“There is always an etherial current of communication between the parts of a man’s body,” replied McAlister, “and there is speeritual intercommunication between a man’s head and his toes, however pairted they may be. I tell you, sir, in the speeritual world we know a thing or two.”
“And now,” said I, “what may be your wishes in this most unfortunate matter?”
“I am coming to that, if you’ll exercise a little rational patience. This that I tell you of occurred in 1814, a considerable time ago. I shall be varra pleased if, on your return to England, you will make it your business to run up to Scotland, and interview my great-nephew. I am quite sure he will do the right thing by me, for the honour of the family, and to ease my soul. He never would have come into the estate at all if it had not been for my lamented decease. There’s another little unpleasantness to which I desire you to call his attention. A tombstone has been erected over my trunk and O’Hooligan’s legs, here in this cemetery, and on it is: ‘Sacred to the Memory of Captain Timothy O’Hooligan, who fell on the field of Glory. R. I. P.’ Now this is liable to a misunderstanding for it is me—I mean I, to be grammatical—who lies underneath. I make no account of the Irishman’s nether extremities.
“And being a convinced and zealous Presbyterian, I altogether conscientiously object to having ‘Requiescat in pace’ inscribed over my bodily remains. And my great-nephew, the present laird, if he be true to the principles of the Covenant, will object just as strongly as myself. I know very weel those letters are attached to the name of O’Hooligan, but they mark the place of deposition of my body rather than his. So I wish you just to put it clearly and logically to the laird, and he will take steps, at any cost, to have me transferred to Auchimachie. What he may do with the relics of that Irish rogue I don’t care for, not one stick of barley sugar.” I promised solemnly to fulfil the commission entrusted to me, and then Captain McAlister wished me a good night, and retired behind the cemetery wall.
I did not quit the South of France that same year, for I spent the winter at Pau. In the following May I returned to England, and there found that a good many matters connected with my family called for my immediate attention. It was accordingly just a year and five months after my interview with Captain McAlister that I was able to discharge my promise. I had never forgotten my undertaking—I had merely postponed it. Charity begins at home, and my own concerns engrossed my time too fully to allow me the leisure for a trip to the North.
However, in the end I did go. I took the express to Edinburgh. That city, I think candidly, is the finest for situation in the world, as far as I have seen of it. I did not then visit it. I never had previously been in the Athens of the North, and I should have liked to spend a couple of days at least in it, to look over the castle and to walk through Holyrood. But duty stands before pleasure, and I went on directly to my destination, postponing acquaintance with Edinburgh till I had accomplished my undertaking.
I had written to Mr. Fergus McAlister to inform him of my desire to see him. I had not entered into the matter of my communication. I thought it best to leave this till I could tell him the whole story by word of mouth. I merely informed him by letter that I had something to speak to him about that greatly concerned his family.
On reaching the station his carriage awaited me, and I was driven to his house.
He received me with the greatest cordiality, and offered me the kindest hospitality.
The house was large and rambling, not in the best repair, and the grounds, as I was driven through them, did not appear to be trimly kept. I was introduced to his wife and to his five daughters, fair-haired, freckled girls, certainly not beautiful, but pleasing enough in manner. His eldest son was away in the army, and his second was in a lawyer’s office in Edinburgh; so I saw nothing of them.
After dinner, when the ladies had retired, I told him the entire story as freely and as fully as possible, and he listened to me with courtesy, patience, and the deepest attention.
“Yes,” he said, when I had concluded, “I was aware that doubts had been cast on the genuineness of the trunk. But under the circumstances it was considered advisable to allow the matter to stand as it was. There were insuperable difficulties in the way of an investigation and a certain identification. But the legs were all right. And I hope to show you tomorrow, in the kirk, a very handsome tablet against the wall, recording the name and the date of decease of my great-uncle, and some very laudatory words on his character, beside an appropriate text from the Screeptures.”
“Now, however, that the facts are known, you will, of course, take steps for the translation of the half of Captain Alister to your family vault.”
“I foresee considerable difficulties in the way,” he replied. “The authorities at Bayonne might raise objections to the exhuming of the remains in the grave marked by the tombstone of Captain O’Hooligan. They might very reasonably say: ‘What the hang has Mr. Fergus McAlister to do with the body of Captain O’Hooligan? ’We must consult the family of that officer in Ireland.”
“But,” said I, “a representation of the case—of the mistake made—would render all clear to them. I do not see that there is any necessity for complicating the story by saying that you have only half of your relative here, and that the other half is in O’Hooligan’s grave. State that orders had been given for the transmission of the body of your great-uncle to Auchimachie, and that, through error, the corpse of Captain O’Hooligan had been sent, and Captain McAlister buried by mistake as that of the Irishman. That makes a simple, intelligible, and straightforward tale. Then you could dispose of the superfluous legs when they arrived in the manner you think best.”
The laird remained silent for a while, rubbing his chin, and looking at the tablecloth.
Presently he stood up, and going to the sideboard, said: “I’ll just take a wash of whisky to clear my thoughts. Will you have some?”
“Thank you; I am enjoying your old and excellent port.”
Mr. Fergus McAlister returned leisurely to the table after his “wash,” remained silent a few minutes longer, then lifted his head and said: “I don’t see that I am called upon to transport those legs.”
“No,” I answered; “but you had best take the remains in a lump and sort them on their arrival.”
“I am afraid it will be seriously expensive. My good sir, the property is not now worth what it was in Captain Alister’s time. Land has gone down in value, and rents have been seriously reduced. Besides, farmers are now more exacting than formerly; they will not put up with the byres that served their fathers. Then my son in the army is a great expense to me, and my second son is not yet earning his livelihood, and my daughters have not yet found suitors, so that I shall have to leave them something on which to live; besides”—he drew a long breath—“I want to build on to the house a billiard-room.”
“I do not think,” protested I, “that the cost would be very serious.”
“What do you mean by serious?” he asked.
“I think that these relics of humanity might be transported to Auchimachie in a hogshead of cognac, much as the others were.”
“What is the price of cognac down there?” asked he.
“Well,” I replied, “that is more than I can say as to the cask. Best cognac, three stars, is five francs fifty centimes a bottle.”
“That’s a long price. But one star?”
“I cannot say; I never bought that. Possibly three francs and a half.”
“And how many bottles to a cask?”
“I am not sure, something over two hundred litres.”
“Two hundred three shillings,” mused Mr. Fergus; and then looking up, “there is the duty in England, very heavy on spirits, and charges for the digging-up, and fees to the officials, and the transport by water——” He shook his head.
“You must remember,” said I, “that your relative is subjected to great indignities from those legs, getting toed three or four times round the enclosure.” I said three or
four, but I believe it was only twice or thrice. “It hardly comports with the family honour to suffer it.”
“I think,” replied Mr. Fergus, “that you said it was but the speeritual presentment of a boot, and that there was no pheesical inconvenience felt, only a speeritual impression?”
“Just so.”
“For my part, judging from my personal experience,” said the laird, “speeritual impressions are most evanescent.”
“Then,” said I, “Captain Alister’s trunk lies in a foreign land.”
“But not,” replied he, “in Roman Catholic consecrated soil.
That is a great satisfaction.”
“You, however, have the trunk of a Roman Catholic in your family vault.”
“It is so, according to what you say. But there are a score of McAlisters there, all staunch Presbyterians, and if it came to an argument among them—I won’t say he would not have a leg to stand on, as he hasn’t those anyhow, but he would find himself just nowhere.”
Then Mr. Fergus McAlister stood up and said: “Shall we join the ladies? As to what you have said, sir, and have recommended, I assure you that I will give it my most serious consideration.”
The Red-Haired Girl
A Wife’s Story
(A tale from A Book of Ghosts)
In 1876 we took a house in one of the best streets and parts of B——. I do not give the name of the street or the number of the house, because the circumstances that occurred in that place were such as to make people nervous, and shy—unreasonably so—of taking those lodgings, after reading our experiences therein.
We were a small family—my husband, a grown-up daughter, and myself; and we had two maids—a cook, and the other was house- and parlour-maid in one. We had not been a fortnight in the house before my daughter said to me one morning: “Mamma, I do not like Jane”—that was our house-parlour-maid.
“Why so?” I asked. “She seems respectable, and she does her work systematically. I have no fault to find with her, none whatever.”
“She may do her work,” said Bessie, my daughter, “but I dislike inquisitiveness.”
“Inquisitiveness!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? Has she been looking into your drawers?”
“No, mamma, but she watches me. It is hot weather now, and when I am in my room, occasionally, I leave my door open whilst writing a letter, or doing any little bit of needlework, and then I am almost certain to hear her outside. If I turn sharply round, I see her slipping out of sight. It is most annoying. I really was unaware that I was such an interesting personage as to make it worth anyone’s while to spy out my proceedings.”
“Nonsense, my dear. You are sure it is Jane?”
“Well—I suppose so.” There was a slight hesitation in her voice. “If not Jane, who can it be?”
“Are you sure it is not cook?”
“Oh, no, it is not cook; she is busy in the kitchen. I have heard her there, when I have gone outside my room upon the landing, after having caught that girl watching me.”
“If you have caught her,” said I, “I suppose you spoke to her about the impropriety of her conduct.”
“Well, caught is the wrong word. I have not actually caught her at it. Only today I distinctly heard her at my door, and I saw her back as she turned to run away, when I went towards her.”
“But you followed her, of course?”
“Yes, but I did not find her on the landing when I got outside.”
“Where was she, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“But did you not go and see?”
“She slipped away with astonishing celerity,” said Bessie.
“I can take no steps in the matter. If she does it again, speak to her and remonstrate.”
“But I never have a chance. She is gone in a moment.”
“She cannot get away so quickly as all that.”
“Somehow she does.”
“And you are sure it is Jane?” again I asked; and again she replied:
“If not Jane, who else can it be? There is no one else in the house.”
So this unpleasant matter ended, for the time. The next intimation of something of the sort proceeded from another quarter—in fact, from Jane herself. She came to me some days later and said, with some embarrassment in her tone—
“If you please, ma’am, if I do not give satisfaction, I would rather leave the situation.”
“Leave!” I exclaimed. “Why, I have not given you the slightest cause. I have not found fault with you for anything as yet, have I, Jane? On the contrary, I have been much pleased with the thoroughness of your work. And you are always tidy and obliging.”
“It isn’t that, ma’am; but I don’t like being watched whatever I do.”
“Watched!” I repeated. “What do you mean? You surely do not suppose that I am running after you when you are engaged on your occupations. I assure you I have other and more important things to do.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t suppose you do.”
“Then who watches you?”
“I think it must be Miss Bessie.”
“Miss Bessie!” I could say no more, I was so astounded.
“Yes, ma’am. When I am sweeping out a room, and my back is turned, I hear her at the door; and when I turn myself about, I just catch a glimpse of her running away. I see her skirts——”
“Miss Bessie is above doing anything of the sort.”
“If it is not Miss Bessie, who is it, ma’am?” There was a tone of indecision in her voice.
“My good Jane,” said I, “set your mind at rest. Miss Bessie could not act as you suppose. Have you seen her on these occasions and assured yourself that it is she?”
“No, ma’am, I’ve not, so to speak, seen her face; but I know it ain’t cook, and I’m sure it ain’t you, ma’am; so who else can it be?”
I considered for some moments, and the maid stood before me in dubious mood.
“You say you saw her skirts. Did you recognise the gown?
What did she wear?”
“It was a light cotton print—more like a maid’s morning dress.”
“Well, set your mind at ease; Miss Bessie has not got such a frock as you describe.”
“I don’t think she has,” said Jane; “but there was someone at the door, watching me, who ran away when I turned myself about.”
“Did she run upstairs or down?”
“I don’t know. I did go out on the landing, but there was no one there. I’m sure it wasn’t cook, for I heard her clattering the dishes down in the kitchen at the time.”
“Well, Jane, there is some mystery in this. I will not accept your notice; we will let matters stand over till we can look into this complaint of yours and discover the rights of it.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m very comfortable here, but it is unpleasant to suppose that one is not trusted, and is spied on wherever one goes and whatever one is about.”
A week later, after dinner one evening, when Bessie and I had quitted the table and left my husband to his smoke, Bessie said to me, when we were in the drawing-room together: “Mamma, it is not Jane.”
“What is not Jane?” I asked.
“It is not Jane who watches me.”
“Who can it be, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“And how is it that you are confident that you are not being observed by Jane?”
“Because I have seen her—that is to say, her head.”
“When? where?”
“Whilst dressing for dinner, I was before the glass doing my hair, when I saw in the mirror someone behind me. I had only the two candles lighted on the table, and the room was otherwise dark. I thought I heard someone stirring—just the sort of stealthy step I have come to recognise as having troubled me so often. I did not turn, but looked steadily before me into the glass, and I could see reflected therein someone—a woman with red hair. Then I moved from my place quickly. I heard steps of some person hurrying away, but I saw no
one then.”
“The door was open?”
“No, it was shut.”
“But where did she go?”
“I do not know, mamma. I looked everywhere in the room and could find no one. I have been quite upset. I cannot tell what to think of this. I feel utterly unhinged.”
“I noticed at table that you did not appear well, but I said nothing about it. Your father gets so alarmed, and fidgets and fusses, if he thinks that there is anything the matter with you. But this is a most extraordinary story.”
“It is an extraordinary fact,” said Bessie.
“You have searched your room thoroughly?”
“I have looked into every corner.”
“And there is no one there?”
“No one. Would you mind, mamma, sleeping with me tonight? I am so frightened. Do you think it can be a ghost?”
“Ghost? Fiddlesticks!”
I made some excuse to my husband and spent the night in Bessie’s room. There was no disturbance that night of any sort, and although my daughter was excited and unable to sleep till long after midnight, she did fall into refreshing slumber at last, and in the morning said to me: “Mamma, I think I must have fancied that I saw something in the glass. I dare say my nerves were over-wrought.”
I was greatly relieved to hear this, and I arrived at much the same conclusion as did Bessie, but was again bewildered, and my mind unsettled by Jane, who came to me just before lunch, when I was alone, and said—
“Please, ma’am, it’s only fair to say, but it’s not Miss Bessie.”
“What is not Miss Bessie? I mean, who is not Miss Bessie?”
“Her as is spying on me.”
“I told you it could not be she. Who is it?”
“Please, ma’am, I don’t know. It’s a red-haired girl.”
“But, Jane, be serious. There is no red-haired girl in the house.”
“I know there ain’t, ma’am. But for all that, she spies on me.”
“Be reasonable, Jane,” I said, disguising the shock her words produced on me. “If there be no red-haired girl in the house, how can you have one watching you?”
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould Page 42