of the wood, money lying idle that might do good things if it could but get forth? So he mused, tapping the bank with his stick. And presently they went on together. Walter said as they turned away, ‘I should like to cut the trees down, and throw the place into the pasture,’ but the old bailiff said, ‘Nay, it is better left alone.’