HUMOROUS GHOST STORIES

HUMOROUS GHOSTSTORIES

SELECTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

DOROTHY SCARBOROUGH, PH. D. 

LECTURER IN ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITYAUTHOR OF "THE SUPERNATURAL IN MODERN ENGLISH FICTION, ""FUGITIVE VERSES, " "FROM A SOUTHERN PORCH, " ETC. COMPILER OF "FAMOUS MODERN GHOST STORIES"

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

The Knickerbocker Press

1921

COPYRIGHT, 1921

BY

DOROTHY SCARBOROUGH

_Printed in the United States of America_

 To

 DR. AND MRS. JOHN T. HARRINGTON

 _Life flings miles and years between us, It is true, -- But brings never to me dearer Friends than you!_

The Humorous Ghost

INTRODUCTION

The humorous ghost is distinctly a modern character. In early literaturewraiths took themselves very seriously, and insisted on a proper show ofrespectful fear on the part of those whom they honored by haunting. Amortal was expected to rise when a ghost entered the room, and in casehe was slow about it, his spine gave notice of what etiquette demanded. In the event of outdoor apparition, if a man failed to bare his head inawe, the roots of his hair reminded him of his remissness. Woman hasalways had the advantage over man in such emergency, in that her locks, being long and pinned up, are less easily moved--which may explain thefact (if it be a fact!) that in fiction women have shown themselves moreself-possessed in ghostly presence than men. Or possibly a woman knowsthat a masculine spook is, after all, only a man, and therefore may becharmed into helplessness, while the feminine can be seen through byanother woman and thus disarmed. The majority of the comic apparitions, curiously enough, are masculine. You don't often find women wraithed insmiles--perhaps because they resent being made ridiculous, even afterthey're dead. Or maybe the reason lies in the fact that men havewritten most of the comic or satiric ghost stories, and havechivalrously spared the gentler shades. And there are very few funnychild-ghosts--you might almost say none, in comparison with the numberof grown-ups. The number of ghost children of any or all types is smallproportionately--perhaps because it seems an unnatural thing for a childto die under any circumstances, while to make of him a butt for jokeswould be unfeeling. There are a few instances, as in the case of theghost baby mentioned later, but very few. 

Ancient ghosts were a long-faced lot. They didn't know how to play atall. They had been brought up in stern repression of frivolities ashaunters--no matter how sportive they may have been in life--and in turnthey cowed mortals into a servile submission. No doubt they thought ofmen and women as mere youngsters that must be taught their place, sinceany living person, however senile, would be thought juvenile comparedwith a timeless spook. 

But in these days of individualism and radical liberalism, spooks aswell as mortals are expanding their personalities and indulging ingreater freedom. A ghost can call his shade his own now, and exhibit anymood he pleases. Even young female wraiths, demanding latchkeys, refuseto obey the frowning face of the clock, and engage in light-heartedebullience to make the ghost of Mrs. Grundy turn a shade paler inhorror. Nowadays haunters have more fun and freedom than the haunted. Infact, it's money in one's pocket these days to be dead, for ghosts haveno rent problems, and dead men pay no bills. What officer wouldwillingly pursue a ghostly tenant to his last lodging in order to servesummons on him? And suppose a ghost brought into court demanded trial bya jury of his peers? No--manifestly death has compensations notconnected with the consolations of religion. 

The marvel is that apparitions were so long in realizing theirpossibilities, in improving their advantages. The specters in classicand medieval literature were malarial, vaporous beings without energy todo anything but threaten, and mortals never would have trembled withfear at their frown if they had known how feeble they were. At best arevenant could only rattle a rusty skeleton, or shake a moldy shroud, orclank a chain--but as mortals cowered before his demonstrations, hedidn't worry. If he wished to evoke the extreme of anguish from hishost, he raised a menacing arm and uttered a windy word or two. Now ittakes more than that to produce a panic. The up-to-date ghost keeps hisskeleton in a garage or some place where it is cleaned and oiled andkept in good working order. The modern wraith has sold his sheet to theold clo'es man, and dresses as in life. Now the ghost has learned tohave a variety of good times, and he can make the living squirm farmore satisfyingly than in the past. The spook of to-day enjoys makinghis haunted laugh even while he groans in terror. He knows that there'sno weapon, no threat, in horror, to be compared with ridicule. 

Think what a solemn creature the Gothic ghost was! How littleoriginality and initiative he showed and how dependent he was on his ownatmosphere for thrills! His sole appeal was to the spinal column. Theghost of to-day touches the funny bone as well. He adds new horrors tobeing haunted, but new pleasures also. The modern specter can be ajoyous creature on occasion, as he can be, when he wishes, fearsomebeyond the dreams of classic or Gothic revenant. He has a keen sense ofhumor and loves a good joke on a mortal, while he can even enjoy one onhimself. Though his fun is of comparatively recent origin--it's lessthan a century since he learned to crack a smile--the laughing ghost isvery much alive and sportively active. Some of these new spooks arenotoriously good company. Many Americans there are to-day who wouldcourt being haunted by the captain and crew of Richard Middleton's GhostShip that landed in a turnip field and dispensed drink till theydemoralized the denizens of village and graveyard alike. After that showof spirits, the turnips in that field tasted of rum, long after theghost ship had sailed away into the blue. 

The modern spook is possessed not only of humor but of a caustic satireas well. His jest is likely to have more than one point to it, and hecan haunt so insidiously, can make himself so at home in his host'sstudy or bedroom that a man actually welcomes a chat with him--only tofind out too late that his human foibles have been mercilessly flayed. Pity the poor chap in H. C. Bunner's story, _The Interfering Spook_, forinstance, who was visited nightly by a specter that repeated to him allthe silly and trite things he had said during the day, a ghost, moreover, that towered and swelled at every hackneyed phrase, tillfinally he filled the room and burst after the young man proposed to hisadmired one, and made subsequent remarks. Ghosts not only haveappallingly long memories, but they possess a mean advantage over theliving in that they have once been mortal, while the men and women theyhaunt haven't yet been ghosts. Suppose each one of us were to be hauntedby his own inane utterances? True, we're told that we'll have to giveaccount Some Day for every idle word, but recording angels seem moresympathetic than a sneering ghost at one's elbow. Ghosts can satirizemore fittingly than anyone else the absurdities of certain psychicclaims, as witness the delightful seriousness of the story _Back fromthat Bourne_, which appeared as a front page news story in the New York_Sun_ years ago. I should think that some of the futile, laggardmessenger-boy ghosts that one reads about nowadays would blush withshame before the wholesome raillery of the porgy fisherman. 

The modern humorous ghost satirizes everything from the old-fashionedspecter (he's very fond of taking pot-shots at him) to the latestpsychic manifestations. He laughs at ghosts that aren't experts inefficiency haunting, and he has a lot of fun out of mortals for beingscared of specters. He loves to shake the lugubrious terrors of the pastbefore you, exposing their hollow futility, and he contrives to createnew fears for you magically while you are laughing at him. 

The new ghost hates conventionality and uses the old thrills only toshow what dead batteries they come from. His really electrical effectsare his own inventions. He needs no dungeon keeps and monkish cells toplay about in--not he! He demands no rag nor bone nor clank of chain ofhis old equipment to start on his career. He can start up a movingpicture show of his own, as in Ruth McEnery Stuart's _The HauntedPhotograph_, and demonstrate a new kind of apparition. The ghost storyof to-day gives you spinal sensations with a difference, as in theimmortal _Transferred Ghost_, by Frank R. Stockton, where the suitor onthe moonlit porch, attempting to tell his fair one that he dotes on her, sees the ghost of her ferocious uncle (who isn't dead!) kicking hisheels against the railing, and hears his admonition that he'd betterhurry up, as the live uncle is coming in sight. The thrill with whichyou read of the ghost in Ellis Parker Butler's _The Late John Wiggins_, who deposits his wooden leg with the family he is haunting, on the pleathat it is too materialistic to be worn with ease, and therefore theymust take care of it for him, doesn't altogether leave you even when youdiscover that the late John is a fraud, has never been a ghost nor useda wooden leg. But a terrifying leg-acy while you do believe in it!

The new ghost has a more nimble and versatile tongue as well as wit. Inthe older fiction and drama apparitions spoke seldom, and then merely as_ghosts_, not as individuals. And ghosts, like kings in drama, were of adignity and must preserve it in their speech. Or perhaps the authorswere doubtful as to the dialogue of shades, and compromised on a fewstately ejaculations as being safely phantasmal speaking parts. Butcompare that usage with the rude freedom of some modern spooks, as JohnKendrick Bangs's spectral cook of Bangletop, who lets fall her h's andtwists grammar in a rare and diverting manner. For myself, I'd hate tobe an old-fashioned ghost with no chance to keep up with the styles inslang. Think of having always--and always--to speak a dead language!

The humorous ghost is not only modern, but he is distinctively American. There are ghosts of all nationalities, naturally, but the spook thatprovides a joke--on his host or on himself--is Yankee in origin anddevelopment. The dry humor, the comic sense of the incongruous, thewillingness to laugh at himself as at others, carry over intoimmaterialization as characteristic American qualities and are preservedin their true flavor. I don't assert, of course, that Americans havebeen the only ones in this field. The French and English selections inthis volume are sufficient to prove the contrary. Gautier's _The Mummy'sFoot_ has a humor of a lightness and grace as delicate as the princess'slittle foot itself. There are various English stories of whimsicalhaunting, some of actual spooks and some of the hoax type. Hoax ghostsare fairly numerous in British as in American literature, one of theearly specimens of the kind being _The Specter of Tappington_ in the_Ingoldsby Legends_. The files of _Blackwood's Magazine_ reveal severalexamples, though not of high literary value. 

Of the early specimens of the really amusing ghost that is an actualrevenant is _The Ghost Baby_, in _Blackwood's_, which shows originalityand humor, yet is too diffuse for printing here. In that we have aconventional young bachelor, engaged to a charming girl, who isentangled in social complications and made to suffer mental tormentbecause, without his consent, he has been chosen as the nurse andguardian of a ghost baby that cradles after him wherever he goes. Thisis a rich story almost spoiled by being poorly told. I sigh to think ofthe laughs that Frank R. Stockton or John Kendrick Bangs or GelettBurgess could have got out of the situation. There are other comicBritish spooks, as in Baring-Gould's _A Happy Release_, where a widowand a widower in love are haunted by the jealous ghosts of theirrespective spouses, till the phantom couple take a liking to each otherand decide to let the living bury their dead. This is suggestive ofBrander Matthews's earlier and cleverer story of a spectral courtship, in _The Rival Ghosts_. Medieval and later literature gave us manyinstances of a love affair or marriage between one spirit and onemortal, but it remained for the modern American to celebrate thenuptials of two ghosts. Think of being married when you know that youand the other party are going to live ever after--whether happily or no!Truly, the present terrors are more fearsome than the old!

The stories by Eden Phillpotts and Richard Middleton in this collectionshow the diversity of the English humor as associated with apparitions, and are entertaining in themselves. The _Canterville Ghost_, by OscarWilde, is one of his best short stories and is in his happiest vein oflaughing satire. This travesty on the conventional traditions of thewraith is preposterously delightful, one of the cleverest ghost storiesin our language. Zangwill has written engagingly of spooks, with alaughable story about Samuel Johnson. And there are others. But the factremains that in spite of conceded and admirable examples, the humorousghost story is for the most part American in creation and spirit. Washington Irving might be said to have started that fashion inskeletons and shades, for he has given us various comic haunters, somereal and some make-believe. Frank R. Stockton gave his to funny spookswith a riotous and laughing pen. The spirit in his _Transferred Ghost_is impudently deathless, and has called up a train of subsequenthaunters. John Kendrick Bangs has made the darker regions seemcomfortable and homelike for us, and has created ghosts so human and sofunny that we look forward to being one--or more. We feel downrightneighborly toward such specters as the futile "last ghost" Nelson Lloydevokes for us, as we appreciate the satire of Rose O'Neill'ssophisticated wraith. The daring concept of Gelett Burgess's GhostExtinguisher is altogether American. The field is still comparativelylimited, but a number of Americans have done distinctive work in it. Thespecter now wears motley instead of a shroud, and shakes his jester'sbells the while he rattles his bones. I dare any, however grouchy, reader to finish the stories in this volume without having a kindlierfeeling toward ghosts!

D. S. 

NEW YORK, _March, 1921. _

CONTENTS

 PAGE

INTRODUCTION: THE HUMOROUS GHOST vii

THE CANTERVILLE GHOST 3 BY OSCAR WILDE

THE GHOST-EXTINGUISHER 51 BY GELETT BURGESS

"DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS" 69 BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST 89 BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

THE MUMMY'S FOOT 109 BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

THE RIVAL GHOSTS 129 BY BRANDER MATTHEWS

THE WATER GHOST OF HARROWBY HALL 159 BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

BACK FROM THAT BOURNE 175 ANONYMOUS

THE GHOST-SHIP 187 BY RICHARD MIDDLETON

THE TRANSPLANTED GHOST 205 BY WALLACE IRWIN

THE LAST GHOST IN HARMONY 229 BY NELSON LLOYD

THE GHOST OF MISER BRIMPSON 247 BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

THE HAUNTED PHOTOGRAPH 275 BY RUTH MCENERY STUART

THE GHOST THAT GOT THE BUTTON 295 BY WILL ADAMS

THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 315 BY WASHINGTON IRVING

THE SPECTER OF TAPPINGTON 341 COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM

IN THE BARN 385 BY BURGES JOHNSON

A SHADY PLOT 403 BY ELSIE BROWN

THE LADY AND THE GHOST 425 BY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL

HUMOROUS GHOST STORIES

THE CANTERVILLE GHOST

_An amusing chronicle of the tribulations of the Ghost of CantervilleChase when his ancestral halls became the home of the American Ministerto the Court of St. James. _

BY OSCAR WILDE

The Canterville Ghost

BY OSCAR WILDE

I

When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, everyone told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was nodoubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Cantervillehimself, who was a man of the most punctilious honor, had felt it hisduty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms. 

"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves, " said LordCanterville, "since my grand-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, wasfrightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by twoskeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing fordinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has beenseen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector ofthe parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King'sCollege, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, noneof our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville oftengot very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noisesthat came from the corridor and the library. "

"My Lord, " answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and theghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we haveeverything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellowspainting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors andprima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost inEurope, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our publicmuseums, or on the road as a show. "

"I fear that the ghost exists, " said Lord Canterville, smiling, "thoughit may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. Ithas been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and alwaysmakes its appearance before the death of any member of our family. "

"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. Butthere is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Natureare not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy. "

"You are certainly very natural in America, " answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if youdon't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must rememberI warned you. "

A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close ofthe season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had beena celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leavingtheir native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under theimpression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis hadnever fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and areally wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, shewas quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we havereally everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in amoment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was afair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himselffor American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino forthree successive seasons, and even in London was well known as anexcellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a littlegirl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom inher large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced oldLord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and ahalf, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of theyoung Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sentback to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called "The Stars andStripes, " as they were always getting swished. They were delightfulboys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only truerepublicans of the family. 

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railwaystation, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a wagonette to meet them, and theystarted on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and thenthey heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deepin the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Littlesquirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and therabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue ofCanterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast withclouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a greatflight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before theyreached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen. 

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressedin black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, thehousekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, hadconsented to keep in her former position. She made them each a lowcurtsy as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, "Ibid you welcome to Canterville Chase. " Following her, they passedthrough the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, paneledin black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. Herethey found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them. 

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just bythe fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, saidto Mrs. Umney, "I am afraid something has been spilled there. "

"Yes, madam, " replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood hasbeen spilled on that spot. "

"How horrid!" cried Mrs. Otis; "I don't at all care for blood-stains ina sitting-room. It must be removed at once. "

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, "It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered onthat very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under verymysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but hisguilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been muchadmired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed. "

"That is all nonsense, " cried Washington Otis; "Pinkerton's ChampionStain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time, " andbefore the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon hisknees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of whatlooked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of theblood-stain could be seen. 

"I knew Pinkerton would do it, " he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he lookedround at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words thana terrible flash of lightning lit up the somber room, a fearful peal ofthunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted. 

"What a monstrous climate!" said the American Minister, calmly, as helit a long cheroot. "I guess the old country is so overpopulated thatthey have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been ofopinion that emigration is the only thing for England. "

"My dear Hiram, " cried Mrs. Otis, "what can we do with a woman whofaints?"

"Charge it to her like breakages, " answered the Minister; "she won'tfaint after that"; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and shesternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house. 

"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir, " she said, "that would makeany Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have notclosed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here. " Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that theywere not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings ofProvidence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements foran increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room. 

II

The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular noteoccurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. "I don'tthink it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent, " said Washington, "for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost. " Heaccordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morningit appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though thelibrary had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the keycarried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otisbegan to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of theexistence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining thePsychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stainswhen connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objectiveexistence of phantasmata were removed forever. 

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, thewhole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nineo'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turnedupon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions ofreceptive expectations which so often precede the presentation ofpsychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learnedfrom Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation ofcultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiorityof Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; thedifficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even inthe best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development ofthe world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railwaytraveling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to theLondon drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor wasSir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock thefamily retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some timeafter, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outsidehis room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be comingnearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked atthe time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt hispulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on hisslippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and openedthe door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old manof terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long gray hairfell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were ofantique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hungheavy manacles and rusty gyves. 

"My dear sir, " said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling thosechains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of theTammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficaciousupon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effecton the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shallleave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy tosupply you with more, should you require it. " With these words theUnited States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest. 

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in naturalindignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting aghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the greatoak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figuresappeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidentlyno time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Spaceas a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and thehouse became quite quiet. 

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned upagainst a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realizehis position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of threehundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of theDowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood beforethe glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had goneinto hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains onone of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle hehad blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and whohad been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyrto nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, havingwakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an arm-chairby the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for sixweeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had becomereconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with thatnotorious skeptic, Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terriblenight when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in hisdressing-room, with the knave of diamonds halfway down his throat, andconfessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Foxout of £50, 000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore thatthe ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came backto him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry becausehe had seen a green hand tapping at the windowpane, to the beautifulLady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band roundher throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of theKing's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he wentover his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself ashe recalled to mind his last appearance as "Red Reuben, or the StrangledBabe, " his _début_ as "Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor, "and the _furore_ he had excited one lovely June evening by merelyplaying ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. Andafter all this some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer himthe Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quiteunbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in thismanner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained tilldaylight in an attitude of deep thought. 

III

The next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussedthe ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally alittle annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. "I haveno wish, " he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must saythat, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don'tthink it is at all polite to throw pillows at him, "--a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. "Upon the other hand, " he continued, "if he really declines to use theRising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. Itwould be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outsidethe bedrooms. "

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thingthat excited any attention being the continual renewal of theblood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, asthe door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows keptclosely barred. The chameleon-like color, also, of the stain excited agood deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they camedown for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the FreeAmerican Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a brightemerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the partyvery much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. Theonly person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at thesight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it wasemerald-green. 

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly afterthey had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash inthe hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armorhad become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while seated in a high-backed chair was the Canterville ghost, rubbinghis knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged twopellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained bylong and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United StatesMinister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, inaccordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghoststarted up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like amist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and soleaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircasehe recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal ofdemoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremelyuseful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig gray in a singlenight, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's Frenchgovernesses give warning before their month was up. He accordinglylaughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rangagain, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. "I am afraid youare far from well, " she said, "and have brought you a bottle of DoctorDobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a mostexcellent remedy. " The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once tomake preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, anaccomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the familydoctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville'suncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himselfwith becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deepchurchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him. 

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to themost violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the grossmaterialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but whatreally distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suitof mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled bythe sight of a Specter in armor, if for no more sensible reason, atleast out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whosegraceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a wearyhour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit. He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and hadbeen highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queenherself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpoweredby the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallenheavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, andbruising the knuckles of his right hand. 

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out ofhis room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved tomake a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and hisfamily. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spentmost of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding infavor of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheetfrilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening aviolent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all thewindows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it wasjust such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was tomake his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from thefoot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the soundof low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite awarethat it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Cantervilleblood-stain by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reducedthe reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, hewas then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Ministerand his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets ofthe charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite madeup his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty andgentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be morethan sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at thecounterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quitedetermined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, ofcourse, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stiflingsensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to eachother, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, till they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off thewinding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones andone rolling eyeball in the character of "Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide'sSkeleton, " a _rôle_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced agreat effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of"Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery. "

At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he wasdisturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with thelight-hearted gayety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselvesbefore they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against thewindow-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the windwandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis familyslept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm hecould hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. Hestepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on hiscruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stolepast the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of hismurdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, likean evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was onlythe baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strangesixteenth century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty daggerin the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage thatled to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, thewind blowing his long gray locks about his head, and twisting intogrotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man'sshroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time wascome. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner hadhe done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hidhis blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him wasstanding a horrible specter, motionless as a carven image, and monstrousas a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed itsfeatures into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarletlight, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like tohis own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast wasa placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll ofshame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel. 

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back tohis room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down thecorridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister'sjack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in theprivacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a smallpallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined togo and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towardsthe spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feelingthat, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aidof his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reachingthe spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something hadevidently happened to the specter, for the light had entirely faded fromits hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and itwas leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortableattitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to hishorror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed arecumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimitybed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollowturnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curioustransformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the gray morning light, he read these fearful words:

 YE OTIS GHOSTE Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook, Beware of Ye Imitationes. All others are counterfeite. 

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, andoutwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground histoothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above hishead, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antiqueschool, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deedsof blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet. 

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof ofa distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strangereason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival ofthe housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked backto his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There heconsulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedinglyfond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath had beenused, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition seize thenaughty fowl, " he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my stoutspear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for mean 'twere in death!" He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, andstayed there till evening. 

IV

The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitementof the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves werecompletely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For fivedays he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the pointof the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did notwant it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people ona low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciatingthe symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmicapparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite adifferent matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemnduty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the largeoriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and hedid not see how he could honorably escape from his obligations. It isquite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor asusual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possibleprecaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a largeblack velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator foroiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a gooddeal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode ofprotection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, heslipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt alittle humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to seethat there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to acertain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything hewas not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched acrossthe corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of "Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of HogleyWoods, " he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the TapestryChamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged himthat he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity andsocial position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians thenext night in his celebrated character of "Reckless Rupert, or theHeadless Earl. "

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; infact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by meansof it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present LordCanterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsomeJack Castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her tomarry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up anddown the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel byLord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a brokenheart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, ithad been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult"make-up, " if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection withone of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a morescientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully threehours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he wasvery pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that wentwith the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could onlyfind one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quitesatisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscotingand crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins, which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber on account of thecolor of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make aneffective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of waterfell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing hisleft shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifledshrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to hisnervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as hecould go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The onlything that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that hehad not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequencesmight have been very serious. 

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages inlist slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear ofdraughts, and a small arquebus, in case he should be attacked by thetwins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. Hehad gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself bymaking satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the UnitedStates Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of theCanterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a longshroud, spotted with churchyard mold, had tied up his jaw with a stripof yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. Infact, he was dressed for the character of "Jonas the Graveless, or theCorpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn, " one of his most remarkableimpersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason toremember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with theirneighbor, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter-past two o'clock in themorning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As hewas strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were anytraces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from adark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and shrieked out "BOO!" in his ear. 

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for himthere with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by hisenemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into thegreat iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had tomake his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his ownroom in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair. 

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twinslay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages withnutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and theservants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelingswere so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumedhis great work on the history of the Democratic party, on which he hadbeen engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organized a wonderful clam-bake, which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other American national games, and Virginia rode about the lanes onher pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come tospend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It wasgenerally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otiswrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his bestcongratulations to the Minister's worthy wife. 

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in thehouse, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to letmatters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was theyoung Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, hadonce bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dicewith the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on thefloor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, thoughhe lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but"Double Sixes. " The story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attemptwas made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstancesconnected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's_Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends_. The ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influenceover the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, hisown first cousin having been married _en secondes noces_ to the Sieur deBulkeley, from whom, as everyone knows, the Dukes of Cheshire arelineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing toVirginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of "The VampireMonk, or the Bloodless Benedictine, " a performance so horrible that whenold Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, inthe year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, whichculminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, afterdisinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, andleaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and thelittle Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the RoyalBedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia. 

V

A few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went outriding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in gettingthrough a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to goup by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running pastthe Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fanciedshe saw someone inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, whosometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend herhabit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville ghosthimself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of theyellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madlydown the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his wholeattitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so muchout of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea hadbeen to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, anddetermined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and sodeep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till shespoke to him. 

"I am so sorry for you, " she said, "but my brothers are going back toEton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoyyou. "

"It is absurd asking me to behave myself, " he answered, looking round inastonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, "quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, andwalk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason forexisting. "

"It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been verywicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you hadkilled your wife. "

"Well, I quite admit it, " said the ghost, petulantly, "but it was apurely family matter and concerned no one else. "

"It is very wrong to kill anyone, " said Virginia, who at times had asweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor. 

"Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was veryplain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing aboutcookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificentpricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? However, it is nomatter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice ofher brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her. "

"Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost--I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry?I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?"

"No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family. "

"Stop!" cried Virginia, stamping her foot, "it is you who are rude, andhorrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paintsout of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in thelibrary. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and Icouldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and thechrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinesewhite, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressingto look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though Iwas very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; forwho ever heard of emerald-green blood?"

"Well, really, " said the Ghost, rather meekly, "what was I to do? It isa very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brotherbegan it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why Ishould not have your paints. As for color, that is always a matter oftaste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluestin England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of thiskind. "

"You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrateand improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you afree passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers areall Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. Iknow lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars tohave a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost. "

"I don't think I should like America. "

"I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities, " said Virginia, satirically. 

"No ruins! no curiosities!" answered the Ghost; "you have your navy andyour manners. "

"Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week'sholiday. "

"Please don't go, Miss Virginia, " he cried; "I am so lonely and sounhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and Icannot. "

"That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out thecandle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially atchurch, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, evenbabies know how to do that, and they are not very clever. "

"I have not slept for three hundred years, " he said sadly, andVirginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; "for three hundredyears I have not slept, and I am so tired. "

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled likerose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his old withered face. 

"Poor, poor ghost, " she murmured; "have you no place where you cansleep?"

"Far away beyond the pinewoods, " he answered, in a low, dreamy voice, "there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, thereare the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingalesings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moonlooks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over thesleepers. "

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands. 

"You mean the Garden of Death, " she whispered. 

"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To haveno yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be atpeace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death'shouse, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is. "

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few momentsthere was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream. 

Then the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing ofthe wind. 

"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?"

"Oh, often, " cried the little girl, looking up; "I know it quite well. It is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. Thereare only six lines:

 "'When a golden girl can win Prayer from out the lips of sin, When the barren almond bears, And a little child gives away its tears, Then shall all the house be still And peace come to Canterville. '

"But I don't know what they mean. "

"They mean, " he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have nofaith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes indarkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will notharm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hellcannot prevail. "

Virginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despairas he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, verypale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "I am not afraid, " she saidfirmly, "and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you. "

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bentover it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as coldas ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, ashe led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry werebroidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasseled horns and with theirtiny hands waved to her to go back. "Go back! little Virginia, " theycried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and sheshut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails andgoggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured, "Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again, " but theghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When theyreached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words shecould not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowlyfading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. Abitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at herdress. "Quick, quick, " cried the ghost, "or it will be too late, " and ina moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the TapestryChamber was empty. 

VI

About ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did notcome down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After alittle time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginiaanywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden everyevening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at allalarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did notappear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look forher, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. Athalf-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no traceof their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state ofexcitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenlyremembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsiespermission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off forBlackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest sonand two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who wasperfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, butMr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as thefire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Havingsent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and dispatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped bytramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, andafter insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gonea couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his facevery flushed, and no hat. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis, " gasped out theboy, "but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Pleasedon't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, therewould never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back, willyou? I can't go! I won't go!"

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning downfrom his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, "Well, Cecil, if you won't go back, I suppose you must come with me, but I mustget you a hat at Ascot. "

"Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!" cried the little Duke, laughing, and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired ofthe station-master if anyone answering to the description of Virginiahad been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. Thestation-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured himthat a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought ahat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up hisshutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away, which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was alarge common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, butcould get no information from him, and, after riding all over thecommon, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chaseabout eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They foundWashington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house withlanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace ofVirginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockleymeadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their suddendeparture by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, andhad gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. Indeed, they hadbeen quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as theywere very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in hispark, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search. The carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly goneover, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at anyrate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepestdepression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groomfollowing behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall theyfound a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the librarywas poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, andhaving her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered upsupper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly anyonespoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were veryfond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of theentreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying thatnothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph inthe morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent downimmediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnightbegan to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke soundedthey heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thundershook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, apanel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and outon the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in herhand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs. Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her withviolent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group. 

"Good heavens! child, where have you been?" said Mr. Otis, ratherangrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them. "Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, andyour mother has been frightened to death. You must never play thesepractical jokes any more. "

"Except on the ghost! except on the ghost!" shrieked the twins, as theycapered about. 

"My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my sideagain, " murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, andsmoothed the tangled gold of her hair. 

"Papa, " said Virginia, quietly, "I have been with the ghost. He is dead, and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he wasreally sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box ofbeautiful jewels before he died. "

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite graveand serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in thewainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with alighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, theycame to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginiatouched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselvesin a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny gratedwindow. Embedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it wasa gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stonefloor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingersan old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of itsreach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it wascovered inside with green mold. There was nothing on the trencher but apile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding herlittle hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of theparty looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was nowdisclosed to them. 

"Hallo!" suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking outof the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room wassituated. "Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can seethe flowers quite plainly in the moonlight. "

"God has forgiven him, " said Virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face. 

"What an angel you are!" cried the young Duke, and he put his arm roundher neck, and kissed her. 

VII

Four days after these curious incidents, a funeral started fromCanterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was drawnby eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft ofnodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a richpurple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Cantervillecoat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked theservants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfullyimpressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come upspecially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the firstcarriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United StatesMinister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in thelast carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she hadbeen frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, shehad a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in thecorner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the servicewas read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old customobserved in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, asthe coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward, and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. Asshe did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with itssilent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse anightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of theGarden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke aword during the drive home. 

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis hadan interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had givento Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain rubynecklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimenof sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otisfelt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them. 

"My lord, " he said, "I know that in this country mortmain is held toapply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me thatthese jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must begyou, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard themsimply as a portion of your property which has been restored to youunder certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely achild, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in suchappurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, Imay say, is no mean authority upon Art, --having had the privilege ofspending several winters in Boston when she was a girl, --that these gemsare of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tallprice. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that youwill recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remainin the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vaingauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of theBritish aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those whohave been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principlesof Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is veryanxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento ofyour unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, andconsequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit tocomply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good dealsurprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with medievalismin any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia wasborn in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returnedfrom a trip to Athens. "

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech, pulling his gray moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, andsaid: "My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unluckyancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family aremuch indebted to her for her marvelous courage and pluck. The jewels areclearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough totake them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in afortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legaldocument, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. Iassure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when MissVirginia grows up, I dare say she will be pleased to have pretty thingsto wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture andthe ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passedat once into your possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may haveshown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, andyou acquired his property by purchase. "

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, andbegged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer wasquite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter toretain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen's firstdrawing-room on the occasion of her marriage her jewels were theuniversal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, whichis the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to herboy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, andthey loved each other so much, that everyone was delighted at the match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Dukefor one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less thanthree expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Dukepersonally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use hisown words, "was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervatinginfluences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles ofRepublican simplicity should be forgotten. " His objections, however, were completely over-ruled, and I believe that when he walked up theaisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on hisarm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth ofEngland. 

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down toCanterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked overin the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pinewoods. There hadbeen a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on SirSimon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on itsimply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from thelibrary window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it forsome time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. Therethe Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at herfeet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenlyhe threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, "Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband. "

"Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you. "

"Yes, you have, " he answered, smiling, "you have never told me whathappened to you when you were locked up with the ghost. "

"I have never told anyone, Cecil, " said Virginia, gravely. 

"I know that, but you might tell me. "

"Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owehim a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me seewhat Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger thanboth. "

The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly. 

"You can have your secret as long as I have your heart, " he murmured. 

"You have always had that, Cecil. "

"And you will tell our children some day, won't you?"

Virginia blushed. 

THE GHOST-EXTINGUISHER

BY GELETT BURGESS

From the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_, April, 1905. By permission of JohnBrisben Walker and Gelett Burgess. 

The Ghost-Extinguisher

BY GELETT BURGESS

My attention was first called to the possibility of manufacturing apracticable ghost-extinguisher by a real-estate agent in San Francisco. 

"There's one thing, " he said, "that affects city property here in acurious way. You know we have a good many murders, and, as aconsequence, certain houses attain a very sensational and undesirablereputation. These houses it is almost impossible to let; you canscarcely get a decent family to occupy them rent-free. Then we have agreat many places said to be haunted. These were dead timber on my handsuntil I happened to notice that the Japanese have no objections tospooks. Now, whenever I have such a building to rent, I let it to Japsat a nominal figure, and after they've taken the curse off, I raise therent, the Japs move out, the place is renovated, and in the marketagain. "

The subject interested me, for I am not only a scientist, but aspeculative philosopher as well. The investigation of those phenomenathat lie upon the threshold of the great unknown has always been myfavorite field of research. I believed, even then, that the Orientalmind, working along different lines than those which we pursue, hasattained knowledge that we know little of. Thinking, therefore, thatthese Japs might have some secret inherited from their misty past, Iexamined into the matter. 

I shall not trouble you with a narration of the incidents which led upto my acquaintance with Hoku Yamanochi. Suffice it to say that I foundin him a friend who was willing to share with me his whole lore ofquasi-science. I call it this advisedly, for science, as we Occidentalsuse the term, has to do only with the laws of matter and sensation; ourscientific men, in fact, recognize the existence of nothing else. TheBuddhistic philosophy, however, goes further. 

According to its theories, the soul is sevenfold, consisting ofdifferent shells or envelopes--something like an onion--which are shedas life passes from the material to the spiritual state. The first, orlowest, of these is the corporeal body, which, after death, decays andperishes. Next comes the vital principle, which, departing from thebody, dissipates itself like an odor, and is lost. Less gross than thisis the astral body, which, although immaterial, yet lies near to theconsistency of matter. This astral shape, released from the body atdeath, remains for a while in its earthly environment, still preservingmore or less definitely the imprint of the form which it inhabited. 

It is this relic of a past material personality, this outworn shell, that appears, when galvanized into an appearance of life, partlymaterialized, as a ghost. It is not the soul that returns, for the soul, which is immortal, is composed of the four higher spiritual essencesthat surround the ego, and are carried on into the next life. Theseastral bodies, therefore, fail to terrify the Buddhists, who know themonly as shadows, with no real volition. The Japs, in point of fact, havelearned how to exterminate them. 

There is a certain powder, Hoku informed me, which, when burnt in theirpresence, transforms them from the rarefied, or semi-spiritual, condition to the state of matter. The ghost, so to speak, isprecipitated into and becomes a material shape which can easily bedisposed of. In this state it is confined and allowed to disintegrateslowly where it can cause no further annoyance. 

This long-winded explanation piqued my curiosity, which was not to besatisfied until I had seen the Japanese method applied. It was not longbefore I had an opportunity. A particularly revolting murder having beencommitted in San Francisco, my friend Hoku Yamanochi applied for thehouse, and, after the police had finished their examination, he waspermitted to occupy it for a half-year at the ridiculous price of threedollars a month. He invited me to share his quarters, which were largeand luxuriously furnished. 

For a week, nothing abnormal occurred. Then, one night, I was awakenedby terrifying groans followed by a blood-curdling shriek which seemedto emerge from a large closet in my room, the scene of the lateatrocity. I confess that I had all the covers pulled over my head andwas shivering with horror when my Japanese friend entered, wearing apair of flowered-silk pajamas. Hearing his voice, I peeped forth, to seehim smiling reassuringly. 

"You some kind of very foolish fellow, " he said. "I show you how to fixhim!"

He took from his pocket three conical red pastils, placed them upon asaucer and lighted them. Then, holding the fuming dish in oneoutstretched hand, he walked to the closed door and opened it. Theshrieks burst out afresh, and, as I recalled the appalling details ofthe scene which had occurred in this very room only five weeks ago, Ishuddered at his temerity. But he was quite calm. 

Soon, I saw the wraith-like form of the recent victim dart from thecloset. She crawled under my bed and ran about the room, endeavoring toescape, but was pursued by Hoku, who waved his smoking plate withindefatigable patience and dexterity. 

At last he had her cornered, and the specter was caught behind a curtainof odorous fumes. Slowly the figure grew more distinct, assuming theconsistency of a heavy vapor, shrinking somewhat in the operation. Hokunow hurriedly turned to me. 

"You hully up, bling me one pair bellows pletty quick!" he commanded. 

I ran into his room and brought the bellows from his fireplace. Thesehe pressed flat, and then carefully inserting one toe of the ghost intothe nozzle and opening the handles steadily, he sucked in a portion ofthe unfortunate woman's anatomy, and dexterously squirted the vapor intoa large jar, which had been placed in the room for the purpose. Two moreoperations were necessary to withdraw the phantom completely from thecorner and empty it into the jar. At last the transfer was effected andthe receptacle securely stoppered and sealed. 

"In formeryore-time, " Hoku explained to me, "old pliests sucked ghostwith mouth and spit him to inside of vase with acculacy. Modern-timemethod more better for stomach and epiglottis. "

"How long will this ghost keep?" I inquired. 

"Oh, about four, five hundled years, maybe, " was his reply. "Ghost nowchange from spilit to matter, and comes under legality of matter asusual science. "

"What are you going to do with her?" I asked. 

"Send him to Buddhist temple in Japan. Old pliest use him for highcelemony, " was the answer. 

My next desire was to obtain some of Hoku Yamanochi's ghost-powder andanalyze it. For a while it defied my attempts, but, after many months ofpatient research, I discovered that it could be produced, in all itsessential qualities, by means of a fusion of formaldehyde andhypophenyltrybrompropionic acid in an electrified vacuum. With thisproduct I began a series of interesting experiments. 

As it became necessary for me to discover the habitat of ghosts inconsiderable numbers, I joined the American Society for PsychicalResearch, thus securing desirable information in regard to hauntedhouses. These I visited persistently, until my powder was perfected andhad been proved efficacious for the capture of any ordinary house-brokenphantom. For a while I contented myself with the mere sterilization ofthese specters, but, as I became surer of success, I began to attemptthe transfer of ghosts to receptacles wherein they could be transportedand studied at my leisure, classified and preserved for futurereference. 

Hoku's bellows I soon discarded in favor of a large-sized bicycle-pump, and eventually I had constructed one of my own, of a pattern whichenabled me to inhale an entire ghost at a single stroke. With thispowerful instrument I was able to compress even an adult life-sizedghost into a two-quart bottle, in the neck of which a sensitive valve(patented) prevented the specter from emerging during process. 

My invention was not yet, however, quite satisfactory. While I had notrouble in securing ghosts of recent creation--spirits, that is, whowere yet of almost the consistency of matter--on several of my tripsabroad in search of material I found in old manor houses or ruinedcastles many specters so ancient that they had become highly rarefiedand tenuous, being at times scarcely visible to the naked eye. Suchelusive spirits are able to pass through walls and elude pursuit withease. It became necessary for me to obtain some instrument by whichtheir capture could be conveniently effected. 

The ordinary fire-extinguisher of commerce gave me the hint as to howthe problem could be solved. One of these portable hand-instruments Ifilled with the proper chemicals. When inverted, the ingredients werecommingled in vacuo and a vast volume of gas was liberated. This wascollected in the reservoir provided with a rubber tube having a nozzleat the end. The whole apparatus being strapped upon my back, I wasenabled to direct a stream of powerful precipitating gas in any desireddirection, the flow being under control through the agency of a smallstopcock. By means of this ghost-extinguisher I was enabled to pursue myexperiments as far as I desired. 

So far my investigations had been purely scientific, but before long thecommercial value of my discovery began to interest me. The ruinouseffects of spectral visitations upon real estate induced me to realizesome pecuniary reward from my ghost-extinguisher, and I began toadvertise my business. By degrees, I became known as an expert in myoriginal line, and my professional services were sought with as muchconfidence as those of a veterinary surgeon. I manufactured the GerrishGhost-Extinguisher in several sizes, and put it on the market, followingthis venture with the introduction of my justly celebrated GerrishGhost-Grenades. These hand-implements were made to be kept in racksconveniently distributed in country houses for cases of suddenemergency. A single grenade, hurled at any spectral form, would, inbreaking, liberate enough formaldybrom to coagulate the most perversespirit, and the resulting vapor could easily be removed from the room bya housemaid with a common broom. 

This branch of my business, however, never proved profitable, for theappearance of ghosts, especially in the United States, is seldomanticipated. Had it been possible for me to invent a preventive as wellas a remedy, I might now be a millionaire; but there are limits even tomodern science. 

Having exhausted the field at home, I visited England in the hope ofsecuring customers among the country families there. To my surprise, Idiscovered that the possession of a family specter was considered as apermanent improvement to the property, and my offers of service inridding houses of ghostly tenants awakened the liveliest resentment. Asa layer of ghosts I was much lower in the social scale than a layer ofcarpets. 

Disappointed and discouraged, I returned home to make a further study ofthe opportunities of my invention. I had, it seemed, exhausted thepossibilities of the use of unwelcome phantoms. Could I not, I thought, derive a revenue from the traffic in desirable specters? I decided torenew my investigations. 

The nebulous spirits preserved in my laboratory, which I had graded andclassified, were, you will remember, in a state of suspended animation. They were, virtually, embalmed apparitions, their inevitable decaydelayed, rather than prevented. The assorted ghosts that I had nowpreserved in hermetically sealed tins were thus in a state of unstableequilibrium. The tins once opened and the vapor allowed to dissipate, the original astral body would in time be reconstructed and thewarmed-over specter would continue its previous career. But thisprocess, when naturally performed, took years. The interval was quitetoo long for the phantom to be handled in any commercial way. My problemwas, therefore, to produce from my tinned Essence of Ghost a specterthat was capable of immediately going into business and that could haunta house while you wait. 

It was not until radium was discovered that I approached the solution ofmy great problem, and even then months of indefatigable labor werenecessary before the process was perfected. It has now been welldemonstrated that the emanations of radiant energy sent forth by thissurprising element defy our former scientific conceptions of theconstitution of matter. It was for me to prove that the vibratoryactivity of radium (whose amplitudes and intensity are undoubtedlyfour-dimensional) effects a sort of allotropic modification in theparticles of that imponderable ether which seems to lie halfway betweenmatter and pure spirit. This is as far as I need to go in myexplanation, for a full discussion involves the use of quaternions andthe method of least squares. It will be sufficient for the layman toknow that my preserved phantoms, rendered radio-active, would, uponcontact with the air, resume their spectral shape. 

The possible extension of my business now was enormous, limited only bythe difficulty in collecting the necessary stock. It was by this timealmost as difficult to get ghosts as it was to get radium. Finding thata part of my stock had spoiled, I was now possessed of only a few dozencans of apparitions, many of these being of inferior quality. Iimmediately set about replenishing my raw material. It was not enoughfor me to pick up a ghost here and there, as one might get old mahogany;I determined to procure my phantoms in wholesale lots. 

Accident favored my design. In an old volume of _Blackwood's Magazine_ Ihappened, one day, to come across an interesting article upon the battleof Waterloo. It mentioned, incidentally, a legend to the effect thatevery year, upon the anniversary of the celebrated victory, spectralsquadrons had been seen by the peasants charging battalions of ghostlygrenadiers. Here was my opportunity. 

I made elaborate preparations for the capture of this job lot ofphantoms upon the next anniversary of the fight. Hard by the fatal ditchwhich engulfed Napoleon's cavalry I stationed a corps of ableassistants provided with rapid-fire extinguishers ready to enfilade thefamous sunken road. I stationed myself with a No. 4 model magazine-hose, with a four-inch nozzle, directly in the path which I knew would betaken by the advancing squadron. 

It was a fine, clear night, lighted, at first, by a slice of new moon;but later, dark, except for the pale illumination of the stars. I haveseen many ghosts in my time--ghosts in garden and garret, at noon, atdusk, at dawn, phantoms fanciful, and specters sad and spectacular--butnever have I seen such an impressive sight as this nocturnal charge ofcuirassiers, galloping in goblin glory to their time-honored doom. Fromafar the French reserves presented the appearance of a nebulous mass, like a low-lying cloud or fog-bank, faintly luminous, shot withfluorescent gleams. As the squadron drew nearer in its desperate charge, the separate forms of the troopers shaped themselves, and the gallopingguardsmen grew ghastly with supernatural splendor. 

Although I knew them to be immaterial and without mass or weight, I wasterrified at their approach, fearing to be swept under the hoofs of thenightmares they rode. Like one in a dream, I started to run, but inanother instant they were upon me, and I turned on my stream offormaldybrom. Then I was overwhelmed in a cloud-burst of wild warlikewraiths. 

The column swept past me, over the bank, plunging to its historic fate. The cut was piled full of frenzied, scrambling specters, as rank afterrank swept down into the horrid gut. At last the ditch swarmed full ofwrithing forms and the carnage was dire. 

My assistants with the extinguishers stood firm, and although almostunnerved by the sight, they summoned their courage, and directedsimultaneous streams of formaldybrom into the struggling mass offantoms. As soon as my mind returned, I busied myself with the hugetanks I had prepared for use as receivers. These were fitted with amechanism similar to that employed in portable forges, by which theheavy vapor was sucked off. Luckily the night was calm, and I wasenabled to fill a dozen cylinders with the precipitated ghosts. Thesegregation of individual forms was, of course, impossible, so that menand horses were mingled in a horrible mixture of fricasseed spirits. Iintended subsequently to empty the soup into a large reservoir and allowthe separate specters to reform according to the laws of spiritualcohesion. 

Circumstances, however, prevented my ever accomplishing this result. Ireturned home, to find awaiting me an order so large and important thatI had no time in which to operate upon my cylinders of cavalry. 

My patron was the proprietor of a new sanatorium for nervous invalids, located near some medicinal springs in the Catskills. His building wasunfortunately located, having been built upon the site of a once-famoussummer hotel, which, while filled with guests, had burnt to the ground, scores of lives having been lost. Just before the patients were to beinstalled in the new structure, it was found that the place was hauntedby the victims of the conflagration to a degree that rendered itinconvenient as a health resort. My professional services wererequested, therefore, to render the building a fitting abode forconvalescents. I wrote to the proprietor, fixing my charge at fivethousand dollars. As my usual rate was one hundred dollars per ghost, and over a hundred lives were lost at the fire, I considered this pricereasonable, and my offer was accepted. 

The sanatorium job was finished in a week. I secured one hundred and twosuperior spectral specimens, and upon my return to the laboratory, putthem up in heavily embossed tins with attractive labels in colors. 

My delight at the outcome of this business was, however, soontransformed to anger and indignation. The proprietor of the healthresort, having found that the specters from his place had been sold, claimed a rebate upon the contract price equal to the value of themodified ghosts transferred to my possession. This, of course, I couldnot allow. I wrote, demanding immediate payment according to ouragreement, and this was peremptorily refused. The manager's letter wasinsulting in the extreme. The Pied Piper of Hamelin was not worsetreated than I felt myself to be; so, like the piper, I determined tohave my revenge. 

I got out the twelve tanks of Waterloo ghost-hash from the storerooms, and treated them with radium for two days. These I shipped to theCatskills billed as hydrogen gas. Then, accompanied by two trustworthyassistants, I went to the sanatorium and preferred my demand for paymentin person. I was ejected with contumely. Before my hasty exit, however, I had the satisfaction of noticing that the building was filled withpatients. Languid ladies were seated in wicker chairs upon the piazzas, and frail anemic girls filled the corridors. It was a hospital ofnervous wrecks whom the slightest disturbance would throw into a panic. I suppressed all my finer feelings of mercy and kindness and smiledgrimly as I walked back to the village. 

That night was black and lowering, fitting weather for the pandemonium Iwas about to turn loose. At ten o'clock, I loaded a wagon with the tanksof compressed cohorts, and, muffled in heavy overcoats, we drove to thesanatorium. All was silent as we approached; all was dark. The wagonconcealed in a grove of pines, we took out the tanks one by one, andplaced them beneath the ground-floor windows. The sashes were easilyforced open, and raised enough to enable us to insert the rubber tubesconnected with the iron reservoirs. At midnight everything was ready. 

I gave the word, and my assistants ran from tank to tank, opening thestopcocks. With a hiss as of escaping steam the huge vessels emptiedthemselves, vomiting forth clouds of vapor, which, upon contact with theair, coagulated into strange shapes as the white of an egg does whendropped into boiling water. The rooms became instantly filled withdismembered shades of men and horses seeking wildly to unite themselveswith their proper parts. 

Legs ran down the corridors, seeking their respective trunks, armswrithed wildly reaching for missing bodies, heads rolled hither and yonin search of native necks. Horses' tails and hoofs whisked and hurriedin quest of equine ownership until, reorganized, the spectral steedsgalloped about to find their riders. 

Had it been possible, I would have stopped this riot of wraiths long erethis, for it was more awful than I had anticipated, but it was alreadytoo late. Cowering in the garden, I began to hear the screams ofawakened and distracted patients. In another moment, the front door ofthe hotel was burst open, and a mob of hysterical women in expensivenightgowns rushed out upon the lawn, and huddled in shrieking groups. 

I fled into the night. 

I fled, but Napoleon's men fled with me. Compelled by I know not whatfatal astral attraction, perhaps the subtle affinity of the creature forthe creator, the spectral shells, moved by some mysterious mechanics ofspiritual being, pursued me with fatuous fury. I sought refuge, first, in my laboratory, but, even as I approached, a lurid glare foretold meof its destruction. As I drew nearer, the whole ghost-factory was seento be in flames; every moment crackling reports were heard, as theover-heated tins of phantasmagoria exploded and threw their supernaturalcontents upon the night. These liberated ghosts joined the army ofNapoleon's outraged warriors, and turned upon me. There was not enoughformaldybrom in all the world to quench their fierce energy. There wasno place in all the world safe for me from their visitation. Noghost-extinguisher was powerful enough to lay the host of spirits thathaunted me henceforth, and I had neither time nor money left with whichto construct new Gatling quick-firing tanks. 

It is little comfort to me to know that one hundred nervous invalidswere completely restored to health by means of the terrific shock whichI administered. 

"DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS"

BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER

From the _Century Magazine_, November, 1911. By permission of theCentury Company and Ellis Parker Butler. 

"Dey Ain't No Ghosts"

BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER

Once 'pon a time dey was a li'l' black boy whut he name was Mose. An'whin he come erlong to be 'bout knee-high to a mewel, he 'gin to gitpowerful 'fraid ob ghosts, 'ca'se dat am sure a mighty ghostly locationwhut he lib' in, 'ca'se dey 's a grabeyard in de hollow, an' aburyin'-ground on de hill, an' a cemuntary in betwixt an' between, an'dey ain't nuffin' but trees nowhar excipt in de clearin' by de shantyan' down de hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am. 

An' whin de night come erlong, dey ain't no sounds _at_ all whut kin beheard in dat locality but de rain-doves, whut mourn out, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" jes dat trembulous _an'_ scary, an' de owls, whut mournout, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" more trembulous an' scary dan dat, an' dewind, whut mourn out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" mos' scandalous' trembulous an'scary ob all. Dat a powerful onpleasant locality for a li'l' black boywhut he name was Mose. 

'Ca'se dat li'l' black boy he so specially black he can't be seen in dedark _at_ all 'cept by de whites ob he eyes. So whin he go' outen dehouse _at_ night, he ain't dast shut he eyes, 'ca'se den ain't nobodycan see him in de least. He jes as invidsible as nuffin'. An' who know'but whut a great, big ghost bump right into him 'ca'se it can't see him?An' dat shore w'u'd scare dat li'l' black boy powerful' bad, 'ca'seyever'body knows whut a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is. 

So whin dat li'l' black Mose go' outen de shanty at night, he keep' heeyes wide open, you may be shore. By day he eyes 'bout de size obbutter-pats, an' come sundown he eyes 'bout de size ob saucers; but whinhe go' outen de shanty at night, he eyes am de size ob de white chinyplate whut set on de mantel; an' it powerful' hard to keep eyes whut amde size ob dat from a-winkin' an' a-blinkin'. 

So whin Hallowe'en come' erlong, dat li'l' black Mose he jes mek' up hemind he ain't gwine outen he shack _at_ all. He cogitate he gwine stayright snug in de shack wid he pa an' he ma, 'ca'se de rain-doves teknotice dat de ghosts are philanderin' roun' de country, 'ca'se dey mournout, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' de owls dey mourn out, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!"an' de wind mourn out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" De eyes ob dat li'l' blackMose dey as big as de white chiny plate whut set on de mantel by side declock, an' de sun jes a-settin'. 

So dat all right. Li'l' black Mose he scrooge' back in de corner by defireplace, an' he 'low' he gwine stay dere till he gwine _to_ bed. Butbyme-by Sally Ann, whut live' up de road, draps in, an' Mistah SallyAnn, whut is her husban', he draps in, an' Zack Badget an' deschool-teacher whut board' at Unc' Silas Diggs's house drap in, an' apowerful lot ob folks drap in. An' li'l' black Mose he seen dat gwine beone s'prise-party, an' he right down cheerful 'bout dat. 

So all dem folks shake dere hands an' 'low "Howdy, " an' some ob dem say:"Why, dere's li'l' Mose! Howdy, li'l' Mose?" An' he so please' he jesgrin' an' grin', 'ca'se he ain't reckon whut gwine happen. So byme-bySally Ann, whut live up de road, she say', "Ain't no sort o' Hallowe'enlest we got a jack-o'-lantern. " An' de school-teacher, whut board atUnc' Silas Diggs's house, she 'low', "Hallowe'en jes no Hallowe'en _at_all 'thout we got a jack-o'-lantern. " An' li'l' black Mose he stop'a-grinnin', an' he scrooge' so far back in de corner he 'mos' scroogefrough de wall. But dat ain't no use, 'ca'se he ma say', "Mose, go ondown to de pumpkin-patch an' fotch a pumpkin. "

"I ain't want to go, " say' li'l' black Mose. 

"Go on erlong wid yo', " say' he ma, right commandin'. 

"I ain't want to go, " say' Mose ag'in. 

"Why ain't yo' want to go?" he ma ask'. 

"'Ca'se I's afraid ob de ghosts, " say' li'l' black Mose, an' dat departicular truth an' no mistake. 

"Dey ain't no ghosts, " say' de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' SilasDiggs's house, right peart. 

"'Co'se dey ain't no ghosts, " say' Zack Badget, whut dat 'fear'd obghosts he ain't dar' come to li'l' black Mose's house ef deschool-teacher ain't ercompany him. 

"Go 'long wid your ghosts!" say li'l' black Mose's ma. 

"Wha' yo' pick up dat nomsense?" say' he pa. "Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' dat whut all dat s'prise-party 'low: dey ain't no ghosts. An' dey'low dey mus' hab a jack-o'-lantern or de fun all sp'iled. So dat li'l'black boy whut he name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from depumpkin-patch down de hollow. So he step'outen de shanty an' he stan' onde doorstep twell he get' he eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob hema's wash-tub, mostly, an' he say', "Dey ain't no ghosts. " An' he put'one foot on de ground, an' dat was de fust step. 

An' de rain-dove say', "OO-_oo_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l' black Mose he tuck anudder step. 

An' de owl mourn' out, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l' black Mose he tuck anudder step. 

An' de wind sob' out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l' black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder, an' he shut heeyes so tight dey hurt round de aidges, an' he pick' up he foots an'run. Yas, sah, he run' right peart fast. An' he say': "Dey ain't noghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts. " An' he run' erlong de paff whut lead' byde buryin'-ground on de hill, 'ca'se dey ain't no fince eround datburyin'-ground _at_ all. 

No fince; jes' de big trees whut de owls an' de rain-doves sot in an'mourn an' sob, an' whut de wind sigh an' cry frough. An byme-by somefin'jes' _brush_' li'l' Mose on de arm, which mek' him run jes a bit morefaster. An' byme-by somefin' jes brush' li'l' Mose on de cheek, whichmek' him run erbout as fast as he can. An' byme-by somefin' grab' li'l'Mose by de aidge of he coat, an' he fight' an' struggle' an' cry out:"Dey ain't no ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts. " An' dat ain't nuffin' but dewild brier whut grab' him, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de leaf ob a treewhut brush' he cheek, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de branch ob ahazel-bush whut brush' he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an'he ain't lose no time, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves deysignerfy whut ain't no good. So he scoot' past dat buryin'-ground whuton de hill, an' dat cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' datgrabeyard in de hollow, twell he come' to de pumpkin-patch, an' herotch' down an' tek' erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de patch. An'he right smart scared. He jes' de mostest scared li'l' black boy whutyever was. He ain't gwine open he eyes fo' nuffin', 'ca'se de wind go, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" an' de owls go, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' derain-doves go, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"

He jes speculate', "Dey ain't no ghosts, " an' wish' he hair don't standon ind dat way. An' he jes cogitate', "Dey ain't no ghosts, " an' wish'he goose-pimples don't rise up dat way. An' he jes 'low', "Dey ain't noghosts, " an' wish' he backbone ain't all trembulous wid chills dat way. So he rotch' down, an' he rotch' down, twell he git' a good hold on datpricklesome stem of dat bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an' he jesyank' dat stem wid all he might. 

"_Let loosen my head!_" say' a big voice all on a suddent. 

Dat li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose he jump' 'most outen he skin. He open' he eyes, an' he 'gin to shake like de aspen-tree, 'ca'se whutdat a-standin' right dar behint him but a 'mendjous big ghost! Yas, sah, dat de bigges', whites' ghost whut yever was. An' it ain't got no head. Ain't got no head _at_ all! Li'l' black Mose he jes drap' on he kneesan' he beg' an' pray':

"Oh, 'scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!" he beg'. "Ah ain't mean noharm _at_ all. "

"Whut for you try to take my head?" ask' de ghost in dat fearsome voicewhut like de damp wind outen de cellar. 

"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" beg' li'l' Mose. "Ah ain't know dat was yo'head, an' I ain't know you was dar _at_ all. 'Scuse me!"

"Ah 'scuse you ef you do me dis favor, " say' de ghost. "Ah got somefin'powerful _im_portant to say unto you, an' Ah can't say hit 'ca'se Ahain't got no head; an' whin Ah ain't got no head, Ah ain't got no mouf, an' whin Ah ain't got no mouf, Ah can't talk _at_ all. "

An' dat right logical fo' shore. Can't nobody talk whin he ain't got nomouf, an' can't nobody have no mouf whin he ain't got no head, an' whinli'l' black Mose he look', he see' dat ghost ain't got no head _at_ all. Nary head. 

So de ghost say':

"Ah come on down yere fo' to git a pumpkin fo' a head, an' Ah pick' dat_ixact_ pumpkin whut yo' gwine tek, an' Ah don't like dat one bit. No, sah. Ah feel like Ah pick yo' up an' carry yo' away, an' nobody see youno more for yever. But Ah got somefin' powerful _im_portant to say untoyo', an' if yo' pick up dat pumpkin an' sot it on de place whar my headought to be, Ah let you off dis time, 'ca'se Ah ain't been able to talkfo' so long Ah right hongry to say somefin'. "

So li'l' black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an' de ghost he bend' down, an' li'l' black Mose he sot dat pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An' rightoff dat pumpkin head 'gin' to wink an' blink like a jack-o'-lantern, an'right off dat pumpkin head 'gin' to glimmer an' glow frough de mouf likea jack-o'-lantern, an' right off dat ghost start' to speak. Yas, sah, dass so. 

"Whut yo' want to say unto me?" _in_quire' li'l' black Mose. 

"Ah want to tell yo', " say' de ghost, "dat yo' ain't need yever beskeered of ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' whin he say dat, de ghost jes vanish' away like de smoke in July. Heain't even linger round dat locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jesdissipate' outen de air, an' he gone _in_tirely. 

So li'l' Mose he grab' up de nex' bestest pumpkin an' he scoot'. An'whin he come' to de grabeyard in de hollow, he goin' erlong same asyever, on'y faster, whin he reckon' he'll pick up a club _in_ case hegwine have trouble. An' he rotch' down an' rotch' down an' tek' hold ofa likely appearin' hunk o' wood whut right dar. An' whin he grab' dathunk of wood----

"_Let loosen my leg!_" say' a big voice all on a suddent. 

Dat li'l' black boy 'most jump' outen he skin, 'ca'se right dar in depaff is six 'mendjus big ghostes an' de bigges' ain't got but one leg. So li'l' black Mose jes natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges'ghost, an' he say':

"'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost; Ah ain't know dis your leg. "

An' whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an' confabulate? Yas, sah, dass so. An' whin dey do so, one say':

"'Pears like dis a mighty likely li'l' black boy. Whut we gwine do fo'to _re_ward him fo' politeness?"

An' annuder say':

"Tell him whut de truth is 'bout ghostes. "

So de bigges' ghost he say':

"Ah gwine tell yo' somefin' _im_portant whut yever'body don't know: Dey_ain't_ no ghosts. "

An' whin he say' dat, de ghostes jes natchully vanish away, an' li'l'black Mose he proceed' up de paff. He so scared he hair jes yank' at deroots, an' whin de wind go', "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' de owl go', "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' de rain-doves go, "You-_you_-o-o-o-!" he jestremble' an' shake'. An' byme-by he come' to de cemuntary whut betwixtan' between, an' he shore is mighty skeered, 'ca'se dey is a wholecomp'ny of ghostes lined up along de road, an' he 'low' he ain't gwinespind no more time palaverin' wid ghostes. So he step' offen de road fo'to go round erbout, an' he step' on a pine-stump whut lay right dar. 

"_Git offen my chest!_" say' a big voice all on a suddent, 'ca'se datstump am been selected by de captain ob de ghostes for to be he chest, 'ca'se he ain't got no chest betwixt he shoulders an' he legs. An' li'l'black Mose he hop' offen dat stump right peart. Yes, _sah_; right peart. 

"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" dat li'l' black Mose beg' an' plead', an' deghostes ain't know whuther to eat him all up or not, 'ca'se he step onde boss ghostes's chest dat a-way. But byme-by they 'low they let him go'ca'se dat was an accident, an' de captain ghost he say', "Mose, youMose, Ah gwine let you off dis time, 'ca'se you ain't nuffin' but amisabul li'l' tremblin' nigger; but Ah want you should _re_mimimber onething mos' particular'. "

"Ya-yas, sah, " say' dat li'l' black boy; "Ah'll remimber. Whut is dat Ahgot to remimber?"

De captain ghost he swell' up, an' he swell' up, twell he as big as ahouse, an' he say' in a voice whut shake' de ground:

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

So li'l' black Mose he bound to remimber dat, an' he rise' up an' mek' abow, an' he proceed' toward home right libely. He do, indeed. 

An' he gwine along jes as fast as he kin, whin he come' to de aidge obde buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an' right dar he bound to stop, 'ca'se de kentry round about am so populate' he ain't able to go frough. Yas, sah, seem' like all de ghostes in de world habin' a conferinceright dar. Seem' like all de ghosteses whut yever was am havin' aconvintion on dat spot. An' dat li'l' black Mose so skeered he jes fall'down on a' old log whut dar an' screech' an' moan'. An' all on a suddentde log up and spoke:

"_Get offen me! Get offen me!_" yell' dat log. 

So li'l' black Mose he git' offen dat log, an' no mistake. 

An' soon as he git' offen de log, de log uprise, an' li'l' black Mose hesee' dat dat log am de king ob all de ghostes. An' whin de king uprise, all de congergation crowd round li'l' black Mose, an' dey am about lebenmillium an' a few lift over. Yas, sah; dat de reg'lar annyul Hallowe'enconvintion whut li'l' black Mose interrup'. Right dar am all de speritsin de world, an' all de ha'nts in de world, an' all de hobgoblins in deworld, an' all de ghouls in de world, an' all de spicters in de world, an' all de ghostes in de world. An' whin dey see li'l' black Mose, deyall gnash dey teef an' grin' 'ca'se it gettin' erlong toward dey-all'slunch-time. So de king, whut he name old Skull-an'-Bones, he step' ontop ob li'l' Mose's head, an' he say':

"Gin'l'min, de convintion will come to order. De sicretary please notewho is prisint. De firs' business whut come' before de convintion am:whut we gwine do to a li'l' black boy whut stip' on de king an' maul'all ober de king an' treat' de king dat disrespictful'. "

An li'l' black Mose jes moan' an' sob':

"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah King! Ah ain't mean no harm _at_ all. "

But nobody ain't pay no _at_tintion to him _at_ all, 'ca'se yevery onelookin' at a monstrous big ha'nt whut name Bloody Bones, whut rose upan' spoke. 

"Your Honor, Mistah King, an' gin'l'min _an_' ladies, " he say', "dis ama right bad case ob _lasy majesty_, 'ca'se de king been step on. Whinyivery li'l' black boy whut choose' gwine wander round _at_ night an'stip on de king ob ghostes, it ain't no time for to palaver, it ain't notime for to prevaricate, it ain't no time for to cogitate, it ain't notime do nuffin' but tell de truth, an' de whole truth, an' nuffin' butde truth. "

An' all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an' dey confabulate out louderbout dat, an' de noise soun' like de rain-doves goin', "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' de owls goin', "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' de windgoin', "You-_you_-o-o-o!" So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an' nomistake. 

So de king ob de ghostes, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, he place' hehand on de head ob li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like a wet rag, an' he say':

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' one ob de hairs whut on de head of li'l' black Mose turn' white. 

An' de monstrous big ha'nt whut he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand onde head ob li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like a toadstool in decool ob de day, an' he say':

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l' black Mose turn' white. 

An' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place' he hand on de head obli'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like de yunner side ob a lizard, an'he say':

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l' black Mose turn white_as_ snow. 

An' a perticklar bend-up hobgoblin he put' he hand on de head ob li'l'black Mose, an' he mek' dat same _re_mark, an' dat whole convintion obghostes an' spicters an' ha'nts an' yiver'thing, which am more 'n amillium, pass by so quick dey-all's hands feel lak de wind whut blowouten de cellar whin de day am hot, an' dey-all say, "Dey ain't noghosts. " Yas, sah, dey-all say dem wo'ds so fas' it soun' like de windwhin it moan frough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An'yivery hair whut on li'l' black Mose's head turn' white. Dat whuthappen' whin a li'l' black boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat-a-way. Dat's so he ain' gwine forgit to remimber dey ain't no ghostes. 'Ca'seef a li'l' black boy gwine imaginate dey _is_ ghostes, he gwine beskeered in de dark. An' dat a foolish thing for to imaginate. 

So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de hollerwhin de wind blow' on it, an' li'l' black Mose he ain' see no ca'se forto remain in dat locality no longer. He rotch' down, an' he raise' up depumpkin, an' he perambulate' right quick to he ma's shack, an' he lift'up de latch, an' he open' de do', an' he yenter' in. An' he say':

"Yere's de pumpkin. "

An' he ma an' he pa, an' Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an' MistahSally Ann, whut her husban', an' Zack Badget, an' de school-teacher whutboard at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' all de powerful lot of folks whutcome to de doin's, dey all scrooged back in de cornder ob de shack, 'ca'se Zack Badget he been done tell a ghost-tale, an' de rain-dovesgwine, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' de owls am gwine, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" andde wind it gwine, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" an' yiver'body powerful skeered. 'Ca'se li'l' black Mose he come' a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do' jeswhin dat ghost-tale mos' skeery, an' yiver'body gwine imaginate dat he aghost a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do'. Yas, sah. So li'l' black Mosehe turn' he white head, an' he look' roun' an' peer' roun', an' he say':

"Whut you all skeered fo'?"

'Ca'se ef anybody skeered, he want' to be skeered too. Dat's natural. But de school-teacher, whut live at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she say':

"Fo' de lan's sake, we fought you was a ghost!"

So li'l' black Mose he sort ob sniff an' he sort ob sneer, an' he 'low':

"Huh! dey ain't no ghosts. "

Den he ma she powerful took back dat li'l' black Mose he gwine be souppetish an' contrydict folks whut know 'rifmeticks an' algebricks an'gin'ral countin' widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board atUnc' Silas Diggs's house knows, an' she say':

"Huh! whut you know 'bout ghosts, anner ways?"

An' li'l' black Mose he jes kinder stan' on one foot, an' he jes kindersuck' he thumb, an' he jes kinder 'low':

"I don't know nuffin' erbout ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts. "

So he pa gwine whop him fo' tellin' a fib 'bout dey ain' no ghosts whinyiver'body know' dey is ghosts; but de school-teacher, whut board atUnc' Silas Diggs's house, she tek' note de hair ob li'l' black Mose'shead am plumb white, an' she tek' note li'l' black Mose's face am decolor ob wood-ash, so she jes retch' one arm round dat li'l' black boy, an' she jes snuggle' him up, an' she say':

"Honey lamb, don't you be skeered; ain' nobody gwine hurt you. How youknow dey ain't no ghosts?"

An' li'l' black Mose he kinder lean' up 'g'inst de school-teacher whutboard at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' he 'low':

"'Ca'se--'ca'se--'ca'se I met de cap'n ghost, an' I met de gin'ralghost, an' I met de king ghost, an' I met all de ghostes whut yiver wasin de whole worl', an' yivery ghost say' de same thing: 'Dey ain't noghosts. ' An' if de cap'n ghost an' de gin'ral ghost an' de king ghostan' all de ghostes in de whole worl' don't know ef dar am ghostes, whodoes?"

"Das right; das right, honey lamb, " say' de school-teacher. And shesay': "I been s'picious dey ain' no ghostes dis long whiles, an' now Iknow. Ef all de ghostes say dey ain' no ghosts, dey _ain'_ no ghosts. "

So yiver'body 'low' dat so 'cep' Zack Badget, whut been tellin' deghost-tale, an' he ain' gwine say "Yis" an' he ain' gwine say "No, "'ca'se he right sweet on de school-teacher; but he know right well hedone seen plinty ghostes in he day. So he boun' to be sure fust. So hesay' to li'l' black Mose:

"'T ain't likely you met up wid a monstrous big ha'nt whut live' down delane whut he name Bloody Bones?"

"Yas, " say' li'l' black Mose; "I done met up wid him. "

"An' did old Bloody Bones done tol' you dey ain' no ghosts?" say ZackBadget. 

"Yas, " say' li'l' black Mose, "he done tell me perzackly dat. "

"Well, if _he_ tol' you dey ain't no ghosts, " say' Zack Badget, "I gotto 'low dey ain't no ghosts, 'ca'se he ain' gwine tell no lie erbout it. I know dat Bloody Bones ghost sence I was a piccaninny, an' I done metup wif him a powerful lot o' times, an' he ain't gwine tell no lieerbout it. Ef dat perticklar ghost say' dey ain't no ghosts, dey _ain't_no ghosts. "

So yiver'body say':

"Das right; dey ain' no ghosts. "

An' dat mek' li'l' black Mose feel mighty good, 'ca'se he ain' lakghostes. He reckon' he gwine be a heap mo' comfortable in he mind sencehe know' dey ain' no ghosts, an' he reckon' he ain' gwine be skeered ofnuffin' never no more. He ain' gwine min' de dark, an' he ain' gwinemin' de rain-doves whut go', "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' deowls whut go', "Who-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' de wind whutgo', "You-_you_-o-o-o!" nor nuffin', nohow. He gwine be brave as a lion, sence he know' fo' sure dey ain' no ghosts. So prisintly he ma say':

"Well, time fo' a li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose to be gwine up deladder to de loft to bed. "

An' li'l' black Mose he 'low' he gwine wait a bit. He 'low' he gwine jeswait a li'l' bit. He 'low' he gwine be no trouble _at_ all ef he jesbeen let wait twell he ma she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too. So he ma she say':

"Git erlong wid yo'! Whut yo' skeered ob whin dey ain't no ghosts?"

An' li'l' black Mose he scrooge', and he twist', an' he pucker' up demouf, an' he rub' he eyes, an' prisintly he say' right low:

"I ain' skeered ob ghosts whut am, 'ca'se dey ain' no ghosts. "

"Den whut _am_ yo' skeered ob?" ask he ma. 

"Nuffin, " say' de li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose; "but I jes feelkinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts whut ain't. "

Jes lak white folks! Jes lak white folks!

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

From _The Lady or the Tiger? and Other Stories_. Copyright, 1884, byCharles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. 

The Transferred Ghost

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

The country residence of Mr. John Hinckman was a delightful place to me, for many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhatimpulsive, hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and toweringoaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points, and not farfrom the house there was a little rill spanned by a rustic bridge withthe bark on; there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess, billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great attractions; butnone of them, nor all of them together, would have been sufficient tohold me to the place very long. I had been invited for the trout season, but should, probably, have finished my visit early in the summer had itnot been that upon fair days, when the grass was dry, and the sun wasnot too hot, and there was but little wind, there strolled beneath thelofty elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades, the form of myMadeline. 

This lady was not, in very truth, my Madeline. She had never givenherself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her. But asI considered her possession the only sufficient reason for thecontinuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine. It mayhave been that I would not have been obliged to confine the use of thispossessive pronoun to my reveries had I confessed the state of myfeelings to the lady. 

But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I dread, as almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an instantput an end to that delightful season which may be termed theante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same timeterminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my passion;but I was, also, dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This gentleman wasa good friend of mine, but it would have required a bolder man than Iwas at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece, who was the headof his household, and, according to his own frequent statement, the mainprop of his declining years. Had Madeline acquiesced in my general viewson the subject, I might have felt encouraged to open the matter to Mr. Hinckman; but, as I said before, I had never asked her whether or notshe would be mine. I thought of these things at all hours of the day andnight, particularly the latter. 

I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious chamber, when, by the dim light of the new moon, which partially filled the room, I saw John Hinckman standing by a large chair near the door. I was verymuch surprised at this for two reasons. In the first place, my host hadnever before come into my room; and, in the second place, he had gonefrom home that morning, and had not expected to return for several days. It was for this reason that I had been able that evening to sit muchlater than usual with Madeline on the moonlit porch. The figure wascertainly that of John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but there was avagueness and indistinctness about it which presently assured me that itwas a ghost. Had the good old man been murdered? and had his spirit cometo tell me of the deed, and to confide to me the protection of hisdear--? My heart fluttered at what I was about to think, but at thisinstant the figure spoke. 

"Do you know, " he said, with a countenance that indicated anxiety, "ifMr. Hinckman will return to-night?"

I thought it well to maintain a calm exterior, and I answered:

"We do not expect him. "

"I am glad of that, " said he, sinking into the chair by which he stood. "During the two years and a half that I have inhabited this house, thatman has never before been away for a single night. You can't imagine therelief it gives me. "

And as he spoke he stretched out his legs, and leaned back in the chair. His form became less vague, and the colors of his garments more distinctand evident, while an expression of gratified relief succeeded to theanxiety of his countenance. 

"Two years and a half!" I exclaimed. "I don't understand you. "

"It is fully that length of time, " said the ghost, "since I first camehere. Mine is not an ordinary case. But before I say anything more aboutit, let me ask you again if you are sure Mr. Hinckman will not returnto-night. "

"I am as sure of it as I can be of anything, " I answered. "He leftto-day for Bristol, two hundred miles away. "

"Then I will go on, " said the ghost, "for I am glad to have theopportunity of talking to someone who will listen to me; but if JohnHinckman should come in and catch me here, I should be frightened out ofmy wits. "

"This is all very strange, " I said, greatly puzzled by what I had heard. "Are you the ghost of Mr. Hinckman?"

This was a bold question, but my mind was so full of other emotions thatthere seemed to be no room for that of fear. 

"Yes, I am his ghost, " my companion replied, "and yet I have no right tobe. And this is what makes me so uneasy, and so much afraid of him. Itis a strange story, and, I truly believe, without precedent. Two yearsand a half ago, John Hinckman was dangerously ill in this very room. Atone time he was so far gone that he was really believed to be dead. Itwas in consequence of too precipitate a report in regard to this matterthat I was, at that time, appointed to be his ghost. Imagine mysurprise and horror, sir, when, after I had accepted the position andassumed its responsibilities, that old man revived, became convalescent, and eventually regained his usual health. My situation was now one ofextreme delicacy and embarrassment. I had no power to return to myoriginal unembodiment, and I had no right to be the ghost of a man whowas not dead. I was advised by my friends to quietly maintain myposition, and was assured that, as John Hinckman was an elderly man, itcould not be long before I could rightfully assume the position forwhich I had been selected. But I tell you, sir, " he continued, withanimation, "the old fellow seems as vigorous as ever, and I have no ideahow much longer this annoying state of things will continue. I spend mytime trying to get out of that old man's way. I must not leave thishouse, and he seems to follow me everywhere. I tell you, sir, he hauntsme. "

"That is truly a queer state of things, " I remarked. "But why are youafraid of him? He couldn't hurt you. "

"Of course he couldn't, " said the ghost. "But his very presence is ashock and terror to me. Imagine, sir, how you would feel if my case wereyours. "

I could not imagine such a thing at all. I simply shuddered. 

"And if one must be a wrongful ghost at all, " the apparition continued, "it would be much pleasanter to be the ghost of some man other thanJohn Hinckman. There is in him an irascibility of temper, accompaniedby a facility of invective, which is seldom met with. And what wouldhappen if he were to see me, and find out, as I am sure he would, howlong and why I had inhabited his house, I can scarcely conceive. I haveseen him in his bursts of passion; and, although he did not hurt thepeople he stormed at any more than he would hurt me, they seemed toshrink before him. "

All this I knew to be very true. Had it not been for this peculiarity ofMr. Hinckman, I might have been more willing to talk to him about hisniece. 

"I feel sorry for you, " I said, for I really began to have a sympatheticfeeling toward this unfortunate apparition. "Your case is indeed a hardone. It reminds me of those persons who have had doubles, and I supposea man would often be very angry indeed when he found that there wasanother being who was personating himself. "

"Oh! the cases are not similar at all, " said the ghost. "A double or_doppelgänger_ lives on the earth with a man; and, being exactly likehim, he makes all sorts of trouble, of course. It is very different withme. I am not here to live with Mr. Hinckman. I am here to take hisplace. Now, it would make John Hinckman very angry if he knew that. Don't you know it would?"

I assented promptly. 

"Now that he is away I can be easy for a little while, " continued theghost; "and I am so glad to have an opportunity of talking to you. Ihave frequently come into your room, and watched you while you slept, but did not dare to speak to you for fear that if you talked with me Mr. Hinckman would hear you, and come into the room to know why you weretalking to yourself. "

"But would he not hear you?" I asked. 

"Oh, no!" said the other: "there are times when anyone may see me, butno one hears me except the person to whom I address myself. "

"But why did you wish to speak to me?" I asked. 

"Because, " replied the ghost, "I like occasionally to talk to people, and especially to someone like yourself, whose mind is so troubled andperturbed that you are not likely to be frightened by a visit from oneof us. But I particularly wanted to ask you to do me a favor. There isevery probability, so far as I can see, that John Hinckman will live along time, and my situation is becoming insupportable. My great objectat present is to get myself transferred, and I think that you may, perhaps, be of use to me. "

"Transferred!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean by that?"

"What I mean, " said the other, "is this: Now that I have started on mycareer I have got to be the ghost of somebody, and I want to be theghost of a man who is really dead. "

"I should think that would be easy enough, " I said. "Opportunities mustcontinually occur. "

"Not at all! not at all!" said my companion quickly. "You have no ideawhat a rush and pressure there is for situations of this kind. Whenevera vacancy occurs, if I may express myself in that way, there are crowdsof applications for the ghost-ship. "

"I had no idea that such a state of things existed, " I said, becomingquite interested in the matter. "There ought to be some regular system, or order of precedence, by which you could all take your turns likecustomers in a barber's shop. "

"Oh dear, that would never do at all!" said the other. "Some of us wouldhave to wait forever. There is always a great rush whenever a goodghost-ship offers itself--while, as you know, there are some positionsthat no one would care for. And it was in consequence of my being in toogreat a hurry on an occasion of the kind that I got myself into mypresent disagreeable predicament, and I have thought that it might bepossible that you would help me out of it. You might know of a casewhere an opportunity for a ghost-ship was not generally expected, butwhich might present itself at any moment. If you would give me a shortnotice, I know I could arrange for a transfer. "

"What do you mean?" I exclaimed. "Do you want me to commit suicide? Orto undertake a murder for your benefit?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" said the other, with a vapory smile. "I mean nothingof that kind. To be sure, there are lovers who are watched withconsiderable interest, such persons having been known, in moments ofdepression, to offer very desirable ghost-ships; but I did not think ofanything of that kind in connection with you. You were the only person Icared to speak to, and I hoped that you might give me some informationthat would be of use; and, in return, I shall be very glad to help youin your love affair. "

"You seem to know that I have such an affair, " I said. 

"Oh, yes!" replied the other, with a little yawn. "I could not be hereso much as I have been without knowing all about that. "

There was something horrible in the idea of Madeline and myself havingbeen watched by a ghost, even, perhaps, when we wandered together in themost delightful and bosky places. But, then, this was quite anexceptional ghost, and I could not have the objections to him whichwould ordinarily arise in regard to beings of his class. 

"I must go now, " said the ghost, rising: "but I will see you somewhereto-morrow night. And remember--you help me, and I'll help you. "

I had doubts the next morning as to the propriety of telling Madelineanything about this interview, and soon convinced myself that I mustkeep silent on the subject. If she knew there was a ghost about thehouse, she would probably leave the place instantly. I did not mentionthe matter, and so regulated my demeanor that I am quite sure Madelinenever suspected what had taken place. For some time I had wished thatMr. Hinckman would absent himself, for a day at least, from thepremises. In such case I thought I might more easily nerve myself up tothe point of speaking to Madeline on the subject of our futurecollateral existence; and, now that the opportunity for such speech hadreally occurred, I did not feel ready to avail myself of it. What wouldbecome of me if she refused me?

I had an idea, however, that the lady thought that, if I were going tospeak at all, this was the time. She must have known that certainsentiments were afloat within me, and she was not unreasonable in herwish to see the matter settled one way or the other. But I did not feellike taking a bold step in the dark. If she wished me to ask her to giveherself to me, she ought to offer me some reason to suppose that shewould make the gift. If I saw no probability of such generosity, I wouldprefer that things should remain as they were. 

 * * * * *

That evening I was sitting with Madeline in the moonlit porch. It wasnearly ten o'clock, and ever since supper-time I had been working myselfup to the point of making an avowal of my sentiments. I had notpositively determined to do this, but wished gradually to reach theproper point, when, if the prospect looked bright, I might speak. Mycompanion appeared to understand the situation--at least, I imaginedthat the nearer I came to a proposal the more she seemed to expect it. It was certainly a very critical and important epoch in my life. If Ispoke, I should make myself happy or miserable forever, and if I did notspeak I had every reason to believe that the lady would not give meanother chance to do so. 

Sitting thus with Madeline, talking a little, and thinking very hardover these momentous matters, I looked up and saw the ghost, not a dozenfeet away from us. He was sitting on the railing of the porch, one legthrown up before him, the other dangling down as he leaned against apost. He was behind Madeline, but almost in front of me, as I sat facingthe lady. It was fortunate that Madeline was looking out over thelandscape, for I must have appeared very much startled. The ghost hadtold me that he would see me some time this night, but I did not thinkhe would make his appearance when I was in the company of Madeline. Ifshe should see the spirit of her uncle, I could not answer for theconsequences. I made no exclamation, but the ghost evidently saw that Iwas troubled. 

"Don't be afraid, " he said--"I shall not let her see me; and she cannothear me speak unless I address myself to her, which I do not intend todo. "

I suppose I looked grateful. 

"So you need not trouble yourself about that, " the ghost continued; "butit seems to me that you are not getting along very well with youraffair. If I were you, I should speak out without waiting any longer. You will never have a better chance. You are not likely to beinterrupted; and, so far as I can judge, the lady seems disposed tolisten to you favorably; that is, if she ever intends to do so. There isno knowing when John Hinckman will go away again; certainly not thissummer. If I were in your place, I should never dare to make love toHinckman's niece if he were anywhere about the place. If he should catchanyone offering himself to Miss Madeline, he would then be a terribleman to encounter. "

I agreed perfectly to all this. 

"I cannot bear to think of him!" I ejaculated aloud. 

"Think of whom?" asked Madeline, turning quickly toward me. 

Here was an awkward situation. The long speech of the ghost, to whichMadeline paid no attention, but which I heard with perfect distinctness, had made me forget myself. 

It was necessary to explain quickly. Of course, it would not do to admitthat it was of her dear uncle that I was speaking; and so I mentionedhastily the first name I thought of. 

"Mr. Vilars, " I said. 

This statement was entirely correct; for I never could bear to think ofMr. Vilars, who was a gentleman who had, at various times, paid muchattention to Madeline. 

"It is wrong for you to speak in that way of Mr. Vilars, " she said. "Heis a remarkably well educated and sensible young man, and has verypleasant manners. He expects to be elected to the legislature thisfall, and I should not be surprised if he made his mark. He will do wellin a legislative body, for whenever Mr. Vilars has anything to say heknows just how and when to say it. "

This was spoken very quietly, and without any show of resentment, whichwas all very natural, for if Madeline thought at all favorably of me shecould not feel displeased that I should have disagreeable emotions inregard to a possible rival. The concluding words contained a hint whichI was not slow to understand. I felt very sure that if Mr. Vilars werein my present position he would speak quickly enough. 

"I know it is wrong to have such ideas about a person, " I said, "but Icannot help it. "

The lady did not chide me, and after this she seemed even in a softermood. As for me, I felt considerably annoyed, for I had not wished toadmit that any thought of Mr. Vilars had ever occupied my mind. 

"You should not speak aloud that way, " said the ghost, "or you may getyourself into trouble. I want to see everything go well with you, because then you may be disposed to help me, especially if I shouldchance to be of any assistance to you, which I hope I shall be. "

I longed to tell him that there was no way in which he could help me somuch as by taking his instant departure. To make love to a young ladywith a ghost sitting on the railing nearby, and that ghost theapparition of a much-dreaded uncle, the very idea of whom in such aposition and at such a time made me tremble, was a difficult, if not animpossible, thing to do; but I forbore to speak, although I may havelooked my mind. 

"I suppose, " continued the ghost, "that you have not heard anything thatmight be of advantage to me. Of course, I am very anxious to hear; butif you have anything to tell me, I can wait until you are alone. I willcome to you to-night in your room, or I will stay here until the ladygoes away. "

"You need not wait here, " I said; "I have nothing at all to say to you. "

Madeline sprang to her feet, her face flushed and her eyes ablaze. 

"Wait here!" she cried. "What do you suppose I am waiting for? Nothingto say to me indeed!--I should think so! What should you have to say tome?"

"Madeline!" I exclaimed, stepping toward her, "let me explain. "

But she had gone. 

Here was the end of the world for me! I turned fiercely to the ghost. 

"Wretched existence!" I cried. "You have ruined everything. You haveblackened my whole life. Had it not been for you----"

But here my voice faltered. I could say no more. 

"You wrong me, " said the ghost. "I have not injured you. I have triedonly to encourage and assist you, and it is your own folly that hasdone this mischief. But do not despair. Such mistakes as these can beexplained. Keep up a brave heart. Good-by. "

And he vanished from the railing like a bursting soap-bubble. 

I went gloomily to bed, but I saw no apparitions that night except thoseof despair and misery which my wretched thoughts called up. The words Ihad uttered had sounded to Madeline like the basest insult. Of course, there was only one interpretation she could put upon them. 

As to explaining my ejaculations, that was impossible. I thought thematter over and over again as I lay awake that night, and I determinedthat I would never tell Madeline the facts of the case. It would bebetter for me to suffer all my life than for her to know that the ghostof her uncle haunted the house. Mr. Hinckman was away, and if she knewof his ghost she could not be made to believe that he was not dead. Shemight not survive the shock! No, my heart could bleed, but I would nevertell her. 

The next day was fine, neither too cool nor too warm; the breezes weregentle, and nature smiled. But there were no walks or rides withMadeline. She seemed to be much engaged during the day, and I saw butlittle of her. When we met at meals she was polite, but very quiet andreserved. She had evidently determined on a course of conduct and hadresolved to assume that, although I had been very rude to her, she didnot understand the import of my words. It would be quite proper, ofcourse, for her not to know what I meant by my expressions of the nightbefore. 

I was downcast and wretched, and said but little, and the only brightstreak across the black horizon of my woe was the fact that she did notappear to be happy, although she affected an air of unconcern. Themoonlit porch was deserted that evening, but wandering about the house Ifound Madeline in the library alone. She was reading, but I went in andsat down near her. I felt that, although I could not do so fully, I mustin a measure explain my conduct of the night before. She listenedquietly to a somewhat labored apology I made for the words I had used. 

"I have not the slightest idea what you meant, " she said, "but you werevery rude. "

I earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness, and assured her, witha warmth of speech that must have made some impression upon her, thatrudeness to her would be an action impossible to me. I said a great dealupon the subject, and implored her to believe that if it were not for acertain obstacle I could speak to her so plainly that she wouldunderstand everything. 

She was silent for a time, and then she said, rather more kindly, Ithought, than she had spoken before:

"Is that obstacle in any way connected with my uncle?"

"Yes, " I answered, after a little hesitation, "it is, in a measure, connected with him. "

She made no answer to this, and sat looking at her book, but notreading. From the expression of her face, I thought she was somewhatsoftened toward me. She knew her uncle as well as I did, and she mayhave been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that prevented myspeaking (and there were many ways in which he might be that obstacle), my position would be such a hard one that it would excuse some wildnessof speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too, that the warmth of mypartial explanations had had some effect on her, and I began to believethat it might be a good thing for me to speak my mind without delay. Nomatter how she should receive my proposition, my relations with hercould not be worse than they had been the previous night and day, andthere was something in her face which encouraged me to hope that shemight forget my foolish exclamations of the evening before if I began totell her my tale of love. 

I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did so the ghost burstinto the room from the doorway behind her. I say burst, although no doorflew open and he made no noise. He was wildly excited, and waved hisarms above his head. The moment I saw him, my heart fell within me. Withthe entrance of that impertinent apparition, every hope fled from me. Icould not speak while he was in the room. 

I must have turned pale; and I gazed steadfastly at the ghost, almostwithout seeing Madeline, who sat between us. 

"Do you know, " he cried, "that John Hinckman is coming up the hill? Hewill be here in fifteen minutes; and if you are doing anything in theway of love-making, you had better hurry it up. But this is not what Icame to tell you. I have glorious news! At last I am transferred! Notforty minutes ago a Russian nobleman was murdered by the Nihilists. Nobody ever thought of him in connection with an immediate ghost-ship. My friends instantly applied for the situation for me, and obtained mytransfer. I am off before that horrid Hinckman comes up the hill. Themoment I reach my new position, I shall put off this hated semblance. Good-by. You can't imagine how glad I am to be, at last, the real ghostof somebody. "

"Oh!" I cried, rising to my feet, and stretching out my arms in utterwretchedness, "I would to Heaven you were mine!"

"I _am_ yours, " said Madeline, raising to me her tearful eyes. 

THE MUMMY'S FOOT

BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

Translated for this volume by Sara Goldman. 

The Mummy's Foot

By THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

I had sauntered idly into the shop of one of those dealers in oldcuriosities--"bric-à-brac" as they say in that Parisian _argot_, soabsolutely unintelligible elsewhere in France. 

You have no doubt often glanced through the windows of some of theseshops, which have become numerous since it is so fashionable to buyantique furniture, that the humblest stockbroker feels obliged to have aroom furnished in medieval style. 

Something is there which belongs alike to the shop of the dealer in oldiron, the warehouse of the merchant, the laboratory of the chemist, andthe studio of the painter: in all these mysterious recesses, where but adiscreet half-light filters through the shutters, the most obviouslyantique thing is the dust: the cobwebs are more genuine than the laces, and the old pear-tree furniture is more modern than the mahogany whicharrived but yesterday from America. 

The warehouse of my dealer in bric-à-brac was a veritable Capharnaüm;all ages and all countries seemed to have arranged a rendezvous there;an Etruscan terra cotta lamp stood upon a Boule cabinet, with ebonypanels decorated with simple filaments of inlaid copper: a duchess ofthe reign of Louis XV stretched nonchalantly her graceful feet under amassive Louis XIII table with heavy, spiral oaken legs, and carvings ofintermingled flowers and grotesque figures. 

In a corner glittered the ornamented breastplate of a suit ofdamaskeened armor of Milan. The shelves and floor were littered withporcelain cupids and nymphs, Chinese monkeys, vases of pale greenenamel, cups of Dresden and old Sèvres. 

Upon the denticulated shelves of sideboards, gleamed huge Japaneseplaques, with red and blue designs outlined in gold, side by side withthe enamels of Bernard Palissy, with serpents, frogs, and lizards inrelief. 

From ransacked cabinets tumbled cascades of silvery-gleaming China silk, the shimmering brocade pricked into luminous beads by a slantingsunbeam; while portraits of every epoch smiled through their yellowedvarnish from frames more or less tarnished. 

The dealer followed me watchfully through the tortuous passages windingbetween the piles of furniture, warding off with his hands the perilousswing of my coat tail, observing my elbows with the disquieting concernof an antiquarian and a usurer. 

He was an odd figure--this dealer; an enormous skull, smooth as a knee, was surrounded by a scant aureole of white hair, which, by contrast, emphasized the salmon-colored tint of his complexion, and gave a wrongimpression of patriarchal benevolence, corrected, however, by theglittering of two small, yellow eyes which shifted in their orbits liketwo _louis d'or_ floating on quicksilver. The curve of his nose gave himan aquiline silhouette, which suggested the Oriental or Jewish type. Hishands, long, slender, with prominent veins and sinews protruding likethe strings on a violin, with nails like the claws on the membraneouswings of the bat moved with a senile trembling painful to behold, butthose nervously quivering hands became firmer than pincers of steel, orthe claws of a lobster, when they picked up any precious object, an onyxcup, a Venetian glass, or a platter of Bohemian crystal. This curiousold fellow had an air so thoroughly rabbinical and cabalistic, that, from mere appearance, he would have been burned at the stake threecenturies ago. 

"Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir? Here is a kris fromMalay, with a blade which undulates like a flame; look at these groovesfor the blood to drip from, these teeth reversed so as to tear out theentrails in withdrawing the weapon; it is a fine specimen of a ferociousweapon, and will be an interesting addition to your trophies; thistwo-handed sword is very beautiful--it is the work of Joseph de la Herz;and this _cauchelimarde_ with its carved guard--what superbworkmanship!"

"No, I have enough weapons and instruments of carnage; I should like tohave a small figure, any sort of object which can be used for a paperweight; for I cannot endure those commonplace bronzes for sale at thestationers which one sees invariably on everybody's desk. "

The old gnome, rummaging among his ancient wares, displayed before mesome antique bronzes--pseudo-antique, at least, fragments of malachite, little Hindu and Chinese idols, jade monkeys, incarnations of Brahma andVishnu, marvelously suitable for the purpose--scarcely divine--ofholding papers and letters in place. 

I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon covered with constellationsof warts, its jaws embellished with teeth and tusks, and a hideouslittle Mexican fetish, representing realistically the godVitziliputzili, when I noticed a charming foot, which at first Isupposed was a fragment of some antique Venus. 

It had that beautiful tawny reddish tint, which gives the Florentinebronzes their warm, life-like appearance, so preferable to the verdigristones of ordinary bronzes, which might be taken readily for statues in astate of putrefaction; a satiny luster gleamed over its curves, polishedby the amorous kisses of twenty centuries; for it must have been aCorinthian bronze, a work of the finest period, molded perhaps byLysippus himself. 

"That foot will do, " I said to the dealer, who looked at me with anironical, crafty expression, as he handed me the object I asked for, sothat I might examine it more carefully. 

I was surprised at its lightness. It was not a metal foot but in realitya foot of flesh, an embalmed foot, a mummy's foot; on examining it moreclosely, one could distinguish the grain of the skin, and the almostimperceptible imprint of the weave of the wrappings. The toes wereslender, delicate, with perfect nails, pure and transparent as agate;the great toe, slightly separated from the others, in the antique mannerwas in pleasing contrast to the position of the other toes, and gave asuggestion of the freedom and lightness of a bird's foot. The sole, faintly streaked with almost invisible lines, showed that it had nevertouched the ground, or come in contact with anything but the finest matswoven from the rushes of the Nile, and the softest rugs of panther skin. 

"Ha, ha! You want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis, " said the dealerwith a strange, mocking laugh, staring at me with his owlish eyes. "Ha, ha, ha, for a paper weight! An original idea! an artist's idea! Ifanyone had told old Pharaoh that the foot of his adored daughter wouldbe used for a paper weight, particularly whilst he was having a mountainof granite hollowed out in which to place her triple coffin, painted andgilded, covered with hieroglyphics, and beautiful pictures of thejudgment of souls, it would truly have surprised him, " continued thequeer little dealer, in low tones, as though talking to himself. 

"How much will you charge me for this fragment of a mummy?"

"Ah, as much as I can get; for it is a superb piece; if I had the mateto it, you could not have it for less than five hundred francs--thedaughter of a Pharaoh! there could be nothing more choice. "

"Assuredly it is not common; but, still, how much do you want for it?First, however, I want to acquaint you with one fact, which is, that myfortune consists of only five louis. I will buy anything that costs fivelouis, but nothing more expensive. You may search my vest pockets, andmy most secret bureau drawers, but you will not find one miserable fivefranc piece besides. "

"Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! It is very little, too little, in fact, for an authentic foot, " said the dealer, shakinghis head and rolling his eyes with a peculiar rotary motion. "Very well, take it, and I will throw in the outer covering, " he said, rolling it ina shred of old damask--"very beautiful, genuine damask, which has neverbeen redyed; it is strong, yet it is soft, " he muttered, caressing thefrayed tissue, in accordance with his dealer's habit of praising anarticle of so little value, that he himself thought it good for nothingbut to give away. 

He dropped the gold pieces into a kind of medieval pouch which wasfastened at his belt, while he repeated:

"The foot of the Princess Hermonthis to be used for a paper weight!"

Then, fastening upon me his phosphorescent pupils he said, in a voicestrident as the wails of a cat which has just swallowed a fish bone:

"Old Pharaoh will not be pleased; he loved his daughter--that dear man. "

"You speak of him as though you were his contemporary; no matter how oldyou may be, you do not date back to the pyramids of Egypt, " I answeredlaughingly from the threshold of the shop. 

I returned home, delighted with my purchase. 

To make use of it at once, I placed the foot of the exalted PrincessHermonthis on a stack of papers--sketches of verses, undecipherablemosaics of crossed out words, unfinished articles, forgotten letters, posted in the desk drawer, a mistake often made by absent-minded people;the effect was pleasing, bizarre, and romantic. 

Highly delighted with this decoration, I went down into the street, andtook a walk with all the importance and pride proper to a man who hasthe inexpressible advantage over the passersby he elbows, of possessinga fragment of the Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh. 

I thought people who did not possess, like myself, a paper weight sogenuinely Egyptian, were objects of ridicule, and it seemed to me theproper business of the sensible man to have a mummy's foot upon hisdesk. 

Happily, an encounter with several friends distracted me from myraptures over my recent acquisition, I went to dinner with them, for itwould have been hard for me to dine alone. 

When I returned at night, with my brain somewhat muddled by the effectsof a few glasses of wine, a vague whiff of oriental perfume tickleddelicately my olfactory nerves. The heat of the room had warmed thenatron, the bitumen, and the myrrh in which the _paraschites_ whoembalmed the dead had bathed the body of the Princess; it was adelicate, yet penetrating perfume, which four thousand years had notbeen able to dissipate. 

The Dream of Egypt was for the Eternal; its odors have the solidity ofgranite, and last as long. 

In a short time I drank full draughts from the black cup of sleep; foran hour or two all remained in obscurity; Oblivion and Nothingnesssubmerged me in their somber waves. 

Nevertheless the haziness of my perceptions gradually cleared away, dreams began to brush me lightly in their silent flight. 

The eyes of my soul opened, and I saw my room as it was in reality. Imight have believed myself awake, if I had not had a vague consciousnessthat I was asleep, and that something very unusual was about to takeplace. 

The odor of myrrh had increased in intensity, and I had a slightheadache, which I very naturally attributed to several glasses ofchampagne that we had drunk to unknown gods, and to our future success. 

I scrutinized my room with a feeling of expectation, which there wasnothing to justify. Each piece of furniture was in its usual place; thelamp, softly shaded by the milky whiteness of its ground crystal globe, burned upon the console, the water colors glowed from under the Bohemianglass; the curtains hung in heavy drooping folds; everything suggestedtranquility and slumber. 

Nevertheless, after a few moments the quiet of the room was disturbed, the woodwork creaked furtively, the ash-covered log suddenly spurted outa blue flame, and the surfaces of the plaques seemed like metallic eyes, watching, like myself, for what was about to happen. 

By chance my eyes fell on the table on which I had placed the foot ofthe Princess Hermonthis. 

Instead of remaining in the state of immobility proper to a foot whichhas been embalmed for four thousand years, it moved about in an agitatedmanner, twitching, leaping about over the papers like a frightened frog;one might have thought it in contact with a galvanic battery; I couldhear distinctly the quick tap of the little heel, hard as the hoof of agazelle. 

I became rather dissatisfied with my purchase, for I like paper weightsof sedentary habits--besides I found it very unnatural for feet to moveabout without legs, and I began to feel something closely resemblingfear. 

Suddenly I noticed a movement of one of the folds of my curtains, and Iheard a stamping like that made by a person hopping about on one foot. I must admit that I grew hot and cold by turns, that I felt a mysteriousbreeze blowing down my back, and that my hair stood on end so suddenlythat it forced my night-cap to a leap of several degrees. 

The curtains partly opened, and I saw the strangest figure possibleadvancing. 

It was a young girl, as coffee-coloured as Amani the dancer, and of aperfect beauty of the purest Egyptian type. She had slantingalmond-shaped eyes, with eyebrows so black that they appeared blue; hernose was finely chiseled, almost Grecian in its delicacy; she might havebeen taken for a Corinthian statue of bronze, had not her prominentcheekbones and rather African fullness of lips indicated without a doubtthe hieroglyphic race which dwelt on the banks of the Nile. 

Her arms, thin, spindle shaped, like those of very young girls, wereencircled with a kind of metal ornament, and bracelets of glass beads;her hair was twisted into little cords; on her breast hung a green pasteidol, identified by her whip of seven lashes as Isis, guide of souls--agolden ornament shone on her forehead, and slight traces of rouge werevisible on the coppery tints of her cheeks. 

As for her costume, it was very odd. 

Imagine a _pagne_ made of narrow strips bedizened with red and blackhieroglyphics, weighted with bitumen, and apparently belonging to amummy newly unswathed. 

In one of those flights of fancy usual in dreams, I could hear thehoarse, rough voice of the dealer of bric-à-brac reciting in amonotonous refrain, the phrase he had kept repeating in his shop in soenigmatic a manner. 

"Old Pharaoh will not be pleased--he loved his daughter very much--thatdear man. "

One peculiar detail, which was hardly reassuring, was that theapparition had but one foot, the other was broken off at the ankle. 

She approached the table, where the mummy's foot was fidgeting andtossing about with redoubled energy. She leaned against the edge, and Isaw her eyes fill with pearly tears. 

Although she did not speak, I fully understood her feelings. She lookedat the foot, for it was in truth her own, with an expression ofcoquettish sadness, which was extremely charming; but the foot keptjumping and running about as though it were moved by springs of steel. 

Two or three times she stretched out her hand to grasp it, but did notsucceed. 

Then began between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot, which seemed tobe endowed with an individuality of its own, a very bizarre dialogue, inan ancient Coptic tongue, such as might have been spoken thirtycenturies before, among the sphinxes of the Land of Ser; fortunately, that night I understood Coptic perfectly. 

The Princess Hermonthis said in a tone of voice sweet and tremulous asthe tones of a crystal bell:

"Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from me, yet I took the bestof care of you; I bathed you with perfumed water, in a basin ofalabaster; I rubbed your heel with pumice stone, mixed with oil of palm;your nails were cut with golden scissors, and polished with ahippopotamus' tooth; I was careful to select for you painted andembroidered _tatbebs_, with turned up toes, which were the envy of allthe young girls of Egypt; on your great toe, you wore rings representingthe sacred Scarab, and you supported one of the lightest bodies thatcould be desired by a lazy foot. "

The foot answered in a pouting, regretful voice:

"You know well that I no longer belong to myself. I have been bought andpaid for; the old dealer knew what he was about. He bears you a grudgefor having refused to marry him. This is a trick he has played on you. The Arab who forced open your royal tomb, in the subterranean pits ofthe Necropolis of Thebes, was sent there by him. He wanted to preventyou from attending the reunion of the shades, in the cities of the lowerworld. Have you five pieces of gold with which to ransom me?"

"Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and of silver have allbeen stolen from me, " answered the Princess Hermonthis with a sigh. 

"Princess, " I then cried out, "I have never kept possession of anyone'sfoot unjustly; even though you have not the five louis which it cost me, I will return it to you gladly; I should be wretched, were I the causeof the lameness of so charming a person as the Princess Hermonthis. "

I delivered this discourse in a courtly, troubadour-like manner, whichmust have astonished the beautiful Egyptian. 

She looked at me with an expression of deepest gratitude, and her eyesbrightened with bluish lights. 

She took her foot, which this time submitted, and, like a woman about toput on her brodekin, she adjusted it to her leg with great dexterity. 

This operation finished, she took a few steps about the room, as thoughto assure herself that she was in reality no longer lame. 

"Ah, how happy my father will be, he who was so wretched because of mymutilation--he who, from the day of my birth, set a whole nation to workto hollow out a tomb so deep that he might preserve me intact until thatsupreme last day, when souls must be weighed in the scales of Amenti!Come with me to my father; he will be happy to receive you, for you havegiven me back my foot. "

I found this proposition quite natural. I decked myself out in adressing-gown of huge sprawling design, which gave me an extremelyPharaohesque appearance; I hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers, and told the Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her. 

Before setting out, Hermonthis detached from her necklace the littlegreen paste image and placed it on the scattered papers which strewedthe table. 

"It is no more than right, " she said smilingly, "that I should replaceyour paper weight. "

She gave me her hand, which was soft and cool as the skin of a serpent, and we departed. 

For a time we sped with the rapidity of an arrow, through a mistyexpanse of space, in which almost indistinguishable silhouettes flashedby us, on the right and left. 

For an instant we saw nothing but sea and sky. 

A few minutes later, towering obelisks, pillars, the sloping outlines ofthe sphinx, were designed against the horizon. 

We had arrived. 

The princess conducted me to the side of a mountain of red granite inwhich there was an aperture so low and narrow that, had it not beenmarked by two monoliths covered with bizarre carvings, it would havebeen difficult to distinguish from the fissures in the rock. 

Hermonthis lighted a torch and led the way. 

The corridors were hewn through the living rock. The walls, with panelscovered with hieroglyphics, and representations of allegoricalprocessions, must have been the work of thousands of hands for thousandsof years; the corridors, of an interminable length, ended in squarerooms, in the middle of which pits had been constructed, to which wedescended by means of _crampons_ or spiral staircases. These pits led usinto other rooms, from which opened out other corridors embellished inthe same bizarre manner with sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, the symbolic tau, pedum, and baris, prodigious works which no living eyeshould ever see, interminable legends in granite which only the deadthroughout eternity have time to read. 

At last we reached a hall so vast, so boundless, so immeasurable, thatits limits could not be discerned. As far as the eye could see, extendedfiles of gigantic columns, between which sparkled livid stars of yellowlight. These glittering points of light revealed incalculable depthsbeyond. 

The Princess Hermonthis, still holding my hand, greeted graciously themummies of her acquaintance. 

My eyes gradually became accustomed to the shadowy twilight, and I beganto distinguish the objects around me. 

I saw, seated upon their thrones, the kings of the subterranean races. They were dignified old personages, or dried up, shriveled, wrinkled-like parchment, and blackened with naphtha and bitumen. Ontheir heads they wore pschents of gold, and their breastplates andgorgets scintillated with precious stones; their eyes had the fixednessof the sphinx, and their long beards were whitened by the snows ofcenturies. Behind them stood their embalmed subjects, in the rigid andconstrained postures of Egyptian art, preserving eternally the attitudesprescribed by the hieratic code. Behind the subjects, the cats, ibixes, and crocodiles contemporary with them, rendered still more monstrous bytheir wrappings, mewed, beat their wings, and opened and closed theirhuge jaws in foolish grimaces. 

All the Pharaohs were there--Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus, Sesostri, Amenoteph, all the dark-skinned rulers of the country of the pyramids, and the royal sepulchers; on a still higher platform sat enthroned thekings Chronos, and Xixouthros, who were contemporary with the deluge, and Tubal-Cain, who preceded it. 

The beard of King Xixouthros had grown to such lengths that it hadalready wound itself seven times around the granite table against whichhe leaned, lost in reverie, as though in slumber. 

Further in the distance, through a dim exhalation, across the mists ofeternities, I beheld vaguely the seventy-two pre-Adamite kings, withtheir seventy-two peoples, vanished forever. 

The Princess Hermonthis, after allowing me a few moments to enjoy thisdizzying spectacle, presented me to Pharaoh, her father, who nodded tome in a most majestic manner. 

"I have found my foot--I have found my foot!" cried the Princess, clapping her little hands, with every indication of uncontrollable joy. "It was this gentleman who returned it to me. "

The races of Kheme, the races of Nahasi, all the races, black, bronze, and copper-colored, repeated in a chorus:

"The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot. "

Xixouthros himself was deeply affected. 

He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his moustache, and regarded me withhis glance charged with the centuries. 

"By Oms, the dog of Hell, and by Tmei, daughter of the Sun and of Truth, here is a brave and worthy young man, " said Pharaoh, extending toward mehis scepter which terminated in a lotus flower. "What recompense do youdesire?"

Eagerly, with that audacity which one has in dreams, where nothing seemsimpossible, I asked him for the hand of the Princess Hermonthis. Herhand in exchange for her foot, seemed to me an antithetical recompense, in sufficiently good taste. 

Pharaoh opened wide his eyes of glass, surprised at my pleasantry, aswell as my request. 

"From what country are you, and what is your age?"

"I am a Frenchman, and I am twenty-seven years old, venerable Pharaoh. "

"Twenty-seven years old! And he wishes to espouse the PrincessHermonthis, who is thirty centuries old!" exclaimed in a chorus all thethrones, and all the circles of nations. 

Hermonthis alone did not seem to think my request improper. 

"If you were even two thousand years old, " continued the old king, "Iwould gladly bestow upon you the Princess; but the disproportion is toogreat; besides, our daughters must have husbands who will last, and youno longer know how to preserve yourselves. Of the last persons who werebrought here, scarcely fifteen centuries ago, nothing now remains but apinch of ashes. Look! my flesh is as hard as basalt, my bones are barsof steel. I shall be present on the last day, with the body and featuresI had in life. My daughter Hermonthis will last longer than a statue ofbronze. But at that time the winds will have dissipated the last grainsof your dust, and Isis herself, who knew how to recover the fragments ofOsiris, would hardly be able to recompose your being. See how vigorous Istill am, and how powerful is the strength of my arm, " said he, shakingmy hand in the English fashion, in a way that cut my fingers with myrings. 

His grasp was so strong that I awoke, and discovered my friend Alfred, who was pulling me by the arm, and shaking me, to make me get up. 

"Oh, see here, you maddening sleeper! Must I have you dragged into themiddle of the street, and have fireworks put off close to your ear, inorder to waken you? It is afternoon. Don't you remember that youpromised to call for me and take me to see the Spanish pictures of M. Aguada?"

"Good heavens! I forgot all about it, " I answered, dressing hurriedly. "We can go there at once--I have the permit here on my table. " I crossedover to get it; imagine my astonishment when I saw, not the mummy's footI had bought the evening before, but the little green paste image leftin its place by the Princess Hermonthis!

THE RIVAL GHOSTS

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS

From _Tales of Fantasy and Fact_, by Brander Matthews. Copyright, 1886, by Harper Brothers. By permission of the publishers and BranderMatthews. 

The Rival Ghosts

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS

The good ship sped on her way across the calm Atlantic. It was anoutward passage, according to the little charts which the company hadcharily distributed, but most of the passengers were homeward bound, after a summer of rest and recreation, and they were counting the daysbefore they might hope to see Fire Island Light. On the lee side of theboat, comfortably sheltered from the wind, and just by the door of thecaptain's room (which was theirs during the day), sat a little group ofreturning Americans. The Duchess (she was down on the purser's list asMrs. Martin, but her friends and familiars called her the Duchess ofWashington Square) and Baby Van Rensselaer (she was quite old enough tovote, had her sex been entitled to that duty, but as the younger of twosisters she was still the baby of the family)--the Duchess and Baby VanRensselaer were discussing the pleasant English voice and the notunpleasant English accent of a manly young lordling who was going toAmerica for sport. Uncle Larry and Dear Jones were enticing each otherinto a bet on the ship's run of the morrow. 

"I'll give you two to one she don't make 420, " said Dear Jones. 

"I'll take it, " answered Uncle Larry. "We made 427 the fifth day lastyear. " It was Uncle Larry's seventeenth visit to Europe, and this wastherefore his thirty-fourth voyage. 

"And when did you get in?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. "I don't care abit about the run, so long as we get in soon. "

"We crossed the bar Sunday night, just seven days after we leftQueenstown, and we dropped anchor off Quarantine at three o'clock onMonday morning. "

"I hope we sha'n't do that this time. I can't seem to sleep any when theboat stops. "

"I can, but I didn't, " continued Uncle Larry, "because my stateroom wasthe most for'ard in the boat, and the donkey-engine that let down theanchor was right over my head. "

"So you got up and saw the sun rise over the bay, " said Dear Jones, "with the electric lights of the city twinkling in the distance, and thefirst faint flush of the dawn in the east just over Fort Lafayette, andthe rosy tinge which spread softly upward, and----"

"Did you both come back together?" asked the Duchess. 

"Because he has crossed thirty-four times you must not suppose he has amonopoly in sunrises, " retorted Dear Jones. "No; this was my ownsunrise; and a mighty pretty one it was too. "

"I'm not matching sunrises with you, " remarked Uncle Larry calmly;"but I'm willing to back a merry jest called forth by my sunrise againstany two merry jests called forth by yours. "

"I confess reluctantly that my sunrise evoked no merry jest at all. "Dear Jones was an honest man, and would scorn to invent a merry jest onthe spur of the moment. 

"That's where my sunrise has the call, " said Uncle Larry, complacently. 

"What was the merry jest?" was Baby Van Rensselaer's inquiry, thenatural result of a feminine curiosity thus artistically excited. 

"Well, here it is. I was standing aft, near a patriotic American and awandering Irishman, and the patriotic American rashly declared that youcouldn't see a sunrise like that anywhere in Europe, and this gave theIrishman his chance, and he said, 'Sure ye don't have'm here till we'rethrough with 'em over there. '"

"It is true, " said Dear Jones, thoughtfully, "that they do have somethings over there better than we do; for instance, umbrellas. "

"And gowns, " added the Duchess. 

"And antiquities. "--this was Uncle Larry's contribution. 

"And we do have some things so much better in America!" protested BabyVan Rensselaer, as yet uncorrupted by any worship of the effetemonarchies of despotic Europe. "We make lots of things a great dealnicer than you can get them in Europe--especially ice-cream. "

"And pretty girls, " added Dear Jones; but he did not look at her. 

"And spooks, " remarked Uncle Larry, casually. 

"Spooks?" queried the Duchess. 

"Spooks. I maintain the word. Ghost, if you like that better, orspecters. We turn out the best quality of spook----"

"You forget the lovely ghost stories about the Rhine and the BlackForest, " interrupted Miss Van Rensselaer, with feminine inconsistency. 

"I remember the Rhine and the Black Forest and all the other haunts ofelves and fairies and hobgoblins; but for good honest spooks there is noplace like home. And what differentiates our spook--_spiritusAmericanus_--from the ordinary ghost of literature is that it respondsto the American sense of humor. Take Irving's stories, for example. The'Headless Horseman'--that's a comic ghost story. And Rip VanWinkle--consider what humor, and what good humor, there is in thetelling of his meeting with the goblin crew of Hendrik Hudson's men! Astill better example of this American way of dealing with legend andmystery is the marvelous tale of the rival ghosts. "

"The rival ghosts!" queried the Duchess and Baby Van Rensselaertogether. "Who were they?"

"Didn't I ever tell you about them?" answered Uncle Larry, a gleam ofapproaching joy flashing from his eye. 

"Since he is bound to tell us sooner or later, we'd better be resignedand hear it now, " said Dear Jones. 

"If you are not more eager, I won't tell it at all. "

"Oh, do, Uncle Larry! you know I just dote on ghost stories, " pleadedBaby Van Rensselaer. 

"Once upon a time, " began Uncle Larry--"in fact, a very few yearsago--there lived in the thriving town of New York a young Americancalled Duncan--Eliphalet Duncan. Like his name, he was half Yankee andhalf Scotch, and naturally he was a lawyer, and had come to New York tomake his way. His father was a Scotchman who had come over and settledin Boston and married a Salem girl. When Eliphalet Duncan was abouttwenty he lost both of his parents. His father left him enough money togive him a start, and a strong feeling of pride in his Scotch birth; yousee there was a title in the family in Scotland, and althoughEliphalet's father was the younger son of a younger son, yet he alwaysremembered, and always bade his only son to remember, that this ancestrywas noble. His mother left him her full share of Yankee grit and alittle old house in Salem which had belonged to her family for more thantwo hundred years. She was a Hitchcock, and the Hitchcocks had beensettled in Salem since the year 1. It was a great-great-grandfather ofMr. Eliphalet Hitchcock who was foremost in the time of the Salemwitchcraft craze. And this little old house which she left to my friend, Eliphalet Duncan, was haunted. "

"By the ghost of one of the witches, of course?" interrupted Dear Jones. 

"Now how could it be the ghost of a witch, since the witches were allburned at the stake? You never heard of anybody who was burned having aghost, did you?" asked Uncle Larry. 

"That's an argument in favor of cremation, at any rate, " replied DearJones, evading the direct question. 

"It is, if you don't like ghosts. I do, " said Baby Van Rensselaer. 

"And so do I, " added Uncle Larry. "I love a ghost as dearly as anEnglishman loves a lord. "

"Go on with your story, " said the Duchess, majestically overruling allextraneous discussion. 

"This little old house at Salem was haunted, " resumed Uncle Larry. "Andby a very distinguished ghost--or at least by a ghost with veryremarkable attributes. "

"What was he like?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a premonitory shiverof anticipatory delight. 

"It had a lot of peculiarities. In the first place, it never appeared tothe master of the house. Mostly it confined its visitations to unwelcomeguests. In the course of the last hundred years it had frightened awayfour successive mothers-in-law, while never intruding on the head of thehousehold. "

"I guess that ghost had been one of the boys when he was alive and inthe flesh. " This was Dear Jones's contribution to the telling of thetale. 

"In the second place, " continued Uncle Larry, "it never frightenedanybody the first time it appeared. Only on the second visit were theghost-seers scared; but then they were scared enough for twice, and theyrarely mustered up courage enough to risk a third interview. One of themost curious characteristics of this well-meaning spook was that it hadno face--or at least that nobody ever saw its face. "

"Perhaps he kept his countenance veiled?" queried the Duchess, who wasbeginning to remember that she never did like ghost stories. 

"That was what I was never able to find out. I have asked several peoplewho saw the ghost, and none of them could tell me anything about itsface, and yet while in its presence they never noticed its features, andnever remarked on their absence or concealment. It was only afterwardswhen they tried to recall calmly all the circumstances of meeting withthe mysterious stranger that they became aware that they had not seenits face. And they could not say whether the features were covered, orwhether they were wanting, or what the trouble was. They knew only thatthe face was never seen. And no matter how often they might see it, theynever fathomed this mystery. To this day nobody knows whether the ghostwhich used to haunt the little old house in Salem had a face, or whatmanner of face it had. "

"How awfully weird!" said Baby Van Rensselaer. "And why did the ghost goaway?"

"I haven't said it went away, " answered Uncle Larry, with much dignity. 

"But you said it _used_ to haunt the little old house at Salem, so Isupposed it had moved. Didn't it?" the young lady asked. 

"You shall be told in due time. Eliphalet Duncan used to spend most ofhis summer vacations at Salem, and the ghost never bothered him at all, for he was the master of the house--much to his disgust, too, because hewanted to see for himself the mysterious tenant at will of his property. But he never saw it, never. He arranged with friends to call himwhenever it might appear, and he slept in the next room with the dooropen; and yet when their frightened cries waked him the ghost was gone, and his only reward was to hear reproachful sighs as soon as he wentback to bed. You see, the ghost thought it was not fair of Eliphalet toseek an introduction which was plainly unwelcome. "

Dear Jones interrupted the story-teller by getting up and tucking aheavy rug more snugly around Baby Van Rensselaer's feet, for the sky wasnow overcast and gray, and the air was damp and penetrating. 

"One fine spring morning, " pursued Uncle Larry, "Eliphalet Duncanreceived great news. I told you that there was a title in the family inScotland, and that Eliphalet's father was the younger son of a youngerson. Well, it happened that all Eliphalet's father's brothers anduncles had died off without male issue except the eldest son of theeldest son, and he, of course, bore the title, and was Baron Duncan ofDuncan. Now the great news that Eliphalet Duncan received in New Yorkone fine spring morning was that Baron Duncan and his only son had beenyachting in the Hebrides, and they had been caught in a black squall, and they were both dead. So my friend Eliphalet Duncan inherited thetitle and the estates. "

"How romantic!" said the Duchess. "So he was a baron!"

"Well, " answered Uncle Larry, "he was a baron if he chose. But he didn'tchoose. "

"More fool he!" said Dear Jones, sententiously. 

"Well, " answered Uncle Larry, "I'm not so sure of that. You see, Eliphalet Duncan was half Scotch and half Yankee, and he had two eyes tothe main chance. He held his tongue about his windfall of luck until hecould find out whether the Scotch estates were enough to keep up theScotch title. He soon discovered that they were not, and that the lateLord Duncan, having married money, kept up such state as he could out ofthe revenues of the dowry of Lady Duncan. And Eliphalet, he decided thathe would rather be a well-fed lawyer in New York, living comfortably onhis practice, than a starving lord in Scotland, living scantily on histitle. "

"But he kept his title?" asked the Duchess. 

"Well, " answered Uncle Larry, "he kept it quiet. I knew it, and a friendor two more. But Eliphalet was a sight too smart to put 'Baron Duncan ofDuncan, Attorney and Counselor at Law, ' on his shingle. "

"What has all this got to do with your ghost?" asked Dear Jones, pertinently. 

"Nothing with that ghost, but a good deal with another ghost. Eliphaletwas very learned in spirit lore--perhaps because he owned the hauntedhouse at Salem, perhaps because he was a Scotchman by descent. At allevents, he had made a special study of the wraiths and white ladies andbanshees and bogies of all kinds whose sayings and doings and warningsare recorded in the annals of the Scottish nobility. In fact, he wasacquainted with the habits of every reputable spook in the Scotchpeerage. And he knew that there was a Duncan ghost attached to theperson of the holder of the title of Baron Duncan of Duncan. "

"So, besides being the owner of a haunted house in Salem, he was also ahaunted man in Scotland?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. 

"Just so. But the Scotch ghost was not unpleasant, like the Salem ghost, although it had one peculiarity in common with its transatlanticfellow-spook. It never appeared to the holder of the title, just as theother never was visible to the owner of the house. In fact, the Duncanghost was never seen at all. It was a guardian angel only. Its sole dutywas to be in personal attendance on Baron Duncan of Duncan, and to warnhim of impending evil. The traditions of the house told that the Baronsof Duncan had again and again felt a premonition of ill fortune. Some ofthem had yielded and withdrawn from the venture they had undertaken, andit had failed dismally. Some had been obstinate, and had hardened theirhearts, and had gone on reckless to defeat and to death. In no case hada Lord Duncan been exposed to peril without fair warning. "

"Then how came it that the father and son were lost in the yacht off theHebrides?" asked Dear Jones. 

"Because they were too enlightened to yield to superstition. There isextant now a letter of Lord Duncan, written to his wife a few minutesbefore he and his son set sail, in which he tells her how hard he hashad to struggle with an almost overmastering desire to give up the trip. Had he obeyed the friendly warning of the family ghost, the letter wouldhave been spared a journey across the Atlantic. "

"Did the ghost leave Scotland for America as soon as the old barondied?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with much interest. 

"How did he come over, " queried Dear Jones--"in the steerage, or as acabin passenger?"

"I don't know, " answered Uncle Larry, calmly, "and Eliphalet didn'tknow. For as he was in no danger, and stood in no need of warning, hecouldn't tell whether the ghost was on duty or not. Of course he was onthe watch for it all the time. But he never got any proof of itspresence until he went down to the little old house of Salem, justbefore the Fourth of July. He took a friend down with him--a youngfellow who had been in the regular army since the day Fort Sumter wasfired on, and who thought that after four years of the littleunpleasantness down South, including six months in Libby, and after tenyears of fighting the bad Indians on the plains, he wasn't likely to bemuch frightened by a ghost. Well, Eliphalet and the officer sat out onthe porch all the evening smoking and talking over points in militarylaw. A little after twelve o'clock, just as they began to think it wasabout time to turn in, they heard the most ghastly noise in the house. It wasn't a shriek, or a howl, or a yell, or anything they could put aname to. It was an undeterminate, inexplicable shiver and shudder ofsound, which went wailing out of the window. The officer had been atCold Harbor, but he felt himself getting colder this time. Eliphaletknew it was the ghost who haunted the house. As this weird sound diedaway, it was followed by another, sharp, short, blood-curdling in itsintensity. Something in this cry seemed familiar to Eliphalet, and hefelt sure that it proceeded from the family ghost, the warning wraith ofthe Duncans. "

"Do I understand you to intimate that both ghosts were there together?"inquired the Duchess, anxiously. 

"Both of them were there, " answered Uncle Larry. "You see, one of thembelonged to the house, and had to be there all the time, and the otherwas attached to the person of Baron Duncan, and had to follow him there;wherever he was, there was that ghost also. But Eliphalet, he hadscarcely time to think this out when he heard both sounds again, not oneafter another, but both together, and something told him--some sort ofan instinct he had--that those two ghosts didn't agree, didn't get ontogether, didn't exactly hit it off; in fact, that they werequarreling. "

"Quarreling ghosts! Well, I never!" was Baby Van Rensselaer's remark. 

"It is a blessed thing to see ghosts dwell together in unity, " said DearJones. 

And the Duchess added, "It would certainly be setting a better example. "

"You know, " resumed Uncle Larry, "that two waves of light or of soundmay interfere and produce darkness or silence. So it was with theserival spooks. They interfered, but they did not produce silence ordarkness. On the contrary, as soon as Eliphalet and the officer wentinto the house, there began at once a series of spiritualisticmanifestations--a regular dark séance. A tambourine was played upon, abell was rung, and a flaming banjo went singing around the room. "

"Where did they get the banjo?" asked Dear Jones, sceptically. 

"I don't know. Materialized it, maybe, just as they did the tambourine. You don't suppose a quiet New York lawyer kept a stock of musicalinstruments large enough to fit out a strolling minstrel troupe just onthe chance of a pair of ghosts coming to give him a surprise party, doyou? Every spook has its own instrument of torture. Angels play onharps, I'm informed, and spirits delight in banjos and tambourines. These spooks of Eliphalet Duncan's were ghosts with all modernimprovements, and I guess they were capable of providing their ownmusical weapons. At all events, they had them there in the little oldhouse at Salem the night Eliphalet and his friend came down. And theyplayed on them, and they rang the bell, and they rapped here, there, andeverywhere. And they kept it up all night. "

"All night?" asked the awe-stricken Duchess. 

"All night long, " said Uncle Larry, solemnly; "and the next night too. Eliphalet did not get a wink of sleep, neither did his friend. On thesecond night the house ghost was seen by the officer; on the third nightit showed itself again; and the next morning the officer packed hisgripsack and took the first train to Boston. He was a New Yorker, but hesaid he'd sooner go to Boston than see that ghost again. Eliphaletwasn't scared at all, partly because he never saw either the domiciliaryor the titular spook, and partly because he felt himself on friendlyterms with the spirit world, and didn't scare easily. But after losingthree nights' sleep and the society of his friend, he began to be alittle impatient, and to think that the thing had gone far enough. Yousee, while in a way he was fond of ghosts, yet he liked them best one ata time. Two ghosts were one too many. He wasn't bent on making acollection of spooks. He and one ghost were company, but he and twoghosts were a crowd. "

"What did he do?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. 

"Well he couldn't do anything. He waited awhile, hoping they would gettired; but he got tired out first. You see, it comes natural to a spookto sleep in the daytime, but a man wants to sleep nights, and theywouldn't let him sleep nights. They kept on wrangling and quarrelingincessantly; they manifested and they dark-séanced as regularly as theold clock on the stairs struck twelve; they rapped and they rang bellsand they banged the tambourine and they threw the flaming banjo aboutthe house, and, worse than all, they swore. "

"I did not know that spirits were addicted to bad language, " said theDuchess. 

"How did he know they were swearing? Could he hear them?" asked DearJones. 

"That was just it, " responded Uncle Larry; "he could not hear them--atleast, not distinctly. There were inarticulate murmurs and stifledrumblings. But the impression produced on him was that they wereswearing. If they had only sworn right out, he would not have minded itso much, because he would have known the worst. But the feeling that theair was full of suppressed profanity was very wearing, and afterstanding it for a week he gave up in disgust and went to the WhiteMountains. "

"Leaving them to fight it out, I suppose, " interjected Baby VanRensselaer. 

"Not at all, " explained Uncle Larry. "They could not quarrel unless hewas present. You see, he could not leave the titular ghost behind him, and the domiciliary ghost could not leave the house. When he went awayhe took the family ghost with him, leaving the house ghost behind. Nowspooks can't quarrel when they are a hundred miles apart any more thanmen can. "

"And what happened afterwards?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a prettyimpatience. 

"A most marvelous thing happened. Eliphalet Duncan went to the WhiteMountains, and in the car of the railroad that runs to the top of MountWashington he met a classmate whom he had not seen for years, and thisclassmate introduced Duncan to his sister, and this sister was aremarkably pretty girl, and Duncan fell in love with her at first sight, and by the time he got to the top of Mount Washington he was so deep inlove that he began to consider his own unworthiness, and to wonderwhether she might ever be induced to care for him a little--ever solittle. "

"I don't think that is so marvelous a thing, " said Dear Jones, glancingat Baby Van Rensselaer. 

"Who was she?" asked the Duchess, who had once lived in Philadelphia. 

"She was Miss Kitty Sutton, of San Francisco, and she was a daughter ofold Judge Sutton, of the firm of Pixley & Sutton. "

"A very respectable family, " assented the Duchess. 

"I hope she wasn't a daughter of that loud and vulgar old Mrs. Suttonwhom I met at Saratoga one summer four or five years ago?" said DearJones. 

"Probably she was, " Uncle Larry responded. 

"She was a horrid old woman. The boys used to call her Mother Gorgon. "

"The pretty Kitty Sutton with whom Eliphalet Duncan had fallen in lovewas the daughter of Mother Gorgon. But he never saw the mother, who wasin Frisco, or Los Angeles, or Santa Fé, or somewhere out West, and hesaw a great deal of the daughter, who was up in the White Mountains. Shewas traveling with her brother and his wife, and as they journeyed fromhotel to hotel Duncan went with them, and filled out the quartette. Before the end of the summer he began to think about proposing. Ofcourse he had lots of chances, going on excursions as they were everyday. He made up his mind to seize the first opportunity, and that veryevening he took her out for a moonlight row on Lake Winipiseogee. As hehanded her into the boat he resolved to do it, and he had a glimmer ofsuspicion that she knew he was going to do it, too. "

"Girls, " said Dear Jones, "never go out in a rowboat at night with ayoung man unless you mean to accept him. "

"Sometimes it's best to refuse him, and get it over once for all, " saidBaby Van Rensselaer, impersonally. 

"As Eliphalet took the oars he felt a sudden chill. He tried to shake itoff, but in vain. He began to have a growing consciousness of impendingevil. Before he had taken ten strokes--and he was a swift oarsman--hewas aware of a mysterious presence between him and Miss Sutton. "

"Was it the guardian-angel ghost warning him off the match?" interruptedDear Jones. 

"That's just what it was, " said Uncle Larry. "And he yielded to it, andkept his peace, and rowed Miss Sutton back to the hotel with hisproposal unspoken. "

"More fool he, " said Dear Jones. "It will take more than one ghost tokeep me from proposing when my mind is made up. " And he looked at BabyVan Rensselaer. 

"The next morning, " continued Uncle Larry, "Eliphalet overslept himself, and when he went down to a late breakfast he found that the Suttons hadgone to New York by the morning train. He wanted to follow them at once, and again he felt the mysterious presence overpowering his will. Hestruggled two days, and at last he roused himself to do what he wantedin spite of the spook. When he arrived in New York it was late in theevening. He dressed himself hastily, and went to the hotel where theSuttons were, in the hope of seeing at least her brother. The guardianangel fought every inch of the walk with him, until he began to wonderwhether, if Miss Sutton were to take him, the spook would forbid thebanns. At the hotel he saw no one that night, and he went homedetermined to call as early as he could the next afternoon, and make anend of it. When he left his office about two o'clock the next day tolearn his fate, he had not walked five blocks before he discovered thatthe wraith of the Duncans had withdrawn his opposition to the suit. There was no feeling of impending evil, no resistance, no struggle, noconsciousness of an opposing presence. Eliphalet was greatly encouraged. He walked briskly to the hotel; he found Miss Sutton alone. He asked herthe question, and got his answer. "

"She accepted him, of course?" said Baby Van Rensselaer. 

"Of course, " said Uncle Larry. "And while they were in the first flushof joy, swapping confidences and confessions, her brother came into theparlor with an expression of pain on his face and a telegram in hishand. The former was caused by the latter, which was from Frisco, andwhich announced the sudden death of Mrs. Sutton, their mother. "

"And that was why the ghost no longer opposed the match?" questionedDear Jones. 

"Exactly. You see, the family ghost knew that Mother Gorgon was an awfulobstacle to Duncan's happiness, so it warned him. But the moment theobstacle was removed, it gave its consent at once. "

The fog was lowering its thick, damp curtain, and it was beginning to bedifficult to see from one end of the boat to the other. Dear Jonestightened the rug which enwrapped Baby Van Rensselaer, and then withdrewagain into his own substantial coverings. 

Uncle Larry paused in his story long enough to light another of the tinycigars he always smoked. 

"I infer that Lord Duncan"--the Duchess was scrupulous in the bestowalof titles--"saw no more of the ghosts after he was married. "

"He never saw them at all, at any time, either before or since. But theycame very near breaking off the match, and thus breaking two younghearts. "

"You don't mean to say that they knew any just cause or impediment whythey should not forever after hold their peace?" asked Dear Jones. 

"How could a ghost, or even two ghosts, keep a girl from marrying theman she loved?" This was Baby Van Rensselaer's question. 

"It seems curious, doesn't it?" and Uncle Larry tried to warm himself bytwo or three sharp pulls at his fiery little cigar. "And thecircumstances are quite as curious as the fact itself. You see, MissSutton wouldn't be married for a year after her mother's death, so sheand Duncan had lots of time to tell each other all they knew. Eliphaletgot to know a good deal about the girls she went to school with; andKitty soon learned all about his family. He didn't tell her about thetitle for a long time, as he wasn't one to brag. But he described toher the little old house at Salem. And one evening towards the end ofthe summer, the wedding-day having been appointed for early inSeptember, she told him that she didn't want a bridal tour at all; shejust wanted to go down to the little old house at Salem to spend herhoneymoon in peace and quiet, with nothing to do and nobody to botherthem. Well, Eliphalet jumped at the suggestion: it suited him down tothe ground. All of a sudden he remembered the spooks, and it knocked himall of a heap. He had told her about the Duncan banshee, and the idea ofhaving an ancestral ghost in personal attendance on her husband tickledher immensely. But he had never said anything about the ghost whichhaunted the little old house at Salem. He knew she would be frightenedout of her wits if the house ghost revealed itself to her, and he saw atonce that it would be impossible to go to Salem on their wedding trip. So he told her all about it, and how whenever he went to Salem the twoghosts interfered, and gave dark séances and manifested and materializedand made the place absolutely impossible. Kitty listened in silence, andEliphalet thought she had changed her mind. But she hadn't done anythingof the kind. "

"Just like a man--to think she was going to, " remarked Baby VanRensselaer. 

"She just told him she could not bear ghosts herself, but she would notmarry a man who was afraid of them. "

"Just like a girl--to be so inconsistent, " remarked Dear Jones. 

Uncle Larry's tiny cigar had long been extinct. He lighted a new one, and continued: "Eliphalet protested in vain. Kitty said her mind wasmade up. She was determined to pass her honeymoon in the little oldhouse at Salem, and she was equally determined not to go there as longas there were any ghosts there. Until he could assure her that thespectral tenant had received notice to quit, and that there was nodanger of manifestations and materializing, she refused to be married atall. She did not intend to have her honeymoon interrupted by twowrangling ghosts, and the wedding could be postponed until he had madeready the house for her. "

"She was an unreasonable young woman, " said the Duchess. 

"Well, that's what Eliphalet thought, much as he was in love with her. And he believed he could talk her out of her determination. But hecouldn't. She was set. And when a girl is set, there's nothing to do butto yield to the inevitable. And that's just what Eliphalet did. He sawhe would either have to give her up or to get the ghosts out; and as heloved her and did not care for the ghosts, he resolved to tackle theghosts. He had clear grit, Eliphalet had--he was half Scotch and halfYankee and neither breed turns tail in a hurry. So he made his plans andhe went down to Salem. As he said good-by to Kitty he had an impressionthat she was sorry she had made him go; but she kept up bravely, andput a bold face on it, and saw him off, and went home and cried for anhour, and was perfectly miserable until he came back the next day. "

"Did he succeed in driving the ghosts away?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with great interest. 

"That's just what I'm coming to, " said Uncle Larry, pausing at thecritical moment, in the manner of the trained story-teller. "You see, Eliphalet had got a rather tough job, and he would gladly have had anextension of time on the contract, but he had to choose between the girland the ghosts, and he wanted the girl. He tried to invent or remembersome short and easy way with ghosts, but he couldn't. He wished thatsomebody had invented a specific for spooks--something that would makethe ghosts come out of the house and die in the yard. He wondered if hecould not tempt the ghosts to run in debt, so that he might get thesheriff to help him. He wondered also whether the ghosts could not beovercome with strong drink--a dissipated spook, a spook with deliriumtremens, might be committed to the inebriate asylum. But none of thesethings seemed feasible. "

"What did he do?" interrupted Dear Jones. "The learned counsel willplease speak to the point. "

"You will regret this unseemly haste, " said Uncle Larry, gravely, "whenyou know what really happened. "

"What was it, Uncle Larry?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. "I'm allimpatience. "

And Uncle Larry proceeded:

"Eliphalet went down to the little old house at Salem, and as soon asthe clock struck twelve the rival ghosts began wrangling as before. Rapshere, there, and everywhere, ringing bells, banging tambourines, strumming banjos sailing about the room, and all the othermanifestations and materializations followed one another just as theyhad the summer before. The only difference Eliphalet could detect was astronger flavor in the spectral profanity; and this, of course, was onlya vague impression, for he did not actually hear a single word. Hewaited awhile in patience, listening and watching. Of course he neversaw either of the ghosts, because neither of them could appear to him. At last he got his dander up, and he thought it was about time tointerfere, so he rapped on the table, and asked for silence. As soon ashe felt that the spooks were listening to him he explained the situationto them. He told them he was in love, and that he could not marry unlessthey vacated the house. He appealed to them as old friends, and he laidclaim to their gratitude. The titular ghost had been sheltered by theDuncan family for hundreds of years, and the domiciliary ghost had hadfree lodging in the little old house at Salem for nearly two centuries. He implored them to settle their differences, and to get him out of hisdifficulty at once. He suggested that they had better fight it out thenand there, and see who was master. He had brought down with him allneedful weapons. And he pulled out his valise, and spread on the table apair of navy revolvers, a pair of shotguns, a pair of dueling-swords, and a couple of bowie knives. He offered to serve as second for bothparties, and to give the word when to begin. He also took out of hisvalise a pack of cards and a bottle of poison, telling them that if theywished to avoid carnage they might cut the cards to see which one shouldtake the poison. Then he waited anxiously for their reply. For a littlespace there was silence. Then he became conscious of a tremulousshivering in one corner of the room, and he remembered that he had heardfrom that direction what sounded like a frightened sigh when he made thefirst suggestion of the duel. Something told him that this was thedomiciliary ghost, and that it was badly scared. Then he was impressedby a certain movement in the opposite corner of the room, as though thetitular ghost were drawing himself up with offended dignity. Eliphaletcouldn't exactly see those things, because he never saw the ghosts, buthe felt them. After a silence of nearly a minute a voice came from thecorner where the family ghost stood--a voice strong and full, buttrembling slightly with suppressed passion. And this voice toldEliphalet it was plain enough that he had not long been the head of theDuncans, and that he had never properly considered the characteristicsof his race if now he supposed that one of his blood could draw hissword against a woman. Eliphalet said he had never suggested that theDuncan ghost should raise his hand against a woman, and all he wantedwas that the Duncan ghost should fight the other ghost. And then thevoice told Eliphalet that the other ghost was a woman. "

"What?" said Dear Jones, sitting up suddenly. "You don't mean to tell methat the ghost which haunted the house was a woman?"

"Those were the very words Eliphalet Duncan used, " said Uncle Larry;"but he did not need to wait for the answer. All at once he recalled thetraditions about the domiciliary ghost, and he knew that what thetitular ghost said was the fact. He had never thought of the sex of aspook, but there was no doubt whatever that the house ghost was a woman. No sooner was this firmly fixed in Eliphalet's mind than he saw his wayout of the difficulty. The ghosts must be married!--for then there wouldbe no more interference, no more quarreling, no more manifestations andmaterializations, no more dark séances, with their raps and bells andtambourines and banjos. At first the ghosts would not hear of it. Thevoice in the corner declared that the Duncan wraith had never thought ofmatrimony. But Eliphalet argued with them, and pleaded and pursuaded andcoaxed, and dwelt on the advantages of matrimony. He had to confess, ofcourse, that he did not know how to get a clergyman to marry them; butthe voice from the corner gravely told him that there need be nodifficulty in regard to that, as there was no lack of spiritualchaplains. Then, for the first time, the house ghost spoke, a low, clear, gentle voice, and with a quaint, old-fashioned New Englandaccent, which contrasted sharply with the broad Scotch speech of thefamily ghost. She said that Eliphalet Duncan seemed to have forgottenthat she was married. But this did not upset Eliphalet at all; heremembered the whole case clearly, and he told her she was not a marriedghost, but a widow, since her husband had been hanged for murdering her. Then the Duncan ghost drew attention to the great disparity in theirages, saying that he was nearly four hundred and fifty years old, whileshe was barely two hundred. But Eliphalet had not talked to juries fornothing; he just buckled to, and coaxed those ghosts into matrimony. Afterwards he came to the conclusion that they were willing to becoaxed, but at the time he thought he had pretty hard work to convincethem of the advantages of the plan. "

"Did he succeed?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a woman's interest inmatrimony. 

"He did, " said Uncle Larry. "He talked the wraith of the Duncans and thespecter of the little old house at Salem into a matrimonial engagement. And from the time they were engaged he had no more trouble with them. They were rival ghosts no longer. They were married by their spiritualchaplain the very same day that Eliphalet Duncan met Kitty Sutton infront of the railing of Grace Church. The ghostly bride and bridegroomwent away at once on their bridal tour, and Lord and Lady Duncan wentdown to the little old house at Salem to pass their honeymoon. "

Uncle Larry stopped. His tiny cigar was out again. The tale of the rivalghosts was told. A solemn silence fell on the little party on the deckof the ocean steamer, broken harshly by the hoarse roar of thefog-horn. 

THE WATER GHOST OF HARROWBY HALL

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

From _The Water Ghost, and other Stories_, by John Kendrick Bangs. Copyright, 1904, by Harper Brothers. By permission of the publishers andJohn Kendrick Bangs. 

The Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

The trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, and, what wasworse, the ghost did not content itself with merely appearing at thebedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in remainingthere for one mortal hour before it would disappear. 

It never appeared except on Christmas Eve, and then as the clock wasstriking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in thatoriginality which in these days is a _sine qua non_ of success inspectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to ridthemselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroomfloor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made herappearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality ofhers, and there she would stand until everything about her wasthoroughly saturated. 

Then the owners of Harrowby Hall caulked up every crack in the floorwith the very best quality of hemp, and over this were placed layers oftar and canvas; the walls were made waterproof, and the doors andwindows likewise, the proprietors having conceived the notion that theunexorcised lady would find it difficult to leak into the room afterthese precautions had been taken; but even this did not suffice. Thefollowing Christmas Eve she appeared as promptly as before, andfrightened the occupant of the room quite out of his senses by sittingdown alongside of him and gazing with her cavernous blue eyes into his;and he noticed, too, that in her long, aqueously bony fingers bits ofdripping seaweed were entwined, the ends hanging down, and these endsshe drew across his forehead until he became like one insane. And thenhe swooned away, and was found unconscious in his bed the next morningby his host, simply saturated with sea-water and fright, from thecombined effects of which he never recovered, dying four years later ofpneumonia and nervous prostration at the age of seventy-eight. 

The next year the master of Harrowby Hall decided not to have the bestspare bedroom opened at all, thinking that perhaps the ghost's thirstfor making herself disagreeable would be satisfied by haunting thefurniture, but the plan was as unavailing as the many that had precededit. 

The ghost appeared as usual in the room--that is, it was supposed shedid, for the hangings were dripping wet the next morning, and in theparlor below the haunted room a great damp spot appeared on theceiling. Finding no one there, she immediately set out to learn thereason why, and she chose none other to haunt than the owner of theHarrowby himself. She found him in his own cosey room drinkingwhiskey--whiskey undiluted--and felicitating himself upon having foiledher ghost-ship, when all of a sudden the curl went out of his hair, hiswhiskey bottle filled and overflowed, and he was himself in a conditionsimilar to that of a man who has fallen into a water-butt. When herecovered from the shock, which was a painful one, he saw before him thelady of the cavernous eyes and seaweed fingers. The sight was sounexpected and so terrifying that he fainted, but immediately came to, because of the vast amount of water in his hair, which, trickling downover his face, restored his consciousness. 

Now it so happened that the master of Harrowby was a brave man, andwhile he was not particularly fond of interviewing ghosts, especiallysuch quenching ghosts as the one before him, he was not to be daunted byan apparition. He had paid the lady the compliment of fainting from theeffects of his first surprise, and now that he had come to he intendedto find out a few things he felt he had a right to know. He would haveliked to put on a dry suit of clothes first, but the apparition declinedto leave him for an instant until her hour was up, and he was forced todeny himself that pleasure. Every time he would move she would followhim, with the result that everything she came in contact with got aducking. In an effort to warm himself up he approached the fire, anunfortunate move as it turned out, because it brought the ghost directlyover the fire, which immediately was extinguished. The whiskey becameutterly valueless as a comforter to his chilled system, because it wasby this time diluted to a proportion of ninety per cent of water. Theonly thing he could do to ward off the evil effects of his encounter hedid, and that was to swallow ten two-grain quinine pills, which hemanaged to put into his mouth before the ghost had time to interfere. Having done this, he turned with some asperity to the ghost, and said:

"Far be it from me to be impolite to a woman, madam, but I'm hanged ifit wouldn't please me better if you'd stop these infernal visits ofyours to this house. Go sit out on the lake, if you like that sort ofthing; soak the water-butt, if you wish; but do not, I implore you, comeinto a gentleman's house and saturate him and his possessions in thisway. It is damned disagreeable. "

"Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe, " said the ghost, in a gurgling voice, "youdon't know what you are talking about. "

"Madam, " returned the unhappy householder, "I wish that remark werestrictly truthful. I was talking about you. It would be shillings andpence--nay, pounds, in my pocket, madam, if I did not know you. "

"That is a bit of specious nonsense, " returned the ghost, throwing aquart of indignation into the face of the master of Harrowby. "It mayrank high as repartee, but as a comment upon my statement that you donot know what you are talking about, it savors of irrelevantimpertinence. You do not know that I am compelled to haunt this placeyear after year by inexorable fate. It is no pleasure to me to enterthis house, and ruin and mildew everything I touch. I never aspired tobe a shower-bath, but it is my doom. Do you know who I am?"

"No, I don't, " returned the master of Harrowby. "I should say you werethe Lady of the Lake, or Little Sallie Waters. "

"You are a witty man for your years, " said the ghost. 

"Well, my humor is drier than yours ever will be, " returned the master. 

"No doubt. I'm never dry. I am the Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall, anddryness is a quality entirely beyond my wildest hope. I have been theincumbent of this highly unpleasant office for two hundred yearsto-night. "

"How the deuce did you ever come to get elected?" asked the master. 

"Through a suicide, " replied the specter. "I am the ghost of that fairmaiden whose picture hangs over the mantelpiece in the drawing-room. Ishould have been your great-great-great-great-great-aunt if I had lived, Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe, for I was the own sister of yourgreat-great-great-great-grandfather. "

"But what induced you to get this house into such a predicament?"

"I was not to blame, sir, " returned the lady. "It was my father's fault. He it was who built Harrowby Hall, and the haunted chamber was to havebeen mine. My father had it furnished in pink and yellow, knowing wellthat blue and gray formed the only combination of color I couldtolerate. He did it merely to spite me, and, with what I deem a properspirit, I declined to live in the room; whereupon my father said I couldlive there or on the lawn, he didn't care which. That night I ran fromthe house and jumped over the cliff into the sea. "

"That was rash, " said the master of Harrowby. 

"So I've heard, " returned the ghost. "If I had known what theconsequences were to be I should not have jumped; but I really neverrealized what I was doing until after I was drowned. I had been drowneda week when a sea-nymph came to me and informed me that I was to be oneof her followers forever afterwards, adding that it should be my doom tohaunt Harrowby Hall for one hour every Christmas Eve throughout the restof eternity. I was to haunt that room on such Christmas Eves as I foundit inhabited; and if it should turn out not to be inhabited, I was andam to spend the allotted hour with the head of the house. "

"I'll sell the place. "

"That you cannot do, for it is also required of me that I shall appearas the deeds are to be delivered to any purchaser, and divulge to himthe awful secret of the house. "

"Do you mean to tell me that on every Christmas Eve that I don't happento have somebody in that guest-chamber, you are going to haunt mewherever I may be, ruining my whiskey, taking all the curl out of myhair, extinguishing my fire, and soaking me through to the skin?"demanded the master. 

"You have stated the case, Oglethorpe. And what is more, " said the waterghost, "it doesn't make the slightest difference where you are, if Ifind that room empty, wherever you may be I shall douse you with myspectral pres----"

Here the clock struck one, and immediately the apparition faded away. Itwas perhaps more of a trickle than a fade, but as a disappearance it wascomplete. 

"By St. George and his Dragon!" ejaculated the master of Harrowby, wringing his hands. "It is guineas to hot-cross buns that next Christmasthere's an occupant of the spare room, or I spend the night in abathtub. "

But the master of Harrowby would have lost his wager had there beenanyone there to take him up, for when Christmas Eve came again he was inhis grave, never having recovered from the cold contracted that awfulnight. Harrowby Hall was closed, and the heir to the estate was inLondon, where to him in his chambers came the same experience that hisfather had gone through, saving only that, being younger and stronger, he survived the shock. Everything in his rooms was ruined--his clockswere rusted in the works; a fine collection of water-color drawings wasentirely obliterated by the onslaught of the water ghost; and what wasworse, the apartments below his were drenched with the water soakingthrough the floors, a damage for which he was compelled to pay, andwhich resulted in his being requested by his landlady to vacate thepremises immediately. 

The story of the visitation inflicted upon his family had gone abroad, and no one could be got to invite him out to any function save afternoonteas and receptions. Fathers of daughters declined to permit him toremain in their houses later than eight o'clock at night, not knowingbut that some emergency might arise in the supernatural world whichwould require the unexpected appearance of the water ghost in this onnights other than Christmas Eve, and before the mystic hour when wearychurchyards, ignoring the rules which are supposed to govern politesociety, begin to yawn. Nor would the maids themselves have aught to dowith him, fearing the destruction by the sudden incursion of aqueousfemininity of the costumes which they held most dear. 

So the heir of Harrowby Hall resolved, as his ancestors for severalgenerations before him had resolved, that something must be done. Hisfirst thought was to make one of his servants occupy the haunted room atthe crucial moment; but in this he failed, because the servantsthemselves knew the history of that room and rebelled. None of hisfriends would consent to sacrifice their personal comfort to his, norwas there to be found in all England a man so poor as to be willing tooccupy the doomed chamber on Christmas Eve for pay. 

Then the thought came to the heir to have the fireplace in the roomenlarged, so that he might evaporate the ghost at its first appearance, and he was felicitating himself upon the ingenuity of his plan, when heremembered what his father had told him--how that no fire couldwithstand the lady's extremely contagious dampness. And then hebethought him of steam-pipes. These, he remembered, could lie hundredsof feet deep in water, and still retain sufficient heat to drive thewater away in vapor; and as a result of this thought the haunted roomwas heated by steam to a withering degree, and the heir for six monthsattended daily the Turkish baths, so that when Christmas Eve came hecould himself withstand the awful temperature of the room. 

The scheme was only partially successful. The water ghost appeared atthe specified time, and found the heir of Harrowby prepared; but hot asthe room was, it shortened her visit by no more than five minutes in thehour, during which time the nervous system of the young master waswell-nigh shattered, and the room itself was cracked and warped to anextent which required the outlay of a large sum of money to remedy. Andworse than this, as the last drop of the water ghost was slowlysizzling itself out on the floor, she whispered to her would-beconqueror that his scheme would avail him nothing, because there wasstill water in great plenty where she came from, and that next yearwould find her rehabilitated and as exasperatingly saturating as ever. 

It was then that the natural action of the mind, in going from oneextreme to the other, suggested to the ingenious heir of Harrowby themeans by which the water ghost was ultimately conquered, and happinessonce more came within the grasp of the house of Oglethorpe. 

The heir provided himself with a warm suit of fur under-clothing. Donning this with the furry side in, he placed over it a rubber garment, tight-fitting, which he wore just as a woman wears a jersey. On top ofthis he placed another set of under-clothing, this suit made of wool, and over this was a second rubber garment like the first. Upon his headhe placed a light and comfortable diving helmet, and so clad, on thefollowing Christmas Eve he awaited the coming of his tormentor. 

It was a bitterly cold night that brought to a close this twenty-fourthday of December. The air outside was still, but the temperature wasbelow zero. Within all was quiet, the servants of Harrowby Hall awaitingwith beating hearts the outcome of their master's campaign against hissupernatural visitor. 

The master himself was lying on the bed in the haunted room, clad ashas already been indicated, and then----

The clock clanged out the hour of twelve. 

There was a sudden banging of doors, a blast of cold air swept throughthe halls, the door leading into the haunted chamber flew open, a splashwas heard, and the water ghost was seen standing at the side of the heirof Harrowby, from whose outer dress there streamed rivulets of water, but whose own person deep down under the various garments he wore was asdry and as warm as he could have wished. 

"Ha!" said the young master of Harrowby. "I'm glad to see you. "

"You are the most original man I've met, if that is true, " returned theghost. "May I ask where did you get that hat?"

"Certainly, madam, " returned the master, courteously. "It is a littleportable observatory I had made for just such emergencies as this. But, tell me, is it true that you are doomed to follow me about for onemortal hour--to stand where I stand, to sit where I sit?"

"That is my delectable fate, " returned the lady. 

"We'll go out on the lake, " said the master, starting up. 

"You can't get rid of me that way, " returned the ghost. "The water won'tswallow me up; in fact, it will just add to my present bulk. "

"Nevertheless, " said the master, firmly, "we will go out on the lake. "

"But, my dear sir, " returned the ghost, with a pale reluctance, "it isfearfully cold out there. You will be frozen hard before you've been outten minutes. "

"Oh no, I'll not, " replied the master. "I am very warmly dressed. Come!"This last in a tone of command that made the ghost ripple. 

And they started. 

They had not gone far before the water ghost showed signs of distress. 

"You walk too slowly, " she said. "I am nearly frozen. My knees are sostiff now I can hardly move. I beseech you to accelerate your step. "

"I should like to oblige a lady, " returned the master, courteously, "butmy clothes are rather heavy, and a hundred yards an hour is about myspeed. Indeed, I think we would better sit down here on this snowdrift, and talk matters over. "

"Do not! Do not do so, I beg!" cried the ghost. "Let me move on. I feelmyself growing rigid as it is. If we stop here, I shall be frozenstiff. "

"That, madam, " said the master slowly, and seating himself on anice-cake--"that is why I have brought you here. We have been on thisspot just ten minutes; we have fifty more. Take your time about it, madam, but freeze, that is all I ask of you. "

"I cannot move my right leg now, " cried the ghost, in despair, "and myoverskirt is a solid sheet of ice. Oh, good, kind Mr. Oglethorpe, lighta fire, and let me go free from these icy fetters. "

"Never, madam. It cannot be. I have you at last. "

"Alas!" cried the ghost, a tear trickling down her frozen cheek. "Helpme, I beg. I congeal!"

"Congeal, madam, congeal!" returned Oglethorpe, coldly. "You havedrenched me and mine for two hundred and three years, madam. To-nightyou have had your last drench. "

"Ah, but I shall thaw out again, and then you'll see. Instead of thecomfortably tepid, genial ghost I have been in my past, sir, I shall beiced-water, " cried the lady, threateningly. 

"No, you won't, either, " returned Oglethorpe; "for when you are frozenquite stiff, I shall send you to a cold-storage warehouse, and thereshall you remain an icy work of art forever more. "

"But warehouses burn. "

"So they do, but this warehouse cannot burn. It is made of asbestos andsurrounding it are fireproof walls, and within those walls thetemperature is now and shall forever be 416 degrees below the zeropoint; low enough to make an icicle of any flame in this world--or thenext, " the master added, with an ill-suppressed chuckle. 

"For the last time let me beseech you. I would go on my knees to you, Oglethorpe, were they not already frozen. I beg of you do not doo----"

Here even the words froze on the water-ghost's lips and the clock struckone. There was a momentary tremor throughout the ice-bound form, and themoon, coming out from behind a cloud, shone down on the rigid figure ofa beautiful woman sculptured in clear, transparent ice. There stood theghost of Harrowby Hall, conquered by the cold, a prisoner for all time. 

The heir of Harrowby had won at last, and to-day in a large storagehouse in London stands the frigid form of one who will never again floodthe house of Oglethorpe with woe and sea-water. 

As for the heir of Harrowby, his success in coping with a ghost has madehim famous, a fame that still lingers about him, although his victorytook place some twenty years ago; and so far from being unpopular withthe fair sex, as he was when we first knew him, he has not only beenmarried twice, but is to lead a third bride to the altar before the yearis out. 

BACK FROM THAT BOURNE

ANONYMOUS

From the New York _Sun_. By permission of the editor. 

Back from That Bourne

ANONYMOUS

 _Practical Working of Materialization in Maine. A Strange Story from Pocock Island--A Materialized Spirit that Will not Go back. The First Glimpse of what May yet Cause very Extensive Trouble in this World. _

(The _Sun_, Saturday, December 19, 1874. )

We are permitted to make extracts from a private letter which bears thesignature of a gentleman well known in business circles, and whoseveracity we have never heard called in question. His statements arestartling and well-nigh incredible, but if true, they are susceptible ofeasy verification. Yet the thoughtful mind will hesitate about acceptingthem without the fullest proof, for they spring upon the world a socialproblem of stupendous importance. The dangers apprehended by Mr. Malthusand his followers become remote and commonplace by the side of this newand terrible issue. 

The letter is dated at Pocock Island, a small township in WashingtonCounty, Maine, about seventeen miles from the mainland and nearlymidway between Mt. Desert and the Grand Menan. The last state censusaccords to Pocock Island a population of 311, mostly engaged in theporgy fisheries. At the Presidential election of 1872 the island gaveGrant a majority of three. These two facts are all that we are able tolearn of the locality from sources outside of the letter alreadyreferred to. 

The letter, omitting certain passages which refer solely to privatematters, reads as follows:

"But enough of the disagreeable business that brought me here to thisbleak island in the month of November. I have a singular story to tellyou. After our experience together at Chittenden I know you will notreject statements because they are startling. 

"My friend, there is upon Pocock Island a materialized spirit which (orwho) refuses to be dematerialized. At this moment and within a quarterof a mile from me as I write, a man who died and was buried four yearsago, and who has exploited the mysteries beyond the grave, walks, talks, and holds interviews with the inhabitants of the island, and is, to allappearances, determined to remain permanently upon this side of theriver. I will relate the circumstances as briefly as I can. "

JOHN NEWBEGIN

"In April, 1870, John Newbegin died and was buried in the littlecemetery on the landward side of the island. Newbegin was a man ofabout forty-eight, without family or near connections, and eccentric toa degree that sometimes inspired questions as to his sanity. What moneyhe had earned by many seasons' fishing upon the banks was invested inquarters of two small mackerel schooners, the remainder of whichbelonged to John Hodgeson, the richest man on Pocock, who was estimatedby good authorities to be worth thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars. 

"Newbegin was not without a certain kind of culture. He had read a gooddeal of the odds and ends of literature and, as a simple-minded islanderexpressed it in my hearing, knew more bookfuls than anybody on theisland. He was naturally an intelligent man; and he might have attainedinfluence in the community had it not been for his utter aimlessness ofcharacter, his indifference to fortune, and his consuming thirst forrum. 

"Many yachtsmen who have had occasion to stop at Pocock for water or forharbor shelter during eastern cruises, will remember a long, listlessfigure, astonishingly attired in blue army pants, rubber boots, loosetoga made of some bright chintz material, and very bad hat, staggeringthrough the little settlement, followed by a rabble of jeering brats, and pausing to strike uncertain blows at those within reach of the deadsculpin which he usually carried round by the tail. This was JohnNewbegin. "

HIS SUDDEN DEATH

"As I have already remarked, he died four years ago last April. The_Mary Emmeline_, one of the little schooners in which he owned, hadreturned from the eastward, and had smuggled, or 'run in' a quantity ofSt. John brandy. Newbegin had a solitary and protracted debauch. He wasmissed from his accustomed walks for several days, and when theislanders broke into the hovel where he lived, close down to the seaweedand almost within reach of the incoming tide, they found him dead on thefloor, with an emptied demijohn hard by his head. 

"After the primitive custom of the island, they interred John Newbegin'sremains without coroner's inquest, burial certificate, or funeralservices, and in the excitement of a large catch of porgies that summer, soon forgot him and his friendless life. His interest in the _MaryEmmeline_ and the _Prettyboat_ recurred to John Hodgeson; and as nobodycame forward to demand an administration of the estate, it was neveradministered. The forms of law are but loosely followed in some of thesemarginal localities. "

HIS REAPPEARANCE AT POCOCK

"Well, my dear ----, four years and four months had brought their quotaof varying seasons to Pocock Island when John Newbegin reappeared underthe following circumstances:

"In the latter part of last August, as you may remember, there was aheavy gale all along our Atlantic coast. During this storm the squadronof the Naugatuck Yacht Club, which was returning from a summer cruise asfar as Campobello, was forced to take shelter in the harbor to theleeward of Pocock Island. The gentlemen of the club spent three days atthe little settlement ashore. Among the party was Mr. R---- E----, bywhich name you will recognize a medium of celebrity, and one who hasbeen particularly successful in materializations. At the desire of hiscompanions, and to relieve the tedium of their detention, Mr. E---- improvised a cabinet in the little schoolhouse at Pocock, and gavea _séance_, to the delight of his fellow yachtsmen and the utterbewilderment of such natives as were permitted to witness themanifestations. 

"The conditions appeared unusually favorable to spirit appearances andthe _séance_ was upon the whole perhaps the most remarkable that Mr. E---- ever held. It was all the more remarkable because the surroundingswere such that the most prejudiced skeptic could discover no possibilityof trickery. 

"The first form to issue from the wood closet which constituted thecabinet, when Mr. E---- had been tied therein by a committee of oldsailors from the yachts, was that of an Indian chief who announcedhimself as Hock-a-mock, and who retired after dancing a 'Harvest Moon'_pas seul_, and declaring himself in very emphatic terms, as opposed tothe present Indian policy of the Administration. Hock-a-mock wassucceeded by the aunt of one of the yachtsmen, who identified herselfbeyond question by allusion to family matters and by displaying the scarof a burn upon her left arm, received while making tomato catsup uponearth. Then came successively a child whom none present recognized, aFrench Canadian who could not talk English, and a portly gentleman whointroduced himself as William King, first Governor of Maine. These inturn reëntered the cabinet and were seen no more. 

"It was some time before another spirit manifested itself, and Mr. E----gave directions that the lights be turned down still further. Then thedoor of the wood closet was slowly opened and a singular figure inrubber boots and a species of Dolly Varden garment emerged, bringing adead fish in his right hand. "

HIS DETERMINATION TO REMAIN

"The city men who were present, I am told, thought that the medium wasmasquerading in grotesque habiliments for the more complete astonishmentof the islanders, but these latter rose from their seats and exclaimedwith one consent: 'It is John Newbegin!' And then, in not unnaturalterror of the apparition they turned and fled from the schoolroom, uttering dismal cries. 

"John Newbegin came calmly forward and turned up the solitary kerosenelamp that shed uncertain light over the proceedings. He then sat down inthe teacher's chair, folded his arms, and looked complacently about him. 

"'You might as well untie the medium, ' he finally remarked. 'I proposeto remain in the materialized condition. '

"And he did remain. When the party left the schoolhouse among themwalked John Newbegin, as truly a being of flesh and blood as any man ofthem. From that day to this, he has been a living inhabitant of PocockIsland, eating, drinking, (water only) and sleeping after the manner ofmen. The yachtsmen who made sail for Bar Harbor the very next morning, probably believe that he was a fraud hired for the occasion by Mr. E----. But the people of Pocock, who laid him out, dug his grave, andput him into it four years ago, know that John Newbegin has come back tothem from a land they know not of. "

A SINGULAR MEMBER OF SOCIETY

"The idea, of having a ghost--somewhat more condensed it is true thanthe traditional ghost--as a member was not at first overpleasing to the311 inhabitants of Pocock Island. To this day, they are a littlesensitive upon the subject, feeling evidently that if the matter gotabroad, it might injure the sale of the really excellent porgy oilwhich is the product of their sole manufacturing interest. Thisreluctance to advertise the skeleton in their closet, superadded to theslowness of these obtuse, fishy, matter-of-fact people to recognize thetranscendent importance of the case, must be accepted as explanation ofthe fact that John Newbegin's spirit has been on earth between three andfour months, and yet the singular circumstance is not known to the wholecountry. 

"But the Pocockians have at last come to see that a spirit is notnecessarily a malevolent spirit, and accepting his presence as a fact intheir stolid, unreasoning way, they are quite neighborly and sociablewith Mr. Newbegin. 

"I know that your first question will be: 'Is there sufficient proof ofhis ever having been dead?' To this I answer unhesitatingly, 'Yes. ' Hewas too well-known a character and too many people saw the corpse toadmit of any mistake on this point. I may add here that it was at onetime proposed to disinter the original remains, but that project wasabandoned in deference to the wishes of Mr. Newbegin, who feels anatural delicacy about having his first set of bones disturbed frommotives of mere curiosity. "

AN INTERVIEW WITH A DEAD MAN

"You will readily believe that I took occasion to see and converse withJohn Newbegin. I found him affable and even communicative. He isperfectly aware of his doubtful status as a being, but is in hopes thatat some future time there may be legislation that shall correctly definehis position and the position of any spirit who may follow him into thematerial world. The only point upon which he is reticent is hisexperience during the four years that elapsed between his death and hisreappearance at Pocock. It is to be presumed that the memory is not apleasant one: at least he never speaks of this period. He candidlyadmits, however, that he is glad to get back to earth and that heembraced the very first opportunity to be materialized. 

"Mr. Newbegin says that he is consumed with remorse for the wasted yearsof his previous existence. Indeed, his conduct during the past threemonths would show that this regret is genuine. He has discarded hiseccentric costume, and dresses like a reasonable spirit. He has nottouched liquor since his reappearance. He has embarked in the porgy oilbusiness, and his operations already rival that of Hodgeson, his oldpartner in the _Mary Emmeline_ and the _Prettyboat_. By the way, Newbegin threatens to sue Hodgeson for his individed quarter in each ofthese vessels, and this interesting case therefore bids fair to bethoroughly investigated in the courts. 

"As a business man, he is generally esteemed on the Island, althoughthere is a noticeable reluctance to discount his paper at long dates. Inshort, Mr. John Newbegin is a most respectable citizen (if a dead mancan be a citizen) and has announced his intention of running for thenext Legislature!"

IN CONCLUSION

"And now, my dear ----, I have told you the substance of all I knowrespecting this strange, strange case. Yet, after all, why so strange?We accepted materialization at Chittenden. Is this any more than thelogical issue of that admission? If the spirit may return to earth, clothed in flesh and blood and all the physical attributes of humanity, why may it not remain on earth as long as it sees fit?

"Thinking of it from whatever standpoint, I cannot but regard JohnNewbegin as the pioneer of a possibly large immigration from the spiritworld. The bars once down, a whole flock will come trooping back toearth. Death will lose its significance altogether. And when I think ofthe disturbance which will result in our social relations, of theoverthrow of all accepted institutions, and of the nullification of allprinciples of political economy, law, and religion, I am lost inperplexity and apprehension. "

THE GHOST-SHIP

BY RICHARD MIDDLETON

From _The Ghost-Ship_ by Richard Middleton. Published by permission ofMitchell Kennerley, and taken from the volume, _The Ghost-Ship and OtherStories_. 

The Ghost-Ship

BY RICHARD MIDDLETON

Fairfield is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road, abouthalfway between London and the sea. Strangers, who now and then find itby accident, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we who live in itand call it home don't find anything very pretty about it, but we shouldbe sorry to live anywhere else. Our minds have taken the shape of theinn and the church and the green, I suppose. At all events, we neverfeel comfortable out of Fairfield. 

Of course the cockneys, with their vasty houses and noise-riddenstreets, can call us rustics if they choose; but for all that, Fairfieldis a better place to live in than London. Doctor says that when he goesto London his mind is bruised with the weight of the houses, and he wasa cockney born. He had to live there himself when he was a little chap, but he knows better now. You gentlemen may laugh--perhaps some of youcome from London-way, but it seems to me that a witness like that isworth a gallon of arguments. 

Dull? Well, you might find it dull, but I assure you that I've listenedto all the London yarns you have spun to-night, and they're absolutelynothing to the things that happen at Fairfield. It's because of our wayof thinking, and minding our own business. If one of your Londoners wasset down on the green of a Saturday night when the ghosts of the ladswho died in the war keep tryst with the lasses who lie in thechurchyard, he couldn't help being curious and interfering, and then theghosts would go somewhere where it was quieter. But we just let themcome and go and don't make any fuss, and in consequence Fairfield is theghostiest place in all England. Why, I've seen a headless man sitting onthe edge of the well in broad daylight, and the children playing abouthis feet as if he were their father. Take my word for it, spirits knowwhen they are well off as much as human beings. 

Still, I must admit that the thing I'm going to tell you about was queereven for our part of the world, where three packs of ghost-hounds huntregularly during the season, and blacksmith's great-grandfather is busyall night shoeing the dead gentlemen's horses. Now that's a thing thatwouldn't happen in London, because of their interfering ways; butblacksmith he lies up aloft and sleeps as quiet as a lamb. Once when hehad a bad head he shouted down to them not to make so much noise, andin the morning he found an old guinea left on the anvil as an apology. He wears it on his watch-chain now. But I must get on with my story; ifI start telling you about the queer happenings at Fairfield, I'll neverstop. 

It all came of the great storm in the spring of '97, the year that wehad two great storms. This was the first one, and I remember it well, because I found in the morning that it had lifted the thatch of mypigsty into the widow's garden as clean as a boy's kite. When I lookedover the hedge, widow--Tom Lamport's widow that was--was prodding forher nasturtiums with a daisy grubber. After I had watched her for alittle I went down to the Fox and Grapes to tell landlord what she hadsaid to me. Landlord he laughed, being a married man and at ease withthe sex. "Come to that, " he said, "the tempest has blowed something intomy field. A kind of a ship I think it would be. "

I was surprised at that until he explained that it was only aghost-ship, and would do no hurt to the turnips. We argued that it hadbeen blown up from the sea at Portsmouth, and then we talked ofsomething else. There were two slates down at the parsonage and a bigtree in Lumley's meadow. It was a rare storm. 

I reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England. They werecoming back for days afterward with foundered horses, and as footsore aspossible, and they were so glad to get back to Fairfield that some ofthem walked up the street crying like little children. Squire said thathis great-grandfather's great-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beatsince the battle of Naseby, and he's an educated man. 

What with one thing and another, I should think it was a week before wegot straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord on thegreen, and he had a worried face. "I wish you'd come and have a look atthat ship in my field, " he said to me. "It seems to me it's leaning realhard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what the missus will say whenshe sees it. "

I walked down the lane with him, and, sure enough, there was a ship inthe middle of his field, but such a ship as no man had seen on the waterfor three hundred years, let alone in the middle of a turnipfield. Itwas all painted black, and covered with carvings, and there was a greatbay-window in the stern, for all the world like the squire'sdrawing-room. There was a crowd of little black cannon on deck andlooking out of her port-holes, and she was anchored at each end to thehard ground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards, but I have never seen anything to equal that. 

"She seems very solid for a ghost-ship, " I said, seeing that landlordwas bothered. 

"I should say it's a betwixt and between, " he answered, puzzling itover; "but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missusshe'll want it moved. " We went up to her and touched the side, and itwas as hard as a real ship. "Now, there's folks in England would callthat very curious, " he said. 

Now, I don't know much about ships, but I should think that thatghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to me thatshe had come to stay; so that I felt sorry for landlord, who was amarried man. "All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of myturnips, " he said, frowning at her. 

Just then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw that aman had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us verypeaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set off with rusty goldlace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. "I'mCaptain Bartholomew Roberts, " he said in a gentleman's voice, "put infor recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up the harbor. "

"Harbor!" cried landlord. "Why, you're fifty miles from the sea!"

Captain Roberts didn't turn a hair. "So much as that, is it?" he saidcoolly. "Well, it's of no consequence. "

Landlord was a bit upset at this. "I don't want to be unneighborly, " hesaid, "but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. You see, my wife sets great store on these turnips. "

The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that he pulledout of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silk handkerchief in avery genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a few months, " he said, "butif a testimony of my esteem would pacify your good lady, I should becontent, " and with the words he loosed a great gold brooch from the neckof his coat and tossed it down to landlord. 

Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fond ofjewelry, " he said; "but it's too much for half a sackful of turnips. "Indeed it was a handsome brooch. 

The captain laughed. "Tut, man!" he said, "it's a forced sale, and youdeserve a good price. Say no more about it, " and nodding good day to us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked back upthe lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempest has blowedme a bit of luck, " he said; "the missus will be main pleased with thatbrooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea any day. "

'97 was Jubilee year--the year of the second Jubilee, you remember, andwe had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't much time to botherabout the ghost-ship, though, anyhow, it isn't our way to meddle inthings that don't concern us. Landlord he saw his tenant once or twicewhen he was hoeing his turnips, and passed the time of day andlandlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every Sunday. But wedidn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all except an idiot ladthere was in the village, and he didn't know the difference between aman and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee day, however, somebody toldCaptain Roberts why the church bells were ringing, and he hoisted aflag and fired off his guns like a loyal Englishman. 'T is true the gunswere shotted, and one of the round shot knocked a hole in FarmerJohnstone's barn, but nobody thought much of that in such a season ofrejoicing. 

It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that anythingwas wrong in Fairfield. 'T was shoemaker who told me first about it onemorning at the Fox and Grapes. "You know my great-great-uncle?" he saidto me. 

"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad?" I answered, knowing him well. 

"Quiet!" said shoemaker, indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming homeat three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking upthe whole house with his noise!"

"Why, it can't be Joshua, " I said, for I knew him for one of the mostrespectable young ghosts in the village. 

"Joshua it is, " said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll findhimself out in the street if he isn't careful. "

This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like to hear aman abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that a steadyyoungster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then in came butcherAylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink his beer. "The youngpuppy! The young puppy!" he kept on saying, and it was some time beforeshoemaker and I found out that he was talking about his ancestor thatfell at Senlac. 

"Drink?" said shoemaker, hopefully, for we all like company in ourmisfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly. "The young noodle!" he said, emptying his tankard. 

Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story all overthe village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghosts ofFairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morning theworse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear them stumblepast my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it was that wecouldn't keep the scandal to ourselves, and the folk at Greenhill beganto talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught their children to sing a songabout us:

 Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, Has no use for bread and butter, Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, Rum for tea, and rum for supper!

We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that. 

Of course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get thedrink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should haveturned out so badly; but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with thebrooch, so he couldn't give the captain notice to quit. But as time wenton, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of the day youwould see those young reprobates sleeping it off on the village green. Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt down to the ship witha lading of rum, and though the older ghosts seemed inclined to give thecaptain's hospitality the go-by, the youngsters were neither to hold norto bind. 

So one afternoon when I was taking my nap, I heard a knock at the door, and there was parson, looking very serious, like a man with a job beforehim that he didn't altogether relish. 

"I'm going down to talk to the captain about all this drunkenness in thevillage, and I want you to come with me, " he said straight out. 

I can't say that I fancied the visit much myself, and I tried to hint toparson that as, after all, they were only a lot of ghosts, it didn'tmuch matter. 

"Dead or alive, I'm responsible for their good conduct, " he said, "andI'm going to do my duty and put a stop to this continued disorder. Andyou are coming with me, John Simmons. "

So I went, parson being a persuasive kind of man. 

We went down to the ship, and as we approached her, I could see thecaptain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson, he took off his hatvery politely, and I can tell you that I was relieved to find that hehad a proper respect for the cloth. Parson acknowledged his salute, andspoke out stoutly enough. 

"Sir, I should be glad to have a word with you. "

"Come on board, sir; come on board, " said the captain, and I could tellby his voice that he knew why we were there. 

Parson and I climbed up an uneasy kind of ladder, and the captain tookus into the great cabin at the back of the ship, where the bay-windowwas. It was the most wonderful place you ever saw in your life, all fullof gold and silver plate, swords with jeweled scabbards, carved oakchairs, and great chests that looked as though they were bursting withguineas. Even parson was surprised, and he did not shake his head veryhard when the captain took down some silver cups and poured us out adrink of rum. I tasted mine, and I don't mind saying that it changed myview of things entirely. There was nothing betwixt and between aboutthat rum, and I felt that it was ridiculous to blame the lads fordrinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my veins withhoney and fire. 

Parson put the case squarely to the captain, but I didn't listen much towhat he said. I was busy sipping my drink and looking through the windowat the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord's turnips. Just then itseemed the most natural thing in the world that they should be there, though afterward, of course, I could see that that proved it was aghost-ship. 

But even then I thought it was queer when I saw a drowned sailor floatby in the thin air, with his hair and beard all full of bubbles. It wasthe first time I had seen anything quite like that at Fairfield. 

All the time I was regarding the wonders of the deep, parson was tellingCaptain Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the village owing tothe curse of drunkenness, and what a bad example the youngsters weresetting to the older ghosts. The captain listened very attentively, andput in a word only now and then about boys being boys and young mensowing their wild oats. But when parson had finished his speech, hefilled up our silver cups and said to parson with a flourish:

"I should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where I have been madewelcome, and you will be glad to hear that I put to sea to-morrow night. And now you must drink me a prosperous voyage. "

So we all stood up and drank the toast with honor, and that noble rumwas like hot oil in my veins. 

After that, captain showed us some of the curiosities he had broughtback from foreign parts, and we were greatly amazed, though afterward Icouldn't clearly remember what they were. And then I found myselfwalking across the turnips with parson, and I was telling him of theglories of the deep that I had seen through the window of the ship. Heturned on me severely. 

"If I were you, John Simmons, " he said, "I should go straight home tobed. " He has a way of putting things that wouldn't occur to an ordinaryman, has parson, and I did as he told me. 

Well, next day it came on to blow, and it blew harder and harder, tillabout eight o'clock at night I heard a noise and looked out into thegarden. I dare say you won't believe me, --it seems a bit tall even tome, --but the wind had lifted the thatch of my pigsty into the widow'sgarden a second time. I thought I wouldn't wait to hear what widow hadto say about it, so I went across the green to the Fox and Grapes, andthe wind was so strong that I danced along on tiptoe like a girl at thefair. When I got to the inn, landlord had to help me shut the door. Itseemed as though a dozen goats were pushing against it to come in out ofthe storm. 

"It's a powerful tempest, " he said, drawing the beer. "I hear there's achimney down at Dickory End. "

"It's a funny thing how these sailors know about the weather, " Ianswered. "When captain said he was going to-night, I was thinking itwould take a capful of wind to carry the ship back to sea; and nowhere's more than a capful. "

"Ah, yes, " said landlord; "it's to-night he goes true enough, and mindyou, though he treated me handsome over the rent, I'm not sure it's aloss to the village. I don't hold with gentrice, who fetch their drinkfrom London instead of helping local traders to get their living. "

"But you haven't got any rum like his, " I said, to draw him out. 

His neck grew red above his collar, and I was afraid I'd gone too far;but after a while he got his breath with a grunt. 

"John Simmons, " he said, "if you've come down here this windy night totalk a lot of fool's talk, you've wasted a journey. "

Well, of course then I had to smooth him down with praising his rum, andHeaven forgive me for swearing it was better than captain's. For thelike of that rum no living lips have tasted save mine and parson's. Butsomehow or other I brought landlord round, and presently we must have aglass of his best to prove its quality. 

"Beat that if you can, " he cried, and we both raised our glasses to ourmouths, only to stop halfway and look at each other in amaze. For thewind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog had all of asudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a Christmas eve. 

"Surely that's not my Martha, " whispered landlord, Martha being hisgreat-aunt who lived in the loft overhead. 

We went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handle wasdriven clean into the plaster of the wall, but we didn't think aboutthat at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortably throughthe windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer in landlord'sfield. Her port-holes and her bay-window were blazing with lights, andthere was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks. "He's gone!"shouted landlord above the storm, "and he's taken half the village withhim. " I could only nod in answer, not having lungs like bellows ofleather. 

In the morning we were able to measure the strength of the storm, andover and above my pigsty, there was damage enough wrought in the villageto keep us busy. True it is that the children had to break down nobranches for the firing that autumn, since the wind had strewn the woodswith more than they could carry away. Many of our ghosts were scatteredabroad, but this time very few came back, all the young men havingsailed with captain; and not only ghosts, for a poor half-witted lad wasmissing, and we reckoned that he had stowed himself away or perhapsshipped as cabin-boy, not knowing any better. 

What with the lamentations of the ghost girls and the grumblings offamilies who had lost ancestors, the village was upset for a while, andthe funny thing was that it was the folk who had complained most of thecarryings-on of the youngsters who made most noise now that they weregone. I hadn't any sympathy with shoemaker or butcher, who ran aboutsaying how much they missed their lads, but it made me grieve to hearthe poor bereaved girls calling their lovers by name on the villagegreen at nightfall. It didn't seem fair to me that they should have losttheir men a second time, after giving up life in order to join them, aslike as not. Still, not even a spirit can be sorry forever, and after afew months we made up our mind that the folk who had sailed in the shipwere never coming back; and we didn't talk about it any more. 

And then one day, I dare say it would be a couple of years after, whenthe whole business was quite forgotten, who should come trapesing alongthe road from Portsmouth but the daft lad who had gone away with theship without waiting till he was dead to become a ghost. You never sawsuch a boy as that in all your life. He had a great rusty cutlasshanging to a string at his waist, and he was tattooed all over in finecolors, so that even his face looked like a girl's sampler. He had ahandkerchief in his hand full of foreign shells and old-fashioned piecesof small money, very curious, and he walked up to the well outside hismother's house and drew himself a drink as if he had been nowhere inparticular. 

The worst of it was that he had come back as soft-headed as he went, andtry as we might, we couldn't get anything reasonable out of him. Hetalked a lot of gibberish about keelhauling and walking the plank andcrimson murders--things which a decent sailor should know nothing about, so that it seemed to me that for all his manners captain had been moreof a pirate than a gentleman mariner. But to draw sense out of that boywas as hard as picking cherries off a crab-tree. One silly tale he hadthat he kept on drifting back to, and to hear him you would have thoughtthat it was the only thing that happened to him in his life. 

"We was at anchor, " he would say, "off an island called the Basket ofFlowers, and the sailors had caught a lot of parrots and we wereteaching them to swear. Up and down the decks, up and down the decks, and the language they used was dreadful. Then we looked up and saw themasts of the Spanish ship outside the harbor. Outside the harbor theywere, so we threw the parrots into the sea, and sailed out to fight. Andall the parrots were drowneded in the sea, and the language they usedwas dreadful. "

That's the sort of boy he was--nothing but silly talk of parrots when weasked him about the fighting. And we never had a chance of teaching himbetter, for two days after he ran away again, and hasn't been seensince. 

That's my story, and I assure you that things like that are happening atFairfield all the time. The ship has never come back, but somehow, aspeople grow older, they seem to think that one of these windy nightsshe'll come sailing in over the hedges with all the lost ghosts onboard. Well, when she comes, she'll be welcome. There's one ghost lassthat has never grown tired of waiting for her lad to return. Every nightyou'll see her out on the green, straining her poor eyes with lookingfor the mast-lights among the stars. A faithful lass you'd call her, andI'm thinking you'd be right. 

Landlord's field wasn't a penny the worse for the visit; but they do saythat since then the turnips that have been grown in it have tasted ofrum. 

THE TRANSPLANTED GHOST

A CHRISTMAS STORY

BY WALLACE IRWIN

From _Everybody's Magazine_. By permission of _Everybody's_ and WallaceIrwin. 

The Transplanted Ghost

A CHRISTMAS STORY

BY WALLACE IRWIN

When Aunt Elizabeth asked me to spend Christmas with her at Seven Oaksshe appended a peculiar request to her letter. "Like a good fellow, " shewrote, "won't you drop off at Perkinsville, Ohio, on your way, and takea look at Gauntmoor Castle? They say it's a wonderful old pile; and itshistory is in many ways connected with that of our own family. As longas you're the last of the Geoffray Pierreponts, such things ought tointerest you. " Like her auburn namesake who bossed the Thames of yore, sweet, red-haired, romantic autocrat, Aunt Elizabeth! Her wishes werecommands. 

"What the deuce is Aunt Elizabeth up to now?" I asked Tim Cole, my lawpartner, whom I found in my rooms smoking my tobacco. "Why should I beinspecting Gauntmoor Castle--and what is a castle named Gauntmoor doingin Perkinsville, Ohio, anyway? Perkinsville sounds like the Middle West, and Gauntmoor sounds like the Middle Ages. "

"Right in both analyses, " said the pipe-poaching Tim. "Castle Gauntmoor_is_ from the Middle Ages, and we all know about where in OhioPerkinsville is. But is it possible that you, twenty-seven years old anda college graduate, haven't heard of Thaddeus Hobson, the MarvelousMillionaire?" I shook my head. "The papers have been full of Hobson inthe past two or three years, " said Tim. "It was in 1898, I think, thatFate jumped Thaddeus Hobson to the golden Olympus. He was first headsalesman in the village hardware store, then he formulated so successfula scheme to clean up the Tin Plate Combine that he put away a fabulousnumber of millions in a year, and subsequently went to England. Finallyhe set his heart on Norman architecture. After a search he found theancient Castle Gauntmoor still habitable and for sale. He thrilled theBritish comic papers by his offer to buy the castle and move it toAmerica. Hobson saw the property, telegraphed to London, and closed thedeal in two hours. And an army of laborers at once began taking theGauntmoor to pieces, stone by stone. 

"Transporting that relic to America involved a cost in labor andingenuity comparable with nothing that has yet happened. Moving theGreat Pyramid would be a lighter job, perhaps. Thousands of tons ofscarred and medieval granite were carried to the railroads, freighted tothe sea, and dragged across the Atlantic in whopping big lighterschartered for the job. And the next the newspapers knew, the monsterwas set up in Perkinsville, Ohio. "

"But why did he do it?" I asked. 

"Who knows?" said Tim. "Ingrowing sentiment--unlimited capital--wantedto do something for the Home Town, probably; wanted to beautify thevillage that gave him his start--and didn't know how to go at it. Well, so long!" he called out, as I seized my hat and streaked for the train. 

 * * * * *

It was dinner time when the train pulled in at Perkinsville. The townwas as undistinguished as I expected. I was too hungry to care aboutcastles at the moment, so I took the 'bus for the Commercial Hotel, anestablishment that seemed to live up to its name, both in sentiment andin accommodation. The landlord, Mr. Spike, referred bitterly to thecastle, which, he explained, was, by its dominating presence, "spoilin'the prosperous appearance of Perkinsville. " Dinner over, he led me to aside porch. 

"How does Perkinsville look with that--with that curio squattin' on topof it?" asked Mr. Spike sternly, as he pointed over the local liverystable, over Smith Brothers' Plow Works, over Odd Fellows' Hall, and up, up to the bleak hills beyond, where, poised like a stony coronet on agiant's brow, rose the great Norman towers and frowning buttresses ofGauntmoor Castle. I rubbed my eyes. No, it _couldn't_ be real--it mustbe a wizard's work!

"What's old Hobson got out of it?" said Mr. Spike in my ear. "Nothin'but an old stone barn, where he can set all day nursin' a grouch andkeepin' his daughter Anita--they do say he does--under lock and key forfear somebody's goin' to marry her for her money. "

Mr. Spike looked up at the ramparts defiantly, even as the Saxon churlmust have gazed in an earlier, far sadder land. 

"It's romantic, " I suggested. 

"Yes, _darn_ rheumatic, " agreed Mr. Spike. 

"Is it open for visitors?" I asked innocently. 

"Hobson?" cackled Spike. "He'd no more welcome a stranger to that placethan he'd welcome--a ghost. He's a hol-ee terror, Hobson!"

Mr. Spike turned away to referee a pool game down in the barroom. 

The fires of a December sunset flared behind Gauntmoor and cast the grimshadows of Medievalism over Mediocrity, which lay below. Presently thelight faded, and I grew tired of gazing. Since Hobson would permit notourists to inspect his castle, why was I here on this foolish trip?Already I was planning to wire Aunt Elizabeth a sarcastic reference tobeing marooned at Christmas with a castle on my hands, when a voice atmy shoulder said suddenly:

"Mr. Hobson sends his compliments, sir, and wants to know would Mr. Pierrepont come up to Gauntmoor for the night?"

A groom in a plum-colored livery stood at my elbow. A light stationwagon was waiting just outside. How the deuce did Hobson know my name?What did he want of me at Gauntmoor this time of night? Yet prospects ofbed and breakfast away from the Commercial lured me strangely. 

"Sure, Mr. Pierrepont will be delighted, " I announced, leaping into thevehicle, and soon we were mounting upward, battling with the windsaround the time-scarred walls. The wagon stopped at the great gate. Ahorn sounded from within, the gate swung open, a drawbridge fell with ahideous creaking of machinery, and we passed in, twenty or thirty feetabove the snow-drifted moat. Beyond the portcullis a dim door swungopen. Some sort of seneschal met us with a light and led us below thetwilight arches, where beyond, I could catch glimpses of the baileys andcourts and the donjon tower against the heavy ramparts. 

The wind hooted through the high galleries as we passed; but the westwing, from its many windows and loopholes, blazed with cheerful yellowlight. It looked nearly cozy. Into a tall, gaunt tower we plunged, downa winding staircase, and suddenly we came into a vast hall, stately withtapestries and innumerable monkish carvings--and all brightly lightedwith electricity!

A little fat man sat smoking in a chair near the fire. When I entered hewas in his shirt sleeves, reading a newspaper, but when a footmanannounced my name the little man, in a state of great nervousness, jumped to his feet and threw on a coat, fidgeting painfully with thearmholes. As he came toward me, I noticed that he was perfectly bald. Helooked dyspeptic and discontented, like a practical man trying vainly toadjust his busy habits to a lazy life. Obviously he didn't go with therest of the furniture. 

"Pleased to see you, Mr. Pierrepont, " he said, looking me over carefullyas if he thought of buying me. "Geoffray Pierrepont--tut, tut!--ain't itqueer!"

"Queer!" I said rather peevishly. "What's queer about it?"

"Excuse me, did I say queer? I didn't mean to be impolite, sir--I wasjust thinking, that's all. "

You could hear the demon Army of the Winds scaling the walls outside. 

"Maybe you thought it kind of abrupt, Mr. Pierrepont, me asking you uphere so unceremonious, " he said. "My daughter Annie, she tells me Iought to live up to the looks of the place; but I've got my notions. Totell you the truth, I'm in an awful quandary about this Antique Castlebusiness and when I heard you was at the hotel, I thought you might helpme out some way. You see you----"

He led me to a chair and offered me a fat cigar. 

"Young man, " he said, "when you get your head above water and make goodin the world--if you ever do--don't fool with curios, don't monkey withantiques. Keep away from castles. They're like everything else sold bycurio dealers--all humbug. Look nice, yes. But get 'em over to Americaand they either fall to pieces or the paint comes off. Whether it's achair or a castle--same old story. The sly scalawags that sell you thegoods won't live up to their contracts. "

"Hasn't Gauntmoor all the ancient inconveniences a Robber Baron couldwish?" I asked. 

"It ain't, " announced Mr. Hobson. "Though it looks all right to astranger, perhaps. There may be castles in the Old World got it onGauntmoor for size--thank God I didn't buy 'em!--but for looks you can'tbeat Gauntmoor. "

"Comfortable?" I asked. 

"Can't complain. Modern plumbed throughout. Hard to heat, but I put anelectric-light plant in the cellar. Daughter Annie's got a Colonialsuite in the North Tower. "

"Well, " I suggested, "if there's anything the castle lacks, you can buyit. "

"There's one thing money _can't_ buy, " said Mr. Hobson, leaning veryclose and speaking in a sibilant whisper. "And that's ghosts!"

"But who wants ghosts?" I inquired. 

"Now look here, " said Mr. Hobson. "I'm a business man. When I boughtGauntmoor, the London scalawags that sold it to me gave me distinctly tounderstand that this was a Haunted Castle. They showed me a hauntedchamber, showed me the haunted wall where the ghost walks, guaranteedthe place to be the Spook Headquarters of the British Isles--and seewhat I got!" He snapped his fingers in disgust. 

"No results?"

"Results? Stung! I've slept in that haunted room upstairs for a solidyear. I've gazed night after night over the haunted rampart. I've evenhired spiritualists to come and cut their didoes in the towers anddonjon keep. No use. You can't get ghosts where they ain't. "

I expressed my sympathy. 

"I'm a plain man, " said Hobson. "I ain't got any ancestors back offather, who was a blacksmith, and a good one, when sober. Somebodyelse's ancestors is what I looked for in this place--and I've got 'em, too, carved in wood and stone in the chapel out back of the tower. Butstatues and carvings ain't like ghosts to add tone to an ancientlineage. "

"Is there any legend?" I asked. 

"Haven't you heard it?" he exclaimed, looking at me sharply out of hissmall gray eyes. "It seems, 'way back in the sixteenth century, therewas a harum-scarum young feller living in a neighboring castle, and hetook an awful shine to Lady Katherine, daughter of the Earl of Cummyngs, who was boss of this place at that time. Now the young man who lovedMiss--I mean Lady--Katherine was a sort of wild proposition. Old manwouldn't have him around the place; but young man kept hanging on tillEarl ordered him off. Finally the old gent locked Lady Kitty in thedonjon tower, " said Mr. Hobson. 

"Too much shilly-shallying in _this_ generation, " he went on. "Everyhouse that's got a pretty girl ought to have a donjon keep. I've gotboth. " He paused and wiped his brow. 

"This fresh young kid I'm telling you about, he thought he knew morethan the old folks, so he got a rope ladder and climbed up the masonryone night, intending to bust into the tower where the girl was. But justas he got half across the wall--out yonder--his foot slipped and hebroke his neck in the moat below. Consequence, Lady Kitty goes crazy andold Earl found dead a week later in his room. It was Christmas Eve whenthe boy was killed. That's the night his ghost's supposed to walk alongthe ramparts, give a shriek, and drop off--but the irritating thingabout it all is, it don't ever happen. "

"And now, Mr. Hobson, " I said, throwing away the butt of my cigar, "whyam _I_ here? What have _I_ got to do with all this ghost business?"

"I _want_ you to stay, " said Hobson, beseechingly. "To-morrow night'sChristmas Eve. I've figured it out that your influence, somehow, youbeing of the same blood, as it were, might encourage the ghost to comeout and save the reputation of the castle. "

A servant brought candles, and Hobson turned to retire. 

"The same blood!" I shouted after him. "What on earth is the _name_ ofthe ghost?"

"When he was alive his name was--Sir Geoffray de Pierrepont, " saidThaddeus Hobson, his figure fading into the dimness beyond. 

I followed the servant with the candle aloft through chill and carvencorridors, through galleries lined with faded portraits of forgottenlords. "Wheels!" I kept saying to myself. "The old man evidently thinksit takes a live Pierrepont to coax a dead one, " and I laughed nervouslyas I entered the vast brown bedroom. I had to get on a chair in order toclimb into the four-poster, a cheerful affair that looked like a royalfuneral barge. At my head I noticed a carved device, seven mailed handssnatching at a sword with the motto: "CAVE ADSUM!"

"Beware, I am here!" I translated. Who was here? Ghosts? Fudge! Whathideous scenes had this chamber beheld of yore? What might not happenhere now? Where, by the way, was old Hobson's daughter, Anita? Might notanything be possible? I covered my head with the bedclothes. 

 * * * * *

Next morning being mild and bright for December, and Thaddeus Hobson andhis mysterious daughter not having showed up for breakfast, I amusedmyself by inspecting the exterior of the castle. In daylight I could seethat Gauntmoor, as now restored, consisted of only a portion of theoriginal structure. On the west side, near a sheer fall of forty orfifty feet, stood the donjon tower, a fine piece of medieval barbarismwith a peaked roof. And, sure enough! I saw it all now. Running alongthe entire west side of the castle was a wonderful wall, stretchingabove the moat to a dizzy height. It was no difficult matter to mountthis wall from the courtyard, above which it rose no more than eight orten feet. I ascended by a rude sentry's staircase, and once on top Igazed upward at the tall medieval prison-place, which reared above melike a clumsy stone chimney. Just as I stood, at the top of the wall, Iwas ten or twelve feet below the lowest window of the donjon tower. This, then, was the wall that the ancient Pierrepont had scaled, andyonder was the donjon window that he had planned to plunder on thatfatal night so long ago. And this was where Pierrepont the Ghost wassupposed to appear!

How the lover of spectral memory had managed to scale that wall from theoutside, I could not quite make out. But once _on_ the wall, it was notrick to snatch the damsel from her durance vile. Just drop a long ropeladder from the wall to the moat, then crawl along the narrow ledge--gotto be careful with a job like that--then up to the window of the donjonkeep, and away with the Lady Fair. Why, that window above the rampartswould be an easy climb for a fellow with strong arms and a little nerve, as the face of the tower from the wall to the window was studded withancient spikes and the projecting ends of beams. 

I counted the feet, one, two, three--and as I looked up at the window, a small, white hand reached out and a pink slip of paper dropped at myfeet. It read:

DEAR SIR: I'm Miss Hobson. I'm locked in the donjon tower. Father alwayslocks me here when there's a young man about. It's a horrid, uncomfortable place. Won't you hurry and go?

Yours respectfully, A. HOBSON. 

I knew it was easy. I swung myself aloft on the spikes and stonesleading to the donjon window. When I was high enough I gazed in, my chinabout even with the sill. And there I saw the prettiest girl I everbeheld, gazing down at a book tranquilly, as though gentlemanly rescuerswere common as toads around that tower. She wore something soft andgolden; her hair was night-black, and her eyes were that peculiar shadeof gray that--but what's the use?

"Pardon, " I said, holding on with my right hand, lifting my hat with myleft. "Pardon, am I addressing Miss Annie Hobson?"

"You are not, " she replied, only half looking up. "You are addressingMiss Anita Hobson. Calling me Annie is another little habit father oughtto break himself of. " She went on reading. 

"Is that a very interesting book?" I asked, because I didn't like to gowithout saying something more. 

"It isn't!" She arose suddenly and hurled the book into a corner. "It'sAnthony Hope--and if there's anything I hate it's him. Father alwaysgives me _Prisoner of Zenda_ and _Ivanhoe_ to read when he locks me intothis donjon. Says I ought to read up on the situation. Do you think so?"

"There are some other books in the library, " I suggested. "Bernard Shawand Kipling, you know. I'll run over and get you one. "

"That's fine--but no!" she besought, reaching out her hand to detain me. "No, don't go! If you went away you'd never come back. They never do. "

"Who never do?"

"The young men. The very instant father sees one coming he pops me inthe tower and turns the key. You see, " she explained, "when I was inItaly I was engaged to a duke--he was a silly little thing and I wasglad when he turned out bogus. But father took the deception awfully toheart and swore I should never be married for my money. Yet I don't seewhat else a young girl can expect, " she added quite simply. 

I could have mentioned several hundred things. 

"He has no right!" I said sternly. "It's barbarous for him to treat agirl that way--especially his daughter. "

"Hush!" she said. "Dad's a good sort. But you can't measure him by otherpeople's standards. And yet--oh, it's maddening, this life! Day afterday--loneliness. Nothing but stone walls and rusty armor and books. We're rich, but what do we get out of it? I have nobody of my own ageto talk to. How the years are passing! After a while--I'll be--an oldmaid. I'm twenty-one now!" I heard a sob. Her pretty head was bowed inher hands. 

Desperately I seized the bars of the window and miraculously theyparted. I leaned across the sill and drew her hands gently down. 

"Listen to me, " I said. "If I break in and steal you away from this, will you go?"

"Go?" she said. "Where?"

"My aunt lives at Seven Oaks, less than an hour from here by train. Youcan stay there till your father comes to his reason. "

"It's quite like father _never_ to come to his reason, " she reflected. "Then I should have to be self-supporting. Of course, I shouldappreciate employment in a candy shop--I think I know all the principalkinds. "

"Will you go?" I asked. 

"Yes, " she replied simply, "I'll go. But how can I get away from here?"

"To-night, " I said, "is Christmas Eve, when Pierrepont the Ghost issupposed to walk along the wall--right under this window. You don'tbelieve that fairy story, do you?"

"No. "

"Neither do I. But can't you see? The haunted wall begins at my windowon one end of the castle and ends at your window on the other. The barsof your cell, I see, are nearly all loose. "

"Yes, " she laughed, "I pried them out with a pair of scissors. "

I could hear Hobson's voice across the court giving orders to servants. 

"Your father's coming. Remember to-night, " I whispered. 

"Midnight, " she said softly, smiling out at me. I could have facedflocks and flocks of dragons for her at that moment. The old man wascoming nearer. I swung to the ground and escaped into a ruined court. 

Well, the hours that followed were anxious and busy for me. I worked inthe glamour of romance like a soldier about to do some particularlybrave and foolish thing. From the window of my room I looked down on thenarrow, giddy wall below. It _was_ a brave and foolish thing. Among therubbish in an old armory I found a coil of stout rope, forty or fiftyfeet of it. This I smuggled away. From a remote hall I borrowed aCrusader's helmet and spent the balance of the afternoon in my roompracticing with a sheet across my shoulders, shroud-fashion. 

We dined grandly at eight, the old man and I. He drank thirstily andchatted about the ghost, as you might discuss the chances in a comingathletic event. After what seemed an age he looked at his watch andcried: "Whillikens! Eleven o'clock already! Well, I'll be going up towatch from the haunted room. I think, Jeff, that you'll bring me luckto-night. "

"I am sure I shall!" I answered sardonically, as he departed. 

Three quarters of an hour later, wearing the Crusader's helmet andswathed in a bedsheet, I let myself down from the window to the hauntedwall below. It was moonlight, bitter cold as I crouched on the wall, waiting for the stroke of twelve, when I should act the spook and walkalong that precarious ledge to rescue Anita. 

The "haunted wall, " I observed from where I stood, was shaped like anirregular crescent, being in plain view of Hobson's "haunted room" atthe middle, but not so at its north and south ends, where my chamber andAnita's tower were respectively situated. I pulled out my watch fromunder my winding-sheet. Three minutes of twelve. I drew down the vizorof my helmet and gathered up my cerements preparatory to walking thehundred feet of wall which would bring me in sight of the haunted roomwhere old Hobson kept his vigil. Two minutes, one minute I waited, when--I suddenly realized I was not alone. 

A man wearing a long cloak and a feather in his cap was coming toward mealong the moonlit masonry. Aha! So I was not the only masquerading swaincalling on the captive princess in the prison tower. A jealous pang shotthrough me as I realized this. 

The man was within twenty feet of me, when I noticed something. He wasnot walking on the wall. _He was walking on air, three or four feetabove the wall. _ Nearer and nearer came the man--the Thing--now intothe light of the moon, whose beams seemed to strike through his mistytissue like the thrust of a sword. I was horribly scared. My kneesloosened under me, and I clutched the vines at my back to save me fromfalling into the moat below. Now I could see his face, and somehow fearseemed to leave me. His expression was so young and human. 

"Ghost of the Pierrepont, " I thought, "whether you walk in shadow or inlight, you lived among a race of Men!"

His noble, pallid face seemed to burn with its own pale light, but hiseyes were in darkness. He was now within two yards of me. I could seethe dagger at his belt. I could see the gory cut on his forehead. Iattempted to speak, but my voice creaked like a rusty hinge. He neitherheeded nor saw me; and when he came to the spot where I stood, he didnot turn out for me. He walked _through_ me! And when next I saw him hewas a few feet beyond me, standing in mid-air over the moat and gazingup at the high towers like one revisiting old scenes. Again he floatedtoward me and poised on the wall four feet from where I stood. 

"What do you here to-night?" suddenly spoke, or seemed to speak, a voicethat was like the echo of a silence. 

No answer came from my frozen tongue. Yet I would gladly have spoken, because somehow I felt a great sympathy for this boyish spirit. 

"It has been many earth-years, " he said, "since I have walked thesetowers. And ah, cousin, it has been many miles that I have been calledto-night to answer the summons of my race. And this fortress--what powerhas moved it overseas to this mad kingdom? Magic!"

His eyes seemed suddenly to blaze through the shadows. 

"Cousin, " he again spoke, "it is to you that I come from my far-offEnglish tomb. It was your need called me. It is no pious deed brings youto this wall to-night. You are planning to pillage these towersunworthily, even as I did yesterday. Death was my portion, and brokenhearts to the father I wronged and the girl I sought. "

"But it is the father wrongs the girl here, " I heard myself saying. 

"He who rules these towers to-day is of stern mind but loving heart, "said the ghost. "Patience. By the Star that redeems the world, loveshould not be won _to-night_ by stealth, but by--love. "

He raised his hands toward the tower, his countenance radiant with anundying passion. 

"_She_ called to me and died, " he said, "and her little ghost comes notto earth again for any winter moon or any summer wind. "

"But you--you come often?" my voice was saying. 

"No, " said the ghost, "only on Christmas Eve. Yule is the tide ofspecters; for then the thoughts of the world are so beautiful that theyenter our dreams and call us back. "

He turned to go, and a boyish, friendly smile rested a moment on hispale face. 

"Farewell, Sir Geoffray de Pierrepont, " he called to me. 

Into the misty moonlight the ghost floated to that portion of the walldirectly opposite the haunted room. From where I stood I could not seethis chamber. After a moment I shook my numb senses to life. My firstinstinct was one of strong human curiosity, which impelled me to followfar enough to see the effect of the apparition on old Hobson, who mustbe watching at the window. 

I tiptoed a hundred feet along the wall and peered around a turret up toa room above, where Hobson's head could easily be seen in a patch oflight. The ghost, at that moment, was walking just below, and the effecton the old man, appalling though it was, was ludicrous as well. He wasleaning far out of the window, his mouth wide open; and the entire diskof his fat, hairless head was as pallid as the moon itself. The specter, who was now rounding the curve of the wall near the tower, swervedsuddenly, and as suddenly seemed to totter headlong into the abyssbelow. As he dropped, a wild laugh broke through the frosty air. Itwasn't from the ghost. It came from above--yes, it emanated fromThaddeus Hobson, who had, apparently, fallen back, leaving the windowempty. Lights began breaking out all over the castle. In another momentI should be caught in my foolish disguise. With the courage of a coward, I turned and ran full tilt along the dizzy ledge and back to my window, where I lost no seconds scrambling up the rope that led to my room. 

With all possible haste I threw aside my sheet and helmet and starteddownstairs. I had just wrestled with a ghost; I would now have it outwith the old man. The castle seemed ablaze below. I saw the flash of alight skirt in the picture gallery, and Anita, pale as the vision I hadso lately beheld, came running toward me. 

"Father--saw it!" she panted. "He had some sort of sinking spell--he'sbetter now--isn't it awful!" She clung to me, sobbing hysterically. 

Before I realized what I had done, I was holding her close in my arms. 

"Don't!" I cried. "It was a good ghost--he had a finer spirit than mine. He came to-night for you, dear, and for me. It was a foolish thing weplanned. "

"Yes, but I wanted, I wanted to go!" she sobbed now crying frankly on myshoulder. 

"You _are_ going with me, " I said fiercely, raising her head. "But notover any ghost-ridden breakneck wall. We're going this time through thebig front door of this old castle, American fashion, and there'll be anautomobile waiting outside and a parson at the other end of the line. "

We found Thaddeus Hobson alone, in the vast hall looking blankly at thefire. 

"Jeff, " he said solemnly, "you sure brought me luck to-night if you cancall it such being scared into a human icicle. Br-r-r! Shall I ever getthe cold out of my backbone? But somehow, somehow that foggy felleroutside sort of changed my look on things. It made me feel _kinder_toward living folks. Ain't it strange!"

"Mr. Hobson, " I said, "I think the ghost has made us _all_ see thingsdifferently. In a word, sir, I have a confession to make--if you don'tmind. "

And I told him briefly of my accidental meeting with Anita in thedonjon, of the practical joke we planned, of our sudden meeting with the_real_ ghost on the ramparts. Mr. Hobson listened, his face growingredder and redder. At the finish of my story he suddenly leaped to hisfeet and brought his fist down on the table with a bang. 

"Well, you little devils!" he said admiringly, and burst into loudlaughter. "You're a spunky lad, Jeff. And there ain't any doubt that thede Pierreponts are as good stuff as you can get in the ancestrybusiness. The Christmas supper is spread in the banquet hall. Come, dePierrepont, will you sup with the old Earl?"

 * * * * *

The huge oaken banquet hall, lined with rich hangings, shrunk us todwarfs by its vastness. Golden goblets were at each place. A butler, dressed in antique livery, threw a red cloak over Hobson's fatshoulders. It was a whim of the old man's. 

As we took our places, I noticed the table was set for four. 

"Whose is the extra place?" I asked. 

The old man at first made no reply. At last he turned to me earnestlyand said: "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"No, " I replied. "Yet how else can I explain that vision I saw on theramparts?"

"Is the fourth place for him?" Anita almost whispered. 

The old man nodded mutely and raised a golden goblet. 

"To the Transplanted Ghost!" I said. It was an empty goblet that Itouched to my lips. 

THE LAST GHOST IN HARMONY

BY NELSON LLOYD

From _Scribner's Magazine_. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers and Nelson Lloyd. 

The Last Ghost in Harmony

BY NELSON LLOYD

From his perch on the blacksmith's anvil he spoke between the puffs ofhis post-prandial pipe. The fire in the forge was out and the day wasgoing slowly, through the open door of the shop and the narrow windows, westward to the mountains. In the advancing shadow, on the pile ofbroken wheels on the work-bench, on keg and barrel, they sat puffingtheir post-prandial pipes and listening. 

 * * * * *

For a partner in business I want a truthful man, but for a companiongive me one with imagination. To my mind imagination is the spice oflife. There is nothing so uninteresting as a fact, for when you know itthat is the end of it. When life becomes nothing but facts it won't beworth living; yet in a few years the race will have no imagination left. It is being educated out. Look at the children. When I was young thebogey man was as real to me as pa and nearly as much to be feared of, but just yesterday I was lectured for merely mentioning him to my neffy. So with ghosts. We was taught to believe in ghosts the same as we was inAdam or Noar. Nowadays nobody believes in them. It is unscientific, andif you are superstitious you are considered ignorant and laughed at. Ghosts are the product of the imagination, but if I imagine I see one heis as real to me as if he actually exists, isn't he? Therefore he doesexist. That's logic. You fellows have become scientific and admits onlywhat you see and feel, and don't depend on your imagination foranything. Such being the case, I myself admit that the sperrits nolonger ha'nt the burying-ground or play around your houses. I admit itbecause the same condition exact existed in Harmony when I was there, and because of what was told me by Robert J. Dinkle about two yearsafter he died, and because of what occurred between me and him and theRev. Mr. Spiegelnail. 

Harmony was a highly intellectual town. About the last man there withany imagination or interesting ideas, excepting me, of course, wasRobert J. Dinkle. Yet he had an awful reputation, and when he died itwas generally stated privately that the last landmark of ignorance andsuperstition had been providentially removed. You know he had alwaysbeen seeing things, but we set it down to his fondness for hard cider orhis natural prepensity for joshing. With him gone there was no one leftto report the doings of the sperrit-world. In fact, so widespread wasthe light of reason, as the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail called it, that theburying-ground became a popular place for moonlight strolls. Even Iwalked through it frequent on my way home from Miss Wheedle's, withwhom I was keeping company, and it never occurred to me to go any fasterthere, or to look back over my shoulder, for I didn't believe in suchfoolishness. But to the most intellectual there comes times of doubtabout things they know nothing of nor understand. Such a time come tome, when the wind was more mournfuller than usual in the trees, and theclouds scudded along overhead, casting peculiar shadders. My imaginationgot the best of my intellect. I hurried. I looked back over my shoulder. I shivered, kind of. Natural I see nothing in the burying-ground, yet atthe end of town I was still uneasy-like, though half laughing at myself. It was so quiet; not a light burned anywhere, and the square seemedlonelier than the cemetery, and the store was so deserted, so ghostly inthe moonlight, that I just couldn't keep from peering around at it. 

Then, from the empty porch, from the empty bench--empty, I swear, for Icould see plain, so clear was the night--from absolute nothing come aspleasant a voice as ever I hear. 

"Hello!" it says. 

My blood turned icy-like and the chills waved up and down all throughme. I couldn't move. 

The voice came again, so natural, so familiar, that I warmed some, andrubbed my eyes and stared. 

There, sitting on the bench, in his favorite place, was the late RobertJ. Dinkle, gleaming in the moonlight, the front door showing rightthrough him. 

"I must appear pretty distinct, " he says in a proud-like way. "Can't yousee me very plain?"

See him plain! I should think so. Even the patches on his coat wasvisible, and only for the building behind him, he never looked morenatural, and hearing him so pleasant, set me thinking. This, says I, isthe sperrit of the late Robert J. Dinkle. In life he never did me anyharm and in his present misty condition is likely to do less; if he islooking for trouble I'm not afraid of a bit of fog. Such being the case, I says, I shall address him as soon as I am able. 

But Robert got tired waiting, and spoke again in an anxious tone, alittle louder, and ruther complaining, "Don't I show up good?" says he. 

"I never see you looking better, " I answered, for my voice had cameback, and the chills were quieter, and I was fairly ca'm and dared evento move a little nearer. 

A bright smile showed on his pale face. "It is a relief to be seen atlast, " he cried, most cheerful. "For years I've been trying to do alittle ha'nting around here, and no one would notice me. I used to thinkmebbe my material was too delicate and gauzy, but I've conceded that, after all, the stuff is not to blame. "

He heaved a sigh so natural that I forgot all about his being a ghost. Indeed, taken all in all, I see that he had improved, was solemner, hada sweeter expression and wasn't likely to give in to his old prepensityfor joshing. 

"Set down and we will talk it over, " he went on most winning. "Really, Ican't do any harm, but please be a little afraid and then I will show updistincter. I must be getting dim now. "

"You are, " says I, for though I was on the porch edging nearer him mostbold, I could hardly see him. 

Without any warning he gave an awful groan that brought the chillswaving back most violent. I jumped and stared, and as I stared he stoodout plainer and solider in the moonlight. 

"That's better, " he said with a jolly chuckle; "now you do believe inme, don't you? Well, set there nervous-like, on the edge of the benchand don't be too ca'm-like, or I'll disappear. "

The ghost's orders were followed explicit. But with him setting there sonatural and pleasant it was hard to be frightened and more than once Iforgot. He, seeing me peering like my eyesight was bad, would give agroan that made my blood curdle. Up he would flare again, gleaming inthe moonlight full and strong. 

"Harmony's getting too scientific, too intellectual, " he said, speakingvery melancholic. "What can't be explained by arithmetic or geography isput down as impossible. Even the preachers encourage such idees and talkabout Adam and Eve being allegories. As a result, the graveyard hasbecome the slowest place in town. You simply can't ha'nt anythingaround here. A man hears a groan in his room and he gets up and closesthe shutters tighter, or throws a shoe at a rat, or swears at the windin the chimney. A few sperrits were hanging around when I was firstdead, but they were complaining very bad about the hard times. Thereused to be plenty of good society in the burying-ground, they said, butone by one they had to quit. All the old Berrys had left. Mr. Whoopleretired when he was taken for a white mule. Mrs. Morris A. Klump, whoonce oppyrated 'round the deserted house beyond the mill had gave up indisgust just a week before my arrival. I tried to encourage the fewremaining, explained how the sperritualists were working down the valleyand would strike town any time, but they had lost all hope--kept fadingaway till only me was left. If things don't turn for the better soon Imust go, too. It's awful discouraging. And lonely! Why folks ramblearound the graves like even I wasn't there. Just last night my boy Ossycame strolling along with the lady he is keeping company with, and wheredo you s'pose they set down to rest, and look at the moon and talk aboutthe silliest subjecks? Right on my headstone! I stood in front of themand did the ghostliest things till I was clean tired out anddiscouraged. They just would not pay the least attention. "

The poor old ghost almost broke down and cried. Never in life had Iknown him so much affected, and it went right to my heart to see himwiping his eyes with his handkercher and snuffling. 

"Mebbe you don't make enough noise when you ha'nt, " says I mostsympathetic. 

"I do all the regular acts, " says he, a bit het up by my remark. "Wealways were kind of limited. I float around and groan, and talk foolish, and sometimes I pull off bedclothes or reveal the hiding-place of buriedtreasure. But what good does it do in a town so intellectual asHarmony?"

I have seen many folks who were down on their luck, but never one who soappealed to me as the late Robert J. Dinkle. It was the way he spoke, the way he looked, his general patheticness, his very helplessness, anddeservingness. In life I had known him well, and as he was now I likedhim better. So I did want to do something for him. We sat studying for along time, him smoking very violent, blowing clouds of fog outen hispipe, me thinking up some way to help him. And idees allus comes to themwho sets and waits. 

"The trouble is partly as you say, Robert, " I allowed after a bit, "andagain partly because you can't make enough noise to awaken theslumbering imagination of intellectual Harmony. With a little naturalhelp from me though, you might stir things up in this town. "

You never saw a gladder smile or a more gratefuller look than that poorsperrit gave me. 

"Ah, " he says, "with your help I could do wonders. Now who'll we beginon?"

"The Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail, " says I, "has about all the imagination leftin Harmony--of course excepting me. "

Robert's face fell visible. "I have tried him repeated and often, " hesays, kind of argumentative-like. "All the sign he made was to complainthat his wife talked in her sleep. "

I wasn't going to argue--not me. I was all for action, and lost no timein starting. Robert J. , he followed me like a dog, up through town toour house, where I went in, leaving him outside so as not to disturbmother. There I got me a hammer and nails with the heavy lead sinkeroffen my fishnet, and it wasn't long before the finest tick-tack youever saw was working against the Spiegelnails' parlor window, with me ina lilac-bush operating the string that kept the weight a-swinging. Before the house was an open spot where the moon shone full and clear, where Robert J. Walked up and down, about two feet off the ground, waving his arms slow-like and making the melancholiest groans. Now Ihave been to _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ frequent, but in all my life I neversee such acting. Yet what was the consequences? Up went the windowabove, and the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail showed out plain in the moonlight. 

"Who is there?" he called very stern. You had otter see Robert then. Itwas like tonic to him. He rose up higher and began to beat his arms mostviolent and to gurgle tremendous. But the preacher never budged. 

"You boys otter be ashamed of yourselves, " he says in a severe voice. 

"Louder, louder, " I calls to Robert J. , in answering which he began themost awful contortions. 

"You can hear me perfectly plain, " says the dominie, now kind ofsad-like. "It fills my old heart with sorrow to see that yous all havegone so far astray. "

Hearing that, so calm, so distinct, so defiant, made Robert J. Stopshort and stare. To remind him I gave the weight an extra thump, and itwas so loud as to bring forth Mrs. Spiegelnail, her head showing plainas she peered out over the preacher's shoulder. The poor discouragedghost took heart, striking his tragicest attitude, one which he told meafterwards was his pride and had been got out of a book. But what wasthe result?

"Does you hear anyone in the bushes, dear?" inquires Mr. Spiegelnail, cocking his ears and listening. 

"It must be Ossy Dinkle and them bad friends of his, " says she, in hersour tone. 

Poor Robert! Hearing that, he about gave up hope. 

"Don't I show up good?" he asks in an anxious voice. 

"I can see you distinct, " says I, very sharp. "You never looked better. "

Down went the window--so sudden, so unexpected that I did not know whatto make of it. Robert J. Thought he did, and over me he came floating, most delighted. 

"I must have worked, " he said, laughing like he'd die, a-doubling up andholding his sides to keep from splitting. "At last I have showed updistinct; at last I am of some use in the world. You don't realize whata pleasure it is to know that you are fulfilling your mission and livingup to your reputation. "

Poor old ghost! He was for talking it all over then and there andsettled down on a soft bunch of lilacs, and fell to smoking fog andchattering. It did me good to see him so happy and I was inclined topuff up a bit at my own success in the ha'nting line. But it was not forlong. The rattle of keys warned us. The front door flew open and outbounded the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail, clearing the steps with a jump, andflying over the lawn. All thought of the late Robert J. Dinkle left methen, for I had only a few feet start of my pastor. You see I shouldn'ta-hurried so only I sung bass in the choir and I doubt if I could haveconvinced him that I was working in the interests of Science and Truth. Fleeing was instinct. Gates didn't matter. They were took on the wing, and down the street I went with the preacher's hot breath on my neck. But I beat him. He tired after the first spurt and was soon left behind, so I could double back home to bed. 

Robert, he was for giving up entirely. 

"I simply won't work, " says he to me, when I met him on the store porchthat next night. "A hundred years ago such a bit of ha'nting would havecaused the town to be abandoned; to-day it is attributed to naturalcauses. "

"Because, " says I, "we left behind such evidences of materialmanifestations as strings and weights on the parlor window. "

"S'pose we work right in the house?" says he, brightening up. "You canhide in the closet and groan while I act. "

Now did you ever hear anything innocenter than that? Yet he meant it sowell I did not even laugh. 

"I'm too fond of my pastor, " I says, "to let him catch me in his closet. A far better spot for our work is the short cut he takes home fromchurch after Wednesday evening meeting. We won't be so loud, but moredignified, melancholier, and tragic. You overacted last night, Robert, "I says. "Next time pace up and down like you were deep in thought andsigh gentle. Then if he should see you it would be nice to take his armand walk home with him. "

I think I had the right idea of ha'nting, and had I been able to keep upRobert J. Dinkle's sperrits and to train him regular I could havearoused the slumbering imagination of Harmony, and brought life to theburying-ground. But he was too easy discouraged. He lacked perseverance. For if ever Mr. Spiegelnail was on the point of seeing things it wasthat night as he stepped out of the woods. He had walked slow andmeditating till he come opposite where I was. Now I didn't howl orgroan or say anything particular. What I did was to make a noise thatwasn't animal, neither was it human, nor was it regulation ghostly. As Ihad stated to the late Robert J. Dinkle, what was needed for ha'ntingwas something new and original. And it certainly ketched Mr. Spiegelnail's attention. I see him stop. I see his lantern shake. Itappeared like he was going to dive into the bushes for me, but hechanged his mind. On he went, quicker, kind as if he wasn't afraid, yetwas, on to the open, where the moon brought out Robert beautiful as hepaced slowly up and down, his head bowed like he was studying. Still thepreacher never saw him, stepped right through him, in fact. I give thedreadful sound again. That stopped him. He turned, raised the lanternbefore him, put his hand to his ear, and seemed to be looking intenseand listening. Hardly ten feet away stood Robert, all a-trembling withexcitement, but the light that showed through him was as steady as arock, as the dominie watched and listened, so quiet and ca'm. He loweredthe lantern, rubbed his hands across his eyes, stepped forward andlooked again. The ghost was perfect. As I have stated, he was excitedand his sigh shook a little, but he was full of dignity and sadity. Heshouldn't have lost heart so soon. I was sure then that he almost showedup plain to the preacher and he would have grown on Mr. Spiegelnail hadhe kept on ha'nting him instead of giving in because that one night thepastor walked on to the house fairly cool. He did walk quicker, I know, and he did peer over his shoulder twicet and I did hear the kitchen doorbang in a relieved way. But when we consider the stuff that ghosts aremade of we hadn't otter expect them to be heroes. They are too foggy andgauzy to have much perseverance--judging at least from Robert J. 

"I simply can't work any more, " says he, when I came up to him, as hesat there in the path, his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands, his eyes studying the ground most mournful. 

"But Robert----" I began, thinking to cheer him up. 

He didn't hear; he wouldn't listen--just faded away. 

Had he only held out there is no telling what he might have done in hisline. Often, since then, have I thought of him and figgered on histremendous possibilities. That he had possibilities I am sure. Had Ionly realized it that last night we went out ha'nting, he never wouldhave got away from me. But the realization came too late. It came inchurch the very next Sunday, with the usual announcements after the longprayer, as Mr. Spiegelnail was leaning over the pulpit eying thecongregation through big smoked glasses. 

Says he in a voice that was full of sadness: "I regret to announce thatfor the first time in twenty years union services will be held in thistown next Sabbath. " Setting in the choir, reading my music marks, Iheard the preacher's words and started, for I saw at once that somethingunusual was happening, or had happened, or was about to happen. "Unfortunately, " said Mr. Spiegelnail, continuing, "I shall have to turnmy pulpit over to Brother Spiker of the Baptist Church, for my failingeyesight renders it necessary that I go at once to Philadelphia, toconsult an oculist. Some of my dear brethren may think this an unusualstep, but I should not desert them without cause. They may think, perhaps, that I am making much ado about nothing and could be treatedjust as well in Harrisburg. To such let me explain that I am sufferingfrom astigmatism. It is not so much that I cannot see, but that I seesthings which I know are not there--a defect in sight which I feel needsthe most expert attention. Sunday-school at half-past nine; divineservice at eleven. I take for my text 'And the old men shall seevisions. '"

How I did wish the late Robert J. Dinkle could have been in church thatmorning. It would have so gladdened his heart to hear that he had partlyworked, for if he worked partly, then surely, in time, he would haveworked complete. For me, I was just wild with excitement, and was sobusy thinking of him and how glad he would be, that I didn't hear thesermon at all, and in planning new ways of ha'nting I forgot to sing inthe last anthem. You see, I figgered lively times ahead for Harmony--ageneral return to the good old times when folks had imagination and hadsomething more in their heads than facts. I had only to get Robertagain, and with him working it would not be long till all the old Berrysand Mrs. Klump showed up distinct and plain. But I wasn't well posted inthe weak characters of shades, for I thought, of course, I could find mysperrit friend easy when night came. Yet I didn't. I set on the storeporch shivering till the moon was high up over the ridge. He justwouldn't come. I called for him soft-like and got no answer. Down to theburying-ground I went and set on his headstone. It was the quietestplace you ever see. The clouds was scudding overhead; the wind wassighing among the leaves; and through the trees the moon was gleaming soclear and distinct you could almost read the monnyments. It was just anight when things should have been lively there--a perfect night forha'nting. I called for Robert. I listened. He never answered. I heardonly a bull-frog a-bellering in the pond, a whippoor-will whistling inthe grove, and a dog howling at the moon. 

THE GHOST OF MISER BRIMPSON

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

From _Tales of the Tenements_, by Eden Phillpotts. Published in Americaby John Lane Company, and in England by John Murray. By permission ofthe publishers and Eden Phillpotts. 

The Ghost of Miser Brimpson

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

I

Penniless and proud he was; and that pair don't draw a man to pleasantplaces when they be in double harness. There's only one thing can stop'em if they take the bit between their teeth, and that's a woman. Sothere, you might say, lies the text of the tale of Jonathan Drake, ofDunnabridge Farm, a tenement in the Forest of Dartymoor. 'Twas Naboth'svineyard to Duchy, and the greedy thing would have given a very fairprice for it, without a doubt; but the Drake folk held their land, andwouldn't part with it, and boasted a freehold of fifty acres in the verymidst of the Forest. They did well, too, and moved with the times, andkept their heads high for more generations than I can call home; andthen they comed to what all families, whether gentle or simple, alwayscome to soon or late. And that's a black sheep for bell-wether. Bad unsthere'll be in every generation of a race; but the trouble begins when abad un chances to be up top; and if the head of the family is adrunkard, or a spendthrift, or built on too free and flowing a patternfor this work-a-day shop, then the next generation may look out forsqualls, as the sailor-men say. 

'Twas Jonathan's grandfather that did the harm at Dunnabridge. He hadsport in his blood, on his mother's side, and 'twas horses ran him intotrouble. He backed 'em, and was ruined; and then his son bred 'em, anddidn't do very much better. So, when the pair of 'em dropped out of thehunt, and died with their backs to the wall, one after t'other, itlooked as if the game was up for them to follow. By good chance, however, Tom Drake had but one child--a boy--the Jonathan as I betelling about; and when his father and grandfather passed away, within ayear of each other, Dunnabridge was left to Tom's widow and her son, himthen being twenty-two. She was for selling Dunnabridge and getting awayfrom Dartymoor, because the place had used her bad, and she hated thesight of it; but Jonathan, a proud chap even then, got the lawyers tolook into the matter, and they told him that 'twasn't vital forDunnabridge to be sold, though it might ease his pocket, and smooth hisfuture to do so, 'specially as Duchy wanted the place rather bad, andhad offered the value of it. And Jonathan's mother was on the side ofDuchy, too, and went on her knees to the man to sell; but he wouldn't. He had a bee in his bonnet sometimes, and he said that all the Drakeswould rise out of their graves to Widecombe churchyard, and haunt hisrising up and going down if he were to do such a thing, just to suithis own convenience, and be rid of the place. So he made a plan with thecreditors. It figured out that his father and grandfather had owed neara thousand pound between them; and Jonathan actually set himself to payit off to the last penny. 'Twas the labor of years; but by the time hewas thirty-three he done it--at what cost of scrimping and screwing, only his mother might have told. She never did tell, however, for shedied two year before the last item was paid. Some went as far as todeclare that 'twas her son's miserly ways hurried her into her grave;and, for all I know, they may have done so, for 'tis certain, in herhusband's life, she had a better time. Tom was the large-hearted, juicy, easy sort, as liked meat on the table, and plenty to wash it down; andhe loved Mercy Jane Drake very well; and, when he died, the only thoughtthat troubled him was leaving her; and the last thing he advised his sonwas to sell Dunnabridge, and take his mother off the Moor down to the"in country" where she'd come from. 

But Jonathan was made of different stuff, and 'twas rumored by oldpeople that had known the family for several generations that he favoredan ancient forefather by name of Brimpson Drake. This bygone man was amiser and the richest of the race. He'd lived in the days when we wereat war with France and America, and when Princetown sprang up, and agert war-prison was built there to cage all the chaps we got on ourhands through winning such a lot o' sea battles. And Miser Brimpson wassaid to have made thousands by helping rich fellows to escape from theprison. Truth and falsehood mixed made up his story as 'twas handeddown. But one thing appeared to be fairly true about it; which was, thatwhen the miser died, and Dunnabridge went to his cousin, the horseracer, not a penny of his fortune ever came into the sight of living men. Sosome said 'twas all nonsense, and he never had no money at all, but onlypretended to it; and others again, declared that he knew too well who'dfollow in his shoes at Dunnabridge, and hid his money accordingly, sothat no Drake should have it. For he hated his heirs as only a miser canhate 'em. 

So things stood when Mercy Jane died and Jonathan was left alone. Hepaid all his relations' debts, and he had his trouble and the honor ofbeing honorable for his pains. Everybody respected him somethingwonderful; but, all the same, a few of his mother's friends always didsay that 'twas a pity he put his dead father's good name afore hisliving mother's life. However, we'm not built in the pattern of ourfellow-creatures, and 'tis only fools that waste time blaming a man forbeing himself. 

Jonathan went his stern way; and then, in the lonely days after hisparent was taken, when he lived at Dunnabridge, with nought but twohinds and a brace of sheep-dogs, 'twas suddenly borne in upon his narrowsight that there might be other women still in the world, though hismother had gone out of it. And he also discovered, doubtless, that ahome without a woman therein be merely the cruel mockery of what a homeshould be. 

A good few folk watched Jonathan to see what he'd do about it, and nodoubt a maiden here and there was interested too; because, though aterrible poor man, he wasn't bad to look at, though rather hard aboutthe edge of the jaw, and rather short and stern in his manners to humancreatures and beasts alike. 

And then beginned his funny courting--if you can call it courting, wherea poor man allows hisself the luxury of pride at the wrong time, andmakes a show of hisself in consequence. At least that's my view; but youmust know that a good few, quite as wise as me, took t'other side, andheld that Jonathan covered his name with glory when he changed his mindabout Hyssop Burges. That was her bitter name, but a pleasanter girlnever walked on shoe-leather. She was Farmer Stonewer's niece to WhiteWorks, and he took her in for a charity, and always said that 'twas thebest day's work as ever he had done. A straight, hardworking, cheerfulsort of a girl, with nothing to name about her very special save a fineshape and a proud way of holding her head in the air and looking herfellow creatures in the eyes. Proud she was for certain, and terriblepartickler as to her friends; but there happened to be that aboutJonathan that made flint to her steel. He knowed she was penniless, orhe'd not have looked at her twice; and when, after a short, fierce sortof courting, she took him, everybody felt pleased about it but FarmerStonewer, who couldn't abide the thought of losing Hyssop, though hiswife had warned him any time this four year that 'twas bound to happen. 

Farmer and the girl were sitting waiting for Jonathan one night; and shewas a bit nervous, and he was trying for to calm her. 

"Jonathan must be told, " she says. "It can't go on no longer. "

"Then tell him, " says her uncle. "Good powers!" he says; "to see you, one would think the news was the worst as could ever fall between a pairo' poor lovers, instead of the best. "

"I know him a lot better than you, " she tells Farmer; "and I know howplaguey difficult he can be where money's the matter. He very nearthrowed me over when, in a weak moment, I axed him to let me buy my owntokening-ring. Red as a turkey's wattles did he flame, and said I'dinsulted him; and now, when he hears the secret, I can't for the life ofme guess how he'll take it. "

"'Twas a pity you didn't tell him when he offered for you, " declaredHyssop's aunt. "Proud he is as a silly peacock, and terrible frightenedof seeming to look after money, or even casting his eye where it bides;but he came to you without any notion of the windfall, and he loved youfor yourself, like an honest man; and you loved him the same way; andright well you know that if your old cousin had left you five thousandpound instead of five hundred, Jonathan Drake was the right chap foryou. He can't blame himself, for not a soul on Dartymoor but us threehas ever heard tell about the money. "

"But he'll blame me for having money at all, " answered the girl. "Hesaid a dozen times afore he offered for me, that he'd never look at awoman if she'd got more cash than what he had himself. That's why Icouldn't bring myself to confess to it--and lose him. And, after we wastokened, it got to be harder still. "

"Why not bide till you'm married, then?" asked Mrs. Stonewer. "Since ithave gone so long, let it go longer, and surprise him with the news onthe wedding-night--eh, James?"

"No, " answered Farmer. "'Enough is as good as a feast. ' 'Tis squanderingblessings to do that at such a time. Keep the news till some rainy day, when he's wondering how to get round a tight corner. That's the momentto tell him; and that's the moment he's least likely to make a face atthe news. "

But Hyssop wouldn't put it off no more; she said as she'd not have anyfurther peace till the murder was out. And that very night, sure enoughwhen Jonathan comed over from Dunnabridge for his bit of love-making, and the young couple had got the farm parlor to themselves, she plumpedit out, finding him in a very kindly mood. They never cuddled much, forhe wasn't built that way; but he'd not disdain to sit beside her andput his arm around her now and again, when she picked up his hand anddrew it round. Then, off and on, she'd rub her cheek against hismutton-chop whiskers, till he had to kiss her in common politeness. 

Well, Hyssop got it out--Lord alone knows how, as she said afterwards. She got it out, and told him that an old, aged cousin had died, and lefther a nice little skuat[1] of money; and how she'd never touched a pennybut let it goody in the bank; and how she prayed and hoped 'twould help'em to Dunnabridge; and how, of course, he must have the handling of it, being a man, and so cruel clever in such things. She went on and on, pretty well frightened to stop and hear him. But, after she'd said itover about a dozen times, her breath failed her, and she shut her mouth, and tried to smile, and looked up terrible anxious and pleading atJonathan. 

His hard gray eyes bored into her like a brace of gimlets, and in returnfor all her talk he axed but one question. 

"How long have you had this here money?" he said. 

She told the truth, faltering and shaking under his glare. 

"Four years and upwards, Jonathan. "

"That's years and years afore I axed you to marry me?"

"Yes, Jonathan. "

"And you remember what I said about never marrying anybody as had morethan what I have?"

"Yes, Jonathan. "

"And you full know how many a time I told you that, after I paid off allmy father's debts, I had nought left, and 'twould be years afore I couldbuild up anything to call money?"

"Yes, Jonathan. "

"Very well, then!" he cried out, and his brow crooked down and his fistsclenched. "Very well, you've deceived me deliberate, and if you'd dothat in one thing, you would in another. I'm going out of this housethis instant moment, and you can tell your relations why 'tis. I'mterrible sorry, Hyssop Burges, for no man will ever love you better thanwhat I did; and so you'd have lived to find out when all this herecourting tomfoolery was over, and you'd come to be my wife. But now I'llhave none of you, for you've played with me. And so--so I'll bid yougood-bye!"

He went straight out without more speech; and she tottered, weeping, toher uncle and aunt. They couldn't believe their senses; and JimmyStonewer declared thereon that any man who could make himself such amasterpiece of a fool as Jonathan had done that night, was better out ofthe marriage state than in it. He told Hyssop as she'd had a marvelousescape from a prize zany; and his wife said the same. But the girlcouldn't see it like that. She knowed Jonathan weren't a prize zany, and his raging pride didn't anger her, for she admired it somethingwonderful, and it only made her feel her loss all the crueller to seewhat a terrible rare, haughty sort of a chap he was. There were a lot ofother men would have had her, and twice as many again, if they'd knownabout the money; but they all seemed as tame as robins beside her hawkof a Jonathan. She had plenty of devil in her, too, when it came to thefighting pitch; and now, while he merely said that the match was brokenoff through a difference of opinion, and gave no reason for it, she setto work with all her might to get him back again, and used herlove-sharpened wits so well as she knew how, to best him into matrimony. 

II

In truth she made poor speed. Jonathan was always civil afterwards; butyou might as soon have tried to thaw an iceberg with a box of matches asto get him round again by gentleness and affection. He was the sort thatcan't be won with kindness. He felt he'd treated the world better thanthe world had treated him, and the thought shriveled his heart a bit. Always shy and suspicious, you might say; and yet, underneath it, themost honorable and upright and high-minded man you could wish to meet. Hyssop loved him like her life, and she got a bit poorly in health aftertheir sad quarrel. Then chance willed it that, going down fromPrincetown to Plymouth by train--to see a chemist, and get something tomake her eat--who should be in the selfsame carriage but Mr. Drake andhis hind, Thomas Parsons. 

There was others there, too; and it fell out that an old fellow asknowed Jonathan's grandfather before him, brought up the yarn aboutMiser Brimpson, and asked young Drake if he took any stock in it. 

Of course the man pooh-poohed such foolery, and told the old chap not totalk nonsense like that in the ear of the nineteenth century; but whenJonathan and Parsons had got out of the train--which they did do atYelverton station--Hyssop, as knowed the old man, axed him to tell moreabout the miser; and he explained, so well as he knew how, that BrimpsonDrake had made untold thousands out of the French and Americanprisoners, and that, without doubt, 'twas all hidden even to this day atDunnabridge. 

"Of course Jonathan's too clever to believe such a tale--like his fatherbefore him; but his grandfather believed it, and the old blid spent halfhis time poking about the farm. Only, unfortunately, he didn't have noluck. But 'tis there for sure; and if Jonathan had enough faith he'dcome by it--not by digging and wasting time and labor, but by doing whatis right and proper when you'm dealing with such matters. "

"And what might that be?" axed Miss Burges. 

Just then, however, the train for Plymouth ran up, and the old man toldher that he'd explain some other time. 

"This generation laughs at such things, " he said; "but they laugh bestwho laugh last, and, for all we can say to the contrary, 'tis nought buthis conceit and pride be standing between that stiff-necked youth andthe wealth of a bank. "

Hyssop, she thought a lot upon this; but she hadn't no need to go to theold chap again, as she meant to do, for when she got home, heruncle--Farmer Stonewer--knowed all about the matter, and told her how'twas a very rooted opinion among the last generation that a miser'sspirit never could leave its hidden hoard till the stuff was brought tolight, and in human hands once more. 

"Millions of good money has been found in that manner, if all we hear istrue, " declared Farmer Jimmy; "and if one miser has been known to walk, which nobody can deny, then why shouldn't another? Them as believe insuch dark things--and I don't say I do, and I don't say I don't--them asknow of such mysteries happening in their own recollection, or in thememory of their friends, would doubtless say that Miser Brimpson stillcreeps around his gold now and again; and if that money be within thefour corners of Dunnabridge Farm, and if Jonathan happed to be on thelookout on the rightful night and at the rightful moment, 'tis almostany odds but he might see his forbear sitting over his money-bags like ahen on a clutch of eggs, and so recover the hoard. "

"But faith's needed for such a deed, " Mrs. Stonewer told her niece; "andthat pig-headed creature haven't no faith. Too proud, he is, to believein anything he don't understand. 'Twas even so with Lucifer afore him. If you told him--Jonathan--this news, he'd rather let the money go thanset off ghost-hunting in cold blood. Yet there it is: and ahumbler-minded fashion of chap, with the Lord on his side, and atrustful heart in his bosom, might very like recover all them tubs ofcash the miser come by. "

"And then he'd have thousands to my poor tens, " said Hyssop. "Not thathe'd ever come back to me now, I reckon. "

But, all the same, she knowed by the look in Jonathan's eye when theymet, that he loved her still, and that his silly, proud heart washungering after her yet, though he'd rather have been drawn under aharrow than show a spark of what was burning there. 

And so, upon this nonsense about a buried treasure she set to work againto use her brains, and see if there might be any road out of the troubleby way of Miser Brimpson's ghost. 

What she did, none but them as helped her ever knew, until the storycomed round to me; but 'twas the cleverest thing that ever I heard of amaiden doing, and it worked a wonder. In fact, I can't see but a singleobjection to the plot, though that was a serious thing for the girl. Itlay in the fact that there had to be a secret between Hyssop and herhusband; and she kept it close as the grave until the grave itselfclosed over him. Yet 'twas an innocent secret, too; and, when all'ssaid, 'tisn't a wedded pair in five hundred as haven't each their onelittle cupboard fast locked, with the key throwed away. 

Six months passed by, and Jonathan worked as only he knowed how to work, and tried to forget his sad disappointment by dint of toil. Early andlate he labored, and got permission to reclaim a bit of moor for a"newtake, " and so added a very fair three acres to his farm. He noticedabout this time that his hind, Parsons, did oft drag up the subject ofMiser Brimpson Drake; and first Jonathan laughed, and then he wasangered, and bade Thomas hold his peace. But, though a very obedient andhumble sort of man, Parsons would hark back to the subject, and tell howhis father had known a man who was own brother to a miser; and how, whenthe miser died, his own brother had seen him clear as truth in thechimley-corner of his room three nights after they'd buried him; and howthey made search, and found, not three feet from where the ghost hadstood, a place in the wall with seventeen golden sovereigns hid in it, and a white witch's cure for glanders. Thomas Parsons swore on the Bookto this; and he said, as a certain fact, that New Year's Night was thetime most misers walked; and he advised Jonathan not to be dead to hisown interests. 

"At least, as a thinking man, that believes in religion and the powersof the air, in Bible word, you might give it a chance, " said Thomas; andthen Jonathan told him to shut his mouth, and not shame Dunnabridge bytalking such childish nonsense. 

The next autumn Jonathan went up beyond Exeter to buy some of theyblack-faced, horned Scotch sheep, and he wanted for Parsons to go withhim; but his man falled ill the night afore, and so young Hacker wentinstead. 

Drake reckoned then that Thomas Parsons would have to leave, forDunnabridge weren't a place for sick folk; and he'd made up his mindafter he came back to turn the old chap off; but Thomas was better whenthe master got home, so the question of sacking him was let be, andJonathan contented himself by telling Tom that, if he falled ill again, 'twould be the last time. And Parsons said that was as it should be; buthe hoped that at his age--merely sixty-five or thereabout--he wouldn'tbe troubled with his breathing parts again for half a score o' years atleast. He added that he'd done his work as usual while the master wasaway; but he didn't mention that Hyssop Burges had made so bold as tocall at Dunnabridge with a pony and cart, and that she'd spent a tidylong time there, and gone all over the house and farmyard, among otherplaces, afore she drove off again. 

And the next chapter of the story was told by Jonathan himself to histwo men on the first day of the following year. 

There was but little light of morning just then, and the three of 'emwere putting down some bread and bacon and a quart of tea by candlelightin the Dunnabridge kitchen, when Thomas saw that his master weren'teating nothing to name. Instead, he went out to the barrel and drawedhimself a pint of ale, and got along by the peat fire with it, and stuckhis boots so nigh the scads as he dared without burning 'em. 

"What's amiss?" said Thomas. "Don't say you'm sick, master. And if yoube, I lay no liquor smaller than brandy will fetch you round. "

"I ban't sick, " answered Jonathan shortly. 

He seemed in doubt whether to go on. Then he resolved to do so. 

"There was a man in the yard last night, " he said; "and, if I thought aseither of you chaps knowed anything about it, I'd turn you off thisinstant, afore you'd got the bacon out of your throats. "

"A man? Never!" cried Parsons. 

"How was it the dog didn't bark?" asked Hacker. 

"How the devil do I know why he didn't bark?" answered Jonathan, dark asnight, and staring in the fire. One side of his face was red with theflames, and t'other side blue as steel along of the daylight justbeginning to filter in at the window. 

"All I can say is this, " he added. "I turned in at half-after ten, justafter that brace of old fools to Brownberry went off to see the New Yearin. I slept till midnight; then something woke me with a start. What'twas, I can't tell, but some loud sound near at hand, no doubt. I wasgoing off again when I heard more row--a steady sound repeated over andover. And first I thought 'twas owls; and then I heard 'twas not. Youmight have said 'twas somebody thumping on a barrel; but, at any rate, Iwoke up, and sat up, and found the noise was in the yard. 

"I looked out of my chamber window then, and the moon was bright as day, and the stars sparkling likewise; and there, down by 'the Judge's Table'where the thorn-tree grows, I see a man standing by the old barrel asplain as I see you chaps now. "

"The Judge's Table" be a wonnerful curiosity at Dunnabridge, and if yougo there you'll do well to ax to see it. 'Tis a gert slab of moorstonesaid to have come from Crokern Torr, where the tinners held theerparliament in the ancient times. Now it bides over a water-trough with awhite-thorn tree rising up above. 

Jonathan took his breath when he'd got that far, and fetched his pipeout of his pocket and lighted it. Then he drank off half the beer, andspat in the fire, and went on. 

"A man so tall as me, if not taller. He'd got one of them old whitebeaver hats on his head, and he wore a flowing white beard, so long asmy plough-horse's tail, and he walked up and down, up and down over thestones, like a sailor walks up and down on the deck of a ship. I shoutedto the chap, but he didn't take no more notice than the moon. Up anddown he went; and then I told him, if he wasn't off inside two minutes, I'd get my fowling-piece and let fly. Still he paid no heed; and I don'tmind saying to you men that, for half a second, I felt creepy-crawly andgoose-flesh down the back. But 'twas only the cold, I reckon, for mywindow was wide open, and I'd been leaning out of it for a good whileinto ten degrees of frost. 

"After that, I got angry, and went down house and hitched the gun offthe hooks over the mantelpiece, and ran out, just as I was, in noughtbut my boots and my nightshirt. The hour was so still as the grave atfirst, and the moon shone on the river far below and lit up the eavesand windows; and then, through the silence, I heard Widecombe bellsringing in the New Year. But the old night-bird in his top hat was gone. Not a hair of his beard did he leave behind. I looked about, and then upcame the dog, barking like fury, not knowing who I was, dressed thatway, till he heard my voice. And that's the tale; and who be thatcurious old rascal I'd much like to know. "

They didn't answer at first, and the daylight gained on 'em. Then oldParsons spoke up, and wagged his head and swore that 'twas no man hismaster had seen, but a creature from the other world. 

"I'll lay my life, " he said, "'twas the spectrum of Miser Brimpson asyou saw walking; and I'll take oath by the New Year that 'twas his wayto show where his stuff be buried. For God's sake, " he says, "if youdon't want to get into trouble with unknown creatures, go out and pullup the cobblestones, and see if there's anything underneath 'em. "

But Jonathan made as though the whole thing was nonsense, and wouldn'tlet neither Thomas nor Hacker move a pebble. Only, the next day, he wentoff to a very old chap called Samuel Windeatt, whose father had been aboy at the time of the War Prison, and was said to have seen and knownMiser Brimpson in the flesh. And the old man declared that, in hischildish days, he'd heard of the miser, and that he certainly wore abeaver hat and had a white beard a yard long. So Jonathan came homeagain more thoughtful than afore, and finally--though he declared thathe was ashamed to do it--he let Tom overpersuade him; and two days afterthe three men set to work where Drake had seen the spectrum. 

They dug and they dug, this way and that; and Jonathan found nought, andParsons found nought; but Hacker came upon a box, and they dragged itout of the earth, and underneath of it was another box like the first. They was a pair of old rotten wood chests, by the look of them, made ofboards nailed together with rusty nails. No locks or keys they had; butthat was no matter, for they fell abroad at a touch, and inside of themwas a lot of plate--candlesticks, snuffers, tea-kettles, table silver, and the like. 

"Thunder!" cried out Jonathan. "'Tis all pewter trash, not worth afive-pound note! Us'll dig again. "

And dig they did for a week, till the farmyard in that place was turnedover like a trenched kitchen-garden. But not another teaspoon did theyfind. 

Meantime, however, somebody as understood such things explained to youngDrake that the stuff unearthed was not pewter, nor yet Britannia metalneither, but old Sheffield plate, and worth plenty of good money atthat. 

Jonathan felt too mazed with the event to do anything about it for amonth; then he went to Plymouth, and took a few pieces of the find inhis bag. And the man what he showed 'em to was so terrible interestedthat nothing would do but he must come up to Dunnabridge and see thelot. He offered two hundred and fifty pound for the things on the nail;so Jonathan saw very clear that they must be worth a good bit more. Theyhaggled for a week, and finally the owner went up to Exeter and gotanother chap to name a price. In the long run, the dealers halved thethings, and Jonathan comed out with a clear three hundred and fifty-fourpound. 

III

He wasn't very pleased to talk about his luck, and inquisitive peoplegot but little out of him on the subject; but, of course, Parsons andHacker spoke free and often on the subject, for 'twas the greatestadventure as had ever come to them in their lives; and, from telling thetale over and over old Parsons got to talk about it as if he'd seen theghost himself. 

Then, after he'd chewed over the matter for a space of three or fourmonths, and spring was come again, Jonathan Drake went off one night toWhite Works, just the same as he used to do when he was courting HyssopBurges; and there was the little party as usual, with Mrs. Stonewerknitting, and Farmer reading yesterday's newspaper, and Hyssop sewing inher place by her aunt. 

"Well!" says Farmer Jimmy, "wonders never cease! And to see you againhere be almost so big a wonder as that they tell about of the oldmiser's tea-things. I'm sure we all give you joy, Jonathan; and Ineedn't tell you as we was cruel pleased to hear about it. "

The young man thanked them very civilly, and said how 'twas a cooriouscome-along-of-it, and he didn't hardly know what to think of the mattereven to that day. 

"I should reckon 'twas a bit of nonsense what I'd dreamed, " he said;"but money's money, as who should know better than me? And, by the sametoken, I want a few words with Hyssop if she'm willing to give me tenminutes of her time. "

"You'm welcome, Mr. Drake, " she said. 

He started at the surname; but she got up, and they went off just inthe usual way to the parlor; and when they was there, she sat down inher old corner of the horsehair sofa and looked at him. But he didn'tsit down--not at first. He walked about fierce and talked fierce. 

"I'll ax one question afore I go on, and, if the answer's what I fear, I'll trouble you no more, " he said. "In a word, be you tokened again? Isuppose you be, for you're not the sort to go begging. Say it quick if'tis so, and I'll be off and trouble you no further. "

"No, Mr. Drake. I'm free as the day you--you throwed me over, " sheanswered, in a very quiet little voice. 

He snorted at that, but was too mighty thankful to quarrel with thewords. She could see he began to grow terrible excited now; and hewalked up and down, taking shorter and shorter strides this way andthat, like a hungry caged tiger as knows his bit of horse-flesh be onthe way. 

At last he bursts out again. 

"There was a lot of lies told about that old plate us found atDunnabridge. But the truth of the matter is, that I sold it for threehundred and fifty-four pounds. "

"So Tom Parsons told uncle. A wonderful thing; and we sat up all nighttalking about it, Mr. Drake. "

"For God's sake call me 'Jonathan'!" he cried out; "and tell me--tell mewhat the figure of your legacy was. You must tell me--you can't withholdit. 'Tis life or death--to me. "

She'd never seen him so excited, but very well knowed what was in hismind. 

"If you must know, you must, " she answered. "I thought I told youwhen--when----"

"No, you didn't. I wouldn't bide to hear. Whatever 'twas, you'd got morethan me, and that was all I cared about; but now, if by good fortune'tis less than mine, you understand----"

"Of course 'tis less. A hundred and eighty pound and the interest--alittle over two hundred in all--is what I've gotten. "

"Thank God!" he said. 

Then he axed her if she could marry him still, or if she knew too muchabout his ways and his ideas to care about doing so. 

And she took him again. 

 * * * * *

You see, Hyssop Burges was my mother, and when father died I had therights of the story from her. By that time the old people at White Worksand Tom Parsons was all gone home, and the secret remained safe enoughwith Hyssop herself. 

The great difficulty was to put half her money and more, slap intoJonathan's hands without his knowing how it got there; and, even whenthe game with the ghost was hit upon, 'twas hard to know how to do itclever. Hyssop wanted to hide golden sovereigns at Dunnabridge; but heruncle, with wonnerful wit, pointed out that they'd all be dated; and toget three hundred sovereigns and more a hundred years old could neverhave been managed. Then old Thomas, who was in the secret, of course, and played the part of Miser Brimpson, and got five pounds for doing itso clever, and another five after from his master, when the stuff wasfound--he thought upon trinkums and jewels; and finally Mrs. Stonewer, as had a friend in the business, said that Sheffield plate would do thetrick. And she was right. The plate was bought for three hundred andeighty pound, and kept close at White Works till 'twas known thatJonathan meant to go away and bide away some days. Then my mother droveacross with it; and Thomas made the cases wi' old rotten boards, andthey drove a slant hole under the cobbles, and got all vitty again longafore young Drake came back home. 

"Me and Jonathan was wedded in the fall of that year, " said my mother tome when she told the tale. "And, come the next New Year's Night, he wasat our chamber window as the clock struck twelve, and bided therelooking out into the yard for an hour, keen as the hawk that he was. Hethought I must be asleep; but well I knowed he was seeking for an oldman in a beaver hat wi' a long white beard, and well I knowed he'd neversee him again. Of course your father took good care not to tell me thenext morning that he'd been on the lookout for the ghost. "

And my mother, in her own last days, oft dwelt on that trick; andsometimes she'd say, as the time for meeting father got nearer andnearer, "I wonder if 'twill make any difference in heaven, where nosecrets be hid?" And, knowing father so well as I had, I felt very sureas it might make a mighty lot of difference. So, in my crafty way, Ihedged, and told mother that, for my part, I felt sartain there weresome secrets that wouldn't even be allowed to come out at Judgment Day, for fear of turning heaven into t'other place; and that this was one of'em. She always used to fret at that, however. 

"I want for it to come out, " she'd say. "And, if Jonathan don't know, Ishall certainly tell him. I've kept it in long enough, and I can't trustmyself to do it no more. He've got to know, and, with all eternity toget over it and forgive me in, I have a right to be hopeful that hewill. "

Hyssop Drake died in that fixed resolve; and I'm sure I trust that, when'tis my turn to join my parents again, I shall find no shadow between'em. But there's a lot of doubt about it--knowing father. 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Skuat, windfall. 

THE HAUNTED PHOTOGRAPH

BY RUTH McENERY STUART

From _Harper's Bazar_, June, 1909. By permission of _Harper's Bazar_. 

The Haunted Photograph

BY RUTH McENERY STUART

To the ordinary observer it was just a common photograph of a cheapsummer hotel. It hung sumptuously framed in plush, over the WidowMorris's mantel, the one resplendent note in an otherwise modest home, in a characteristic Queen Anne village. 

One had only to see the rapt face of its owner as she sat in her weedsbefore the picture, which she tearfully pronounced "a strikin'likeness, " to sympathize with the townsfolk who looked askance at thebereaved woman, even while they bore with her delusion, feeling surethat her sudden sorrow had set her mind agog. 

When she had received the picture through the mail, some months beforethe fire which consumed the hotel--a fire through which she had notpassed, but out of which she had come a widow--she proudly passed itaround among the friends waiting with her at the post-office, replyingto their questions as they admired it:

"Oh, yes! That's where he works--if you can call it work. He's the headsteward in it. All that row o' winders where you see the awnin's down, they're his--an' them that ain't down, they're his, too--that is to say, it's his jurisdiction. 

"You see, he's got the whip hand over the cook an' the sto'eroom, an'that key don't go out o' his belt unless he knows who's gettin'what--an' he's firm. Morris always was. He's like the iron law of theEphesians. "

"What key?"

It was an old lady who held the picture at arm's length, the moreclosely to scan it, who asked the question. She asked it partly to know, as neither man nor key appeared in the photograph, and partly to parrythe "historic allusion"--a disturbing sort of fire for which Mrs. Morriswas rather noted and which made some of her most loyal townsfolk a bitshy of her. 

"Oh, I ain't referrin' to the picture, " she hastened to explain. "I meanthe keys thet he always carries in his belt. The reg'lar joke there isto call him 'St. Peter, ' an' he takes it in good part, for, he declares, if there _is_ such a thing _as_ a similitude to the kingdom o' Heaven_in_ a hotel, why, it's in the providential supply department which, ina manner, hangs to his belt. He always humors a joke--'specially onhimself. "

No one will ever know through what painful periods of unrequited longingthe Widow Morris had sought solace in this, her only cherished "relic, "after the "half hour of sky-works" which had made her, in her ownvernacular, "a lonely, conflagrated widow, with a heart full of ashes, "before the glad moment when it was given her to discern in it anunsuspected and novel value. First had come, as a faint gleam ofcomfort, the reflection that although her dear lost one was not inevidence in the picture, he had really been inside the building when thephotograph was taken, and so, of course, _he must be in there yet_!

At first she experienced a slight disappointment that her man was notvisible, at door or window. But it was only a passing regret. It wasreally better to feel him surely and broadly within--at large in thegreat house, free to pass at will from one room to another. To have hadhim fixed, no matter how effectively, would have been a limitation. Asit was, she pressed the picture to her bosom as she wondered if, perchance, he would not some day come out of his hiding to meet her. 

It was a muffled pleasure and tremulously entertained at first, but thevery whimsicality of it was an appeal to her sensitized imagination, andso, when finally the thing did really happen, it is small wonder that itcame somewhat as a shock. 

It appears that one day, feeling particularly lonely and forlorn, andhaving no other comfort, she was pressing her tear-stained face againstthe row of window-shutters in the room without awnings, this being hernearest approach to the alleged occupant's bosom, when she was suddenlystartled by a peculiar swishing sound, as of wind-blown rain, whereuponshe lifted her face to perceive that it was indeed raining, and then, glancing back at the photograph, she distinctly saw her husband rushingfrom one window to another, drawing down the sashes on the side of thehouse that would have been exposed to the real shower whose music was inher ears. 

This was a great discovery, and, naturally enough, it set her weeping, for, she sobbed, it made her feel, for a minute, that she had lost herwidowhood and that, after the shower, he'd be coming home. 

It might well make any one cry to suddenly lose the pivot upon which hisemotions are swung. At any rate, Mrs. Morris cried. She said that shecried all night, first because it seemed so spooky to see him whoseremains she had so recently buried on faith, waiving recognition in thedébris, dashing about now in so matter-of-fact a way. 

And then she wept because, after all, he did not come. 

This was the formal beginning of her sense of personal companionship inthe picture--companionship, yes, of delight in it, for there is evendelight in tears--in some situations in life. Especially is this true ofone whose emotions are her only guides, as seems to have been the casewith the Widow Morris. 

After seeing him draw the window-sashes--and he had drawn them _down_, ignoring her presence--she sat for hours, waiting for the rain to stop. It seemed to have set in for a long spell, for when she finally fellasleep, "from sheer disappointment, 'long towards morning, " it wasstill raining, but when she awoke the sun shone and all the windows inthe picture were up again. 

This was a misleading experience, however, for she soon discovered thatshe could not count upon any line of conduct by the man in the hotel, asthe fact that it had one time rained in the photograph at the same timethat it rained outside was but a coincidence and she was soon surprisedto perceive all quiet along the hotel piazza, not even an awningflapping, while the earth, on her plane, was torn by storms. 

On one memorable occasion when her husband had appeared, flapping thewindow-panes from within with a towel, she had thought for one briefmoment that he was beckoning to her, and that she might have to go tohim, and she was beginning to experience terror, with shortness ofbreath and other premonitions of sudden passing, when she discoveredthat he was merely killing flies, and she flurriedly fanned herself withthe asbestos mat which she had seized from the stove beside her, andstaggered out to a seat under the mulberries, as she stammered:

"I do declare, Morris'll be the death of me yet. He's 'most as much careto me dead as he was alive--I made sure--made sure he'd come after me!"

Then, feeling her own fidelity challenged, she hastened to add:

"Not that I hadn't rather go to him than to take any trip in the world, but--but I never did fancy that hotel, and since I've got used to seein'him there so constant, I feel sure that's where we'd put up. My beliefis, anyway, that if there's hereafters for some things, there'shereafters for all. From what I can gather, I reckon I'm a kind of across between a Swedenborgian and a Gates-ajar--that, of course, engrafted on to a Methodist. Now, that hotel, when it was consumed byfire, which to it was the same as mortal death, why, it either ascendedinto Heaven, in smoke, or it fell, in ashes--to the other place. If itdied worthy, like as not it's undergoin' repairs now for a 'mansion, 'jasper cupalos, an'--but, of course, such as that could be run up in atwinklin'. 

"Still, from what I've heard, it's more likely gone _down_ to itsdeserts. It would seem hard for a hotel with so many awned-off corridorsan' palmed embrasures with teet-a-teet sofas, to live along withoutsin. "

She stood on her step-ladder, wiping the face of the picture as shespoke, and as she began to back down she discovered the cat under herelbow, glaring at the picture. 

"Yes, Kitty! Spit away!" she exclaimed. "Like as not you see even morethan I do!"

And as she slipped the ladder back into the closet, she remarked--thisto herself, strictly:

"If it hadn't 'a' been for poor puss, I'd 'a' had a heap more pleasureout o' this picture than what I have had--or will be likely to haveagain. The way she's taken on, I've almost come to hate it!"

A serpent had entered her poor little Eden--even the green-eyed monsterconstrictor, who, if given full swing, would not spare a bone of hermeager comfort. 

A neighbor who chanced to come in at the time, unobserved overheard thelast remark, and Mrs. Morris, seeing that she was there, continued in anunchanged tone, while she gave her a chair:

"Of course, Mis' Withers, you can easy guess who I refer to. I mean thatcombly-featured wench that kep' the books an' answered the telephone atthe hotel--when she found the time from her meddlin'. Somehow, I neverthought about her bein' _burned in_ with Morris till puss give her away. Puss never did like the girl when she was alive, an' the first time Isee her scratch an' spit at the picture, just the way she used to dowhenever _she_ come in sight, why, it just struck me like a clap o'thunder out of a clear sky that puss knew who she was a-spittin' at--an'I switched around sudden--an' glanced up sudden--an'----

"Well, what I seen, I seen! There was that beautied-up typewritersettin' in the window-sill o' Morris's butler's pantry--an' if shedidn't wink at me malicious, then I don't know malice when I see it. An'she used her fingers against her nose, too, most defiant and impolite. So I says to puss I says, 'Puss, ' I says, 'there's _goin's on_ in thathotel, sure as fate. Annabel Bender has got the better o' me, foronce!' An', tell the truth, it did spoil the photograph for me for awhile, for, of course, after that, if I didn't see him somewheres on thewatch for his faithful spouse, I'd say to myself, 'He's inside therewith that pink-featured hussy!'

"You know, a man's a man, Mis' Withers--'specially Morris, an' with hislawful wife cut off an' indefinitely divorced by a longevitiedfamily--an' another burned in with him--well, his faithfulness is put toa trial by fire, as you might say. So, as I say, it spoiled the picturefor me, for a while. 

"An', to make matters worse, it wasn't any time before I recollectedthat Campbellite preacher thet was burned in with them, an' with that myimagination run riot, an' I'd think to myself, '_If_ they're inclined, they cert'n'y have things handy!' Then I'd ketch myself an' say, 'Where's your faith in Scripture, Mary Marthy Matthews, named after twoBible women an' born daughter to an apostle? What's the use?' I'd say, an' so, first an' last, I'd get a sort o' alpha an' omega comfort out o'the passage about no givin' in marriage. Still, there'd be times, prayas I would, when them three would loom up, him an' her--_an'_ theCampbellite preacher. I know his license to marry would run out _intime_, but for eternity, of course we don't know. Seem like everythingwould last forever--an' then again, if I've got a widow's freedom, Morris must be classed as a widower, if he's anything. 

"Then I'd get some relief in thinkin' about his disposition. Good as hewas, Morris was fickle-tasted, not in the long run, but day in an' dayout, an' even if he'd be taken up with her he'd get a distaste theminute he reelized she'd be there interminable. That's Morris. Why, didn't he used to get nervous just seein' _me_ around, an' me his ownselected? An' didn't I use to make some excuse to send him over to MameMaddern's ma's ma's--so's he'd be harmlessly diverted? She was full o'talk, and she was ninety-odd an' asthmatic, but he'd come home from themvisits an' call me his child wife. I've had my happy moments!

"You know a man'll get tired of himself, even, if he's condemned to ittoo continual, and think of that blondinetted typewriter for a steadydiet--to a man like Morris! Imagine her when her hair dye started togive out--green streaks in that pompadour! So, knowin' my man, I'd takecourage an' I'd think, 'Seein' me cut off, he'll soon be wantin' me morethan ever'--an' so he does. It's got so now that, glance up at thathotel any time I will, I can generally find him on the lookout, an'many's the time I've stole in an' put on a favoryte apron o' his withblue bows on it, when we'd be alone an' nobody to remark about mebreakin' my mournin'. Dear me, how full o' b'oyancy he was--a regularboy at thirty-five, when he passed away!"

Was it any wonder that her friends exchanged glances while Mrs. Morrisentertained them in so droll a way? Still, as time passed and she notonly brightened in the light of her delusion, but proceeded to meet theconditions of her own life by opening a small shop in her home, and whenshe exhibited a wholesome sense of profit and loss, her neighbors werequite ready to accept her on terms of mental responsibility. 

With occupation and a modest success, emotional disturbance was surelygiving place to an even calm, when, one day, something happened. 

Mrs. Morris sat behind her counter, sorting notions, puss asleep besideher, when she heard the swish of thin silk, with a breath of familiarperfume, and, looking up, whom did she see but the blond lady of hertroubled dreams striding bodily up to the counter, smiling as sheswished. 

At the sight the good woman first rose to her feet, and then as suddenlydropped--flopped--breathless and white--backward--and had to be revived, so that for the space of some minutes things happened very fast--thatis, if we may believe the flurried testimony of the blonde, who, ingoing over it, two hours later, had more than once to stop for breath. 

"Well, say!" she panted. "Did you ever! _Such_ a turn as took her! Ihadn't no more 'n stepped in the door when she succumbed, green as theGanges, into her own egg-basket--an' it full! An' she was on the eve o'floppin' back into the prunin' scizzor points up, when I scrambled overthe counter, breakin' my straight-front in two, which she's welcome to, poor thing! Then I loaned her my smellin'-salts, which she held herbreath against until it got to be a case of smell or die, an' shesmelt! Then it was a case of temporary spasms for a minute, the saltsspillin' out over her face, but when the accident evaporated, an' sheopened her eyes, rational, I thought to myself, 'Maybe she don't knowshe's keeled an' would be humiliated if she did, ' so I acted callous, an' I says, offhand like, I says, pushin' her apron around behind herover its _vice versa_, so's to cover up the eggs, which I thought hadbetter be broke to her gently, I says, 'I just called in, Mis' Morris, to borry your recipe for angel-cake--or maybe get you to bake one forus' (I knew she baked on orders). An' with that, what does she do but goover again, limp as wet starch, down an' through every egg in thatbasket, solid _an'_ fluid!

"Well, by this time, a man who had seen her at her first worst an' runfor a doctor, he come in with three, an' whilst they were bowin' to eachother an' backin', I giv' 'er stimulus an' d'rectly she turned upon meone rememberable gaze, an' she says, 'Doctors, ' says she, 'would youthink they'd have the gall to try to get me to cook for 'em? They'veordered angel-ca----' An' with that, over she toppled again, no pulsenor nothin', same as the dead!"

While the blonde talked she busied herself with her loosely fallinglocks, which she tried vainly to entrap. 

"An' yet you say she ain't classed as crazy? I'd say it of her, sure!An' so old Morris is dead--burned in that old hotel! Well, well! Poorold fellow! Dear old place! What times I've had!"

She spoke through a mouthful of gilt hairpins and her voice was as anÆolian harp. 

"An' he burned in it--an' she's a widow yet! Yes, I did hear there'dbeen a fire, but you never can tell. I thought the chimney might 'a'burned out--an' I was in the thick of bein' engaged to the night clerkat the Singin' Needles Hotel at Pineville at the time--an' there's noregular mail there. I thought the story might be exaggerated. Oh no, Ididn't marry the night clerk. I'm a bride now, married to the headsteward, same rank as poor old Morris--an' we're just _as_ happy! I usedto pleg Morris about _her_ hair, but I'd have to let up on that now. Mine's as red again as hers. No, not my hair--_mine's_ hair. It's as redas a flannen drawer, every bit an' grain!

"But, say, " she added, presently, "when she gets better, just tell hernever mind about that reci-pe. I copied it out of her reci-pe bookwhilst she was under the weather, an' dropped a dime in her cash-drawer. I recollect how old Morris used to look forward to her angel-cakesweek-ends he'd be goin' home, an' you know there's nothin' like havin'ammunition, in marriage, even if you never need it. Mine's in that frameof mind now that transforms my gingerbread into angel-cake, but the timemay come when I'll have to beat my eggs to a fluff even for angel-cake, so's not to have it taste like gingerbread to him. 

"Oh no, he's not with me this trip. I just run down for a lark to showmy folks my ring an' things, an' let 'em see it's really so. He give meconsiderable jewelry. His First's taste run that way, an' they ain't nochildren. 

"Yes, this amethyst is the weddin'-ring. I selected that on account ofhim bein' a widower. It's the nearest I'd come to wearin' secondmournin' for a woman I can't exactly grieve after. The year not bein' upis why he stayed home this trip. He didn't like to be seen traversin'the same old haunts with Another till it _was_ up. I wouldn't waitbecause, tell the truth, I was afraid. He ain't like a married man withme about money yet, an' it's liable to seize him any day. He might saythat he couldn't afford the trip, or that we couldn't, which wouldamount to the same thing. I rather liked him bein' a little ticklishabout goin' around with me for a while. It's one thing to do a thing an'another to be brazen about it--it----

"But if she don't get better"--the reversion was to the WidowMorris--"if she don't get her mind poor thing! there's a fine insaneasylum just out of Pineville, an' I'd like the best in the world to lookout for her. It would make an excuse for me to go in. They say they havehigh old times there. Some days they let the inmates do 'most any oldthing that's harmless. They even give 'em unpoisonous paints an' let 'empaint each other up. One man insisted he was a barber-pole an' ringedhimself accordingly, an' then another chased him around for a stick ofpeppermint candy. Think of all that inside a close fence, an' a town sodull an' news-hungry----

"Yes, they say Thursdays is paint days, an', of course, Fridays, theyare scrub days. They pass around turpentine an' hide the matches. But, of course, Mis' Morris may get the better of it. 'Tain' every woman thatcan stand widowin', an' sometimes them that has got the least out ofmarriage will seem the most deprived to lose it--so they say. "

The blonde was a person of words. 

 * * * * *

When Mrs. Morris had fully revived and, after a restoring "night'ssleep" had got her bearings, and when she realized clearly that hersupposed rival had actually shown up in the flesh, she visibly bracedup. Her neighbors understood that it must have been a shock "to besuddenly confronted with any souvenir of the hotel fire"--so one hadexpressed it--and the incident soon passed out of the village mind. 

It was not long after this incident that the widow confided to a friendthat she was coming to depend upon Morris for advice in her business. 

"Standing as he does, in that hotel door--between two worlds, as youmight say--why, he sees both ways, and oftentimes he'll detect an event_on the way to happening_, an' if it don't move too fast, why, I canhustle an' get the better of things. " It was as if she had a privatewire for advance information--and she declared herself happy. 

Indeed, a certain ineffable light such as we sometimes see in the eyesof those newly in love came to shine from the face of the widow, who didnot hesitate to affirm, looking into space as she said it:

"Takin' all things into consideration, I can truly say that I have neverbeen so truly and ideely married as since my widowhood. " And she smiledas she added:

"Marriage, the earthly way, is vicissitudinous, for everybody knows thatanything is liable to happen to a man at large. "

There had been a time when she lamented that her picture was not"life-sized" as it would seem so much more natural, but she immediatelyreflected that that hotel would never have gotten into her little house, and that, after all, the main thing was having "him" under her own roof. 

As the months passed Mrs. Morris, albeit she seemed serene and ofpeaceful mind, grew very white and still. Fire is white in its ultimateintensity. The top, spinning its fastest, is said to "sleep"--and thedancing dervish is "still. " So, misleading signs sometimes mark thedanger-line. 

"Under-eating and over-thinking" was what the doctor said while he felther translucent wrist and prescribed nails in her drinking-water. If hesecretly knew that kind nature was gently letting down the bars so thata waiting spirit might easily pass--well, he was a doctor, not aminister. His business was with the body, and he ordered repairs. 

She was only thirty-seven and "well" when she passed painlessly out oflife. It seemed to be simply a case of going. 

There were several friends at her bedside the night she went, and tothem she turned, feeling the time come:

"I just wanted to give out that the first thing I intend to do when I'mrelieved is to call by there for Morris"--she lifted her weary eyes tothe picture as she spoke--"for Morris--and I want it understood thatit'll be a vacant house from the minute I depart. So, if there's anyother woman that's calculatin' to have any carryin's-on from themwindows--why, she'll be disappointed--she or they. The one obnoxiousperson I thought was in it _wasn't_. My imagination was tempted of Satanan' I was misled. So it must be sold for just what it is--just aphotographer's photograph. If it's a picture with a past, why, everybodyknows what that past is, and will respect it. I have tried to conquermyself enough to bequeath it to the young lady I suspicioned, but humannature is frail, an' I can't quite do it, although doubtless she wouldlike it as a souvenir. Maybe she'd find it a little too souvenirish tosuit my wifely taste, and yet--if a person is going to die----

"I suppose I might legate it to her, partly to recompense her for herdiscretion in leaving that hotel when she did--an' partly for unduesuspicion----

"There's a few debts to be paid, but there's eggs an' things that'll paythem, an' there's no need to have the hen settin' in the window showcaseany longer. It was a good advertisement, but I've often thought itmight be embarrassin' to her. " She was growing weaker, but she rousedherself to amend:

"Better raffle the picture for a dollar a chance an' let the proceeds goto my funeral--an' I want to be buried in the hotel-fire general grave, commingled with him--an' what's left over after the debts are paid, Ibequeath to _her_--to make amends--an' if she don't care to come for it, let every widow in town draw for it. But she'll come. 'Most any woman'lltake any trip, if it's paid for--But look!" she raised her eyesexcitedly toward the mantel, "Look! What's that he's wavin'? Itlooks--oh yes, it is--it's our wings--two pairs--mine a little smaller. I s'pose it'll be the same old story--I'll never be able to keep up--tokeep up with him--an' I've been so hap----

"Yes, Morris--I'm comin'----"

And she was gone--into a peaceful sleep from which she easily passedjust before dawn. 

When all was well over, the sitting women rose with one accord and wentto the mantel, where one even lighted an extra candle more clearly toscan the mysterious picture. 

Finally one said:

"You may think I'm queer, but it does look different to me already!"

"So it does, " said another, taking the candle. "Like a house for rent. Ideclare, it gives me the cold shivers. "

"I'll pay my dollar gladly, and take a chance for it, " whispered athird, "but I wouldn't let such a thing as that enter my happy home----"

"Neither would I!"

"Nor me, neither. I've had trouble enough. My husband's first wife'sportrait has brought me discord enough--an' it was a straight likeness. I don't want any more pictures to put in the hen-house loft. "

So the feeling ran among the wives. 

"Well, " said she who was blowing out the candle, "I'll draw for it--an'take it if I win it, an' consider it a sort of inheritance. I neverinherited anything but indigestion. "

The last speaker was a maiden lady, and so was she who answered, chuckling:

"That's what I say! Anything for a change. There'd be some excitement ina picture where a man was liable to show up. It's more than I've gotnow. I do declare it's just scandalous the way we're gigglin', an' thepoor soul hardly out o' hearin'. She had a kind heart, Mis' Morris had, an' she made herself happy with a mighty slim chance----"

"Yes, she did--and I only wish there'd been a better man waitin' for herin that hotel. "

THE GHOST THAT GOT THE BUTTON

BY WILL ADAMS

From _Collier's Weekly_, May 24, 1913. By permission of _Collier'sWeekly_ and Will Adams. 

The Ghost that Got the Button

BY WILL ADAMS

One autumn evening, when the days were shortening and the darkness fellearly on Hotchkiss and the frost was beginning to adorn with its fineglistening lace the carbine barrels of the night sentries as they walkedpost, Sergeants Hansen and Whitney and Corporal Whitehall had come toStone's room after supper, feeling the need common to all men in thefirst cold nights of the year for a cozy room, a good smoke, andcongenial companionship. 

The steam heat, newly turned on, wheezed and whined through theradiator: the air was blue and dense with tobacco smoke; the threesergeants reposed in restful, if inelegant attitudes, and Whitehall, hisfeet on the window sill and his wooden chair tilted back, was holdingforth between puffs at a very battered pipe about an old colored womanwho kept a little saloon in town. 

"So she got mad at those K troop men, " he said. "An' nex' day whenTurner stopped there for a drink she says: 'You git outer yere! You menfum de Arsenic wid de crossbones on you caps, I ain't lettin' you in;but de Medical Corpses an' de Non-efficient Officers, dey may come. '"

The laugh that followed was interrupted by the approach of a raucous, shrieking noise that rose and fell in lugubrious cadence. "What thedeuce!" exclaimed Whitehall, starting up. 

"That's Bill, " explained Stone. "Bill Sullivan. He thinks he's singin'. Funny you never heard him before, Kid, but then he's not often takenthat way, thank the Lord. "

"Come in, Bill, " he called, "an' tell us what's the matter. Feel sick?Where's the pain?" he asked as big Bill appeared in the doorway. 

"Come in, hombre, an' rest yo'self, " invited Whitney, and hospitablyhanded over his tobacco-pouch. "What was that tune yo'all were singin'out yonder?"

"Thanks, " responded Bill, settling down. "That there tune was 'I WonderWhere You Are To-night, My Love. '"

"Sounded like 'Sister's Teeth Are Plugged with Zinc, '" commentedWhitney. 

"Or 'Lookin' Through the Knot Hole in Papa's Wooden Leg, '" saidWhitehall. 

"Or 'He Won't Buy the Ashman a Manicure Set, '" added Stone. 

"No, " reiterated Bill solemnly. "It was like I told yer; 'I Wonder WhereYou Are To-night, My Love, ' and it's a corker, too! I seen a feller an'a goil sing it in Kelly's Voddyville Palace out ter Cheyenne onct. Foisthe'd sing one voise an' then she'd sing the nex'. He was dressed like asoldier, an' while he sang they was showin' tabloids o' what the goilwas a-doin' behind him; an' then when she sang her voise he'd be in thetabloid, an' when it got ter the last voise, an' he was dyin' on astretcher in a ambulance, everybody in the house was a-cryin' so yercould hardly hear her. It was great! My!" continued Bill, spreading outhis great paws over the radiator, "ain't this the snappy evenin'? Realcold. Somehow it 'minds me of the cold we had in China that time of theBoxers, after we'd got ter the Legations; the nights was cold just likethis is. "

"Why, Bill, " said Whitney, "I never knew yo'all were there then. Why didyo' never tell us befo'? What were yo' with?"

"Fourteenth Infantry, " responded Bill proudly. "It's a great ol'regiment--don't care if they _are_ doughboys. "

"What company was you in?" inquired Hansen, ponderously taking his pipefrom his mouth and breaking silence for the first time. 

"J Company, same as this. "

At this reply Stone opened his mouth abruptly to say something, butthought better of it and shut up again. 

"It was blame cold them nights a week or so after we was camped in theTemple of Agriculture (that's what they called it--I dunno why), butsay! the heat comin' up from Tientsin was fryin'! It was jus' boilin', bakin', an' bubblin'--worse a heap than anythin' we'd had in theislands. We chucked away mos' every last thing on that hike but canteensan' rifles. It was a darn fool thing ter do--the chuckin' was, o'course--but it come out all right, 'cause extree supplies follered us upon the Pie-ho in junks. Ain't that a funny name fer a river? Pie-ho?Every time I got homesick I'd say that river, an' then I'd see Hogan'sDairy Lunch fer Ladies an' Gents on the ol' Bowery an' hear the kid MickHogan yellin': 'Draw one in the dark! White wings--let her flop!Pie-ho!' an' it helped me a heap. " Bill settled himself and stretched. 

"But what I really wanted to tell youse about, " said he, "was somepin'that happened one o' these here cold nights. It gits almighty cold therein September, an' it was sure the spookiest show I ever seen. Even MarmHaggerty's table rappin's in Hester Street never come up to it. 

"There was three of us fellers who ran in a bunch them days: me an' BuckDugan, my bunkie, from the Bowery like me (he was a corporal), an' RanchFields--we called him that 'cause he always woiked on a ranch before hecome into the Fourteenth. They was great fellers, Buck an' Ranch was. Buck, now--yer couldn't phase him, yer couldn't never phase him, nomatter what sort o' job yer put him up against he'd slide through slickas a greased rat. The Cap'n, he knew it, too. Onct when we was fightin'an' hadn't no men to spare, he lef' Buck on guard over abouttwenty-five Boxer prisoners in a courtyard an' tells him he dassent letone escape. But Buck wants ter git into the fight with the rest of theboys, an' when he finds that if he leaves them Chinos loose in the yardalone they'll git out plenty quick, what does he do but tie 'em tight upby their pigtails to some posts. He knows they can't undo them tightknots backwards, an' no Chink would cut his pigtail if he _did_ have aknife--he'd die foist--an' so Buck skidoos off to the fight, an', sureenough, when the Cap'n wants them Boxers, they're ready, tied up an'waitin'. That was his sort, an', gee, but he was smart!

"We was all right int'rested in them Allies, o' course, an' watched 'emclost; but, 'Bill, ' says Buck ter me one night, 'its been woikin in menut that these here fellers ain't so different from what we knowa'ready. Excep' fer their uniform an' outfits, we've met 'em all beforebut the Japs. Why, look a-here, ' says he, 'foist, there's the whitemen--the English--ain't they jus' like us excep' that they're thickeran' we're longer? An' their Injun niggers--ain't we seen their clothesin the comic op'ras an' them without their clothes in the monkey cage atCentral Park? An' their Hong-kong China Regiment an' all the otherChinos is jus' the same as yer meet in the pipe joints in Mott Street. Then, ' says he, 'come all the Dagos. These leather necks of MacaroniDagos we've seen a swarmin' all over Mulberry Bend an' Five Points; theSauerkraut Dagos looks fer all the woild like they was goin' ter aSchützenfest up by High Bridge; the Froggie Dagos you'll find packed inthem Frenchy restaraws in the Thirties--where yer git blue wine--andthem Vodki Dagos only needs a pushcart ter make yer think yer in BaxterStreet. '

"Buck, he could sure talk, but Ranch, he wasn't much on chin-chin. Little an' dark an' quiet he was, an' jus' crazy fer dogs. Any oldmutt'd do fer him--jus' so's it was in the shape of a pup. He was fairwild fer 'em. He picked up a yeller cur out there the day after theYangtsin fight, an' that there no-account, mangy, flea-bitten mutt hadter stay with us the whole time. If the pup didn't stand in me an' Buckan' Ranch, he swore he'd quit too, so we had to let him come, an' hemessed an' bunked with our outfit right along. Ranch named him Daggett, after the Colonel, which was right hard on the C. O. , but I bet Ranchthought he was complimentin' him. Why, Ranch considered himself honoredif any of the pup's fleas hopped off on him. The pup he kep' along withus right through everything; Ranch watchin' him like the apple of hiseye, an' he hardly ever was out of our sight, till one night about aweek after we quartered in the temple he didn't turn up fer supper. Hewas always so reg'lar at his chow that Ranch he begin ter git thesquirms an' when come taps an' Daggett hadn't reported, Ranch had therazzle-dazzles. 

"Nex' mornin' the foist thing he must go hunt that pup, an' went ascoutin' all day, me an' Buck helpin' him--but nary pup; an' comeanother supper without that miser'ble mutt, an' Ranch was up an alleyall right, all right. He was all wore out, an' I made him hit the bunkearly an' try ter sleep; but, Lord! No sooner he'd drop off 'n he gitter twitchin' an' hitchin' an' wake up a-yelpin' fer Daggett. Long abouttaps, Buck, who's been out on a private reconnoissance, comes back an'whispers ter me: 'Ssst, Bill! The cur's found! Don't tell Ranch; thebloke'd die of heart failure. I struck his trail an' follered it--an'say, Bill, what'n thunder do yer think? Them heathen Chinos has _ethim_!' Lord, now, wouldn't that jolt youse? Them Chinos a-eatin'Daggett! It give me an awful jar, an' Buck he felt it, too. That theremutt had acted right decent, an' we knew Ranch would have bats in thebelfry fer fair if he hoid tell o' the pup's finish; so says Buck;'Let's not tell him, 'cause he's takin' on now like he'd lost mother an'father an' best goil an' all, an' if he knew Daggett was providin' chowfer Chinos he'd go clean bug house an' we'd have ter ship him home terSt. Elizabeth. '

"I says O. K. Ter that, an' we made it up not ter let on ter Ranch; an'now here comes the spook part yer been a-waitin' fer. 

"Four or five nights later I was on guard, an' my post was the farthestout we had on the north. There was an ol' road out over that way, an'I'd hoid tell it led ter a ol' graveyard, but I hadn't never been theremyself an' hadn't thought much about it till 'long between two an'three o'clock, as I was a-hikin' up an down, when somepin' comesa-zizzin' down the road hell-fer-leather on to me, a-yellin' somepin'fierce. Gee, but I was skeered! I made sure it was a spook, an' therewasn't a bit o' breath left in me. I was all to the bad that time fersure. Before I had time ter think even, that screamin', streakin' thingwas on me an a-grabbin' roun' my knees; an' then I see it was one o'them near-Christian Chinos, an' he's skeered more'n me even. His eyeshad popped clean out'n their slits, an' his tongue was hangin' out bythe roots, he was that locoed. I raised the long yell fer corporal ofthe guard, which happened, by good luck, ter be Buck, an' when he comea-runnin', thinkin' from the whoops I give we was bein' rushed by thehole push of Boxers, the two of us began proddin' at the Chink ter findout what was doin'. Took us some time, too, with him bein' in such aflutter an' hardly able ter even hand out his darn ol' pigeon English, that sounds like language comin' out of a sausage machine. When we didsavvy his line of chop-suey talk, we found out he'd seen a ghost in thegraveyard, an' not only seen it but he knew who the spook was an' allabout him. We was gittin' some serious ourselves an' made him tell us. 

"Seems it was a mandarin--that's a sort o' Chink police-court judge(till I got ter Tientsin I always thought they was little oranges), an'this tangerine's--I mean mandarin's--name was Wu Ti Ming, an' he'd beena high mucky-muckraker in his day, which was two or three hundred yearsback. But the Emprer caught him deep in some sort o' graft an' _tookaway his button_ an' all o' his dough. 

"'Lord!' says Buck when we come ter this, 'don't that prove whatheathens Chinks is? Only one button ter keep on their clothes with, an'the Emprer he kin take it away! What did this here Judge Ming do then, John? Use string or pins?' This here John didn't seem ter savvy, but hesaid that the mandarin took on so fer his button an' his loss of pull inthe ward that it was sure sad ter see, an' by an' by the Emprer got busyagain with him an' had him finished up fer keeps; had him die the 'deathof a thousand cuts, ' says John. It sounded fierce ter me, but Buck hesays:

"'Pshaw! Anybody who's been shaved reg'lar by them lady barbers onFourth Avenyer would 'a' give the Emprer the merry ha-ha----'

"After Ming was cut up they took the remains of his corpse an' plantedhim in this here graveyard up the road; but he wouldn't stay planted an'began doin' stunts at night, 'topside walkee-walkee' an' a-huntin' ferhis lost button. He'd used ter have the whole country scared up, but ferthe last twenty years he'd kep' right quiet an' had hardly ever comeout; but now sence the foreign devils come (ain't that a sweet name ferus?) he's up an' at it again worse than ever, an' the heathens is ontheir ear. Fer four nights now they'd seen him, wrapped in a blue robe, waitin' an' a-huntin' behind tombstones an' walkin' round an' round thegraveyard lie a six days' race fer the belt at Madison Square. John hadjus' seen him on the wall, an' that was why he come chargin' down theroad like forty cats. 

"'Will Mr. Ming's sperrit walk till he gits that button back?' Buckasts. John says: 'Sure. '

"'Well, ' says Buck, 'why don't yer give him one?'

"'No can give. Only Emplor, only Son of Heaven give. '

"'Well, look here, ' says Buck, 'we sand rabbits ain't no sons of Heaven, but I'll be darned if we couldn't spare a button ter lay the ghost of apore busted police-court judge, who's lost his job an' his tin, if_that's_ all he wants back. What time does he come out at, John? Couldwe see him ter-morrer night?' 'Sure could we, ' says John; 'he'll show usthe way, but he won't wait with us; he's bad enough fer his. '

"So Buck takes John an' goes back ter the guard shack, as it's most timefer relief, an' after I got back we told John ter git the hook, an' wetalked things over, an' Buck he was just wild ter see if he couldn't laythat Chino ghost. His talents was achin' ter git action on him; anythin'like that got up his spunk. Says I:

"'Maybe Ranch kin help. We'll tell him ter-morrer after guard mount. It'll take his mind off Daggett. '

"'No, yer don't, ' says Buck. 'Don't yer dare tell him. He's nervous as acat over the pup as it is, an' this spook business is awful skeery; I'mfeelin' woozy over it meself. I'm all off when it comes ter ghosts--thatis, if it's a real ghost. And things here in Pekin' is so funny the oddsis all in favor of its bein' the sure thing. I ain't afeard o' no kindso' people, but I sure git cold feet when I'm up against a ghost. Wouldn't that jar youse? An' me a soldier; when it's a soldier's wholebusiness not ter _git_ cold feet. But I'm bound I'll have a show at thatol' spook even if it _does_ skeer me out o' my growth. Only don't yerdare tell Ranch. '

"Nex' night, right after eleven o'clock rounds, me an' Buck slippedouter our blankets, sneaked out past the guard, an' met John, who waswaitin' fer us in the road jus' beyond where the last sentry woulderseen him. It was cold as git out. Jus' the same kind o' early cold asto-night, an' John's teeth was chatterin' like peas in a box--he wassome loco with skeer, too, you bet. 

"'Which way?' says Buck, an' John spouts a lot o' dope-joint lingo an'takes us up a side alley, where there's a whole bunch o' Chinos waitin'fer us, an' they begun a kowtowin' an' goin' on like we was the wholecheese. Turned out that John had jollied 'em that the Melican soldiermans was big medicine an' would make Judge Ming quit the midnight hikean' cut out scarin' 'em blue. That jus' suited Buck; he was all therewhen it come ter play commander in chief. He swelled up an' give 'em abundle o' talk that John put in Chino fer 'em, an' then finished up byshowin' 'em a button--a ol' United States Army brass button he'd cut offhis blue blouse--an' tol' 'em he was goin' ter bury it in Ming's graveso as ter keep him bedded down. 

"An' them simple idiots was pleased ter death, an' the whole outfitescorted us over ter the graveyard, but they shied at the gate (Lord, Ihated ter see 'em go--even if they _was_ heathens!), an' let John takeus in an' show us where ter wait. He put us in behind a pile o' littlerocks in about the middle o' the place near where Judge Ming hung out, an' then retired on the main body at the double, leavin' us two inoutpost alone there together. I hadn't never been ter a Chino buryin'ground before, an' night time wasn't extree pleasant fer a foistintroduce. There was a new moon that night--a little shavin' of a thingthat hardly gave no light, an' from where we was there was a twisty pinetree branch that struck out right acrost it like a picture card--two ferfive. The graveyard was all dark an' quiet, with little piles o' rocksan' stone tables ter mark the graves, an' a four- or five-foot wallrunnin' all round it; an' somehow, without nothin' stirrin' at all, thewhole blame place seemed chock full o' movin' shadders. There wasn't asound neither; not the least little thing; jus' them shadders; an' theharder yous'd look at 'em the more they seemed ter move. It was cold, too, like I told yer--bitin' cold--an' me an' Buck squatted there tighttogether an' mos' friz. We waited, an' we waited, an' _we waited_, an'we got skeerder, an' skeerder, an' _skeerder_, an', gee! how weshivered! Every minute we thought we'd see Judge Ming, but a long timewent by an' he didn't come an' he _didn't_ come. There we set, strung uptight an' ready ter snap like a banjo string, but nothin' ter see butthe shakin' shadders an' nothin' ter hear--nothin' but jus' dead, deadsilence. 

"All of a suddent Buck (he kin hear a pin drop a mile away) nearly nipsa piece out'n my arm as he grips me. 'Listen!' says he. 

"I listened an' listened, but I didn't hear nothin', an' I told him so. 

"'Yes, yer do, yer bloke yer, ' he whispers, 'Listen. Strain your years. '

"Then way off I did begin ter hear somepin'. It was a long, funny, wailycry, sort o' like the way cats holler at each other at night. 'Oh-oo-oo, oh-oo-oo!' like that, an' it come nearer an' nearer. Then all of asuddent somepin' popped up on the graveyard wall about a hundred yardsaway--somepin' all blue-gray against the hook o' the moon--an' beganwalkin' up an' down an' hollerin'. I knew it was sayin' words, but I wasso far to the bad I didn't know nothin' an' couldn't make it out. Inever thought a feller's heart could bang so hard against his ribswithout bustin' out, an' me hair riz so high me campaign hat was threeinches off'n me head. I hope ter the Lord I'll never be so frightenedagain in all my livin' days. I set there in a transom from fear an' frizter the spot. I don't know nothin' o' what Buck was doin', as my lampswas glued ter the spook. It jumped down from the wall, callin' an'whistlin' an' begin runnin' round the little stone heaps. I seen it wascomin' our way, but I couldn't move or make a sound; I jus' set. All ofa suddent Buck he jumps up an' makes a dash an' a leap at the spook, an'there's a terrible yellin' an' they both comes down crash at the foot ofa rock pile, rollin' on the little pebbles; but Buck is on top an' thespook underneath an' lettin' off the most awful screeches. Gosh, theyjus' ripped the air, them spooks' yells did, an' they turned my spellloose an' I howled fer all I was worth. Then Buck, he commenceda-yawpin' too, but me an' the spook we was both raisin' so much noise Ididn't savvy what he said fer some time. Then I found he was cussin' meout. 

"'Come here, you forsaken ---- ----, ' he howls. 'Quit yellin'! I say _quityellin'_! Don't yer see who this is? Come here an' help me. '

"'You think I'm goin' ter tech that Ming spook?' I shrieks. 

"'You miser'ble loony, ' he yells back, 'can't yer see it ain't no Ming?It's Ranch!'

"Well, so it was. It was Ranch skeered stiff an' hollerin' fer dear lifeat bein' jumped on an' waked up in the middle of a graveyard that-a-way. Pore ol' feller had had Daggett on his mind, an' went sleepwalkin' an'huntin' wrapped in his blanket. 

"'An', ' says Buck ter me, 'if youse hadn't been in such a dope dreamwith skeer, you'd 'a' sensed what he was a-yellin'. He was callin'"Oh-oo-oo, oh-oo-oo, here Daggett! Here, boy!" an' then he'd whistle an'call again: "Here, Daggett! Here, Daggett!" That's how I knew it wasRanch; an', besides, he told me onct that he sleepwalked when he gotworried. But you, you white livered--' an' then he cussed me out somemore. 

"'Smarty, ' I says, 'if yer knew so blame well it was Ranch, why did yergive him the flyin' tackle like yer done an' git him all woiked up likethis?'

"'Well, ' says Buck sort o' sheepy, 'I was some woiked up meself, an'time he come along I give him the spook's tackle without thinkin'; I wastoo skeered ter think. Hush, Ranch. Hush, old boy. It's jus' me'n Bill. Nobody shan't hoit yer. '

"We comforted pore ol' Ranch an' fixed him up, an' then when he feltbetter told him about things--all but how Daggett was et--an' I wrappedhis blanket around him an' took him back ter quarters while Buck wenta-lookin' fer John an' his gang. 

"He found 'em about half a mile off, in front of a Mott Street josshouse, all prayin' an' burnin' punk an' huddled together, skeered greenfrom the yellin's they'd heard. Buck, he give 'em a long chin-chin aboutlayin' the ghost, an' how Judge Ming wouldn't never come back no more;an' then he dragged 'em all back (they pullin' at the halter shanks withyears laid back an' eyes rollin'), ter him bury his United States buttonon Ming's rock pile. He dropped it in solemn, an' said what the Chinkstook ter be a prayer; but it was really the oath he said. Buck havin'onct been a recruitin' sergeant, knew it by heart all the way from 'I dosolemnly swear' ter 'so help me, Gawd. ' Buck says I oughter seen themgrateful Chinos then: they'd 'a' give him the whole Chino Umpire if theycould. They got down an' squirmed an' kissed his hands an' his feet an'his sleeve. They wanted ter escort him back ter camp, but he bucked atthat, an' said no, as he was out without pass an' not itchin' fer hisarrival ter be noticed none. 

"After that we took toins watchin' Ranch at night, an' got him anothermutt ter love, an' he didn't wander any more, so Judge Ming seemedsatisfied with his United States button, an' kep' quiet. But them Chinkswas the gratefullest gang yer ever seen. They brought us presents;things ter eat--fruit, poultry, eggs, an' all sorts of chow, some of itmighty funny lookin', but it tasted all right; we lived high, we three. The other fellers was wild ter know how we woiked it. An' I tell yer Iain't never been skeered o' ghosts sence--that is, not ter speakof--_much_!"

Bill, paused, drew a long breath, and looked at the clock. "Gee!" saidhe, "most nine o'clock. I got ter go over ter K troop ter see SergeantKeefe a minute--I promised him. Adios, fellers. Thanks fer the smokin'. "

"Keep the change, hombre. Thanks for yo' tale, " shouted Whitney afterhim as he disappeared down the hall. 

"Well!!" said Stone, and looked at Hansen. 

"Well!!" responded Hansen. The big Swede shook with laughter. "Iss henot the finest liar! Yess? I wass in the Fourteenth myselluf. That wassmy company--Chay. He wass not even the army in then--in nineteenhund'erd. "

"Yes, " said Stone, "I knew, but I wasn't goin' to spoil his bloomin'yarn. I happened to see his enlistment card only this mornin', and theonly thing he was ever in before was the Twenty-third Infantry afterthey came back from the Islands. He's never even been out of theStates. "

"But where did he get it from?" asked Whitney. "His imagination is equalto most anything but gettin' so many facts straight. Of co'se I noticedthings yere an' there--but the most of it was O. K. "

"I tell you, " said Hansen, grinning, "he got it from an old Fourteenthman--Dan Powerss--at practice camp last Chuly. He an' I wass oftentalking of China. He wuss in my old company an' wass then telling me howhe an' the other fellerss all that extra chow got. I tank Bill he hass agoot memory. "

"But the nerve of him!" cried Whitehall, "tryin' ter pass that off on uswith Hansen sittin' right there. "

"It iss one thing he may have forgot, " smiled Hansen. 

"Well, who cares anyway?" said Stone. "It was a blame good story. An'now clear out, all of you. I want to hit the bunk. Reveille does seem tocome so early these cold mornin's. Gee! I wish I knew of some kind ofbutton that would keep _me_ lyin' down when Shorty wants me to get upan' call the roll. "

THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

The Specter Bridegroom

A TRAVELER'S TALE[2]

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

 He that supper for is dight, He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! Yestreen to chamber I him led, This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, AND SIR GRAY-STEEL. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantictract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the confluence of theMain and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the Castle ofthe Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almostburied among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its oldwatch tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former possessor Ihave mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon the neighboringcountry. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen, [3]and inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride of hisancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had muchimpaired the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to keepup some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the Germannobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built moreconvenient residences in the valleys; still the baron remained proudlydrawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some of hisnearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened betweentheir great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, when she grants butone child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was withthe daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousinsassured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany;and who should know better than they? She had, moreover, been brought upwith great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who hadspent some years of their early life at one of the little Germancourts, and were skilled in all branches of knowledge necessary to theeducation of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a miracleof accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider toadmiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression in their countenances, that they lookedlike so many souls in purgatory. She could read without greatdifficulty, and had spelled her way through several church legends, andalmost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even madeconsiderable proficiency in writing; could sign her own name withoutmissing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it withoutspectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothinglady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most abstrusedancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar; andknew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their youngerdays, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strictcensors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidlyprudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She wasrarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of thecastle, unless well attended, or rather well watched; had continuallectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to the men--pah!--she was taught to hold them at such a distance, andin such absolute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she wouldnot have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world--no, not if he were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The younglady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others werewasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to beplucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming intofresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculatespinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Heraunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that thoughall the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thankHeaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress ofKatzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided withchildren, his household was by no means a small one; for Providence hadenriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives; werewonderfully attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion tocome in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals werecommemorated by these good people at the baron's expense; and when theywere filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothingon earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of theheart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled withsatisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in thelittle world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the dark oldwarriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, andhe found no listeners equal to those that fed at his expense. He wasmuch given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in all thosesupernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germanyabounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his own: they listened toevery tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to beastonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived theBaron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch ofhis little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasionthat he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family gatheringat the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance: it was to receivethe destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had beencarried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unitethe dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. Thepreliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young peoplewere betrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appointed forthe marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalledfrom the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to thebaron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from himfrom Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the dayand hour when he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitablewelcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The twoaunts had superintended her toilet, and quarreled the whole morningabout every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage oftheir contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately itwas a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom coulddesire; and the flutter of expectation heightened the luster of hercharms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of thebosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the softtumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continuallyhovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest inaffairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counselhow to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive theexpected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothingexactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming bustling little man, andcould not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worriedfrom top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; hecontinually called the servants from their work to exhort them to bediligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless andimportunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rungwith the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with goodcheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of _Rheinwein_ and_Fernewein_; and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid undercontribution. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guestwith _Saus und Braus_ in the true spirit of German hospitality--but theguest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The baron mountedthe highest tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distantsight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them;the sounds of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by themountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below, slowlyadvancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot ofthe mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. Thelast ray of sunshine departed--the bats began to flit by in thetwilight--the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothingappeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant lagging homewardfrom his labor. 

While the old castle at Landshort was in this state of perplexity, avery interesting scene was transacting in a different part of theOdenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in thatsober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony when hisfriends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off hishands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at theend of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companionin arms with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers: Herman VonStarkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of Germanchivalry, who was now returning from the army. His father's castle wasnot far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although anhereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to eachother. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related alltheir past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole historyof his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, butof whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed toperform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do itthe more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the counthaving given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their militaryscenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious, nowand then, about the reputed charms of his bride and the felicity thatawaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, andwere traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It iswell known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infestedby robbers as its castles by specters; and at this time the former wereparticularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wanderingabout the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that thecavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst ofthe forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearlyoverpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. Atsight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received amortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city ofWurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent who wasfamous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; but half ofhis skill was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate count werenumbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to thecastle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping hisappointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, hewas one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestlysolicitous that his mission should be speedily and courteously executed. "Unless this is done, " said he, "I shall not sleep quietly in my grave!"He repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at amoment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored tosoothe him to calmness; promised faithfully to execute his wish, andgave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it inacknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium--raved about hisbride--his engagements--his plighted word; ordered his horse, that hemight ride to the castle of Landshort; and expired in the fancied act ofvaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fateof his comrade, and then pondered on the awkward mission he hadundertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was topresent himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damptheir festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still, there werecertain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famedbeauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world; for hewas a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash ofeccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of allsingular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holyfraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, whowas to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg near some of hisillustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the count took chargeof his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family ofKatzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more fortheir dinner; and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airinghimself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended fromthe tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour tohour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone; thecook in an agony; and the whole household had the look of a garrisonthat had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly togive orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All wereseated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound ofa horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened toreceive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier mounted on a black steed. Hiscountenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air ofstately melancholy. 

The baron was a little mortified that he should have come in thissimple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and hefelt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the importantoccasion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. Hepacified himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must have beenyouthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner thanhis attendants. 

"I am sorry, " said the stranger, "to break in upon you thusunseasonably----"

Here the baron interrupted with a world of compliments and greetings;for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy andeloquence. 

The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, butin vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the timethe baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner court of thecastle; and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once moreinterrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family leadingforth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment asone entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whisperedsomething in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eyewas timidly raised; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger; andwas cast again to the ground. The words died away; but there was asweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheekthat showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossiblefor a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love andmatrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation untilthe morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hungthe hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house ofKatzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the fieldand in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting spears, andtattered banners were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare; thejaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly amongcross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branchedimmediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of hisbride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard--for thelanguage of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull thatit cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingledtenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerfuleffect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened withdeep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when hiseye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romanticcountenance and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evidentthat the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who weredeeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they hadfallen in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were allblessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses andmountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never hadhe told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was anythingmarvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anythingfacetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. Thebaron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter anyjoke but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper ofexcellent Hockheimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, servedup with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said bypoorer and keener wits that would not bear repeating, except on similaroccasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almostconvulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out bya poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron that absolutelymade the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most singularand unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast ofdejection as the evening advanced; and, strange as it may appear, eventhe baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. Attimes he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed andrestless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. Hisconversations with the bride became more and more earnest andmysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of herbrow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety waschilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits wereinfected; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugsand dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less andless frequent; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which wereat length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismalstory produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearlyfrightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of thegoblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora; a dreadful storywhich has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believedby all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kepthis eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh and took asolemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron wasperfectly thunder-struck. 

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything wasprepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished toretire. "

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; "I must lay myhead in a different chamber to-night!"

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces andrepeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer;and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified--the bride hung her head, anda tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, wherethe black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lightedby a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollowtone of voice which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. 

"Now that we are alone, " said he, "I will impart to you the reason of mygoing. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement----"

"Why, " said the baron, "cannot you send someone in your place?"

"It admits of no substitute--I must attend it in person--I must away toWurtzburg cathedral----"

"Ay, " said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not untilto-morrow--to-morrow you shall take your bride there. "

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my engagementis with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man--Ihave been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I amto be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep my appointment!"

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and theclattering of his horses' hoofs was lost in the whistling of the nightblast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and relatedwhat had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at theidea of having banqueted with a specter. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Sometalked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernaturalbeings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievouslyharassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured tosuggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with somelancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation ofthe whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him aslittle better than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresyas speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completelyput to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives confirmingthe intelligence of the young count's murder, and his interment inWurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself upin his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could notthink of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shruggingtheir shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer thanever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way ofkeeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was themost pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embracedhim--and such a husband! if the very specter could be so gracious andnoble, what must have been the living man! She filled the house withlamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to herchamber, accompanied by one of her aunts who insisted on sleeping withher. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in allGermany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallenasleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked asmall garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the risingmoon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before thelattice. The castle-clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strainof music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, andstepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows ofthe trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon thecountenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Specter Bridegroom! A loudshriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had beenawakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fellinto her arms. When she looked again, the specter had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she wasperfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there wassomething, even in the specter of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow ofa man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sickgirl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; theniece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she wouldsleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that she had tosleep in it alone: but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relatethe story of the specter, lest she should be denied the only melancholypleasure left her on earth--that of inhabiting the chamber over whichthe guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this promise isuncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvelous, and there is atriumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of femalesecrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she wassuddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence, broughtto the breakfast table one morning, that the young lady was not to befound. Her room was empty--the bed had not been slept in--the window wasopen, and the bird had flown!

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which themishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relationspaused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, whenthe aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, andshrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! She's carried away by thegoblin!"

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, andconcluded that the specter must have carried off his bride. Two of thedomestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering ofa horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt thatit was the specter on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful probability; for events of thekind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticatedhistories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What aheart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the greatfamily of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt awayto the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completelybewildered and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to takehorse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baronhimself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and wasabout to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when hewas brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approachingthe castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at thebaron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and hercompanion--the Specter Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked athis daughter, then at the specter, and almost doubted the evidence ofhis senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearancesince his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and setoff a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale andmelancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, andjoy rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as you musthave known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as SirHerman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcometidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him inevery attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride hadcompletely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he hadtacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorelyperplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblinstories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudalhostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth--hadhaunted the garden beneath the young lady's window--had wooed--hadwon--had borne away in triumph--and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, forhe was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in allfamily feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; herejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of ahostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There wassomething, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with hisnotions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon himof his being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had servedin the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, andthat the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having latelyserved as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the youngcouple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poorrelations overwhelmed this new member of the family with lovingkindness; he was so gallant, so generous--and so rich. The aunts, it istrue, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusionand passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed itall to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of themwas particularly mortified at having her marvelous story marred, andthat the only specter she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit;but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantialflesh and blood--and so the story ends. 

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, willperceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swissby a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place atParis. 

[3] _I. E. _, CAT'S-ELBOW. The name of a family of those parts verypowerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given incompliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her finearm. 

THE SPECTER OF TAPPINGTON

COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM

The Specter of Tappington

From _The Ingoldsby Legends_

COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM

"It is very odd, though; what can have become of them?" said CharlesSeaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an old-fashioned bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned manor-house;"'tis confoundedly odd, and I can't make it out at all. Why, Barney, where are they?--and where the d----l are you?"

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant, who was, inthe main, a reasonable person--at least as reasonable a person as anyyoung gentleman of twenty-two in "the service" can fairly be expected tobe--cooled when he reflected that his servant could scarcely replyextempore to a summons which it was impossible he should hear. 

An application to the bell was the considerate result; and the footstepsof as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt sounded along thegallery. 

"Come in!" said his master. An ineffectual attempt upon the doorreminded Mr. Seaforth that he had locked himself in. "By Heaven! thisis the oddest thing of all, " said he, as he turned the key and admittedMr. Maguire into his dormitory. 

"Barney, where are my pantaloons?"

"Is it the breeches?" asked the valet, casting an inquiring eye roundthe apartment;--"is it the breeches, sir?"

"Yes, what have you done with them?"

"Sure then your honor had them on when you went to bed, and it'shereabouts they'll be, I'll be bail"; and Barney lifted a fashionabletunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in his examination. Butthe search was vain; there was the tunic aforesaid, there was asmart-looking kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article ofall in a gentleman's wardrobe was still wanting. 

"Where _can_ they be?" asked the master, with a strong accent on theauxiliary verb. 

"Sorrow a know I knows, " said the man. 

"It _must_ have been the devil, then, after all, who has been here andcarried them off!" cried Seaforth, staring full into Barney's face. 

Mr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his countrymen, stillhe looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the _sequitur_. 

His master read incredulity in his countenance. "Why, I tell you, Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair, when I got into bed; and, by Heaven! I distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told meof, come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them. "

"May be so, " was the cautious reply. 

"I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then--where the d----l arethe breeches?"

The question was more easily asked than answered. Barney renewed hissearch, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against thetoilet, sunk into a reverie. 

"After all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving cousins, " saidSeaforth. 

"Ah! then, the ladies!" chimed in Mr. Maguire, though the observationwas not addressed to him; "and will it be Miss Caroline or Miss Fanny, that's stole your honor's things?"

"I hardly know what to think of it, " pursued the bereaved lieutenant, still speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubiously on thechamber-door. "I locked myself in, that's certain; and--but there mustbe some other entrance to the room--pooh! I remember--the privatestaircase; how could I be such a fool?" and he crossed the chamber towhere a low oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. Hepaused before it. Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation;but it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period concealed bytapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side theportal. 

"This way they must have come, " said Seaforth; "I wish with all my heartI had caught them!"

"Och! the kittens!" sighed Mr. Barney Maguire. 

But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before. True, there_was_ the "other door"; but then that, too, on examination, was evenmore firmly secured than the one which opened on the gallery--two heavybolts on the inside effectually prevented any _coup de main_ on thelieutenant's _bivouac_ from that quarter. He was more puzzled than ever;nor did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any lightupon the subject: one thing only was clear--the breeches were gone! "Itis _very_ singular, " said the lieutenant. 

 * * * * *

Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an antiquated butcommodious manor-house in the eastern division of the county of Kent. Aformer proprietor had been high-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, andmany a dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentiousness ofhis life, and the enormity of his offenses. The Glen, which the keeper'sdaughter was seen to enter, but never known to quit, still frowns darklyas of yore; while an ineradicable blood-stain on the oaken stair yetbids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it is withone particular apartment that a deed of more especial atrocity is saidto be connected. A stranger guest--so runs the legend--arrivedunexpectedly at the mansion of the "Bad Sir Giles. " They met inapparent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their master's browtold the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the banquet, however, was not spared; the wine-cup circulated freely--too freely, perhaps--for sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even theexcluded serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate theirbetters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approachthe parlor, one, an old and favored retainer of the house, went so faras to break in upon his master's privacy. Sir Giles, already high inoath, fiercely enjoined his absence, and he retired; not, however, before he had distinctly heard from the stranger's lips a menace that"there was that within his pocket which could disprove the knight'sright to issue that or any other command within the walls of Tapton. "

The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced a beneficialeffect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the conversation wascarried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening closedin, the domestics, when summoned to attend with lights, found not onlycordiality restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated. Fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it tillat a late, or rather early hour, that the revelers sought theirchambers. 

The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of theeastern angle of the building, and had once been the favorite apartmentof Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this preference to the facilitywhich a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had affordedhim, in the old knight's time, of following his wicked courses uncheckedby parental observation; a consideration which ceased to be of weightwhen the death of his father left him uncontrolled master of his estateand actions. From that period Sir Giles had established himself in whatwere called the "state apartments, " and the "oaken chamber" was rarelytenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity, or when the yulelog drew an unusually large accession of guests around the Christmashearth. 

On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown visitor, whosought his couch heated and inflamed from his midnight orgies, and inthe morning was found in his bed a swollen and blackened corpse. Nomarks of violence appeared upon the body; but the livid hue of the lips, and certain dark-colored spots visible on the skin, aroused suspicionswhich those who entertained them were too timid to express. Apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the preceding night, Sir Giles's confidentialleech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden dissolution. The body wasburied in peace; and though some shook their heads as they witnessed thehaste with which the funeral rites were hurried on, none ventured tomurmur. Other events arose to distract the attention of the retainers;men's minds became occupied by the stirring politics of the day; whilethe near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly arrogating itselfa title which the very elements joined with human valor to disprove, soon interfered to weaken, if not obliterate, all remembrance of thenameless stranger who had died within the walls of Tapton Everard. 

Years rolled on: the "Bad Sir Giles" had himself long since gone to hisaccount, the last, as it was believed, of his immediate line; though afew of the older tenants were sometimes heard to speak of an elderbrother, who had disappeared in early life, and never inherited theestate. Rumors, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands, were atone time rife; but they died away, nothing occurring to support them:the property passed unchallenged to a collateral branch of the family, and the secret, if secret there were, was buried in Denton churchyard, in the lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. One circumstance aloneoccurred, after a long-intervening period, to revive the memory of thesetransactions. Some workmen employed in grubbing an old plantation, forthe purpose of raising on its site a modern shrubbery, dug up, in theexecution of their task, the mildewed remnants of what seemed to havebeen once a garment. On more minute inspection, enough remained ofsilken slashes and a coarse embroidery, to identify the relics as havingonce formed part of a pair of trunk hose; while a few papers which fellfrom them, altogether illegible from damp and age, were by the unlearnedrustics conveyed to the then owner of the estate. 

Whether the squire was more successful in deciphering them was neverknown; he certainly never alluded to their contents; and little wouldhave been thought of the matter but for the inconvenient memory of oneold woman, who declared she heard her grandfather say, that when the"strange guest" was poisoned, though all the rest of his clothes werethere, his breeches, the supposed repository of the supposed documents, could never be found. The master of Tapton Everard smiled when he heardDame Jones's hint of deeds which might impeach the validity of his owntitle in favor of some unknown descendant of some unknown heir; and thestory was rarely alluded to, save by one or two miracle-mongers, who hadheard that others had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles, in his night-cap, issue from the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his shadowyhands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly for something hidden amongthe evergreens. The stranger's death-room had, of course, beenoccasionally haunted from the time of his decease; but the periods ofvisitation had latterly become very rare--even Mrs. Botherby, thehousekeeper, being forced to admit that, during her long sojourn at themanor, she had never "met with anything worse than herself"; though, asthe old lady afterwards added upon more mature reflection, "I must say Ithink I saw the devil _once_. "

Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and such the story whichthe lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed to her equally mercurial cousin, Charles Seaforth, lieutenant in the Hon. East India Company's secondregiment of Bombay Fencibles, as arm-in-arm they promenaded a gallerydecked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and, amongothers, with that of the redoubted Sir Giles himself. The gallantcommander had that very morning paid his first visit to the house of hismaternal uncle, after an absence of several years passed with hisregiment on the arid plains of Hindostan, whence he was now returned ona three years' furlough. He had gone out a boy--he returned a man; butthe impression made upon his youthful fancy by his favorite cousinremained unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even before hesought the home of his widowed mother--comforting himself in this breachof filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manor was so little outof his way, it would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door of hisrelatives, without just looking in for a few hours. 

But he found his uncle as hospitable, and his cousin more charming thanever; and the looks of one, and the requests of the other, soonprecluded the possibility of refusing to lengthen the "few hours" intoa few days, though the house was at the moment full of visitors. 

The Peterses were from Ramsgate; and Mr. , Mrs. , and the two MissSimpkinsons, from Bath, had come to pass a month with the family; andTom Ingoldsby had brought down his college friend the Honorable AugustusSucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a fortnight'sshooting. And then there was Mrs. Ogleton, the rich young widow, withher large black eyes, who, people did say, was setting her cap at theyoung squire, though Mrs. Botherby did not believe it; and, above all, there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her _femme de chambre_, who"_mon-Dieu'd_" everything and everybody, and cried "_Quel horreur!_" atMrs. Botherby's cap. In short, to use the last-named and much-respectedlady's own expression, the house was "choke-full" to the veryattics--all save the "oaken chamber, " which, as the lieutenant expresseda most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith appropriated tohis particular accommodation. Mr. Maguire meanwhile was fain to sharethe apartment of Oliver Dobbs, the squire's own man; a jocular proposalof joint occupancy having been first indignantly rejected by"Mademoiselle, " though preferred with the "laste taste in life" of Mr. Barney's most insinuating brogue. 

 * * * * *

"Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your breakfast willbe quite spoiled: what can have made you so idle?" Such was the morningsalutation of Miss Ingoldsby to the _militaire_ as he entered thebreakfast-room half an hour after the latest of the party. 

"A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment with, " chimed in MissFrances. "What is become of our ramble to the rocks before breakfast?"

"Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise now, " said Mrs. Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone eyes. 

"When I was a young man, " said Mr. Peters, "I remember I always made apoint of----"

"Pray, how long ago was that?" asked Mr. Simpkinson from Bath. 

"Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was--let me see--I was----"

"Do pray hold your tongue, P. , and eat your breakfast!" interrupted hisbetter half, who had a mortal horror of chronological references; "it'svery rude to tease people with your family affairs. "

The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence--agood-humored nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-inquisitive, beingthe extent of his salutation. Smitten as he was, and in the immediatepresence of her who had made so large a hole in his heart, his mannerwas evidently _distrait_, which the fair Caroline in her secret soulattributed to his being solely occupied by her _agrèmens_: how would shehave bridled had she known that they only shared his meditations with apair of breeches!

Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen eggs, dartingoccasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies, in hope of detectingthe supposed waggery by the evidence of some furtive smile or consciouslook. But in vain; not a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did theslightest elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions. Hints and insinuations passed unheeded--more particular inquiries wereout of the question--the subject was unapproachable. 

In the meantime, "patent cords" were just the thing for a morning'sride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the party over the downs, till, every faculty absorbed by the beauties, animate and inanimate, which surrounded him. Lieutenant Seaforth of the Bombay Fenciblesbestowed no more thought upon his breeches than if he had been born onthe top of Ben Lomond. 

 * * * * *

Another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly, forming withhis level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-off west, whither theheavy cloud, which for the last two hours had been pouring its waters onthe earth, was now flying before him. 

"Ah! then, and it's little good it'll be the claning of ye, "apostrophized Mr. Barney Maguire, as he deposited, in front of hismaster's toilet, a pair of "bran new" jockey boots, one of Hoby'sprimest fits, which the lieutenant had purchased in his way throughtown. On that very morning had they come for the first time under thevalet's depurating hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy rideof the preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might, perhaps, have considered the application of "Warren's Matchless, " or oxalic acid, altogether superfluous. Not so Barney: with the nicest care had heremoved the slightest impurity from each polished surface, and therethey stood, rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder a pang shotacross Mr. Maguire's breast as he thought on the work now cut out forthem, so different from the light labors of the day before; no wonder hemurmured with a sigh, as the scarce dried window-panes disclosed a roadnow inch deep in mud! "Ah! then, it's little good claning of ye!"--forwell had he learned in the hall below that eight miles of a stiff claysoil lay between the manor and Bolsover Abbey, whose picturesque ruins, "Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay, "

the party had determined to explore. The master had already commenceddressing, and the man was fitting straps upon a light pair ofcrane-necked spurs, when his hand was arrested by the oldquestion--"Barney, where are the breeches?"

They were nowhere to be found!

 * * * * *

Mr. Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and equipped in ahandsome green riding-frock, but no "breeches and boots to match" werethere: loose jean trousers, surmounting a pair of diminutiveWellingtons, embraced, somewhat incongruously, his nether man, _vice_the "patent cords, " returned, like yesterday's pantaloons, absentwithout leave. The "top-boots" had a holiday. 

"A fine morning after the rain, " said Mr. Simpkinson from Bath. 

"Just the thing for the 'ops, " said Mr. Peters. "I remember when I was aboy----"

"Do hold your tongue, P. , " said Mrs. Peters--advice which that exemplarymatron was in the constant habit of administering to "her P. " as shecalled him, whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences. Her precisereason for this it would be difficult to determine, unless, indeed, thestory be true which a little bird had whispered into Mrs. Botherby'sear--Mr. Peters, though now a wealthy man had received a liberaleducation at a charity school, and was apt to recur to the days of hismuffin-cap and leathers. As usual, he took his wife's hint in good part, and "paused in his reply. "

"A glorious day for the ruins!" said young Ingoldsby. "But Charles, whatthe deuce are you about? you don't mean to ride through our lanes insuch toggery as that?"

"Lassy me!" said Miss Julia Simpkinson, "won't yo' be very wet?"

"You had better take Tom's cab, " quoth the squire. 

But this proposition was at once over-ruled; Mrs. Ogleton had alreadynailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best adapted for a snugflirtation. 

"Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?" No; that was the post of Mr. Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had acquired some fame as awhip while traveling through the midland counties for the firm ofBagshaw, Snivelby, and Ghrimes. 

"Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins, " said Charles, with as much_nonchalance_ as he could assume--and he did so; Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs. Peters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his eldest daughter with her_album_, following in the family coach. The gentleman-commoner "votedthe affair d----d slow, " and declined the party altogether in favor ofthe gamekeeper and a cigar. "There was 'no fun' in looking at oldhouses!" Mrs. Simpkinson preferred a short _séjour_ in the still-roomwith Mrs. Botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand_arcanum_, the transmutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly. 

 * * * * *

"Did you ever see an old abbey before, Mrs. Peters?"

"Yes, miss, a French one; we have got one at Ramsgate; he teaches theMiss Joneses to parley-voo and is turned of sixty. "

Miss Simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable disdain. 

Mr. Simpkinson from Bath was a professed antiquary, and one of thefirst water; he was master of Gwillim's Heraldry, and Mill's History ofthe Crusades; knew every plate in the Monasticon; had written an essayon the origin and dignity of the office of overseer, and settled thedate on a Queen Anne's farthing. An influential member of theAntiquarian Society, to whose "Beauties of Bagnigge Wells" he had been aliberal subscriber, procured him a seat at the board of that learnedbody, since which happy epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a moreindefatigable correspondent. His inaugural essay on the President'scocked hat was considered a miracle of erudition; and his account of theearliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a masterpiece ofantiquarian research. His eldest daughter was of a kindred spirit: ifher father's mantle had not fallen upon her, it was only because he hadnot thrown it off himself; she had caught hold of its tail, however, while it yet hung upon his honored shoulders. To souls so congenial, what a sight was the magnificent ruin of Bolsover! its broken arches, its mouldering pinnacles, and the airy tracery of its half-demolishedwindows. The party were in raptures; Mr. Simpkinson began to meditate anessay, and his daughter an ode: even Seaforth, as he gazed on theselonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a momentaryforgetfulness of his love and losses; the widow's eye-glass turned fromher _cicisbeo's_ whiskers to the mantling ivy; Mrs. Peters wiped herspectacles; and "her P. " supposed the central tower "had once been thecounty jail. " The squire was a philosopher, and had been there oftenbefore, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens. 

"Bolsover Priory, " said Mr. Simpkinson, with the air of aconnoisseur--"Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of Henry theSixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century. Hugh de Bolsover hadaccompanied that monarch to the Holy Land, in the expedition undertakenby way of penance for the murder of his young nephews in the Tower. Uponthe dissolution of the monasteries, the veteran was enfeoffed in thelands and manor, to which he gave his own name of Bowlsover, orBee-owls-over (by corruption Bolsover)--a Bee in chief, over three Owls, all proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguishedcrusader at the siege of Acre. "

"Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith, " said Mr. Peters; "I've heard tell ofhim, and all about Mrs. Partington, and----"

"P. Be quiet, and don't expose yourself!" sharply interrupted his lady. P. Was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout. 

"These lands, " continued the antiquary, "were held in grand serjeantryby the presentation of three white owls and pot of honey----"

"Lassy me! how nice!" said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked his lips. 

"Pray give me leave, my dear--owls and honey, whenever the king shouldcome a rat-catching into this part of the country. "

"Rat-catching!" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in themastication of a drumstick. 

"To be sure, my dear sir; don't you remember the rats came under theforest laws--a minor species of venison? 'Rats and mice, and such smalldeer, ' eh?--Shakespeare, you know. Our ancestors ate rats ('The nastyfellows!' shuddered Miss Julia, in a parenthesis); and owls, you know, are capital mousers----"

"I've seen a howl, " said Mr. Peters; "there's one in the SohologicalGardens--a little hook-nosed chap in a wig--only its feathers and----"

Poor P. Was destined never to finish a speech. 

"_Do_ be quiet!" cried the authoritative voice; and the would-benaturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the "SohologicalGardens. "

"You should read Blount's _Jocular Tenures_, Mr. Ingoldsby, " pursuedSimpkinson. "A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, His Royal Highness theDuke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers----"

"I've heard of him, " broke in the incorrigible Peters; "he was hanged atthe Old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr. Johnson. "

The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking apinch of snuff, continued his harangue. 

"A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty whorides across one of his manors; and if you look into the penny countyhistories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will findthat Langhale in Co. Norf. Was held by one Baldwin _per saltum, sufflatum, et pettum_; that is, he was to come every Christmas intoWestminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and----"

"Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?" cried Tom Ingoldsby, hastily. 

"Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed _Le----_"

"Mrs. Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it, " said Tom stillmore rapidly, at the same time filling a glass, and forcing it on the_sçavant_, who, thus arrested in the very crisis of his narrative, received and swallowed the potation as if it had been physic. 

"What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered there?" continued Tom;"something of interest. See how fast she is writing. "

The diversion was effectual; every one looked towards Miss Simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for "creature comforts, " was seated apart on thedilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to papersomething that had strongly impressed her; the air--the eye in a "finefrenzy rolling"--all betokened that the divine _afflarus_ was come. Herfather rose, and stole silently towards her. 

"What an old boar!" muttered young Ingoldsby; alluding, perhaps, to aslice of brawn which he had just begun to operate upon, but which, fromthe celerity with which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficultof mastication. 

But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline all this while?Why, it so happened that they had been simultaneously stricken with thepicturesque appearance of one of those high and pointed arches, whichthat eminent antiquary, Mr. Horseley Curties, has described in his_Ancient Records_, as "a _Gothic_ window of the _Saxon_ order"; and thenthe ivy clustered so thickly and so beautifully on the other side, thatthey went round to look at that; and then their proximity deprived it ofhalf its effect, and so they walked across to a little knoll, a hundredyards off, and in crossing a small ravine, they came to what in Irelandthey call "a bad step, " and Charles had to carry his cousin over it; andthen when they had to come back, she would not give him the troubleagain for the world, so they followed a better but more circuitousroute, and there were hedges and ditches in the way, and stiles to getover and gates to get through, so that an hour or more had elapsedbefore they were able to rejoin the party. 

"Lassy me!" said Miss Julia Simpkinson, "how long you have been gone!"

And so they had. The remark was a very just as well as a very naturalone. They were gone a long while, and a nice cosy chat they had; andwhat do you think it was all about, my dear miss?

"O lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes, and nightingales, and----"

Stay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the fervor of your feelingsrun away with you! I do not pretend to say, indeed, that one or more ofthese pretty subjects might not have been introduced; but the mostimportant and leading topic of the conference was--Lieutenant Seaforth'sbreeches. 

"Caroline, " said Charles, "I have had some very odd dreams since I havebeen at Tappington. "

"Dreams, have you?" smiled the young lady, arching her taper neck like aswan in pluming. "Dreams, have you?"

"Ah, dreams--or dream, perhaps, I should say; for, though repeated, itwas still the same. And what do you imagine was its subject?"

"It is impossible for me to divine, " said the tongue; "I have not theleast difficulty in guessing, " said the eye, as plainly as ever eyespoke. 

"I dreamt--of your great-grandfather!"

There was a change in the glance--"My great-grandfather?"

"Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about the other day:he walked into my bedroom in his short cloak of murrey-colored velvet, his long rapier, and his Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as thepicture represents him; but with one exception. "

"And what was that?"

"Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were those of askeleton. "

"Well?"

"Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and looking round himwith a wistful air, he came to the bed's foot, stared at me in a mannerimpossible to describe--and then he--he laid hold of my pantaloons;whipped his long bony legs into them in a twinkling; and strutting up tothe glass, seemed to view himself in it with great complacency. I triedto speak, but in vain. The effort, however, seemed to excite hisattention; for, wheeling about, he showed me the grimmest-lookingdeath's head you can well imagine, and with an indescribable grinstrutted out of the room. "

"Absurd! Charles. How can you talk such nonsense?"

"But, Caroline--the breeches are really gone. "

 * * * * *

On the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, Seaforth was thefirst person in the breakfast parlor. As no one else was present, he didprecisely what nine young men out of ten so situated would have done; hewalked up to the mantelpiece, established himself upon the rug, andsubducting his coat-tails one under each arm, turned towards the firethat portion of the human frame which it is considered equallyindecorous to present to a friend or an enemy. A serious, not to sayanxious, expression was visible upon his good-humored countenance, andhis mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle, whenlittle Flo, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed--the pet object of MissJulia Simpkinson's affections--bounced out from beneath a sofa, andbegan to bark at--his pantaloons. 

They were cleverly "built, " of a light-grey mixture, a broad stripe ofthe most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a perpendicular directionfrom hip to ankle--in short, the regimental costume of the Royal BombayFencibles. The animal, educated in the country, had never seen such apair of breeches in her life--_Omne ignotum pro magnifico!_ The scarletstreak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of the fire, seemed to acton Flora's nerves as the same color does on those of bulls and turkeys;she advanced at the _pas de charge_, and her vociferation, like heramazement, was unbounded. A sound kick from the disgusted officerchanged its character, and induced a retreat at the very moment when themistress of the pugnacious quadruped entered to the rescue. 

"Lassy me! Flo, what _is_ the matter?" cried the sympathizing lady, witha scrutinizing glance leveled at the gentleman. 

It might as well have lighted on a feather bed. His air of imperturbableunconsciousness defied examination; and as he would not, and Flora couldnot, expound, that injured individual was compelled to pocket up herwrongs. Others of the household soon dropped in, and clustered round theboard dedicated to the most sociable of meals; the urn was paraded"hissing hot, " and the cups which "cheer, but not inebriate, " steamedredolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins and marmalade, newspapers, andFinnan haddies, left little room for observation on the character ofCharles's warlike "turn-out. " At length a look from Caroline, followedby a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptlyand address his neighbor. It was Miss Simpkinson, who, deeply engaged insipping her tea and turning over her album, seemed, like a femaleChrononotonthologos, "immersed in cogibundity of cogitation. " Aninterrogatory on the subject of her studies drew from her the confessionthat she was at that moment employed in putting the finishing touches toa poem inspired by the romantic shades of Bolsover. The entreaties ofthe company were of course urgent. Mr. Peters, "who liked verses, " wasespecially persevering, and Sappho at length compliant. After apreparatory hem! and a glance at the mirror to ascertain that her lookwas sufficiently sentimental, the poetess began:--

 "There is a calm, a holy feeling, Vulgar minds, can never know, O'er the bosom softly stealing, -- Chasten'd grief, delicious woe! Oh! how sweet at eve regaining Yon lone tower's sequester'd shade-- Sadly mute and uncomplaining----"

"--Yow!--yeough!--yeough!--yow!--yow!" yelled a hapless sufferer frombeneath the table. It was an unlucky hour for quadrupeds; and if "everydog will have his day, " he could not have selected a more unpropitiousone than this. Mrs. Ogleton, too, had a pet--a favorite pug--whose squabfigure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that curled like a head ofcelery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his Dutch extraction. Yow! yow! yow!continued the brute--a chorus in which Flo instantly joined. Sooth tosay, pug had more reason to express his dissatisfaction than was givenhim by the muse of Simpkinson; the other only barked for company. Scarcely had the poetess got through her first stanza, when TomIngoldsby, in the enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in thematerial world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid his hand onthe cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it such an unluckytwist, that the full stream of its scalding contents descended on thegingerbread hide of the unlucky Cupid. The confusion was complete; thewhole economy of the table disarranged--the company broke up in mostadmired disorder--and "vulgar minds will never know" anything more ofMiss Simpkinson's ode till they peruse it in some forthcoming Annual. 

Seaforth profited by the confusion to take the delinquent who had causedthis "stramash" by the arm, and to lead him to the lawn, where he had aword or two for his private ear. The conference between the younggentlemen was neither brief in its duration nor unimportant in itsresult. The subject was what the lawyers call tripartite, embracing theinformation that Charles Seaforth was over head and ears in love withTom Ingoldsby's sister; secondly, that the lady had referred him to"papa" for his sanction; thirdly, and lastly, his nightly visitationsand consequent bereavement. At the two first times Tom smiledsuspiciously--at the last he burst out into an absolute "guffaw. "

"Steal your breeches! Miss Bailey over again, by Jove, " shoutedIngoldsby. "But a gentleman, you say--and Sir Giles, too. I am not sure, Charles, whether I ought not to call you out for aspersing the honor ofthe family. "

"Laugh as you will, Tom--be as incredulous as you please. One fact isincontestable--the breeches are gone! Look here--I am reduced to myregimentals; and if these go, to-morrow I must borrow of you!"

Rochefoucault says, there is something in the misfortunes of our verybest friends that does not displease us; assuredly we can, most of us, laugh at their petty inconveniences, till called upon to supply them. Tom composed his features on the instant, and replied with more gravity, as well as with an expletive, which, if my Lord Mayor had been withinhearing might have cost him five shillings. 

"There is something very queer in this, after all. The clothes, you say, have positively disappeared. Somebody is playing you a trick; and, tento one, your servant had a hand in it. By the way, I heard somethingyesterday of his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and seeing aghost, or something of that kind, himself. Depend upon it, Barney is inthe plot. "

It now struck the lieutenant at once, that the usually buoyant spiritsof his attendant had of late been materially sobered down, his loquacityobviously circumscribed, and that he, the said lieutenant, had actuallyrung his bell three several times that very morning before he couldprocure his attendance. Mr. Maguire was forthwith summoned, andunderwent a close examination. The "bobbery" was easily explained. Mr. Oliver Dobbs had hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying onbetween the gentleman from Munster and the lady from the Rue St. Honoré. Mademoiselle had boxed Mr. Maguire's ears, and Mr. Maguire had pulledMademoiselle upon his knee, and the lady had _not_ cried _Mon Dieu_! AndMr. Oliver Dobbs said it was very wrong; and Mrs. Botherby said it was"scandalous, " and what ought not to be done in any moral kitchen; andMr. Maguire had got hold of the Honorable Augustus Sucklethumbkin'spowder-flask, and had put large pinches of the best Double Dartford intoMr. Dobbs's tobacco-box; and Mr. Dobbs's pipe had exploded, and set fireto Mrs. Botherby's Sunday cap; and Mr. Maguire had put it out with theslop-basin, "barring the wig"; and then they were all so "cantankerous, "that Barney had gone to take a walk in the garden; and then--then Mr. Barney had seen a ghost. 

"A what? you blockhead!" asked Tom Ingoldsby. 

"Sure then, and it's meself will tell your honor the rights of it, " saidthe ghost-seer. "Meself and Miss Pauline, sir--or Miss Pauline andmeself, for the ladies comes first anyhow--we got tired of thehobstroppylous scrimmaging among the ould servants, that didn't know ajoke when they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet--that'sthe rorybory-alehouse, they calls him in this country--and we walkedupon the lawn--and divil of any alehouse there was there at all; andMiss Pauline said it was bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn'twe see it better beyonst the tree? and so we went to the trees, butsorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big ghost instead of it. "

"A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?"

"Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honor. A tall ould gentleman hewas, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of him, and a big torchin his fist--though what he wanted with that it's meself can't tell, forhis eyes were like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet, whichwasn't there at all--and 'Barney, ' says he to me--'cause why he knewme--'Barney, ' says he, 'what is it you're doing with the _colleen_there, Barney?'--Divil a word did I say. Miss Pauline screeched, andcried murther in French, and ran off with herself; and of course meselfwas in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop palaveringwith him any way: so I dispersed at once, and the ghost vanished in aflame of fire!"

Mr. Maguire's account was received with avowed incredulity by bothgentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with unflinching pertinacity. Areference to Mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither partyhad a taste for delicate investigations. 

"I'll tell you what, Seaforth, " said Ingoldsby, after Barney hadreceived his dismissal, "that there is a trick here, is evident; andBarney's vision may possibly be a part of it. Whether he is most knaveor fool, you best know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night, and see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaintance. Meanwhile your finger on your lip!"

 * * * * *

 'Twas now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead. 

Gladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and therefore I dobeseech the "gentle reader" to believe, that if all the _succedanea_ tothis mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe itonly to the disgraceful innovations of modern degeneracy upon the soberand dignified habits of our ancestors. I can introduce him, it is true, into an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls covered in three sideswith black oak wainscoting, adorned with carvings of fruit and flowerslong anterior to those of Grinling Gibbons; the fourth side is clothedwith a curious remnant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of someScriptural history, but of _which_ not even Mrs. Botherby coulddetermine. Mr. Simpkinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined tobelieve the principal figure to be either Bathsheba, or Daniel in thelions' den; while Tom Ingoldsby decided in favor of the king of Bashan. All, however, was conjecture, tradition being silent on the subject. Alofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal led out of, this apartment; they were opposite each other, and each possessed thesecurity of massy bolts on its interior. The bedstead, too, was not oneof yesterday, but manifestly coeval with days ere Seddons was, and whena good four-post "article" was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest. The bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse, mattresses, etc. , was of far later date, and looked most incongruously comfortable;the casements, too, with their little diamond-shaped panes and ironbinding, had given way to the modern heterodoxy of the sash-window. Norwas this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render the room ameet haunt for such "mixed spirits" only as could condescend to don atthe same time an Elizabethan doublet and Bond Street inexpressibles. 

With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in front of adisgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen, clad in "shawlpattern" dressing-gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance withthe high cane-backed chairs which supported them. A bunch ofabomination, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the mouthof one, and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of the other--anarrangement happily adapted for the escape of the noxious fumes up thechimney, without that unmerciful "funking" each other, which a lessscientific disposition of the weed would have induced. A small pembroketable filled up the intervening space between them, sustaining, at eachextremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy--thus in "lonely pensivecontemplation" were the two worthies occupied, when the "iron tongue ofmidnight had tolled twelve. "

"Ghost-time's come!" said Ingoldsby, taking from his waistcoat pocket awatch like a gold half-crown, and consulting it as though he suspectedthe turret-clock over the stables of mendacity. 

"Hush!" said Charles; "did I not hear a footstep?"

There was a pause--there _was_ a footstep--it sounded distinctly--itreached the door it hesitated, stopped, and--passed on. 

Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became aware ofMrs. Botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other end of the gallery, after dosing one of the housemaids with an approved julep from theCountess of Kent's "Choice Manual. "

"Good-night, sir!" said Mrs. Botherby. 

"Go to the d----l!" said the disappointed ghost-hunter. 

An hour--two--rolled on, and still no spectral visitation; nor did aughtintervene to make night hideous; and when the turret-clock sounded atlength the hour of three, Ingoldsby, whose patience and grog were alikeexhausted, sprang from his chair, saying:

"This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce of any ghost shallwe see to-night; it's long past the canonical hour. I'm off to bed; andas to your breeches, I'll insure them for the next twenty-four hours atleast, at the price of the buckram. "

"Certainly. --Oh! thank'ee--to be sure!" stammered Charles, rousinghimself from a reverie, which had degenerated into an absolute snooze. 

"Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and defy the Pope, theDevil, and the Pretender!"

Seaforth followed his friend's advice, and the next morning came down tobreakfast dressed in the habiliments of the preceding day. The charm wasbroken, the demon defeated; the light greys with the red stripe down theseams were yet _in rerum naturâ_, and adorned the person of their lawfulproprietor. 

Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the result oftheir vigilance; but there is a rustic adage, which warns us againstself-gratulation before we are quite "out of the wood. "--Seaforth wasyet within its verge. 

 * * * * *

A rap at Tom Ingoldsby's door the following morning startled him as hewas shaving--he cut his chin. 

"Come in, and be d----d to you!" said the martyr, pressing his thumb onthe scarified epidermis. The door opened, and exhibited Mr. BarneyMaguire. 

"Well, Barney, what is it?" quoth the sufferer, adopting the vernacularof his visitant. 

"The master, sir----"

"Well, what does he want?"

"The loanst of a breeches, plase your honor. "

"Why, you don't mean to tell me--By Heaven, this is too good!" shoutedTom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "Why, Barney, youdon't mean to say the ghost has got them again?"

Mr. Maguire did not respond to the young squire's risibility; the castof his countenance was decidedly serious. 

"Faith, then, it's gone they are sure enough! Hasn't meself been lookingover the bed, and under the bed, and _in_ the bed, for the matter ofthat, and divil a ha'p'orth of breeches is there to the fore atall:--I'm bothered entirely!"

"Hark'ee! Mr. Barney, " said Tom, incautiously removing his thumb, andletting a crimson stream "incarnadine the multitudinous" lather thatplastered his throat--"this may be all very well with your master, butyou don't humbug _me_, sir:--Tell me instantly what have you done withthe clothes?"

This abrupt transition from "lively to severe" certainly took Maguire bysurprise, and he seemed for an instant as much disconcerted as it ispossible to disconcert an Irish gentleman's gentleman. 

"Me? is it meself, then, that's the ghost to your honor's thinking?"said he after a moment's pause, and with a slight shade of indignationin his tones; "is it I would stale the master's things--and what would Ido with them?"

"That you best know: what your purpose is I can't guess, for I don'tthink you mean to 'stale' them, as you call it; but that you areconcerned in their disappearance, I am satisfied. Confound thisblood!--give me a towel, Barney. "

Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. "As I've a sowl, yourhonor, " said he, solemnly, "little it is meself knows of the matter: andafter what I seen----"

"What you've seen! Why, what _have_ you seen?--Barney, I don't want toinquire into your flirtations; but don't suppose you can palm off yoursaucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!"

"Then, as sure as your honor's standing there, I saw him: and whywouldn't I, when Miss _Pauline_ was to the fore as well as meself, and----"

"Get along with your nonsense--leave the room, sir!"

"But the master?" said Barney, imploringly; "and without abreeches?--sure he'll be catching cowld----!"

"Take that, rascal!" replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair of pantaloonsat, rather than to, him: "but don't suppose, sir, you shall carry onyour tricks here with impunity; recollect there is such a thing as atreadmill, and that my father is a county magistrate. "

Barney's eye flashed fire--he stood erect, and was about to speak; but, mastering himself, not without an effort, he took up the garment, andleft the room as perpendicular as a Quaker. 

 * * * * *

"Ingoldsby, " said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, "this is now past ajoke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, notwithstanding the ties whichdetain me, common decency obliges me to visit home after so long anabsence. I shall come to an immediate explanation with your father onthe subject nearest my heart, and depart while I have a change of dressleft. On his answer will my return depend! In the meantime tell mecandidly--I ask it in all seriousness, and as a friend--am I not a dupeto your well-known propensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand in----"

"No, by heaven, Seaforth; I see what you mean: on my honor, I am as muchmystified as yourself; and if your servant----"

"Not he:--If there be a trick, he at least is not privy to it. "

"If there _be_ a trick? why, Charles, do you, think----"

"I know not _what_ to think, Tom. As surely as you are a living man, sosurely did that spectral anatomy visit my room again last night, grin inmy face, and walk away with my trousers; nor was I able to spring frommy bed, or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow. "

"Seaforth!" said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, "I will--But hush! hereare the girls and my father. I will carry off the females, and leave youa clear field with the governor: carry your point with him, and we willtalk about your breeches afterwards. "

Tom's diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies _en masse_ tolook at a remarkable specimen of the class _DodecandriaMonogynia_--which they could not find--while Seaforth marched boldly upto the encounter, and carried "the governor's" outworks by a _coup demain_. I shall not stop to describe the progress of the attack; sufficeit that it was as successful as could have been wished, and thatSeaforth was referred back again to the lady. The happy lover was off ata tangent; the botanical party was soon overtaken; and the arm ofCaroline, whom a vain endeavor to spell out the Linnæan name of adaffy-down-dilly had detained a little in the rear of the others, wassoon firmly locked in his own. 

 What was the world to them, Its noise, its nonsense and its "breeches" all?

Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night ashappy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, andpersonal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not soTom Ingoldsby: the mystery--for mystery there evidently was--had notonly piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The watch of theprevious night had been unsuccessful, probably because it wasundisguised. To-night he would "ensconce himself"--not indeed "behindthe arras"--for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed tothe wall--but in a small closet which opened from one corner of theroom, and by leaving the door ajar, would give to its occupant a view ofall that might pass in the apartment. Here did the young ghost-huntertake up a position, with a good stout sapling under his arm, a fullhalf-hour before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his friend didhe let into his confidence, fully determined that if his plan did notsucceed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone. 

At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from hisconcealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and after taking a few turnsin it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his thoughts weremainly occupied by his approaching happiness, proceed slowly to disrobehimself. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk stock, were graduallydiscarded; the green morocco slippers were kicked off, and then--ay, andthen--his countenance grew grave; it seemed to occur to him all at oncethat this was his last stake--nay, that the very breeches he had on werenot his own--that to-morrow morning was his last, and that if he lost_them_--A glance showed that his mind was made up; he replaced thesingle button he had just subducted, and threw himself upon the bed in astate of transition--half chrysalis, half grub. 

Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flickering light ofthe night-lamp, till the clock striking one, induced him to increase thenarrow opening which he had left for the purpose of observation. Themotion, slight as it was, seemed to attract Charles's attention; for heraised himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment, andthen stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on the point ofdiscovering himself, when, the light flashing full upon his friend'scountenance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open, "their sensewas shut"--that he was yet under the influence of sleep. Seaforthadvanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood onit, then, going back to the bed's foot, appeared to search eagerly forsomething which he could not find. For a few moments he seemed restlessand uneasy, walking round the apartment and examining the chairs, till, coming fully in front of a large swing-glass that flanked thedressing-table, he paused as if contemplating his figure in it. He nowreturned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and, with cautious andstealthy steps, proceeded towards the little arched doorway that openedon the private staircase. 

As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his hiding-place; butthe sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly downstairs, followedat a due distance by his friend; opened the door which led out upon thegardens; and stood at once among the thickest of the shrubs, which thereclustered round the base of a corner turret, and screened the posternfrom common observation. At this moment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled allby making a false step: the sound attracted Seaforth's attention--hepaused and turned; and, as the full moon shed her light directly uponhis pale and troubled features, Tom marked, almost with dismay, thefixed and rayless appearance of his eyes:

 There was no speculation in those orbs That he did glare withal. 

The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure him;he turned aside, and from the midst of a thickest laurustinus drew fortha gardener's spade, shouldering which he proceeded with great rapidityinto the midst of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain point where theearth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he set himself heartilyto the task of digging, till, having thrown up several shovelfuls ofmould, he stopped, flung down his tool, and very composedly began todisencumber himself of his pantaloons. 

Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary eye; he now advancedcautiously, and, as his friend was busily engaged in disentanglinghimself from his garment, made himself master of the spade. Seaforth, meanwhile, had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with

 His streamers waving in the wind, occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as compact aform as possible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven, which mightcertainly be supposed at such a moment, and in such a plight, to "visithis frame too roughly. "

He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons in the gravewhich he had been digging for them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close behindhim, and with the flat side of the spade----

 * * * * *

The shock was effectual; never again was Lieutenant Seaforth known toact the part of a somnambulist. One by one, his breeches--histrousers--his pantaloons--his silk-net tights--his patent cords--hisshowy greys with the broad red stripe of the Bombay Fencibles werebrought to light--rescued from the grave in which they had been buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie; and after having been well aired byMrs. Botherby, became once again effective. 

The family, the ladies especially, laughed; the Peterses laughed; theSimpkinsons laughed;--Barney Maguire cried "Botheration!" and _Ma'msellePauline_, "_Mon Dieu!_"

Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited him on allsides, started off two hours earlier than he had proposed:--he soonreturned, however; and having, at his father-in-law's request, given upthe occupation of Rajah-hunting and shooting Nabobs, led his blushingbride to the altar. 

Mr. Simpkinson from Bath did not attend the ceremony, being engaged atthe Grand Junction meeting of _Sçavans_, then, congregating from allparts of the known world in the city of Dublin. His essay, demonstratingthat the globe is a great custard, whipped into coagulation bywhirlwinds and cooked by electricity--a little too much baked in theIsle of Portland, and a thought underdone about the Bog of Allen--washighly spoken of, and narrowly escaped obtaining a Bridgewater prize. 

Miss Simpkinson and her sister acted as brides-maids on the occasion;the former wrote an _epithalamium_, and the latter cried "Lassy me!" atthe clergyman's wig. Some years have since rolled on; the union has beencrowned with two or three tidy little off-shoots from the family tree, of whom Master Neddy is "grandpapa's darling, " and Mary Anne mamma'sparticular "Sock. " I shall only add, that Mr. And Mrs. Seaforth areliving together quite as happily as two good-hearted, good-temperedbodies, very fond of each other, can possibly do; and that, since theday of his marriage, Charles has shown no disposition to jump out ofbed, or ramble out of doors o' nights--though from his entire devotionto every wish and whim of his young wife, Tom insinuates that the fairCaroline does still occasionally take advantage of it so far as to "slipon the breeches. "

IN THE BARN

BY BURGES JOHNSON

From the _Century Magazine_, June, 1920. By permission of the CenturyCompany and Burges Johnson. 

In the Barn

BY BURGES JOHNSON

The moment we had entered the barn, I regretted the rash good naturewhich prompted me to consent to the plans of those vivacious youngstudents. Miss Anstell and Miss Royce and one or two others, oftenleaders in student mischief, I suspect, were the first to enter, andthey amused themselves by hiding in the darkness and greeting the restof our party as we entered with sundry shrieks and moans such as arecommonly attributed to ghosts. My wife and I brought up the rear, carrying the two farm lanterns. She had selected the place after anamused consideration of the question, and I confess I hardly approvedher judgment. But she is native to this part of the country, and she hadassured us that there were some vague traditions hanging about thebuilding that made it most suitable for our purposes. 

It was a musty old place, without even as much tidiness as is usuallyfound in barns, and there was a dank smell about it, as thoughgenerations of haymows had decayed there. There were holes in the floor, and in the dusk of early evening it was necessary for us to pick ourway with the greatest care. It occurred to me then, in a premonitorysort of way, that if some young woman student sprained her ankle in thisabsurd environment, I should be most embarrassed to explain it. Apparently it was a hay barn, whose vague dimensions were lost inshadow. Rafters crossed its width about twenty feet above our heads, andhere and there a few boards lay across the rafters, furnishing footholdfor anyone who might wish to operate the ancient pulley that wasdoubtless once used for lifting bales. The northern half of the floorwas covered with hay to a depth of two or three feet. How long it hadactually been there I cannot imagine. It was extremely dusty, and Ifeared a recurrence of my old enemy, hay fever; but it was too late tooffer objection on such grounds, and my wife and I followed ourchattering guides, who disposed themselves here and there on thisancient bed of hay, and insisted that we should find places in thecenter of their circle. 

At my suggestion, the two farm lanterns had been left at a suitabledistance, in fact, quite at the other side of the barn, and our onlylight came from the rapidly falling twilight of outdoors, which foundits way through a little window and sundry cracks high in the eavesabove the rafters. 

There was something about the place, now that we were settled and nolonger occupied with adjustments of comfort, that subdued our spirits, and it was with much less hilarity that the young people united indemanding a story. I looked across at my wife, whose face was faintlyvisible within the circle. I thought that even in the half-light Iglimpsed the same expression of amused incredulity which she had wornearlier in the day when I had yielded to the importunities of adeputation of my students for this ghost-story party on the eve of aholiday. 

"There is no reason, " I thought to myself, repeating the phrases I hadused then--"there is no reason why I should not tell a ghost story. True, I had never done so before, but the literary attainments whichhave enabled me to perfect my recent treatise upon the 'Disuse of theComma' are quite equal to impromptu experimentation in the field ofpsychic phenomena. " I was aware that the young people themselves hardlyexpected serious acquiescence, and that, too, stimulated me. I clearedmy throat in a prefatory manner, and silence fell upon the group. Alight breeze had risen outside, and the timbers of the barn creakedpersistently. From the shadows almost directly overhead there came afaint clanking. It was evidently caused by the rusty pulley-wheel whichI had observed there as we entered. An iron hook at the end of anancient rope still depended from it, and swung in the lightly stirringair several feet above our heads, directly over the center of ourcircle. 

Some curious combination of influences--perhaps the atmosphere of theplace, added to the stimulation of the faintly discernible faces aroundme, and my impulse to prove my own ability in this untried field ofnarration--gave me a sudden sense of being inspired. I found myselfvoicing fancies as though they were facts, and readily includingimaginary names and data which certainly were not in any waypremeditated. 

"This barn stands on the old Creed place, " I began. "Peter Creed was itslast owner, but I suppose that it has always been and always will beknown as the Turner barn. A few yards away to the south you will findthe crumbling brick-work and gaping hollows of an old foundation, nowovergrown with weeds that almost conceal a few charred timbers. That isall that is left of the old Ashley Turner house. "

I cleared my throat again, not through any effort to gain time for mythoughts, but to feel for a moment the satisfaction arising from theintent attitude of my audience, particularly my wife, who had leanedforward and was looking at me with an expression of startled surprise. 

"Ashley Turner must have had a pretty fine-looking farm here thirtyyears or so ago, " I continued, "when he brought his wife to it. Thisbarn was new then. But he was a ne'er-do-well, with nothing to be saidin his favor, unless you admit his fame as a practical joker. Strangehow the ne'er-do-well is often equipped with an extravagant sense ofhumor! Turner had a considerable retinue among the riffraff boys of theneighborhood, who made this barn a noisy rendezvous and followed hishints in much whimsical mischief. But he committed most of his practicaljokes when drunk, and in his sober moments he abused his family and lethis wife struggle to keep up the acres, assisted only by ahalf-competent man of all work. Finally he took to roving. No one knewhow he got pocket-money; his wife could not have given him any. Thensomeone discovered that he was going over to Creed's now and then, andeverything was explained. "

This concise data of mine was evidently not holding the close attentionof my youthful audience. They annoyed me by frequent pranks andwhisperings. No one could have been more surprised at my glibness than Imyself, except perhaps my wife, whose attitude of strained attention hadnot relaxed. I resumed my story. 

"Peter Creed was a good old-fashioned usurer of the worst type. He wentto church regularly one day in the week and gouged his neighbors--anythat he could get into his clutches--on the other six. He must have beenlending Turner drinking money, and everyone knew what the security mustbe. 

"At last there came a day when the long-suffering wife revolted. Turnerhad come home extra drunk and in his most maudlin humor. Probably heattempted some drunken prank upon his over-taxed helpmate. Old Ike, thehired man, said that he thought Turner had rigged up some scare for herin the barn and that he had never heard anything so much like straighttalking from his mistress, either before or since, and he was working inthe woodshed at the time, with the door shut. Shortly after that tiradeAshley Turner disappeared, and no one saw or heard of him or thoughtabout him for a couple of years except when the sight of histired-looking wife and scrawny children revived the recollection. 

"At last, on a certain autumn day, old Peter Creed turned up here at theTurner place. I imagine Mrs. Turner knew what was in store for her whenhis rusty buggy came in sight around the corner of the barn. At anyrate, she made no protest, and listened meekly to his curt statementthat he held an overdue mortgage, with plenty of back interest owing, and it was time for her to go. She went. Neither she nor anyone elsedoubted Creed's rights in the matter, and, after all, I believe it got abetter home for her somewhere in the long run. "

I paused here in my narration to draw breath and readjust my leg, whichhad become cramped. There was a general readjustment and shifting ofposition, with some levity. It was darker now. The rafters above us wereinvisible, and the faces about me looked oddly white against the shadowybackground. After a moment or two of delay I cleared my throat sharplyand continued. 

"Old Creed came thus into possession of this place, just as he had cometo own a dozen others in the county. He usually lived on one until hewas able to sell it at a good profit over his investment; so he settleddown in the Turner house, and kept old Ike because he worked for littleor nothing. But he seemed to have a hard time finding a purchaser. 

"It must have been about a year later when an unexpected thing happened. Creed had come out here to the barn to lock up--he always did thathimself--when he noticed something unusual about the haymow--thishaymow--which stood then about six feet above the barn floor. He lookedcloser through the dusk, and saw a pair of boots; went nearer, and foundthat they were fitted to a pair of human legs whose owner was soundasleep in his hay. Creed picked up a short stick and beat on one boot. 

"'Get out of here, ' he said, 'or I'll have you locked up. ' The sleeperwoke in slow fashion, sat up, grinned, and said:

"'Hello, Peter Creed. ' It was Ashley Turner, beyond question. Creedstepped back a pace or two and seemed at a loss for words. An objectslipped from Turner's pocket as he moved, slid along the hay, and fellto the barn floor. It was a half-filled whisky-flask. 

"No one knows full details of the conversation that ensued, of course. Such little as I am able to tell you of what was said and done comesthrough old Ike, who watched from a safe distance outside the barn, ready to act at a moment's notice as best suited his own safety andwelfare. Of one thing Ike was certain--Creed lacked his usualbrowbeating manner. He was apparently struggling to assume an unwontedfriendliness. Turner was very drunk, but triumphant, and hissatisfaction over what he must have felt was the practical joke of hislife seemed to make him friendly. 

"'I kept 'em all right, ' he said again and again. 'I've got the proof. Iwasn't working for nothing all these months. I ain't fool enough yet tothrow away papers even when I'm drunk. '

"To the watchful Ike's astonishment, Creed evidently tried to persuadehim to come into the house for something to eat. Turner slid off thehaymow, found his steps too unsteady, laughed foolishly, and suggestedthat Creed bring some food to him there. 'Guess I've got a right tosleep in the barn or house, whichever I want, ' he said, leering intoCreed's face. The old usurer stood there for a few minutes eying Turnerthoughtfully. Then he actually gave him a shoulder back onto the hay, said something about finding a snack of supper, and started out of thebarn. In the doorway he turned, looked back, then walked over to theedge of the mow and groped on the floor until he found the whisky-flask, picked it up, tossed it into Turner's lap, and stumbled out of the barnagain. "

I was becoming interested in my own story and somewhat pleased with thefluency of it, but my audience annoyed me. There was intermittentwhispering, with some laughter, and I inferred that one or anotherwould occasionally stimulate this inattention by tickling a companionwith a straw. Miss Anstell, who is so frivolous by nature that Isometimes question her right to a place in my classroom, I evensuspected of irritating the back of my own neck in the same fashion. Naturally, I ignored it. 

"Peter Creed, " I repeated, "went into the house. Ike hung around thebarn, waiting. He was frankly curious. In a few minutes his employerreappeared, carrying a plate heaped with an assortment of scraps. Ikepeered and listened then without compunction. 

"'It's the best I've got, ' he heard Creed say grudgingly. Turner's toneswere now more drunkenly belligerent. 

"'It had better be, ' he said loudly. 'And I'll take the best bed afterto-night. ' Evidently he was eating and muttering between mouthfuls. 'Youmight have brought me another bottle. '

"'I did, ' said Creed, to the listening Ike's great astonishment. Turnerlaughed immoderately. 

"A long silence followed. Turner was either eating or drinking. Then hespoke again, more thickly and drowsily. 

"'Damn unpleasant that rope. Why don't you haul it up out of my way?'

"'It don't hurt you any, ' said Creed. 

"'Don't you wish it would?' said Turner, with drunken shrewdness. 'But Idon't like it. Haul it away. '

"'I will, ' said Creed. 

"There was a longer silence, and then there came an intermittent raspingsound. A moment later Creed came suddenly from the barn. Ike fumbledwith a large rake, and made as though to hang it on its accustomed pegnear the barn door. Creed eyed him sharply. 'Get along to bed, ' heordered, and Ike obeyed. 

"That was a Saturday night. On Sunday morning Ike went to the barn laterthan usual and hesitatingly. Even then he was first to enter. He foundthe drunkard's body hanging here over the mow, just about where we aresitting, stark and cold. It was a gruesome end to a miserablehome-coming. "

My audience was quiet enough now. Miss Anstell and one or two othersgiggled loudly, but it was obviously forced, and found no further echo. The breeze which had sprung up some time before was producing strangecreakings and raspings in the old timbers, and the pulley-wheel farabove us clanked with a dismal repetitious sound, like the tolling of acracked bell. 

I waited a moment, well satisfied with the effect, and then continued. 

"The coroner's jury found it suicide, though some shook their headsmeaningly. Turner had apparently sobered up enough to stand, and, makinga simple loop around his neck by catching the rope through its own hook, had then slid off the mow. The rope which went over the pulley-wheel upthere in the roof ran out through a window under the eaves, and was madefast near the barn door outside, where anyone could haul on it. Creedtestified the knot was one he had tied many days before. Ike was atimorous old man, with a wholesome fear of his employer, and hesupported the testimony and made no reference to his eavesdropping ofthe previous evening, though he heard Creed swear before the jury thathe did not recognize the tramp he had fed and lodged. There were nopapers in Turner's pockets; only a few coins, and a marked pocket-knifethat gave the first clue to his identity. 

"A few of the neighbors said that it was a fitting end, and that theverdict was a just one. Nevertheless, whisperings began and increased. People avoided Creed and the neighborhood. Rumors grew that the barn washaunted. Passers-by on the road after dark said they heard the oldpulley-wheel clanking when no breeze stirred, much as you hear it now. Some claim to have heard maudlin laughter. Possible purchasers werefrightened away, and Creed grew more and more solitary and misanthropic. Old Ike hung on, Heaven knows why, though I suppose Creed paid him somesort of wage. 

"Rumors grew. Folks said that neither Ike nor Creed entered this barnafter a time, and no hay was put in, though Creed would not have beenCreed if he had not sold off the bulk of what he had, ghost or no ghost. I can imagine him slowly forking it out alone, daytimes, and the amountof hay still here proves that even he finally lost courage. "

I paused a moment, but though there was much uneasy stirring about, andthe dismal clanking directly above us was incessant, no one of myaudience spoke. It was wholly dark now, and I think all had drawn closertogether. 

"About ten years ago people began calling Creed crazy. " Here I wasforced to interrupt my own story. "I shall have to ask you, MissAnstell, to stop annoying me. I have been aware for some moments thatyou are brushing my head with a straw, but I have ignored it for thesake of the others. " Out of the darkness came Miss Anstell's voice, protesting earnestly, and I realized from the direction of the soundthat in the general readjustment she must have settled down in the verycenter of our circle, and could not be the one at fault. One of theothers was childish enough to simulate a mocking burst of raucouslaughter, but I chose to ignore it. 

"Very well, " said I, graciously; "shall I go on?"

"Go on, " echoed a subdued chorus. 

"It was the night of the twenty-eighth of May, ten years ago----"

"Not the twenty-eighth, " broke in my wife's voice, sharply; "that isto-day's date. " There was a note in her voice that I hardly recognized, but it indicated that she was in some way affected by my narration, andI felt a distinct sense of triumph. 

"It was the night of May twenty-eighth, " I repeated firmly. 

"Are you making up this story?" my wife's voice continued, still withthe same odd tone. 

"I am, my dear, and you are interrupting it. "

"But an Ashley Turner and later a Peter Creed owned this place, " shepersisted almost in a whisper, "and I am sure you never heard of them. "

I confess that I might wisely have broken off my story then and calledfor a light. There had been an hysterical note in my wife's voice, and Iwas startled at her words, for I had no conscious recollection of eithername; yet I felt a resultant exhilaration. Our lanterns had grownstrangely dim, though I was certain both had been recently trimmed andfilled; and from their far corner of the barn they threw no lightwhatever into our circle. I faced an utter blackness. 

"On that night, " said I, "old Ike was wakened by sounds as of someonefumbling to unbar and open the housedoor. It was an unwonted hour, andhe peered from the window of his little room. By the dim starlight--itwas just before dawn--he could see all of the open yard and roadwaybefore the house, with the great barn looming like a black and sinistershadow as its farther barrier. Crossing this space, he saw the figure ofPeter Creed, grotesquely stooped and old in the obscuring gloom, movingslowly, almost gropingly, and yet directly, as though impelled, towardthe barn's overwhelming shadow. Slowly he unbarred the great door, swung it open, and entered the blacker shadows it concealed. The doorclosed after him. 

"Ike in his secure post of observation did not stir. He could not. Evento his crude imagining there was something utterly horrible in thethought of Creed alone at that hour in just such black darkness as this, with the great timbered chamber haunted at least by its dread memories. He could only wait, tense and fearful of he knew not what. 

"A shriek that pierced the silence relaxed his tension, bringing almosta sense of relief, so definite had been his expectancy. But it was aburst of shrill laughter, ribald, uncanny, undeniable, accompanying theshriek that gave him power of motion. He ran half naked a quarter of amile to the nearest neighbor's and told his story. "

 * * * * *

"They found Creed hanging, the rope hooked simply around his neck. Itwas a silent jury that filed from the barn that morning after viewingthe body. 'Suicide, ' said they, after Ike, shivering and stammering, hadtestified, harking back to the untold evidence of that other morningyears before. Yes, Creed was dead, with a terrible look on his wizenface, and the dusty old rope ran through its pulley-wheel and was fastto a beam high above. 

"'He must of climbed to the beam, made the rope fast, and jumped, ' saidthe foreman, solemnly. 'He must of, he must of, ' repeated the man, parrot-like, while the sweat stood out on his forehead, 'because therewasn't no other way; but as God is my judge, the knot in the rope andthe dust on the beam ain't been disturbed for years. '"

At this dramatic climax there was an audible sigh from my audience. Isat quietly for a time, content to allow the silence and the atmosphereof the place, which actually seemed surcharged with influences not of mycreation, to add to the effect my story had caused. There was scarcely amovement in our circle; of that I felt sure. And yet once more, out ofthe almost tangible darkness above me, something seemed to reach downand brush against my head. A slight motion of air, sufficient to disturbmy rather scanty locks, was additional proof that I was the butt of someprank that had just missed its objective. Then, with a fearfulsuddenness, close to my ear burst a shrill discord of laughter, souncanny and so unlike the usual sound of student merriment that Istarted up, half wondering if I had heard it. Almost immediately afterit the heavy darkness was torn again by a shriek so terrible in itsintensity as completely to differentiate it from the other cries whichfollowed. 

"Bring a light!" cried a voice that I recognized as that of my wife, though strangely distorted by emotion. There was a great confusion. Young women struggled from their places and impeded one another in thedarkness; but finally, and it seemed an unbearable delay, someonebrought a single lantern. 

Its frail light revealed Miss Anstell half upright from her place in thecenter of our circle, my wife's arms sustaining her weight. Her face, aswell as I could see it, seemed darkened and distorted, and when weforced her clutching hands away from her bared throat we could see, evenin that light, the marks of an angry, throttling scar entirelyencircling it. Just above her head the old pulley-rope swayed menacinglyin the faint breeze. 

My recollection is even now confused as to the following moments and ourstumbling escape from that gruesome spot. Miss Anstell is now at herhome, recovering from what her physician calls mental shock. My wifewill not speak of it. The questions I would ask her are checked on mylips by the look of utter terror in her eyes. As I have confessed toyou, my own philosophy is hard put to it to withstand not so much thecommunity attitude toward what they are pleased to call my taste inpractical joking, but to assemble and adjust the facts of myexperience. 

A SHADY PLOT

BY ELSIE BROWN

This story was submitted as a class exercise in one of my short-storyclasses at Columbia University. At my request the author, Elsie Brown, contributed it to this volume. 

A Shady Plot

BY ELSIE BROWN

So I sat down to write a ghost story. 

Jenkins was responsible. 

"Hallock, " he had said to me, "give us another on the supernatural thistime. Something to give 'em the horrors; that's what the public wants, and your ghosts are live propositions. "

Well, I was in no position to contradict Jenkins, for, as yet, hismagazine had been the only one to print my stuff. So I had said, "Precisely!" in the deepest voice I was capable of, and had gone out. 

I hadn't the shade of an idea, but at the time that didn't worry me inthe least. You see, I had often been like that before and in the endthings had always come my way--I didn't in the least know how or why. Ithad all been rather mysterious. You understand I didn't specialize inghost stories, but more or less they seemed to specialize in me. A ghoststory had been the first fiction I had written. Curious how that ideafor a plot had come to me out of nowhere after I had chased inspirationin vain for months! Even now whenever Jenkins wanted a ghost, he calledon me. And I had never found it healthy to contradict Jenkins. Jenkinsalways seemed to have an uncanny knowledge as to when the landlord orthe grocer were pestering me, and he dunned me for a ghost. And somehowI'd always been able to dig one up for him, so I'd begun to get a bitcocky as to my ability. 

So I went home and sat down before my desk and sucked at the end of mypencil and waited, but nothing happened. Pretty soon my mind began towander off on other things, decidedly unghostly and material things, such as my wife's shopping and how on earth I was going to cure her ofher alarming tendency to take every new fad that came along and work itto death. But I realized _that_ would never get me any place, so I wentback to staring at the ceiling. 

"This writing business _is_ delightful, isn't it?" I said sarcastically atlast, out loud, too. You see, I had reached the stage of imbecility whenI was talking to myself. 

"Yes, " said a voice at the other end of the room, "I should say it is!"

I admit I jumped. Then I looked around. 

It was twilight by this time and I had forgotten to turn on the lamp. The other end of the room was full of shadows and furniture. I satstaring at it and presently noticed something just taking shape. It wasexactly like watching one of these moving picture cartoons being puttogether. First an arm came out, then a bit of sleeve of a stiff whiteshirtwaist, then a leg and a plaid skirt, until at last there she wascomplete, --whoever she was. 

She was long and angular, with enormous fishy eyes behind bigbone-rimmed spectacles, and her hair in a tight wad at the back of herhead (yes, I seemed able to see right through her head) and a jaw--well, it looked so solid that for the moment I began to doubt my very ownsenses and believe she was real after all. 

She came over and stood in front of me and glared--yes, positivelyglared down at me, although (to my knowledge) I had never laid eyes onthe woman before, to say nothing of giving her cause to look at me likethat. 

I sat still, feeling pretty helpless I can tell you, and at last shebarked:

"What are you gaping at?"

I swallowed, though I hadn't been chewing anything. 

"Nothing, " I said. "Absolutely nothing. My dear lady, I was merelywaiting for you to tell me why you had come. And excuse me, but do youalways come in sections like this? I should think your parts might getmixed up sometimes. "

"Didn't you send for me?" she crisped. 

Imagine how I felt at that!

"Why, no. I--I don't seem to remember----"

"Look here. Haven't you been calling on heaven and earth all afternoonto help you write a story?"

I nodded, and then a possible explanation occurred to me and my spinegot cold. Suppose this was the ghost of a stenographer applying for ajob! I had had an advertisement in the paper recently. I opened my mouthto explain that the position was filled, and permanently so, but shestopped me. 

"And when I got back to the office from my last case and was ready foryou, didn't you switch off to something else and sit there driveling soI couldn't attract your attention until just now?"

"I--I'm very sorry, really. "

"Well, you needn't be, because I just came to tell you to stop botheringus for assistance; you ain't going to get it. We're going on Strike!"

"What!"

"You don't have to yell at me. "

"I--I didn't mean to yell, " I said humbly. "But I'm afraid I didn'tquite understand you. You said you were----"

"Going on strike. Don't you know what a strike is? Not another plot doyou get from us!"

I stared at her and wet my lips. 

"Is--is that where they've been coming from?"

"Of course. Where else?"

"But my ghosts aren't a bit like you----"

"If they were people wouldn't believe in them. " She draped herself onthe top of my desk among the pens and ink bottles and leaned towards me. "In the other life _I_ used to write. "

"You did!"

She nodded. 

"But that has nothing to do with my present form. It might have, but Igave it up at last for that very reason, and went to work as a reader ona magazine. " She sighed, and rubbed the end of her long eagle nose witha reminiscent finger. "Those were terrible days; the memory of them mademe mistake purgatory for paradise, and at last when I attained mypresent state of being, I made up my mind that something should be done. I found others who had suffered similarly, and between us we organized'The Writer's Inspiration Bureau. ' We scout around until we find awriter without ideas and with a mind soft enough to accept impression. The case is brought to the attention of the main office, and one of usassigned to it. When that case is finished we bring in a report. "

"But I never saw you before----"

"And you wouldn't have this time if I hadn't come to announce thestrike. Many a time I've leaned on your shoulder when you've thought_you_ were thinking hard--" I groaned, and clutched my hair. The veryidea of that horrible scarecrow so much as touching me! and wouldn't mywife be shocked! I shivered. "But, " she continued, "that's at an end. We've been called out of our beds a little too often in recent years, and now we're through. "

"But my dear madam, I assure you I have had nothing to do with that. Ihope I'm properly grateful and all that, you see. "

"Oh, it isn't you, " she explained patronizingly. "It's those Ouija boardfanatics. There was a time when we had nothing much to occupy us andused to haunt a little on the side, purely for amusement, but not anymore. We've had to give up haunting almost entirely. We sit at a deskand answer questions now. And such questions!"

She shook her head hopelessly, and taking off her glasses wiped them, and put them back on her nose again. 

"But what have I got to do with this?"

She gave me a pitying look and rose. 

"You're to exert your influence. Get all your friends and acquaintancesto stop using the Ouija board, and then we'll start helping you towrite. "

"But----"

There was a footstep outside my door. 

"John! Oh, John!" called the voice of my wife. 

I waved my arms at the ghost with something of the motion of a beginnerwhen learning to swim. 

"Madam, I must ask you to leave, and at once. Consider the impression ifyou were seen here----"

The ghost nodded, and began, very sensibly, I thought, to demobilize andevaporate. First the brogans on her feet grew misty until I could seethe floor through them, then the affection spread to her knees andgradually extended upward. By this time my wife was opening the door. 

"Don't forget the strike, " she repeated, while her lower jaw began todisintegrate, and as my Lavinia crossed the room to me the last vestigeof her ear faded into space. 

"John, why in the world are you sitting in the dark?"

"Just--thinking, my dear. "

"Thinking, rubbish! You were talking out loud. "

I remained silent while she lit the lamps, thankful that her back wasturned to me. When I am nervous or excited there is a muscle in my facethat starts to twitch, and this pulls up one corner of my mouth andgives the appearance of an idiotic grin. So far I had managed to concealthis affliction from Lavinia. 

"You know I bought the loveliest thing this afternoon. Everybody's wildover them!"

I remembered her craze for taking up new fads and a premonitory chillcrept up the back of my neck. 

"It--it isn't----" I began and stopped. I simply couldn't ask; thepossibility was too horrible. 

"You'd never guess in the world. It's the duckiest, darlingest Ouijaboard, and so cheap! I got it at a bargain sale. Why, what's the matter, John?"

I felt things slipping. 

"Nothing, " I said, and looked around for the ghost. Suppose she hadlingered, and upon hearing what my wife had said should suddenlyappear----Like all sensitive women, Lavinia was subject to hysterics. 

"But you looked so funny----"

"I--I always do when I'm interested, " I gulped. "But don't you thinkthat was a foolish thing to buy?"

"Foolish! Oh, John! Foolish! And after me getting it for you!"

"For me! What do you mean?"

"To help you write your stories. Why, for instance, suppose you wantedto write an historical novel. You wouldn't have to wear your eyes outover those musty old books in the public library. All you'd have to dowould be to get out your Ouija and talk to Napoleon, or William theConqueror, or Helen of Troy--well, maybe not Helen--anyhow you'd haveall the local color you'd need, and without a speck of trouble. Andthink how easy writing your short stories will be now. "

"But Lavinia, you surely don't believe in Ouija boards. "

"I don't know, John--they are awfully thrilling. "

She had seated herself on the arm of my chair and was looking dreamilyacross the room. I started and turned around. There was nothing there, and I sank back with relief. So far so good. 

"Oh, certainly, they're thrilling all right. That's just it, they're adarn sight too thrilling. They're positively devilish. Now, Lavinia, youhave plenty of sense, and I want you to get rid of that thing just assoon as you can. Take it back and get something else. "

My wife crossed her knees and stared at me through narrowed lids. 

"John Hallock, " she said distinctly. "I don't propose to do anything ofthe kind. In the first place they won't exchange things bought at abargain sale, and in the second, if you aren't interested in the otherworld _I_ am. So there!" and she slid down and walked from the roombefore I could think of a single thing to say. She walked very huffily. 

Well, it was like that all the rest of the evening. Just as soon as Imentioned Ouija boards I felt things begin to cloud up; so I decided tolet it go for the present, in the hope that she might be more reasonablelater. 

After supper I had another try at the writing, but as my mind continueda perfect blank I gave it up and went off to bed. 

The next day was Saturday, and it being near the end of the month and aparticularly busy day, I left home early without seeing Lavinia. Understand, I haven't quite reached the point where I can give my wholetime to writing, and being bookkeeper for a lumber company does helpwith the grocery bills and pay for Lavinia's fancy shopping. Friday hadbeen a half holiday, and of course when I got back the work was piled uppretty high; so high, in fact, that ghosts and stories and everythingelse vanished in a perfect tangle of figures. 

When I got off the street car that evening my mind was still churning. I remember now that I noticed, even from the corner, how brightly thehouse was illuminated, but at the time that didn't mean anything to me. I recall as I went up the steps and opened the door I murmured:

"Nine times nine is eighty-one!"

And then Gladolia met me in the hall. 

"Misto Hallock, de Missus sho t'inks you's lost! She say she done 'phoneyou dis mawnin' to be home early, but fo' de lawd's sake not to stop toargify now, but get ready fo' de company an' come on down. "

Some memory of a message given me by one of the clerks filtered backthrough my brain, but I had been hunting three lost receipts at thetime, and had completely forgotten it. 

"Company?" I said stupidly. "What company?"

"De Missus's Ouija boahrd pahrty, " said Gladolia, and rolling her eyesshe disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. 

I must have gone upstairs and dressed and come down again, for Ipresently found myself standing in the dimly lighted lower hall wearingmy second best suit and a fresh shirt and collar. But I have norecollections of the process. 

There was a great chattering coming from our little parlor and I wentover to the half-opened door and peered through. 

The room was full of women--most of them elderly--whom I recognized asbelonging to my wife's Book Club. They were sitting in couples, andbetween each couple was a Ouija board! The mournful squeak of the legsof the moving triangular things on which they rested their fingersfilled the air and mixed in with the conversation. I looked around forthe ghost with my heart sunk down to zero. What if Lavinia should seeher and go mad before my eyes! And then my wife came and tapped me onthe shoulder. 

"John, " she said in her sweetest voice, and I noticed that her cheekswere very pink and her eyes very bright. My wife is never so pretty aswhen she's doing something she knows I disapprove of, "John, dear I knowyou'll help us out. Mrs. William Augustus Wainright 'phoned at the lastmoment to say that she couldn't possibly come, and that leaves poorLaura Hinkle without a partner. Now, John, I know _some_ people can worka Ouija by themselves, but Laura can't, and she'll just have a horribletime unless you----"

"Me!" I gasped. "Me! I won't----" but even as I spoke she had taken myarm, and the next thing I knew I was sitting with the thing on my kneesand Miss Laura Hinkle opposite, grinning in my face like a flirtatiouscrocodile. 

"I--I won't----" I began. 

"Now, Mr. Hallock, don't you be shy. " Miss Laura Hinkle leaned forwardand shook a bony finger almost under my chin. 

"I--I'm not! Only I say I won't----!"

"No, it's very easy, really. You just put the tips of your fingersright here beside the tips of my fingers----"

And the first thing I knew she had taken my hands and was coyly holdingthem in the position desired. She released them presently, and thelittle board began to slide around in an aimless sort of way. Thereseemed to be some force tugging it about. I looked at my partner, firstwith suspicion, and then with a vast relief. If she was doing it, thenall that talk about spirits----Oh, I did hope Miss Laura Hinkle wascheating with that board!

"Ouija, dear, won't you tell us something?" she cooed, and on theinstant the thing seemed to take life. 

It rushed to the upper left hand corner of the board and hovered withits front leg on the word "Yes. " Then it began to fly around so fastthat I gave up any attempt to follow it. My companion was bendingforward and had started to spell out loud:

"'T-r-a-i-t-o-r. ' Traitor! Why, what does she mean?"

"I don't know, " I said desperately. My collar felt very tight. 

"But she must mean something. Ouija, dear, won't you explain yourselfmore fully?"

"'A-s-k-h-i-m!' Ask him. Ask who, Ouija?"

"I--I'm going. " I choked and tried to get up but my fingers seemed stuckto that dreadful board and I dropped back again. 

Apparently Miss Hinkle had not heard my protest. The thing was goingaround faster than ever and she was reading the message silently, withher brow corrugated, and the light of the huntress in her pale blueeyes. 

"Why, she says it's you, Mr. Hallock. What _does_ she mean? Ouija, won'tyou tell us who is talking?"

I groaned, but that inexorable board continued to spell. I always didhate a spelling match! Miss Hinkle was again following it aloud:

"'H-e-l-e-n. ' Helen!" She raised her voice until it could be heard atthe other end of the room. "Lavinia, dear, do you know anyone by thename of Helen?"

"By the name of----? I can't hear you. " And my wife made her way over tous between the Book Club's chairs. 

"You know the funniest thing has happened, " she whispered excitedly. "Someone had been trying to communicate with John through Mrs. Hunt'sand Mrs. Sprinkle's Ouija! Someone by the name of Helen----"

"Why, _isn't_ that curious!"

"What is?"

Miss Hinkle simpered. 

"Someone giving the name of Helen has just been calling for your husbandhere. "

"But we don't know anyone by the name of Helen----"

Lavinia stopped and began to look at me through narrowed lids much asshe had done in the library the evening before. 

And then from different parts of the room other manipulators began toreport. Every plagued one of those five Ouija boards was calling me byname! I felt my ears grow crimson, purple, maroon. My wife was lookingat me as though I were some peculiar insect. The squeak of Ouija boardsand the murmur of conversation rose louder and louder, and then I feltmy face twitch in the spasm of that idiotic grin. I tried to straightenmy wretched features into their usual semblance of humanity, I triedand----

"Doesn't he look sly!" said Miss Hinkle. And then I got up and fled fromthe room. 

I do not know how that party ended. I do not want to know. I wentstraight upstairs, and undressed and crawled into bed, and lay there inthe burning dark while the last guest gurgled in the hall below aboutthe wonderful evening she had spent. I lay there while the front doorshut after her, and Lavinia's steps came up the stairs and--passed thedoor to the guest room beyond. And then after a couple of centurieselapsed the clock struck three and I dozed off to sleep. 

At the breakfast table the next morning there was no sign of my wife. Iconcluded she was sleeping late, but Gladolia, upon being questioned, only shook her head, muttered something, and turned the whites of hereyes up to the ceiling. I was glad when the meal was over and hurriedto the library for another try at that story. 

I had hardly seated myself at the desk when there came a tap at the doorand a white slip of paper slid under it. I unfolded it and read:

 "DEAR JOHN, "I am going back to my grandmother. My lawyer will communicate with you later. "

"Oh, " I cried. "Oh, I wish I was dead!"

And:

"That's exactly what you ought to be!" said that horrible voice from theother end of the room. 

I sat up abruptly--I had sunk into a chair under the blow of theletter--then I dropped back again and my hair rose in a thick prickle onthe top of my head. Coming majestically across the floor towards me wasa highly polished pair of thick laced shoes. I stared at them in a sortof dreadful fascination, and then something about their gait attractedmy attention and I recognized them. 

"See here, " I said sternly. "What do you mean by appearing here likethis?"

"_I_ can't help it, " said the voice, which seemed to come from a pointabout five and a half feet above the shoes. I raised my eyes andpresently distinguished her round protruding mouth. 

"Why can't you? A nice way to act, to walk in sections----"

"If you'll give me time, " said the mouth in an exasperated voice, "Iassure you the rest of me will presently arrive. "

"But what's the matter with you? You never acted this way before. "

She seemed stung to make a violent effort, for a portion of a fishy eyeand the end of her nose popped into view with a suddenness that made mejump. 

"It's all your fault. " She glared at me, while part of her hair and herplaid skirt began slowly to take form. 

"My fault!"

"Of course. How can you keep a lady up working all night and then expecther to retain all her faculties the next day? I'm just too tired tomaterialize. "

"Then why did you bother?"

"Because I was sent to ask when your wife is going to get rid of thatOuija board. "

"How should I know! I wish to heaven I'd never seen you!" I cried. "Lookwhat you've done! You've lost me my wife, you've lost me my home andhappiness, you've----you've----"

"Misto Hallock, " came from the hall outside, "Misto Hallock, I's gwinet' quit. I don't like no hoodoos. " And the steps retreated. 

"You've----you've lost me my cook----"

"I didn't come here to be abused, " said the ghost coldly. "I--I----"

And then the door opened and Lavinia entered. She wore the brown hat andcoat she usually travels in and carried a suitcase which she set downon the floor. 

That suitcase had an air of solid finality about it, and its lock leeredat me brassily. 

I leaped from my chair with unaccustomed agility and sprang in front ofmy wife. I must conceal that awful phantom from her, at any risk!

She did not look at me, or--thank heaven!--behind me, but fixed herinjured gaze upon the waste-basket, as if to wrest dark secrets from it. 

"I have come to tell you that I am leaving, " she staccatoed. 

"Oh, yes, yes!" I agreed, flapping my arms about to attract attentionfrom the corner. "That's fine--great!"

"So you want me to go, do you?" she demanded. 

"Sure, yes--right away! Change of air will do you good. I'll join youpresently!" If only she would go till Helen could _de_-part! I'd havethe devil of a time explaining afterward, of course, but anything wouldbe better than to have Lavinia see a ghost. Why, that sensitive littlewoman couldn't bear to have a mouse say boo at her--and what would shesay to a ghost in her own living-room?

Lavinia cast a cold eye upon me. "You are acting very queerly, " shesniffed. "You are concealing something from me. "

Just then the door opened and Gladolia called, "Mis' Hallock! Mis'Hallock! I've come to tell you I'se done lef' dis place. "

My wife turned her head a moment. "But why, Gladolia?"

"I ain't stayin' round no place 'long wid dem Ouija board contraptions. I'se skeered of hoodoos. I's done gone, I is. "

"Is that all you've got to complain about?" Lavinia inquired. 

"Yes, ma'am. "

"All right, then. Go back to the kitchen. You can use the board forkindling wood. "

"Who? Me touch dat t'ing? No, ma'am, not dis nigger!"

"I'll be the coon to burn it, " I shouted. "I'll be glad to burn it. "

Gladolia's heavy steps moved off kitchenward. 

Then my Lavinia turned waspishly to me again. "John, there's not a bitof use trying to deceive me. What is it you are trying to conceal fromme?"

"Who? Me? Oh, no, " I lied elaborately, looking around to see if thatdratted ghost was concealed enough. She was so big, and I'm rather asmallish man. But that was a bad move on my part. 

"John, " Lavinia demanded like a ward boss, "you are hiding some_body_ inhere! Who is it?"

I only waved denial and gurgled in my throat. She went on, "It's badenough to have you flirt over the Ouija board with that hussy----"

"Oh, the affair was quite above-board, I assure you, my love!" I cried, leaping lithely about to keep her from focusing her gaze behind me. 

She thrust me back with sudden muscle. "_I will_ see who's behind you!Where is that Helen?"

"Me? I'm Helen, " came from the ghost. 

Lavinia looked at that apparition, that owl-eyed phantom, in plaid skirtand stiff shirtwaist, with hair skewed back and no powder on her nose. Ithrew a protecting husbandly arm about her to catch her when she shouldfaint. But she didn't swoon. A broad, satisfied smile spread over herface. 

"I thought you were Helen of Troy, " she murmured. 

"I used to be Helen of Troy, New York, " said the ghost. "And now I'll bemoving along, if you'll excuse me. See you later. "

With that she telescoped briskly, till we saw only a hand wavingfarewell. 

My Lavinia fell forgivingly into my arms. I kissed her once or twicefervently, and then I shoved her aside, for I felt a sudden strongdesire to write. The sheets of paper on my desk spread invitingly beforeme. 

"I've got the bulliest plot for a ghost story!" I cried. 

THE LADY AND THE GHOST

BY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL

From the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_. By permission of John Brisben Walkerand Rose O'Neill. 

The Lady and the Ghost

BY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL

It was some moments before the Lady became rationally convinced thatthere was something occurring in the corner of the room, and then theactual nature of the thing was still far from clear. 

"To put it as mildly as possible, " she murmured, "the thing verges uponthe uncanny"; and, leaning forward upon her silken knees, she attendedupon the phenomenon. 

At first it had seemed like some faint and unexplained atmosphericderangement, occasioned, apparently, neither by an opened window nor bya door. Some papers fluttered to the floor, the fringes of the hangingssoftly waved, and, indeed, it would still have been easy to dismiss thematter as the effect of a vagrant draft had not the state of thingssuddenly grown unmistakably unusual. All the air of the room, it thenappeared, rushed even with violence to the point and there underwentwhat impressed her as an aerial convulsion, in the very midst andwell-spring of which, so great was the confusion, there seemed to appearat intervals almost the semblance of a shape. 

The silence of the room was disturbed by a book that flew open withfluttering leaves, the noise of a vase of violets blown over, from whichthe perfumed water dripped to the floor, and soft touchings all aroundas of a breeze passing through a chamber full of trifles. 

The ringlets of the Lady's hair were swept forward toward the cornerupon which her gaze was fixed, and in which the conditions had now grownso tense with imminent occurrence and so rent with some inconceivablethroe that she involuntarily rose, and, stepping forward against thepressure of her petticoats which were blown about her ankles, sheimpatiently thrust her hand into the----

She was immediately aware that another hand had received it, though witha far from substantial envelopment, and for another moment what she sawbefore her trembled between something and nothing. Then from theprecarious situation there slowly emerged into dubious view the shape ofa young man dressed in evening clothes over which was flung a mantle ofvoluminous folds such as is worn by ghosts of fashion. 

"The very deuce was in it!" he complained; "I thought I should nevermaterialize. "

She flung herself into her chair, confounded; yet, even in the shock ofthe emergency, true to herself, she did not fail to smooth her ruffledlocks. 

Her visitor had been scanning his person in a dissatisfied way, and withsome vexation he now ejaculated: "Beg your pardon, my dear, but are myfeet on the floor, or where in thunder are they?"

It was with a tone of reassurance that she confessed that hispatent-leathers were the trivial matter of two or three inches from therug. Whereupon, with still another effort, he brought himself down untilhis feet rested decently upon the floor. It was only when he walkedabout to examine the bric-à-brac that a suspicious lightness wasdiscernible in his tread. 

When he had composed himself by the survey, effecting it with an air ofgreat insouciance, which, however, failed to conceal the fact that hisheart was beating somewhat wildly, he approached the Lady. 

"Well, here we are again, my love!" he cried, and devoured her handswith ghostly kisses. "It seems an eternity that I've been strugglingback to you through the outer void and what-not. Sometimes, I confess Iall but despaired. Life is not, I assure you, all beer and skittles forthe disembodied. "

He drew a long breath, and his gaze upon her and the entire chamberseemed to envelop all and cherish it. 

"Little room, little room! And so you are thus! Do you know, " hecontinued, with vivacity, "I have wondered about it in the grave, and Icould hardly sleep for this place unpenetrated. Heigho! What a lot ofthings we leave undone! I dashed this off at the time, the literarypassion strong in me, thus:

 "Now, when all is done, and I lie so low, I cannot sleep for this, my only care; For though of that dim place I could not know; That where my heart was fain I did not go, Nor saw you musing there!

"Well, well, these things irk a ghost so. Naturally, as soon as possibleI made my way back--to be satisfied--to be satisfied that you were stillmine. " He bent a piercing look upon her. 

"I observe by the calendar on your writing-table that some years haveelapsed since my----um----since I expired, " he added, with a faintblush. It appears that the matter of their dissolution is, inconversation, rather kept in the background by well-bred ghosts. 

"Heigho! How time does fly! You'll be joining me soon, my dear. "

She drew herself splendidly up, and he was aware of her beauty in thefull of its tenacious excellence--of the delicate insolence of Lifelooking upon Death--of the fact _that she had forgotten him_. 

He rose, and confronted this, his trembling hands thrust into hispockets, then turned away to hide the dismay of his countenance. He was, however, a spook of considerable spirit, and in a jiffy he met theoccasion. To her blank, indignant gaze he drew a card from his case, and, taking a pencil from the secretary, wrote, beneath the name:

 Quiet to the breast Wheresoe'er it be, That gave an hour's rest To the heart of me. Quiet to the breast Till it lieth dead, And the heart be clay Where I visited. Quiet to the breast, Though forgetting quite The guest it sheltered once; To the heart, good night!

Handing her the card he bowed, and, through force of habit, turned tothe door, forgetting that his ghostly pressure would not turn the knob. 

As the door did not open, with a sigh of recollection for his spiritualcondition, he prepared to disappear, casting one last look at thefaithless Lady. She was still looking at the card in her hand, and thetears ran down her face. 

"She has remembered, " he reflected; "how courteous!" For a moment itseemed he could contain his disappointment, discreetly removing himselfnow at what he felt was the vanishing-point, with the customaryreticence of the dead, but feeling overcame him. In an instant he hadher in his arms, and was pouring out his love, his reproaches, the storyof his longing, his doubts, his discontent, and his desperate journeyback to earth for a sight of her. "And, ah!" cried he, "picture my agonyat finding that you had forgotten. And yet I surmised it in the gloom. I divined it by my restlessness and my despair. Perhaps some lines thatoccurred to me will suggest the thing to you--you recall my old knackfor versification?

 "Where the grasses weep O'er his darkling bed, And the glow-worms creep, Lies the weary head Of one laid deep, who cannot sleep: The unremembered dead. "

He took a chair beside her, and spoke of their old love for each other, of his fealty through all transmutations; incidentally of her beauty, ofher cruelty, of the light of her face which had illumined his darksomeway to her--and of a lot of other things--and the Lady bowed her head, and wept. 

The hours of the night passed thus: the moon waned, and a pallor beganto tinge the dusky cheek of the east, but the eloquence of the visitorstill flowed on, and the Lady had his misty hands clasped to herreawakened bosom. At last a suspicion of rosiness touched the curtain. He abruptly rose. 

"I cannot hold out against the morning, " he said; "it is time all goodghosts were in bed. "

But she threw herself on her knees before him, clasping his etherealwaist with a despairing embrace. 

"Oh, do not leave me, " she cried, "or my love will kill me!"

He bent eagerly above her. "Say it again--convince me!"

"I love you, " she cried, again and again and again, with such an anguishof sincerity as would convince the most skeptical spook that everrevisited the glimpses of the moon. 

"You will forget again, " he said. 

"I shall never forget!" she cried. "My life will henceforth be onecontinual remembrance of you, one long act of devotion to your memory, one oblation, one unceasing penitence, one agony of waiting!"

He lifted her face, and saw that it was true. 

"Well, " said he, gracefully wrapping his cloak about him, "well, now Ishall have a little peace. "

He kissed her, with a certain jaunty grace, upon her hair, and preparedto dissolve, while he lightly tapped a tattoo upon his leg with thedove-colored gloves he carried. 

"Good-by, my dear!" he said; "henceforth I shall sleep o' nights; myheart is quite at rest. "

"But mine is breaking, " she wailed, madly trying once more to clasp hisvanishing form. 

He threw her a kiss from his misty finger-tips, and all that remainedwith her, besides her broken heart, was a faint disturbance of the air. 

THE END

Transcriber's Notes:

Page 25--Possible typo, but left it as the original. "... And contentedhimself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in =list=slippers, ... "

Page 25--arquebuse--printer typo corrected to arquebus. 

Page 231--setting--printer typo corrected to sitting. 

Page 255--missing word "have" inserted to: "But now I'll none of you, for you've played with me. "

Page 304--Potential typo. "... Walkin' round an' round the graveyard=lie= a six days' race fer the belt at Madison Square. "

Page 325--inpatient--typo corrected to impatient. Although inpatient isa valid word, it is incorrectly used in this instance. 

Page 345--is--printer typo corrected to in. 

Page 408--Possible typo, but left it as in the original. "... Then the=affection= spread to her knees and gradually extended upward. "

Several instances of variant spelling of reci-pe and recipe. Left as inthe original. 

FromA Southern Porch

By

Dorothy Scarborough

_A Book of Whimsy_

The author does not preach the lost art of loafing. No! Nothing sodirect as preaching. She merely loafs, --consistently, restfully, delightfully, but with an almost fatal hypnotic persuasiveness. She is asort of stationary Pied Piper, luring the unwary reader to hersun-flecked porch, to watch with her the queer procession of createdthings go by, --from lovers and ghosts to lizards and toads. 

Under the spell, convinced that loafing is better than doing, the readerstays and chuckles over the quiet humor and quaint fancies. He gets awayfinally, --all delightful experiences must end in this work-a-dayworld, --still chuckling, but with a renewed sense of life and life'svalues. 

 * * * * *

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

TheKiltartanPoetry Book

_Prose Translations from the Irish_

By

Lady Gregory

Author of "Irish Folk-History Plays, " "Seven ShortPlays, " "Our Irish Theatre, " etc. 

Certainly no single individual has done more than Lady Gregory to revivethe Irish Literature, and to bring again to light the brave old legends, the old heroic poems. From her childhood, the author has studied thisancient language, and has collected most of her material from closeassociation with the peasants who have inherited these poems and tales. 

 * * * * *

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York London