"Original Sketches for the Season" (continued 5)

I am foolish enough to think for the better—but then I am only a unit,—and I think so in spite of the incessant mess the railway, gas, water, telegraph, pneumatic, and all the other companies are making of our streets. One cannot help admiring our monster hotels, gigantic railway schemes, palatial warehouses, etcetera, etcetera, but then we miss many of our delightful old institutions. Where are the dustmen’s bells of our childhood? Surely those polished articles in our railway stations, always reposing upon a wooden block when one is at a distance, but which our approach seems to be the signal for the “stout porters” to seize and jangle harshly in our ears—surely those are not the “bells, bells, bells” so familiar of old. Where are the organs with the waltzing figures turning round and round to the ground-up music of Strauss or Weber, then in their popularity? Where the people who so horrified our diaper pinafore-encased bosom by walking upon stilts to the accompaniment of drum and Pan pipes? Where the ancient glories of Jack in the Green and Guido Fawkes? Where are numbers of our old street friends who seem gone, while Punch alone seems immortal, and comes out yearly with fresh paint covering his battered old phiz? Certainly we had in the street “twopence more and up goes the donkey,” though no man had the good fortune to be present when the twopence more was arrived at, and the miserable asinine quadruped was elevated upon the ladder and balanced upon its owner’s chin—certainly we had that; but after all said and done, how our acrobats have improved, how much brighter are the spangles, how much better greased the hair and developed the muscles. Look at that tub feat, or the man balanced upon the pole, of course an improved donkey trick. Look at—look at the length of thy article, oh! writer.

It seems only yesterday, but some years have passed now since we used to lie in bed of a cold, dark winter’s morning, and listen to the prolonged rattle of the sweep’s brush upon some chimney-pot far on high, and then hear the miserable little fellow’s doleful “halloo, halloo, halloo,” by way of announcement that he had achieved his task, and had head and shoulders right out of the pot. And it seems only yesterday, too, that, by special favour, our household Betty allowed me to descend and see the sweeps do the kitchen chimney, when I stood trembling in presence of our blackened visitors and the smoke-jack, and then saw the great black pall fastened before the fireplace with three forks, when the sooty boy covered his head and face with a cap, grinning diabolically at me before he eclipsed his features, and then by the light of the blackened tallow candle I saw him disappear behind the cloth.

That was quite enough, and I could stand no more, but turned and fled upstairs, feeling convinced that he would never come down again.

And it really was but yesterday, comparatively speaking, when, in the depth of winter, a few days before Christmas, Mrs Scribe and self were staying at a friend’s house in Lower Bleak Street, Grimgreen Square, close by Glower Street, North. I had a cold whose effect was to make me insufferably hot and feverish, and as I lay in bed, somewhere about what seemed the middle of the night, by which I mean the middle of one’s sleeping night, not twelve o’clock, when one has just plunged into bed—about the middle of the night, while I was dreaming of being where there were rows upon rows of lights, through which I was being somehow propelled at the risk of being dashed against an indescribable object, while my hands were apparently swelling out to a large size, and I was in a wild, semi-delirious dream, from which it was a charity to wake me, I felt my arm roughly grasped, and a well-known voice whispered in my ear—

“Are you awake?”

As soon as I could collect myself and make sure that I really was in the required state, I said, “Yes.” But that was not until some few seconds had passed.

“Only listen, dear,” there’s some one in the room, the voice whispered again in an agitated manner.

“Pooh, nonsense,” I said perversely, “I know that. There’s been some one all night.” And then I stopped short, for though I knew that I had fastened the door when we came to bed, I could hear a gentle rustling noise, as of some one in a silk dress slowly gliding about the room very slowly, and then coming to a stop, and apparently agitating the robe, when again the rustling began, and it appeared just opposite the foot of our bed.

“What shall we do?” gasped Mrs Scribe in a smothered voice, from beneath the clothes.

I didn’t know, so of course I could not tell her. I knew what I ought to do, which was to have leaped boldly out of bed, and grappled the intruder, but then the rustling was like that of a silk dress, and if a ghost, of course it was of the feminine gender, and one could not help studying decorum.

“Hadn’t you better get up and see what it is?” said Mrs S, accompanying the remark with a touch from her elbow.

“I’m in such a perspiration, I daren’t stir,” I whispered. “Remember what a cold I have.” And how I blessed that cold just then, for to a man not too brave in his constitution, it did seem such a neat creephole, for if one is no hero to his valet, one likes to be somebody in the eyes of a wife. But still I must confess to a horrible dread of ghosts, owing no doubt to the fact, that in our old house in Pimlico, where I dwelt till the age of five, there was a huge black bogie who had his habitat in the cellar, and though I never saw him, I was assured of his existence upon the competent authority of both maids, and consequently always had a wholesome dread of the coal-scuttle and the coals, over which he must have walked.

“But what shall we do?” whispered Mrs Scribe again. “You really must get out, dear.”

Which was likely, wasn’t it, to jump out of bed in the dark on purpose to attack an unseen form in a rustling silk dress, creeping and gliding about apparently by the wall? Why, to have attacked a ghost one could have seen would have been bad enough, but in the dark when it could take one at such disadvantage, it was not to be thought of, so I said by way of compromise—

“Stop a minute,” and there I lay listening to the horrible, creeping, gliding, rustling noise. Ah! I could see it all plainly enough in my imagination. We were in one of the old houses of the past century, and here no doubt there had been a lady murdered after betrayal, and concealed behind the wainscot. And now I remembered a peculiar smell there was in the place when we entered it, a smell that I could not name then, but which I know now, from having experienced it in the British Museum—it was a mummy. There it was, all as plain as could be, a tall slight figure in a brocaded silk dress extended with hoops, short sleeves, and long lace trimmings hanging over the soft well rounded arms; and there she was with her hair built right up, and secured by a great comb, slowly gliding along by the wall, not on the floor, but some feet up, and slowly rising higher and higher towards the ceiling.

All at once I fancied she turned her face to me, and, horror of horrors, it was fleshless—nothing but the gaping sockets of the eyeballs, and the grinning white teeth of a skull, and then I could bear no more, but tried to cover my eyes with my hands, but found they did not need the cover as the clothes were already to a certain extent over them. I solemnly protest, however, that this must have been the act of Mrs Scribe, for I could not have done such a thing.

This convinced me that I could not have seen the figure, so I raised myself upon my elbow, urged thereto by the words of Mrs S, who exclaimed—

“Do pray get up, dear, or I shall faint.”

“I wish you would,” I muttered to myself, but then, thinking of the cruelty of the remark, I added, “or go to sleep,” and then I tried to pierce the thick darkness, but found that I was unable even to distinguish the parts of the bedstead, and there, all the while, was the noise, “rustle, rustle, rustle”—then a stoppage, and a sound as if a hand beat against the wall, and at last the rustling quite ceased, and was succeeded by a peculiar scraping sound, at times quite loud, and then dying away, or stopping, and seeming as if it was not in the room at all.

“Is it gone?” whispered Mrs S, and then, as I did not answer, and she could not hear any noise, sitting up in bed by my side, “Oh! how dreadful it is—isn’t it, dear?” she whispered. “Pray do get up and see what it can be.”

The catarrh had made me so weak, and preyed so upon my nerves, that I was obliged to take refuge again under my cold, and plead perspiration and sudden check, and then, with the exception of the grating noise, all seemed quiet; and I was about thinking of lying down again, when “rustle, rustle,” came the sound again, and Mrs S collapsed, that is to say, sank beneath the clothes, while I—well I didn’t leap out of bed, and try to grapple with our nocturnal visitant. I knew there were matches upon the table, and I remembered exactly where the candle stood, but I put it to the reader, who could get out of bed and try to light a candle when there was a ghost in the room in a brocaded silk dress, rustling about from place to place, and seeming as if the floor was no necessity at all, for sometimes the noise came from far up, and sometimes from low down; and at last, as I sat there in a regular Turkish Bath, minus the shampooing, it seemed that the tall figure I imagined to be there gliding about by the wall grew shorter and shorter until but a foot high, then a few inches, and at last it was upon a level with the floor, and then the noise grew fainter and fainter, and at last was gone entirely, leaving a deep silence as intense as the darkness which closed us in upon all sides.

With what a sigh of relief I fell back in the bed, and exclaimed—

“She’s gone?”

“Then get up and light the candle, dear,” exclaimed Mrs S; but suffering as I was from catarrh, I might have made myself worse—at all events, such a proceeding would have been imprudent—so I lay quite still, thinking that, perhaps, after all, it was but a delusion and a snare, and that I might be attacked as soon as I got out of bed; or even if the ghost were gone, might she not come back again?

It was of no use though. I fought hard, but some women are so powerful in their arguments; and before ten minutes had passed, I was standing shivering by the dressing-table, fumbling about after the matches, which I could not find until I had knocked over the candlestick and a scent-bottle, and then put my foot upon one of the broken pieces. Then, when I opened the box and took hold of a match, it would come off all diabolical and phosphorescent upon my fingers, but no light could I get. Sometimes it was the wrong end I was rubbing upon the sand-paper; sometimes the head came off, and I could see it shining like a tiny star upon the carpet. The beastly things would not light upon the looking-glass, nor yet upon the table; but after I can’t say how many tries, I managed to get a light, though it went out again in an instant, and there I stood trembling and expecting to be clutched by a cold hand or to be dragged back.

Light at last though, for, drying my damp hands as well as I could, I tried again by rubbing the match upon the paper of the wall, and then, though the candle would not ignite with the extinguisher upon it, yet I managed to get it well alight at last, and then tremblingly began to search the room.

The door was fast, and at the first glance there was nothing to be seen anywhere; but I examined behind the curtains, beneath the bed, in the cupboard, and, as a last resource, up the chimney, and found—nothing.

“Why, it was fancy,” I said, quite boldly, putting down the candle upon the dressing-table, and looking at my watch, which, for the moment, I made sure was wrong, for it pointed to seven.

“Don’t put out the candle,” said Mrs S, and I left it burning; but I had hard work to make her believe it was so late.

“But not another night will I stop,” she exclaimed. “I could not bear it, for my nerves would be completely shattered if I had to put up with this long. The place must be haunted.”

Hot water and daylight put a stop to the dissertation which we had upon the subject, and soon after—that is to say, about nine o’clock—we made our way to the breakfast-parlour, where our host and hostess did not appear for another quarter of an hour, and then it was nearly half an hour more before we began breakfast, on account of delays in the kitchen relating to toast, eggs, bacon, hot water, and other necessaries for the matutinal repast.

“You see, it happened so unfortunately,” said our hostess; “but I’m sure you will look over it, as we wanted to be all clear for Christmas-day.”

“Oh, don’t name it,” said Mrs S; “we are often later than this, for Mr S will keep such late hours, especially if he is interested in anything he is reading or writing.”

“I’m sure I need not ask if you both slept comfortably,” said our hostess, “for you both look so well.”

“Hem!” said Mrs Scribe; and I supplemented her cough with another much louder.

“Surely the bed was not damp,” exclaimed our hostess.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs S; “but—but—er—did you ever hear any particular noise about the house of a night?”

Our hostess shook her head, and then looked at me, but my face appeared so placid and happy, that she looked back at Mrs S, who was telegraphing for me to speak.

“No,” said our host, putting down his letters, “no, I don’t think we are much troubled with noises here of a night. I often thought I should like a good haunted house. But surely you heard nothing?”

“Oh, yes,” said my wife, excitedly; “but pray ask Mr S—he will explain;” and she again telegraphed for me to act as chief speaker.

“Well, what was it, Scribe?” exclaimed our host. “What did you hear?”

“What did I hear?” I said, for I had smelt out the rat—or the soot. “Oh, I heard nothing but the sweeps.”

Mrs S looked daggers.

Chapter Twenty Two.

A Goblin Ditty.

“You don’t believe in ghostsh?”

“No, I don’t believe in ghostsh.”

“Nor yet in goblinsh?”

“No, nor yet in goblinsh, nor witches, nor nothing of the kind, I don’t,” cried Sandy Brown, talking all the while to himself as he was making his way home from the village alehouse on Christmas-eve. “I’m the right short I am, and I ain’t ’fraid o’ nothin’, nor I don’t care for nothin’, an’ I’m aw’ right, and rule Britannia never shall be slaves. I’m a Hinglishman, I am, an’ I’m a goin’ crosh the churchyard home, and I’ll knock the wind outer any ghosht—azh—azh—azh—you know—ghosht, and who shaysh it ain’t all right? I never shee a ghosht yet azh could get the better o’ me, for I’m a man, I am, a true born Briton if I am a tailor. And when I getsh to the head of affairsh I’ll do it p’litically, and put a shtop to ghoshts, and all the whole lot of ’em, and my namesh Brown, and I’m a-going home through churchyard I am.”

And a very nice man was Sandy Brown, the true born Briton, as he went rolling along the path that gloriously bright Christmas-eve, when there were myriads of stars in the East, and the whole heavens above seemed singing their wondrous eternal chorus—

“The hand that made us is Divine.”

The moon shone; the sky was of a deep blue; the stars gemmed the vast arch like diamonds; ay, and, like the most lustrous of jewels, shone again the snow and frost from the pure white earth, while from far away came the northern breeze humming over woodland, down, and lea, turning everything to ice with its freezing breath, so that river and brook forgot to flow, and every chimney sent up its incense-like smoke, rising higher and higher in the frosty air.

The bells had been ringing, and the ringers had shut up the belfry-door. The curate’s and rector’s daughters had finished their task, so that the inside of the church was one great wreath of bright evergreens; while many a busy housewife was hard at work yet, even though past twelve, to finish dressing the goose or stoning the plums.

And what a breeze that was that came singing over the hills, sharp, keen, and blood dancing. Why, it was no use to try and resist it, for it seemed to make your very heart glow, so that you wanted to hug everybody and wish them a merry Christmas. Late, yes, it was late, but there were glaring lights in many a window, and even bright sparks dancing out of the tops of chimneys, for wasn’t it Christmas-eve, and was not the elder wine simmering in the little warmer, while many a rosy face grew rosier through making the toast? And there, too, when you stood by Rudby churchyard and looked at the venerable pile, glittering with snow and ice in the moonlight, while the smooth, round hillocks lay covered as it were with white fur for warmth, the scene brought then no saddening thoughts, for you seemed only gazing upon the happy, peaceful resting-place of those who enjoyed Christmas in the days of the past.

For it’s of no use, you can’t help it, it’s in the bells, or the wind, or the time, or something, you must feel jolly at Christmas, whether you will or no, and though you may set up your back and resist, and all that sort of thing, it’s of no avail, so you may just as well yield with a good grace, and in making others enjoy themselves, enjoy yourself too. Selfishness! Bah, it’s madness, folly: why, the real—the true enjoyment of life is making other people happy, but Sandy Brown thought that making himself the receptacle for more beer than was good for him was being happy; and Sandy Brown was wrong.

And perhaps you’ll say, too, that you don’t believe in ghosts, goblins, and spirits? Hold your tongue, for they’re out by the thousand this Christmas-time, putting noble and bright inspirations into people’s hearts, showing us the sufferings of the poor, and teaching us of the good that there is room to do in this wicked world of ours. But there, fie! fie! fie! to call it this wicked world—this great, wondrous, glorious, beautiful world, if we did not mar its beauty. But there, it’s Christmas-time, when we all think of the coming year, and hopefully gird up our loins for the new struggle.

Sandy Brown had left his wife and child at home, while he went out to enjoy himself after his fashion, which was to drink till he grew so quarrelsome that the landlord turned him out, when he would go home, beat his wife, and then lay upon the bed and swear.

Ah, he was a nice man, was Sandy, just the fellow to have had in a glass case to show as a specimen of a free-born Briton—of the man who never would be a slave—to anything but his own vile passions.

It was very bleak at Sandy’s cottage that night, for the coals were done, and there was no wood. Little Polly could not sleep for the cold, and her mother eat shivering over the fire trying to warm the little thing, who cried piteously, as did its mother. There were no preparations for spending a happy Christmas there, but poor Mrs Brown, pale, young, and of the trusting heart, sat watching and waiting till her lord and master should choose to return.

“There,” said Sandy, blundering through the swing-gate and standing in the churchyard. “Who’sh afraid? Where’sh yer ghosh—eh?”

“Hallo!” said a voice at his elbow, while it seemed that a cold, icy, chilling breath swept over his cheek.

“Where’sh yer ghosh?” cried Sandy, startled and half sober already.

“Don’t make such a noise, man, we’re all here,” said the voice, “come along.”

“Eh?” cried Sandy, now quite sober and all of a shiver, for a cold breath seemed to have gone right through him, and he looked behind him on each side and then in front, but there was nothing visible but the glittering snow—covered graves and tombstones sparkling in the brilliant moonlight.

“Bah!” cried Sandy, “I don’t believe—”

“Yes, you do,” said the same voice, and again the cold breath seemed to go through Sandy and amongst his hair, so that it lifted his hat, already half off, and it fell to the ground.

“N-n-no, I don’t,” cried Sandy, trying to start off in a run, but he stopped short, for just in front of him stood a bright, glittering, white figure, apparently made of snow, only that it had jolly rosy cheeks, and a pair of the keenest eyes ever seen.

“Yes, you do, Sandy Brown,” said the same voice, “and so don’t contradict. Bring him along.”

In a moment, before he could turn himself, there came a rushing sound like when the wintry breeze plunges into a heap of leaves, and whirls and rustles them away, when Sandy felt himself turned in a moment as it were to ice, and then rising higher and higher as he was borne round and round for some distance; when in the midst of myriads of tiny, glittering, snow-like figures, he was carried all at once right over the church; while like a beam of light the figures swept on after him as now rising, now falling, then circling, he was at last wafted round and round the old church, till he was placed upon the tower top, and like a swarm of bees in summer, the tiny figures came clustering and humming round him till they were all settled.

“Let me go home, please,” cried Sandy, as soon as he could speak, but before the last word was well said, the first figure he had seen clapped its hand upon his mouth, when the tailor’s jaw seemed to freeze stiff, so that he could not move his jaw.

“How dare you?” cried the spirit angrily.

“Dare I what?” Sandy said with his eyes.

“Profane good words,” cried the spirit, in answer. “How dare you talk about home, when you have murdered it, and cast the guardian spirit out? Freeze him. But there, stop a bit.”

Hundreds of the little fellows round had been about to make a dash at Sandy, but they fell back once more, and the tailor sat immoveable.

“There, look there,” said the cold voice; “that’s what you have spoilt.” And Sandy began to weep bitterly, so that his tears froze and fell in little hard pellets of ice on to the snow before him, for he was looking upon the happy little home he had once had before he took to drinking, and watching in the humble but comfortable spot the busy wife preparing for the next day’s Christmas feast, while he, busy and active, was finishing some work to take back.

“Now, look,” cried the cold voice, and in an instant the scene had changed from light to darkness, for he could see his own dissipated, ragged self standing in the open door of his cottage, with the moonlight casting his shadow across the figure of his wife, lying cold and pale, with her child clasped to her breast. The black shadow—his shadow—the gloomy shade of her life cast upon her; and in speechless agony Sandy tried to shriek, for it seemed that she was dead—that they were dead, frozen in the bitter night while waiting for him.

The poor wretch looked imploringly at the figure before him, but there was only a grim smile upon its countenance as it nodded its head; and then, as if in the midst of a storm of snow flakes, Sandy was borne away and away, freezing as he went, now higher, now lower; now close up to some bright window, where he could see merry faces clustering round the fire; now by the humblest cottage, now by the lordly mansion; but see what he would, there was still the black shadow of himself cast upon those two cold figures, and he turned his eyes imploringly from tiny face to tiny face, till all at once he found that they were sailing once more round and round, now higher, now lower, till from sailing round the church the tiny spirits began to settle slowly down more and more in the churchyard, till they left Sandy, stiff and cold, lying between two graves, with the one tall ghostly figure glittering above him.

And now began something more wondrous than ever, for the bright figure glittering in the moonlight began to hover and quiver its long arms and legs above the tailor, and as it shook itself it seemed to fall all away in innumerable other figures, each one its own counterpart, till there was nothing left but the face, which stayed staring right in front.

The old clock struck four, when, groaning with pain and trembling with fear and cold, Sandy Brown slowly raised himself, keeping his eyes fixed upon a stony-faced cherub powdered with snow, which sat upon a tombstone in front, and returned the stare with its stony eyes till Sandy slowly and painfully made his way across the churchyard, leaving his track in the newly fallen snow; while, after an hour or two’s overclouding, the heavens were once more bright and clear, so that when Sandy stood shuddering at his own door he feared to raise the latch, for the moon shone brightly behind him, and he trembled and paused in dread, for he knew where his black shadow would fall.

But in an agony of fear he at length slowly and carefully raised the latch, gazed upon his shadow falling across his wife and child, and then, in the revulsion of feeling to find that they only slept, he staggered for a moment, and as his frightened wife shrieked, he fell to the ground, as if stricken by some mighty blow.

But joy don’t kill, especially at Christmas-time, and when Mrs Brown rose rather late that morning, she could not make out why Sandy was gone out so soon, for his usual custom was to lie half the day in bed after a drinking bout. But Sandy had gone to see about the day’s dinner, and—

But there, Sandy’s home a year after showed the effect of his meeting with the Christmas spirits, for it was well-furnished, and his wife looked happy, plump, and rosy—another woman, in fact; while as to people saying that Sandy fell down drunk in the churchyard, and that it was the little snow storm that he saw, why that’s all nonsense; the story must be true, for a man picked up Sandy’s old hat just by the swing-gate, where it fell off when he felt the spirit’s breath. And as to there being no spirits out at Christmas-time, why I could name no end of them, such as love, gratitude, kindness, gentleness, good humour, and scores more with names, besides all those nameless spirits that cluster round every good, true, and loving heart at Christmas; ay, and at all times. While among those who have listened to this story and thought of its moral, surely there is at this moment that most gracious of spirits—Forbearance.

Chapter Twenty Three.

King Boreas.

Away with a shout and a shriek from the North, The host of the Storm King in rage hurries forth; With the monarch to lead them away o’er the main, Sweep with whistle and wild shriek the winterly train. O’er the sea, o’er the waves that spring tossing in wrath, To fly after the host in a storm of white froth, Till they dash in their anger on sand-hill and rock, Or make some ship shiver, and groan with their shock. Away rush the train with a howl ’mid each cloud, That no longer moon-silvered floats massive and proud; But torn by the Storm King, and rent by his crew, Wild and ragged scuds onward in murkiest hue. ’Mid the rocks, through the caves that o’er ocean’s waves scowl, Away speeds the King, and his followers howl As they toss the dark sea-weed, and tear up the sand, Which flies frightened in drifts at the touch of their hand. And away, and away, where the forest trees wave, Where the willow and silver birch drooping boughs lave In the silver-like stream, in the mossy green vale, That ere yet the storm cometh breaks forth in a wail. Now crashing ’mid beech-tops, now rending the oak, Then laying the larch low with mightiest stroke; While through the frail willow the storm spirits tear, And the boughs stream aloft like a maniac’s hair. Rejoicing and shrieking anew at each feat, Away o’er the moorlands, away sharp and fleet; By the cotter’s low hovel, the steep-cresting mill, To the town by the hill-slope, as yet calm and still. Bursting now o’er the roofs with a brain-piercing yell, Round the old abbey towers they mock at each bell As the past hour’s chimed, when they sweep off the tone, And away o’er the woodlands the summons has flown. Again with a shriek, and again with a cry, The King and his crew keep their revel on high; They bear the cold snow-drift aloft in their train, The sleet-darting arrow, and icy North chain. They bind up the streamlet, they fetter the lake, The huge rocky mountain they shivering break; They rage through the forest, they strew the sea-shore, While the echoing hill-sides resound with their roar. King Boreas passes, his revel is o’er, But the waves still in anger toss down by the shore; The trees lie half broken and torn by the gale, While the streamlets are fettered and bound in the vale.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Lady in the Case.

Well, no, sir, I can’t complain, I’ve risen well in the force, and I’m very well satisfied with my position, but then there’s a great deal of responsibility attached to one’s office, and, I can assure you, police inspectors have something else to do besides sitting still and growing fat. Many a smart young fellow would rise and get to be sergeant, inspector, or super in his turn, but for some little failings that creep out—I have my failings, too, of course, but still somehow I’ve crept up till here I am on the shady side of fifty and busy as ever.

Now you want me to give you an anecdote to put into print, that’s what you want, eh? Well, of course it was easy enough to tell that, and I don’t mind obliging you, for, as you very reasonably say, truth is stranger than fiction. But that disposition to tattle or talk about their business has been the ruin of more than one promising young officer. Now just think for a moment and suppose us to be always ready to talk of the cases we had in hand, where should we be? Marked men would slip us, planned jobs would be stopped, and many a gaol bird, whose tail we want to salt, would be off and escape. Ah, thirty years in the force have shown me some strange sights, and laid bare some curious tricks, all planned for the purpose of getting hold of somebody’s money. I’ve seen and had to do with robbery, and murder, and garrotting, and burking, and suicide, and swindling, and embezzlement, and every kind of felony or larceny you can find a name for.

You know, our part is decidedly, I think, more lively than the city, for with the exception of a good bold robbery now and then at a bank or big gentleman’s, there’s seldom anything much there, while in our part we’re always busy. For somehow or another there’s always so many really clever rascals laying their heads together and making schemes, and then you have something new coming out all at once, like a clap of thunder over the town, and people are very much disgusted because the police have not bad more foresight, when all the while it’s like a game of chess, and though we who play with the white pieces can to a certain extent see through the manoeuvres of black, yet we cannot see through everything as a matter of course.

Now I’m going to tell you of a little affair that happened one Christmas-night about twenty years ago, when I was only number so and so. It was a bright, clear, frosty night; no moon, but plenty of snow had fallen, quite late in the evening, so that the streets were regularly muffled; and in spite of feeling a bit ill-tempered at having to be on duty while other people were enjoying themselves, I could not help thinking of what a seasonable night it was, and how jovial and pleasant every place seemed to look. There were the bright lights and glowing fires, shining ruddy and warm through the drawn curtains; music and laughing might be heard every here and there, and more than once I stopped to hear a sweet voice singing, and felt envious like of the comforts other people enjoyed. Everywhere there seemed jollity and festivity, but in the midst of my growling I could not help recollecting that my beat that night was all in the better part, while down in the slums there was plenty of misery, enough to make even a policeman’s heart sore.

Well, I felt better then, and I went on quietly through the deep snow, now making a little noise where it was a bit trampled, and now stealing along as quietly as could be. Once I caught myself humming a bit of a song I had just heard some one singing, then I whistled a bit, and still I kept on, buttoned up and gloved, thinking how pleasant it would have been spending Christmas at some jolly farm-house in the country, far away from the noise and worry of London.

All at once I came upon a merry party of some half-dozen ladies and gentlemen, just going in at a large house, when one of the gentlemen stopped and gave me quite a cheerer.

“How long are you on for, my man?” he says.

“Six o’clock to-morrow morning, sir.”

“Hum; long hours on a bitter night like this. Bring a glass, John.”

And then I heard him rattle his keys as he says, “stop a minute,” and directly after he came back into the large, handsome hall with a decanter in his hand, while just about the same time the servant brought a wine glass on a little silver tray.

“There, my man,” says the jolly-looking old gentleman, filling me up a glass of wine. “You take care of us, so it’s only fair that we should take care of you. Thank you, my man, I hope I may have good health. There tip it down and have another glass. That’s twenty port, that is, and a couple of glasses of that won’t hurt you. Here, take hold of this lump of cake.”

I didn’t know anything then about twenty port, but I thought I should like twenty glasses of the rich red wine, which trickled down your throat like molten sunshine, and made you feel as if it was a jolly thing to be out on a cold Christmas-night; so I drank my second glass, wishing the pleasant, smiling old chap a merry Christmas, and then next minute, feeling like a new man, I was slowly tramping down the long street.

As I told you, in places I went along as quiet as a mouse, when I suppose it was about one o’clock that, in the middle of one street, I came all at once upon a tall, well-dressed young fellow inside some area railings, same as you may have seen, sometimes, where, beside the rails, the top of the area is all covered with iron bars, which make it like the top of a cage; while, as a matter of course, you can walk up to the dining-room windows.

Well, that’s what this young fellow had done; and, as I went quietly up, there he was, close up, resting one foot on a ledge of the stucco, while one hand was on the sill of the open parlour window.

“Hallo!” I said quietly, for I had taken my gentleman quite by surprise; and I felt very good-tempered and comfortable from the effects of those two glasses of sunshine; so “Hallo!” I said, “what is it?” knowing all the while that I must have my gentleman, for he was regularly caged, and looking at me through the bars.

“Hush!” he said, not in the least taken aback; “Hush! hold your tongue: there’s a lady in the case. Here, catch hold, and be off, there’s a good fellow;” and then he gave me half-a-crown.

Now, seeing that it was light enough for me to make out that he was a well-dressed, smart-looking young chap, I took the half-crown, and as it didn’t seem to be part of my work to interfere with a bit of billing and cooing, I went on, leaving my friend whispering to some one inside.

“All right, my fine fellow,” I said to myself, turning it over in my mind; “All right, but I don’t mean to be done if there’s anything else on the way.” So I went slowly on, and turned the corner; and then, knowing that my steps couldn’t be heard, I slipped into a doorway, and made myself as small as I could.

Well, I hadn’t been there a minute before I fancied I heard a sound like somebody sneezing, and trying to smother it down; and then my heart beat a little heavier, for I knew there was something more than a lady in the case; while, as I stood squeezed up there, I could make out my friend coming along by the shadow sent forward by the gas-lamp just round the corner. At last, very slowly he peeped round to look along the street where I was, but he could make nothing out, for I kept very snug in my doorway; though, if he had only come down half-a-dozen yards, he must have seen me, for there was a light burning over the door.

But the very openness of the place concealed me, and I breathed easier again as I made out by the shadow that he was going back.

“My turn now,” I said; and then, going down on hands and knees, I crawled quietly and quickly over the snow, and had my peep round the corner after him, when there he was, slipping along as fast as he could go. “Stop a minute, my boy,” I said, and then I runs as hard as I could down two streets to where I knew I must meet our sergeant and another man; for, you see, we all have our points to cross one another at certain times of the night, so that one man acts as a check on another; and the sergeant soon knows that, if a man’s not at his place, there’s either something wrong or the constable’s neglecting his duty.

Just as I thought, there were the sergeant and the man, and the next minute we were going over my ground again, so as to pass along the street and come up to the open window, as I did at first. They were close behind me when I reached the street, and down on my knees I went again, held my hat behind me, crept to the end of the railings, and peeped like a boy playing “whoop.”

“All right,” I whispered back to the sergeant, for there was my friend at the other corner down on his hands and knees peeping round too, and watching for me to come back again.

Well, we sent our man back through the mews behind the houses to try and catch the watcher, while the sergeant and I crawled very quietly along close to the railings towards the open-windowed house, and next moment we were safe in the doorway, when I saw a head pop back from the open window as we came up; and so did the sergeant—by the way he nipped my arm. But there, we waited quiet and still for our other man to do his work and take number one, as I’ll call the generous half-crown gentleman, when we meant to take proceedings against the one or two inside.

About five minutes slipped away very slowly when the sergeant whispered, “He’s a very long time!” But the words were hardly out of his mouth before we heard some one coming down the street as hard as he could run, with another in full chase. So we let the first come on without our showing ourselves, when, as he came near the open window, he gave a low, peculiar whistle—one which was replied to from inside by a sort of warning chirrup. But, if meant for a warning, it was of no use, for, stooping in the shadow of the railings, we darted out just at the right moment, tripped my amorous friend up; and, though he tried to jump clear, it was of no use, for down he went, over and over in the snow, our other man a-top of him, and then we had the “darbies” on him in a moment.

“I hope we shan’t alarm that lady that’s in the case,” I said to my friend, as we hauled him up into the doorway; and then with another pair of bracelets we fastened him tight to the scraper, where he was quite safe till we liked to take him off.

“Hum,” said the sergeant; then, looking at me and chuckling, as he stood brushing the snow off the knees of his trousers; “Hum, that’s the cock bird, Jones, but I’m afraid the hen will prove rather tough.”

“Yes,” I says, “and I’m afraid there’ll be one or two awkward chicks as well.”

The next thing the sergeant did was to ring well at the door after sending another man, who now came up, round to the mews at the back to be on the look-out for escaping in that direction; and then, as he climbed over the railings to get at the parlour window, we heard a most tremendous screaming.

“Come now, there is a lady in the case after all,” said the sergeant; and then, telling our other man to mind the prisoner, he made ready to get in at the window, where all looked very uncomfortably dark and treacherous.

“Shall I go first?” I said, all in a fidget at the same time lest he should say “Yes,” for I don’t mind owning that it looked uncommonly like putting one’s head in a trap to go in at that window; and I felt a bit nervous, if not frightened.

The next moment I was over the railings too; and, holding my bull’s-eye so as to throw all the light into the room I could, when in went the sergeant, and directly after, almost before you could say “Jack Robinson,” there was a bit of a scuffle and the sound of a heavy blow, and some one went down with a crash; while, as I leaned forward and held in my light, I just caught a glimpse of some one, and at the same moment a heavy, numbing blow came down on my hand, and the lanthorn was knocked out, and fell with a clang under my feet in the area, while the silence which followed showed me plainly enough that it was not the lady in the case who had been knocked down, but the sergeant.

“Now, my lad,” I said to the other policeman, as I stood rubbing and shaking my hand, “one of us must go in; sergeant’s down, safe.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ve been longest in the force, you’d best go.”

“Wrong,” I said; “you were in before me.”

“Well, but,” he said, “I’m a married man, and you ain’t.”

“Wrong again,” I said; “I’m married, and have two little ones.”

Well, perhaps, you’ll say it was cowardly not to have dashed in at once to help the sergeant. Perhaps it was; but, mind you, all this didn’t take many seconds, as we whispered together; and, besides, I knew well enough that I should be taken at a disadvantage; for, though I couldn’t see him, I was sure enough that there was a fellow armed with a life-preserver or a poker just behind the large window-curtain, so I wanted to plan a bit. And, mind you, I didn’t want to go; but, as my fellow-constable did not seem disposed, and I stood close to the window, there was nothing for it, but to take off my great coat and jump in. So I drew out my staff, when my fingers were so numbed that I could hardly hold it; and then I said to myself, “Now for it, my boy;” when, making plenty of noise, I tried a very stale old trick—one that I didn’t for a moment expect would take; and I tell you what I did. I got my fellow-constable’s bull’s-eye, opened it, and set it on the window-sill, so that the light was shining into the room, and then in went one leg, and I made believe to be jumping in with a rush; but, instead of doing so, I pushed in my hat as far as I could reach on the end of my staff, when “bang, crash,” down came something right on the hat, beating my staff out of my hand, and making my fingers tingle again, it came so hard.

That was my time, though, and I leaped in so quickly that, before there was time for another cut, I had tight hold of somebody, and there I was engaged in the fiercest struggle I ever had. There were the chairs knocking here, there, and everywhere, while I could feel somebody’s hot breath against my neck as, locked together, we swayed backwards and forwards. Once I was forced right back upon the dining-room table, but I sprang up again, and the next moment, whoever it was I struggled with had his head through the glass; while, as to the darkness, it was something fearful, for the lanthorn was knocked over, and only shone just in one corner by the floor. Jangle went a piano once as I was forced back on to it, and then the noise grew louder, for I could hear above the wild beast, worrying noise we made, the people upstairs screaming worse than ever.

“Well, there must be help come soon,” I thought, as now down, now up, we struggled on. I wanted to shout to my fellow-constable to come in, as he was not wanted outside, but I suppose he did not like the job of getting in, for he did not attempt to come, while as to calling him, I could just as soon have flown, for my adversary seemed quite satisfied with my company, and held on by my throat so tightly, that I was almost choked.

All at once, for about the sixth time, I tumbled over the sergeant, and this time down I went undermost, while my head came against one of those tin-plate warmers, and made the most outrageous noise you ever heard in your life. Well, this rather shook the sense out of me, tin being rather a hard metal to catch your head against—so hard, that it seemed to me to quite strike fire, and then taking advantage of my being a little beaten down, this fellow got his hand inside my stock, when what with the blow and the pressure of his knuckles in my throat, lights began to dance before my eyes, and I felt about done. However, it seemed to me to be now not a struggle for capture or escape, but for life and death, and in the last despair of the moment, I got hold of the fellow’s hand between my teeth, and hung on like a bull terrier.

How long this lasted I can’t say; but I remember hearing a crash, and seeing the flashed light of a bull’s-eye, when my lord rolled off me, and then through a sort of mist I could just see the sergeant’s face looking all bloody, while directly after the light of the lanthorn was thrown two or three times upon my face.

“How are you, my lad?” said the sergeant.

But I didn’t tell him, for the simple reason that I could not just then, but lay as still as could be, feeling afraid of tumbling, for the room appeared to be spinning round as fast as possible.

“How are you, my lad?” said the sergeant again directly after, but this time a little way off, and then I heard the “click, click” of the handcuffs, as he made them fast round my dear friend’s wrists.

But I did not answer then; for though the room had left off spinning so hard, my tongue seemed to have turned sulky, and would not speak, though it was not my fault a bit. One feeling, however, did seem to come upon me now strong, and that was that I should like to have a look at the man on the floor, though not an inch could I move right or left.

Well, seeing that I could not answer, the sergeant called in the outside man, and then after a look round the room, he went and opened the dining-room door, and called out:—

“Come down, and bring a light. We are the police.”

But before he had well said the words, there came a bang like thunder, and I could hear shot go rattling down the passage.

“Here, I say! confound you; what are you doing?” shouted the sergeant. “Don’t you hear? We’re the police.” When, bad as I was, I could not help laughing to see the way our poor sergeant jumped. Though certainly it was enough to make him, you’ll say.

After a few minutes a miserable looking old gentleman, in a dressing gown, came shivering down with one of those great brass blunderbusses in one hand, and a candlestick in the other.

“Keep back,” the old gentleman cried; “it’s loaded again.”

“Then the sooner you uncock it the better,” said our sergeant; “or else, perhaps, you’ll be making another mistake. But now, if you’ll go with me, we will just let the other man in,” and then he went and shut down the window, and drew the curtains across.

But the old gentleman seemed so scared, that he could hardly tell friends from enemies, and he did not appear to like the idea of the front door being opened, for nearly all the sense seemed frightened out of him. However, he followed the sergeant, and they unlocked the door, let down the chain, and slipped back the bolts, and then after unlocking the darby, they lugged in my friend who said there was a lady in the case, brought him into the dining-room, and set him in an easy-chair in the corner. The sergeant then set light to a pair of candles on the chimney-piece, when I could see all that went on, for I could neither move nor speak yet.

“Slip round to the station for more help, and the stretcher,” said the sergeant; and my fellow-constable went, though the old gentleman didn’t seem to like it, and asked if it was safe to be left with the two burglars.

Then the sergeant came and stooped over me again, and asked me how I was; but all I could do was to look hard in his face, and wink both my eyes.

Just then he asked the old gentleman if he had a drop of brandy in the house, when a decanter was brought out, and a glass held to my lips, and a few drops seemed to revive me so, that I was able to sit up, when the sergeant and the old gentleman between them got me upon a sofa, where I lay quite still and felt better.

“Dear me, dear me,” said the old gentleman: “I don’t like my house being turned into a hospital.”

“P’raps not,” said the sergeant; “but if it hadn’t been for that poor fellow, you might have looked queer.”

Hearing the old fellow grumble seemed to rouse me, and I still went on listening.

“It’s been a stiff fight, sir,” said the sergeant; “and that young fellow—”

“And you, sergeant,” I said feebly.

“Oh, come; that’s cheering,” said he with a pleasant look, which went right over his shining face.

You can’t tell how pleased I felt to be able to use my tongue once more, but there was no work in me, and there I lay watching the sergeant give a look at the two prisoners, and examine the handcuffs to see that all was right, when all at once the fellow I had such a struggle with, sprang up and fetched the sergeant the most savage of kicks in the knee—one which sent him staggering back—when, in spite of all that has been said about the police using their staves, I’m sure no one could have blamed that sergeant for bringing his staff down on the fellow’s head, and striking him to the ground, where, as he lay, I had a good look at him.

And a nice specimen of humanity he looked—a great six-foot fellow, strong as a horse, while my impression is that, if the sergeant had not come so opportunely to my aid, you would not have heard this story. But the fellow was tolerably knocked about. Ah! and so was the sergeant, while, no doubt, I should have been stunned at first if the chap had not been taken in by my shallow trick.

A nice little affair that was, and I saw that I had only just got up in time, for there were two carpet-bags on the floor crammed full of plate—silver dishes and tea and coffee pots, while all the small parts were filled out with forks and spoons.

All at once the old gentleman, who had been shivering about as far off the burglars as he could, seemed to catch sight of my half-crown gentleman’s face—a face that he had not appeared so far to be very proud of, for he had kept it hung down over his waistcoat the greater part of the time—when all at once the old gentleman stood still and exclaimed:—

“Why, you scoundrel, it’s you, is it?” and the fellow only shrunk down more of a heap, while the old gentleman was so enraged, that he made believe to shoot the rascal with his blunderbuss, when the sergeant made no more ado, but went and took it away from him.

“Come, you know,” said the sergeant; “I see you won’t be happy till you’ve done some one a mischief with that pretty little plaything. Oh, he was your footman, was he, and you discharged him for drunkenness, did you, a month ago? Well, I’m not surprised a bit.”

Just then three of our men came in, and they walked off our two gaol-birds at once, and then I got hold of the sergeant’s arm, and found I could walk.

“Take a little more brandy,” said the old gentleman, and he poured out with a shaking hand about half a wine-glassful, when after I had drunk it he said again:

“You’re a brave fellow, and there’s something to drink my health with.”

I thanked him, and then we two walked out together, and stood on the pavement amongst the snow, listening to the old gentleman and the servants locking and bolting the door after us.

“Well,” said the sergeant; “I think, my lad, we’ve done our night’s work, and after reporting at the station, we’ll go off duty for a day or two; for my head is in a queer state,” and then he lifted his hat, pressed his hand upon it, and looked at the blood-smeared palm under the lamp. “But what did the old fellow give you?”

I opened my hand and looked, for I had not cared to look before; in fact, I was so stupid then, and dizzy, that I felt no interest in the money.

“Just what I expected,” exclaimed the sergeant; “Sixpence! Well, some men have consciences.”

It was a week before the sergeant was pronounced fit for duty, but it took me a fortnight to get right; while our friends had fourteen years each. I’ve often thought of the way I spent that Christmas-night—the roughest I ever did pass; but then you see, there was a Lady in the Case.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Ghosts at the Grange.

Whether I believe in ghosts, fetches, hobgoblins, table spirits, and the rest of the lights and shades of the supernatural world, is a question that we will not stop to discuss, but if these pages should meet the eye of any person who can introduce me to a haunted house, I shall be his debtor. Now, when I say a haunted house, I must place a few stipulations upon my acceptance of the said house, so I will at once state what I want.

I want one of those comfortably (old-fashioned) furnished, quaint, gabled houses, shut up and deserted on account of supernatural tenants who will not be evicted; a house sacred to dust, spiders, and silence, where the damp has crept in here, and the mildew there, where dry rot and desolation have fixed their abodes, where the owl hoots and the chimney swallow builds, undisturbed by the cheering fumes of a fire; where the once trim garden is weed-grown and wild; pedestals overturned; moss and ivy rampant; fountains choked, and nature having it all her own way as she has had it for years. That’s the sort of place I want to meet with, one that nobody will take, and when I present myself, the agent will laugh in his sleeve, and gladly accept me as tenant on lease for a trivial rent. Yes, the agent will laugh in his sleeve at my folly in taking the place on lease, and eagerly getting the document prepared and signed.

But then about the murder once committed in the far chamber—the noises—the rustling of silk dresses—the groans—the spots on the floor—the steps along the passages—the opening and closing doors—and other horrors that have scared people to death? Well, by God’s help, and the exercise of a little observation, and putting of that and that together, I fancy I could get over those little troubles in time, for if the released souls of Hades, that once strutted upon this world’s stage, can come back to perform such pitiful duties as to get in table legs and hats, bang doors, rattle chains, and rustle about o’ nights, why e’en let them; and as I before hinted, I’ll try and get used to that part of the trouble. The birds would still be welcome visitants, for I must own to a weakness for the feathered tribe, while on their part I can easily conceive that they would be discriminating in their choice of chimneys; the mildew and damp must, of course, be ousted, along with the dust and dry rot, while, as to the spiders and their works, why, much as their untiring industry and patience must be admired, out they must go too. And after all said and done, I fancy that a spider deserves a little better treatment at our hands. As to his character: it is too bad to associate him with so much craft and insidiousness. Why, what does the poor thing do but toil hard for its living? and I maintain that friend Arachne is as reputable a member of insect society as the much-vaunted busy bee.

“Oh!” some one will say; “but look at the nasty murdering thing and the poor flies struggling in its net, while the dear bees live upon nectar and honey!”

Who killed and murdered most wilfully all those poor unfortunate chuckle-headed drones this summer, eh?

But to my haunted house once more. What a crusade against rats and mice—what inspecting of old furniture—and sending this to the lumber-room, and that to be polished and rubbed up—what choosing of suitable new objects, and fitting up the old-fashioned rooms again, mingling just enough of the modern to add to the comfort of the old, without destroying its delicious quaintness. For I like an old house, with its crooks and corners, and bo-peep passages, and closets, and steps, and ins and outs, wainscots, old pictures, and memories of the past. Why, no one with a thinking apparatus of his own can be dull in such a place for calling up the scenes of the past, and trying to trace the old place’s history.

Then, again, the garden. How glorious to leave to nature her beauties, and only take away the foul and rank; cutting back here and rescuing there, and bringing the neglected place into a charming wilderness—a place that nature has robbed of its old formal primness, and, setting art at defiance, made it her own.

Yes, if some one will kindly put me in the way of getting such a place for a residence I shall be his or her debtor, while for recompense, as soon as ever matters have been a bit seen to, and the place is habitable, they shall have the honour of first sleeping in the most haunted room in the house.

This is, I am well aware, a very choice kind of house, but that there are such places every one is aware, and my story is to be about one of these old man-forsaken spots, that years ago existed in Hertfordshire. I say years ago existed, for though the house still stands, it is in a dreadfully modernised form. Wings were pulled down, wainscotings torn out, and the place so altered that a tenant was found, and the haunters so disgusted with their home that the noises ceased, and the old reputation was forgotten.

I write this story as it was told to me by a friend, in whose word I have faith sufficient to vouch for the truth of what he heard.

There was an old legend attached to the place, something relating to the right of possession, and some one coming home to oust the then holder of the estate; then followed midnight murder, the concealment of the deed, and, as ’tis said, the spirits of the murderer and murdered haunted the scene of the dread deed.

Be that as it may, family after family took the house and left in a very short time. Strange noises were heard, strange stories got about the village; servants at first could only be sent from one room to another in twos or threes for mutual protection. Jane fell down in a fit; Mary was found staring, with her eyes fixed on nothingness, and her mouth wide open; Betsey was lost, but afterwards found in the best bedroom, with the whole of her person buried beneath the clothes, when she struggled and screamed horribly at their being dragged off; cooks Number 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 used to go about after dark with their aprons over their heads; Mary Hann would not sleep alone; Thomas said nothing, but took to wearing his hair standing on end like quills upon the fretful etcetera, or better still, in this case, like a hedgehog; and all ended by giving notice one after the other, so fast, that at last it came to a fresh servant reaching the village, hearing the character of the house, and then going back without even testing the place, for, like a snowball, the horrors said to abound, increased at a fearful ratio when slipping glibly off Rumour’s many tongues. At last the house stood empty year after year. The agent who was empowered to let it did his best. House-hunters came, looked at it, asked questions, and then, after a few inquiries, house-hunters went, and the house stood empty, when, as season after season passed, the forlorn aspect of the place became worse; the paint peeled off the window frames; the gutters rotted; green mould settled upon the doors; grass grew up between the steps; while the large slab was raised right out of its place by a growth of fungus; idle boys threw stones at the windows, and then ran for their lives; shutters became loose and flapped about; while neglect and ruin were everywhere, and the house was said to be more haunted than ever.

Fortunately, The Grange was the property of a wealthy man, who did not feel the loss of the rent, and as time wore on the place was known as “The Harnted House,” and no attempt was made to let it, so that it became at last almost untenable.

At length a new agent came to the neighbouring town, and after a few months’ stay his curiosity became aroused, and being a quiet sensible fellow, he talked to first one acquaintance and then another, heard the story of the haunted house from different sources, and the upstart was, that a party of half a dozen, of whom my friend was one, agreed to sit up with the agent in the ghostly place, and try and investigate the matter, so as to place the strange rumours in a better light if possible.

The night fixed upon came, and well provided with creature comforts, the party adjourned to the Grange; Mr Hemson, the agent, having been in the afternoon, and seen that a supply of fuel was placed ready, and at the same time had all he could done towards making what had evidently been a little breakfast-room comfortable.

On reaching the hall door the snow was falling heavily, while a sad moaning wind swept round the house, and blew the large flakes in the unwonted visitors’ faces. Dreary and dismal looked the old Elizabethan Grange, and more than one of the venturesome party felt a shiver—perhaps of cold—pass through him as a large key was thrust into the lock, and with a groan the door turned upon its hinges.

Mr Hemson had brought with him a bull’s-eye dark lanthorn, and now turning it on, the party found themselves in a small square hall with a wide staircase in front, and about three doors on either side. All looked gloomy and weird, while a sensation of chill fell upon one and all as they passed across the earthy-smelling place, followed Mr Hemson down a few stairs to the right, and then stood in the little breakfast-room, where a few sparks yet remained of the large fire that had been lit.

Every man had come loaded and ready for passing a cold winter’s night in the forsaken house; and soon candles were lit, a large fire was roaring up the chimney, and a cloth having been spread over an old table, spirit bottles, glasses, lemons, and sugar, all tended towards making the room a little more cheering, while, in spite of dust and cobwebs, there was some very good furniture about the place.

“Choose wood-seat chairs, gentlemen,” said Mr Hemson, “for everything is terribly damp.”

The advice was followed, after closing the shutters, and bringing down a cloud of dust in the performance.

Glasses round became the order of the night, and whether for the sake of getting Dutch courage or not, I cannot say, but Hollands gin was a favoured spirit. After this refresher, candles were trimmed, the lanthorn turned on, and beginning with the cellars, a careful investigation of the place was made, walls were tapped, fastenings tried, shutters shaken, and all perfectly satisfied that no one but themselves was in or could gain entrance to the place. Go where they would, there was the same dull, damp, mephitic odour; dust and cobwebs, and mildew everywhere.

But for these traces of the lapse of time, the place might have been left but a few weeks or months. The rooms were well-furnished, good carpets were down, the library shelves were full of books, and ornaments upon the chimney-pieces. In the drawing-room was an old square pianoforte, while from every wall gloomy and dark faces looked down upon the intruders. And thus the tour of the house was completed, not a closet even being left unscanned, while as they left each room the keys were turned, and at length, joking and laughing, they returned to the comparatively snug room, and assembled round the fire.

“Now,” said my friend, “presuming that we have come here to listen for the strange sounds that are heard, what course are we to adopt in the event of anything taking our attention?”

“Not much fear,” laughed one.

“Then let’s have a little smoke and a song,” said another.

“But really,” said Mr Hemson, “I think we ought to do something, gentlemen; for mind you, I for one fully expect that we shall hear some strange noise, and what I want is for us to find out what it is, and see if we can’t stop it for the future.”

“Did you bring any holy water, Hemson?” said one of the party.

“Come, come, gentlemen,” said my friend, “business, business. Now, I tell you what: we will all sit here and of course the first man who thinks he hears a sound will advise the others, when we will all go together and try and find out what it was, but in silence, mind. No man is to speak till we get back to this room, when here is paper and you have, most of you, pencils; let each man write down what impression that which he has seen and heard made upon him, writing it down in as few words as possible, and so we can compare impressions, and there will not be, as is often the case, one person modelling his ideas upon those of another.”

“Very good; I second that,” said Mr Hemson, while, after a few remarks, first one and then another agreed that the plan would be excellent.

Ten—eleven struck by the old church-clock, and the wind roared round the old place, rumbling in the chimney and sending the snow with soft pats up against the window-panes, so that more than once a member of the party started and looked round, but the warm glow of the fire, the social cheer, and perhaps, more than all, the spirits, tended to drive away any dread that might otherwise have taken possession of those present, and the night wore on.

Twelve struck by the old church-clock, and the wind lulled.

“Now is the witching—what’s the rest of it?” said one of the party.

“Ah,” said another, “now’s the ghostly time.”

“Don’t you wish you were at home, Hemson?” said another.

“Not I,” said the agent. “I’m perfectly cool, so far.”

“Well, I’m not,” said the first speaker, “for my shins are scorching.”

“Pass the kettle this way,” said my friend, “and—”

“Hush!” exclaimed Mr Hemson, and a dead silence fell upon the group.

“Well, what is it?” said my friend, holding his glass to the kettle-spout.

“I fancied I heard a noise,” said Mr Hemson, while all listened attentively.

“Pooh,” said my friend; “the wind,” and he then filled up his glass and placed it upon the table, but the next moment he started up.

“Well, what now?” said Mr Hemson.

“Didn’t you hear that?” exclaimed my friend.

“No, what?” said Mr Hemson.

“Why that noise—there!” he exclaimed, and now every man started to his feet, having distinctly heard some sounds proceeding from the direction of the hall.

“Hush, be quiet,” whispered Mr Hemson, hastily examining his lanthorn. “Now then, follow me,” and all hastily passed up the few steps and stood in the hall listening to the sound as of some one talking in the room right in front—the dining-room.

The hall was quite dark save where the light from the breakfast-parlour shone out and cast a long streak upon the dining-room door, while there, each man holding his breath, and armed as they were with stout walking-sticks, pokers, or whatever came to their reach, the party stood listening as the loud utterance of some voice reached their ears, succeeded by various noises, as if there were some occupant of the room.

“Now then,” whispered Mr Hemson, “are you all ready?”

“Yes,” was the whispered response.

Mr Hemson turned on his dark lanthorn, almost with one movement turned key and handle, threw open the door, and as every man rushed in, the light was flashed all over the room, but no one was visible. There stood the old-fashioned dining-room chairs formally against the walls, the pictures looked down grimly, the wine cooler beneath the sideboard yawned gloomily and black, but nothing more could be seen; not even a chair was out of place, though every eye was now directed to a large closet in one corner.

“Come along, gentlemen,” said Mr Hemson, and he swung the door of the empty closet open.

“But the table cover,” whispered my friend, pointing to the large dust-covered cloth, whose corners touched the floor.

To whisk off the great pall-like cloth from the long dining-table was but the work of an instant, and then the light was flashed beneath the table; but nothing save a cloud of penetrating dust rewarded the searchers, who then stood, pale and puzzled, looking at one another, till Mr Hemson proposed an adjournment to the little room, where, after carefully locking the dining-room door, they retook their places, every man feeling uncomfortable and put out.

But attention was soon drawn by my friend to the arrangement agreed upon, when pencils were eagerly seized, and for a quarter of an hour not a word was spoken, when the last man laid down his pencil.

“Has every man signed his name?” asked my friend.

This caused another trifling delay, for no man had placed his name at the bottom of his manuscript; but this being done, the first man’s paper was read over. It was, of course, very brief, but to the effect that, while standing in the hall, he had heard the sound as of a man talking to himself in a wild, agitated manner; that it seemed that a book was thrown hastily down upon the table by some one, who then hurriedly pushed his chair back, so that it scraped along the floor, while at the same time the table gave way and cracked audibly. Then followed the hurried pacing of some one up and down the room, till the door was thrown open and all became silent.

“Precisely what I have stated,” exclaimed Mr Hemson.

“Mine is almost word for word the same,” cried my friend; while, with trifling exceptions, the narratives of the other watchers tallied.

Rather pale and uncomfortable, the party now eat talking in whispers, starting at every loud gust of wind or loud pat of snow upon the window, while the rattling of casement or door was enough to send a shiver through the stoutest man present. But as the night wore on and nothing more alarming was heard, first one and then another dropped off to sleep, though the majority sat watching till the cold grey light of the winter’s morning dawned; and then, after another glance at the dining-room, now looking more weird than ever as seen by the light streaming through the round, eye-like holes in the window shutters, the party gladly left the house, and doubtless made the best of their way to bed.

Now, I make no defence of this story, for I have placed it upon paper in much the same form that it was told to me. What the noise was that the convivial watchers heard I cannot say, but though I consider my informant worthy of credence, and though it was singular that the impression made on all was the same, yet I cannot help thinking that the best thing to imbibe while sitting up o’ night is tea.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Caught in his own Trap.

Fancy being almost born a DD, like unto Mr Dagon Dodd, a gentleman who resided, when in what he called his prime, at Number Nine, Inkermann Villas, Balaclava-road, Russiaville—who resided there for the simple reason that he paid his rent and rates with the same punctuality that he did his Income Tax, or it is within the range of probability that Number Nine would soon have possessed another tenant.

Now, although Mr Dagon Dodd had a great right to the letters DD, since they formed his initials; yet he was in no wise related to a celebrated doctor of the same name. Mr Dodd was a bachelor—rather a bald bachelor, with a great deal of very smooth white crown, surrounded by a neat little stubbly fence of very black bristly hair. You never caught Mr DD with his hair brushed in greasy streaks across his head, for the simple reason that his was hair that would not brush, nor yet comb; it grew in a particular way, and stuck to that way most obstinately, besides which what hair existed was so much like a brush itself, that when the well-known toilet appendage came into contact with Mr DD’s head there was such violent antagonism that electricity was evolved, and my only wonder is that Mr DD had not brought the powerful current into use in some way.

Mr Dodd was in person slightly stout, slightly asthmatical, and decidedly short; and though a single person, report said that it was not the fault of the gentleman, for he had once proposed to a lady and been rejected. At all events, Mr Dodd was a single gentleman in the popular acceptation of the term, but decidedly not so in appearance, for in addition to his person, which might have been called after the contents of certain brewers’ barrels, “Double Stout,” he wore double-breasted coats and waistcoats, double-soled shoes, with large black ferret strings, tied in bows, even in snowy weather, while his double chin and double show of importance made the little gentleman do very great credit to Number Nine, Inkermann Villas.

But though a bachelor, Mr Dodd was wedded—wedded to science—science as applied to domestic economy—social science, and he experimentalised largely, greatly to the disgust of his staff of servants—cook, housemaid, and buttons,—who stigmatised him as messy. For the fact is, Mr Dodd delighted in patents, and was in himself a little fortune to those men who are for ever trying to perfect that steam-engine which shall draw corks. Though far from sneering at improvements, what a blessing it would be if some ingenious mortal would invent a patent noiseless dressing-machine—a dressing-machine for babies. Oh, bliss! bliss!! bliss!!! However such an invention could not be expected from a single gentleman, who had, though, patent locks on all his doors; a patent rotary knife-cleaner polished the knives; a patent boot-cleaner the boots; a patent roasting-jack nearly drove the cook mad, as it basted the meat itself, and all the while splashed the clean hearth and wasted the perquisites. Then there was a patent potato-peeler, a patent potato-masher—egg-beater—carpet-sweeper—cinder-sifter—and prize Kitchener. Patent something with an unpronounceable name covered the hall; patent candles burned in patent lamps; patent enamel saucepans cooked the viands; while Mr Dodd almost fed himself by means of a little chewing thing, which turned with a handle, for teeth and digestion were failing, and in spite of a patent base artificial teeth will prove more ornamental than useful. There was a patent ventilator for regulating the temperature of every room—instruments that were remarkable for their awkward propensities, for, like the greater part of the machinery in Mr Dodd’s establishment, these ventilators always made a point of doing the very opposite to what was required of them. For instance, they always stuck and remained open in winter, to give entrance to all the tooth-chattering winds; and as obstinately remained closed when the summer heats prevailed, and a little fresh air would have been a blessing. The patent, or rather to be made patent, coal-scuttle of Mr Dodd’s own designing was certainly a noble invention, only that, like Artemus Ward’s first novel, it was far from “perfeck,” for in consequence of working with a crank the article was cranky, and always put on either too much or too little of the heat-affording mineral, while it had been known to scatter a knubbly shower all over the hearthrug.

But scarcely anything had taken up more of Mr Dodd’s attention, than the springs which opened and closed his doors. He very reasonably said that such a trivial matter might easily be worked by machinery sympathising with the approaching feet; but in spite of all his care and trouble, the springs beneath the boards of the floor would not be regulated to the required strength, they would go either too stiffly or too easily. Now this was very often most troublesome, as exemplified upon one occasion, when Mr Dodd was bowing out a lady visitor, taking leave with her husband. The owner of the inventions stood too long upon the spring board, and just in the midst of one of his most profound bows, clap-to came the door, shooting Mr Dodd forward, as if out of a Roman catapult, and making him butt his male friend, ram fashion, right in the region known to us in school days as “the wind,” when the effects were most disastrous: the gentleman’s watch-glass was broken, and the visitor doubled up in the large umbrella-stand, with his internal inflatable organs in a state of vacuum, while by the recoil, Mr Dodd came down in a sitting posture upon the door mat, where he remained staring at his collapsed friend until he thought better of it, and helped him to rise.

He was often on the very point of becoming a martyr to science was Mr Dodd, and never nearer than upon one dismal, dreary, snowy, scrawmy morning, one of those cheerful times when people are wont to feel put out with everything and everybody—a sort of three-cornered time—a Boxing-day in fact, when, after a little extra jollity on the previous night, there was a strong suspicion of headache and disordered liver. Mr Dodd began the day all askew, by getting out of bed the wrong way, and then felt as if all the skin was off his temper which as naturally became chafed, as that people who have sore places, manage to hit them in preference to other parts of their body however sound. Everything went wrong with Mr Dodd upon that morning. His shaving water was nearly cold, and in spite of the patent guard razor, Mr Dodd cut himself severely; then there was hard water in place of soft, in the ewer, and his face was chapped with the previous day’s cutting wind; he felt as if he had taken cold, for the ventilator had not closed when Mr Dodd went to bed, even when he stood upon a chair and hammered it with a poker; while, worse than all, an irritating cough tickled and tormented him, tried as it was by the smoke which ascended the staircase and penetrated his bedroom.

Descending at last through the clouds, like an angry Jove, Mr Dodd encountered Mary, housemaid, with an angry—“Where does all this smoke come from?”

“Oh, it’s all that nasty jester, sir, as won’t keep up. It’s only propped up now by two little deary pieces of firewood, a waiting to be burnt through and let it down again.”

Mary’s angry master seemed to think the “nasty jester” was no joker; but a little examination soon enabled him to put the register right, and dispense with the “two little deary pieces of firewood;” but directly after Mr Dodd summoned the maiden to the dining-room, by apparently trying to play a tune upon some instrument, whose ivory mouthpiece projected from the wall.

“No stove fire alight in the hall this morning, Mary?” said Mr Dodd, as his attendant brought, in some very badly made dry toast.

“Won’t burn a bit, sir,” said Mary. “It’s wuss than this, and smokes awful.”

“Did you turn the little knob by the pipe?”

“No, sir, I didn’t, sir.”

“Tutt—tutt—tutt,” exclaimed Mr Dodd impatiently, as he went to the foot of the well staircase, opened the stove damper, and then stooped down to open the door and see whether a spark yet remained.

It was well for Mr Dodd that he stooped as he did, for with a fearful crash down came a coal-scuttle from the second floor, striking from side to side of the well staircase, and bestowing upon the stooping gentleman’s bald head a regular douche of knubbly coals, mingled with dust, while the copper scuttle itself fell upon the stove, and knocked off the pineapple knob which formed its apex.

“Lawk-a-mercy, sir, what a good job as it wasn’t the scuttle,” exclaimed Mary, as her master shook himself free from the cheerful coal, and gazed up at the skylight at the top of the staircase, to see whence came the fearful shower, but only to find his eyes resting upon the fat, round, inanimate countenance of the page staring over the bannisters, perfectly aghast at the mischief.

The explanation Mr Dodd sought was most simple. Mr Dodd had not yet fitted his house with a hydraulic lift, after the fashion of those used in our Brobdignagian hotels, but had contented himself with a crane and winch for drawing up coals and other loads. This machine, too, was a failure from the ignorance and apathy of the page, who was a regular grit in Mr Dodd’s cog-wheels, and who this very morning, from some mismanagement, had nearly offered up his master as a sacrifice upon the altar of science.

Under these untoward circumstances Mr Dodd went and acted in the most sensible of ways, that is to say, he went and washed himself; but it is not surprising that he should afterwards feel more gritty than ever when he sat down to partake of his matutinal coffee, made in a patent pot with an impossible name. He boiled his eggs, too, himself, by means of a small tin affair—patent, of course—in which a certain quantity of spirit of wine was burned, and when extinct the eggs were done.

Mr Dodd finished his breakfast in a very excitable and vicious manner. He felt sore, mentally and bodily sore, for his inventions and patents were his hobby, and they either would not work right, or people would not take the trouble to comprehend them. He suffered terribly; but for all that he persevered, and, being a bachelor, he did as he liked. And, being a bachelor, what wonder that he should have a sewing-machine, and amuse himself with his Wheeler and Lathe in stitching round the half-dozen new table-cloths? But the sewing-machine was useless for buttons, so Mr Dodd set to, to invent one that should meet that want, and so be a blessing for every single man. A week passed—two weeks—three weeks; and then, after no end of brain work and modelling for the new machine, to be called the patent button-fixer, invented by Mr Dagon Dodd, that gentleman didn’t do it, and gave up, if not in despair, at all events in despair’s first cousin.

But Boxing-day seemed to have set in badly; while Mr Dodd felt ill-disposed to suffer the stings and arrows. According to the old saying, “it never rains but it pours”—in this case coals—and while the hero of these troubles was sternly gazing upon his fire, with a foot planted against each bright cheek of the stove, Mary came to announce the arrival of a tradesman, now in attendance to take certain orders.

Mr Dodd tried to place himself in a less American position, but found that he was a fixture. It was a wet, slushy morning, and Mr D had determined to try the new patent compo-ment-elastical-everlasting-soled boots—a new patent, and one which should have been devoted to the practice of walking upon ceilings, for they were now tightly fixed to the sides of the fireplace, and Mr Dodd in them, to his unutterable discomfort and annoyance. At the first he imagined that it must be owing to the tar he burned upon his fire—a coke fire, whose combustion was aided by the drips from a small vessel behind the register, containing tar; but Mr D soon found that the material of his new impervious boot-soles was alone to blame; and consequently while the man waited he unlaced and set himself at liberty, a culmination at which he did not arrive without slipping off his chair once, and coming into sharp contact with the fender.

Mr Dodd determined in future to stick to his shoes, for it was evident that his boots meant to stick to something else, and they did too so tightly that they had to be flayed off with the carving-knife, and not easily either, for sometimes the knife became a fixture, and at others the sole became again attached, while the heel was set at liberty, and vice versâ. So Mr Dodd felt ill-tempered.

“Now, Mr Pouter,” said Mr Dodd at last to the tradesman, who had been for some time standing within the door, and smelling very strongly of glue; “now, Mr Pouter, I want the door-springs eased a little, and I want this fixed.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Mr Pouter, smiling at the recollection of his old friends the spring-doors, which had been quite a little fortune to him, and bade fair to remain so, seeing that they required his ministering hands about once a week. We already know how that they would occasionally bang too hard, but they would also bang too softly; when the application of a hand was necessary to make them close, and they might just as well have been common doors. So Mr Pouter smiled.

“What are you laughing at, sir?” exclaimed Mr Dodd, angrily. “I tell you what it is, sir,” he continued, rubbing his sore head, for he could not touch his sore temper, “I’ll tell you what it is, if you can—not attend to my orders without grinning like a gorilla, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll—employ some one else. Such impudence!”

This was an awful threat for Mr Pouter. It was like saying, “I’ll take fifty pounds away from you;” and therefore Mr Pouter, who hated losing a customer, and was much given to cuddling his jobs—that is to say, holding one very tightly till another came in—Mr Pouter looked exceedingly dove-like and mild, ceased smiling, and said appealingly—

“Plee, sir, I didn’t laugh.”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” exclaimed Mr Dodd, “I say you did laugh.”

“But plee, sir, I really didn’t, sir, and I didn’t mean nothin’ at all, sir,” expostulated Mr Pouter, in a most ill-used tone.

“You laughed at me very rudely, sir,” said Mr Dodd, with dignity, “and I now beg that the subject may be dropped. Have you brought your tools?”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir!” exclaimed Mr Pouter, glad enough to have the subject changed, and now looking as solemn and stiff in his features as if his skin were composed of his own shavings.

“Then turn up that carpet, remove the loose boards, and ease the door-spring—not too much, mind; but, there, let that girl pass with the tray.”

“That girl” was Mr Dodd’s housemaid, Mary, who gave her head a dignified toss; but her step was arrested by the sound of a heavy body falling, followed by an exclamation of pain.

“Dear me, sir—very sorry, sir—wouldn’t have had it happen on any account,” said Mr Pouter, stooping to pick up the mallet he had dropped upon Mr Dodd’s particular corn.

But Mr Dodd did not reply, he only limped about the room with anguish depicted upon every feature, while Mr Pouter tremblingly went on with his work.

“There!” exclaimed Mary, upon reaching the kitchen, “I declare if I’ll stop. There’s nothing but messing going on from morning till night. It’s too bad! for there’s that Pouter again, chipping and hammering, and sending the dust a-flying all over the room worse than ever.”

“What was all that noise?” croaked Cook, a very red-faced and red-armed lady.

“Carpenter dropped one of his tools on master’s toe, and sent him a-hopping about the room like a singed monkey,” exclaimed Mary, in a tone of the deepest disgust. And it must be said that this was a very disrespectful and doubtful simile, for the odds were strongly against Mary Housemaid having seen a monkey suffering from the effects of fire.

“What’s the carpenter a-doing of?” said Cook, who was busy making paste, and now paused to have her question answered, and to rub her itching nose with the rolling-pin.

“Why,” exclaimed Cook’s mortal enemy, the Buttons, “master said as old Pouter was to come and fix a jam—something or other.”

“There, now, you be off into the hairy and finish them shoes,” exclaimed Mrs Cook, fiercely. “Nobody arst your opinion; so come, now, be off!”

Buttons did “be off,” for under the circumstances it would have been rash to have stayed, since Mrs Cook was going at him, rolling-pin in hand, with the very evident intention of using it in the same way as her friend Q1866 did his truncheon. But Buttons was not going to be bundled out of the kitchen that way “he knowed,” so he took his revenge by flattening his nose against the kitchen-window, just where he would be most in his culinary tyrant’s light; and then in pantomimic show he began to deride Mrs Cook’s actions, till that lady rushed out at him, when he retreated to his den beneath the pavement, and went on with his work for quite five minutes, then, with a shoe covering one hand and a brush in the other, he made his appearance at the kitchen-door, to deliver the following mystic announcement:—