Illustration from "Mr. Justice Harbottle" 1872
It is not worth telling, this story of mine--at least, not worthwriting. Told, indeed, as I have sometimes been called upon to tell it,to a circle of intelligent and eager faces, lighted up by a goodafter-dinner fire on a winter's evening, with a cold wind rising andwailing outside, and all snug and cosy within, it has gone off--though Isay it, who should not--indifferent well. But it is a venture to do asyou would have me. Pen, ink, and paper are cold vehicles for themarvellous, and a "reader" decidedly a more critical animal than a"listener." If, however, you can induce your friends to read it afternightfall, and when the fireside talk has run for a while on thrillingtales of shapeless terror; in short, if you will secure me the molliatempora fandi, I will go to my work, and say my say, with better heart.Well, then, these conditions presupposed, I shall waste no more words,but tell you simply how it all happened.My cousin (Tom Ludlow) and I studied medicine together. I think he wouldhave succeeded, had he stuck to the profession; but he preferred theChurch, poor fellow, and died early, a sacrifice to contagion,contracted in the noble discharge of his duties. For my present purpose,I say enough of his character when I mention that he was of a sedate butfrank and cheerful nature; very exact in his observance of truth, andnot by any means like myself--of an excitable or nervous temperament.My Uncle Ludlow--Tom's father--while we were attending lectures,purchased three or four old houses in Aungier Street, one of which wasunoccupied. He resided in the country, and Tom proposed that we shouldtake up our abode in the untenanted house, so long as it should continueunlet; a move which would accomplish the double end of settling usnearer alike to our lecture-rooms and to our amusements, and ofrelieving us from the weekly charge of rent for our lodgings.Our furniture was very scant--our whole equipage remarkably modest andprimitive; and, in short, our arrangements pretty nearly as simple asthose of a bivouac. Our new plan was, therefore, executed almost as soonas conceived. The front drawing-room was our sitting-room. I had thebedroom over it, and Tom the back bedroom on the same floor, whichnothing could have induced me to occupy.The house, to begin with, was a very old one. It had been, I believe,newly fronted about fifty years before; but with this exception, it hadnothing modern about it. The agent who bought it and looked into thetitles for my uncle, told me that it was sold, along with much otherforfeited property, at Chichester House, I think, in 1702; and hadbelonged to Sir Thomas Hacket, who was Lord Mayor of Dublin in JamesII.'s time. How old it was then, I can't say; but, at all events, ithad seen years and changes enough to have contracted all that mysteriousand saddened air, at once exciting and depressing, which belongs to mostold mansions.There had been very little done in the way of modernising details; and,perhaps, it was better so; for there was something queer and by-gone inthe very walls and ceilings--in the shape of doors and windows--in theodd diagonal site of the chimney-pieces--in the beams and ponderouscornices--not to mention the singular solidity of all the woodwork, fromthe banisters to the window-frames, which hopelessly defied disguise,and would have emphatically proclaimed their antiquity through anyconceivable amount of modern finery and varnish.An effort had, indeed, been made, to the extent of papering thedrawing-rooms; but somehow, the paper looked raw and out of keeping; andthe old woman, who kept a little dirt-pie of a shop in the lane, andwhose daughter--a girl of two and fifty--was our solitary handmaid,coming in at sunrise, and chastely receding again as soon as she hadmade all ready for tea in our state apartment;--this woman, I say,remembered it, when old Judge Horrocks (who, having earned thereputation of a particularly "hanging judge," ended by hanging himself,as the coroner's jury found, under an impulse of "temporary insanity,"with a child's skipping-rope, over the massive old bannisters) residedthere, entertaining good company, with fine venison and rare old port.In those halcyon days, the drawing-rooms were hung with gilded leather,and, I dare say, cut a good figure, for they were really spacious rooms.The bedrooms were wainscoted, but the front one was not gloomy; and init the cosiness of antiquity quite overcame its sombre associations. Butthe back bedroom, with its two queerly-placed melancholy windows,staring vacantly at the foot of the bed, and with the shadowy recess tobe found in most old houses in Dublin, like a large ghostly closet,which, from congeniality of temperament, had amalgamated with thebedchamber, and dissolved the partition. At night-time, this"alcove"--as our "maid" was wont to call it--had, in my eyes, aspecially sinister and suggestive character. Tom's distant and solitarycandle glimmered vainly into its darkness. There it was alwaysoverlooking him--always itself impenetrable. But this was only part ofthe effect. The whole room was, I can't tell how, repulsive to me. Therewas, I suppose, in its proportions and features, a latent discord--acertain mysterious and indescribable relation, which jarred indistinctlyupon some secret sense of the fitting and the safe, and raisedindefinable suspicions and apprehensions of the imagination. On thewhole, as I began by saying, nothing could have induced me to pass anight alone in it.I had never pretended to conceal from poor Tom my superstitiousweakness; and he, on the other hand, most unaffectedly ridiculed mytremors. The sceptic was, however, destined to receive a lesson, as youshall hear.We had not been very long in occupation of our respective dormitories,when I began to complain of uneasy nights and disturbed sleep. I was, Isuppose, the more impatient under this annoyance, as I was usually asound sleeper, and by no means prone to nightmares. It was now, however,my destiny, instead of enjoying my customary repose, every night to "supfull of horrors." After a preliminary course of disagreeable andfrightful dreams, my troubles took a definite form, and the same vision,without an appreciable variation in a single detail, visited me at least(on an average) every second night in the week.Now, this dream, nightmare, or infernal illusion--which you please--ofwhich I was the miserable sport, was on this wise:----I saw, or thought I saw, with the most abominable distinctness, althoughat the time in profound darkness, every article of furniture andaccidental arrangement of the chamber in which I lay. This, as you know,is incidental to ordinary nightmare. Well, while in this clairvoyantcondition, which seemed but the lighting up of the theatre in which wasto be exhibited the monotonous tableau of horror, which made my nightsinsupportable, my attention invariably became, I know not why, fixedupon the windows opposite the foot of my bed; and, uniformly with thesame effect, a sense of dreadful anticipation always took slow but surepossession of me. I became somehow conscious of a sort of horrid butundefined preparation going forward in some unknown quarter, and by someunknown agency, for my torment; and, after an interval, which alwaysseemed to me of the same length, a picture suddenly flew up to thewindow, where it remained fixed, as if by an electrical attraction, andmy discipline of horror then commenced, to last perhaps for hours. Thepicture thus mysteriously glued to the window-panes, was the portrait ofan old man, in a crimson flowered silk dressing-gown, the folds of whichI could now describe, with a countenance embodying a strange mixture ofintellect, sensuality, and power, but withal sinister and full ofmalignant omen. His nose was hooked, like the beak of a vulture; hiseyes large, grey, and prominent, and lighted up with a more than mortalcruelty and coldness. These features were surmounted by a crimson velvetcap, the hair that peeped from under which was white with age, while theeyebrows retained their original blackness. Well I remember every line,hue, and shadow of that stony countenance, and well I may! The gaze ofthis hellish visage was fixed upon me, and mine returned it with theinexplicable fascination of nightmare, for what appeared to me to behours of agony. At last----The cock he crew, away then flew, the fiend who had enslaved me through the awful watches of the night;and, harassed and nervous, I rose to the duties of the day.I had--I can't say exactly why, but it may have been from the exquisiteanguish and profound impressions of unearthly horror, with which thisstrange phantasmagoria was associated--an insurmountable antipathy todescribing the exact nature of my nightly troubles to my friend andcomrade. Generally, however, I told him that I was haunted by abominabledreams; and, true to the imputed materialism of medicine, we put ourheads together to dispel my horrors, not by exorcism, but by a tonic.I will do this tonic justice, and frankly admit that the accursedportrait began to intermit its visits under its influence. What of that?Was this singular apparition--as full of character as ofterror--therefore the creature of my fancy, or the invention of my poorstomach? Was it, in short, subjective (to borrow the technical slangof the day) and not the palpable aggression and intrusion of an externalagent? That, good friend, as we will both admit, by no means follows.The evil spirit, who enthralled my senses in the shape of that portrait,may have been just as near me, just as energetic, just as malignant,though I saw him not. What means the whole moral code of revealedreligion regarding the due keeping of our own bodies, soberness,temperance, etc.? here is an obvious connexion between the material andthe invisible; the healthy tone of the system, and its unimpairedenergy, may, for aught we can tell, guard us against influences whichwould otherwise render life itself terrific. The mesmerist and theelectro-biologist will fail upon an average with nine patients out often--so may the evil spirit. Special conditions of the corporeal systemare indispensable to the production of certain spiritual phenomena. Theoperation succeeds sometimes--sometimes fails--that is all.I found afterwards that my would-be sceptical companion had his troublestoo. But of these I knew nothing yet. One night, for a wonder, I wassleeping soundly, when I was roused by a step on the lobby outside myroom, followed by the loud clang of what turned out to be a large brasscandlestick, flung with all his force by poor Tom Ludlow over thebanisters, and rattling with a rebound down the second flight of stairs;and almost concurrently with this, Tom burst open my door, and bouncedinto my room backwards, in a state of extraordinary agitation.I had jumped out of bed and clutched him by the arm before I had anydistinct idea of my own whereabouts. There we were--in ourshirts--standing before the open door--staring through the great oldbanister opposite, at the lobby window, through which the sickly lightof a clouded moon was gleaming."What's the matter, Tom? What's the matter with you? What the devil'sthe matter with you, Tom?" I demanded shaking him with nervousimpatience.He took a long breath before he answered me, and then it was not verycoherently."It's nothing, nothing at all--did I speak?--what did I say?--where'sthe candle, Richard? It's dark; I--I had a candle!""Yes, dark enough," I said; "but what's the matter?--what is it?--whydon't you speak, Tom?--have you lost your wits?--what is the matter?""The matter?--oh, it is all over. It must have been a dream--nothing atall but a dream--don't you think so? It could not be anything more thana dream.""Of course" said I, feeling uncommonly nervous, "it was a dream.""I thought," he said, "there was a man in my room, and--and I jumped outof bed; and--and--where's the candle?""In your room, most likely," I said, "shall I go and bring it?""No; stay here--don't go; it's no matter--don't, I tell you; it was alla dream. Bolt the door, Dick; I'll stay here with you--I feel nervous.So, Dick, like a good fellow, light your candle and open the window--Iam in a shocking state."I did as he asked me, and robing himself like Granuaile in one of myblankets, he seated himself close beside my bed.Every body knows how contagious is fear of all sorts, but moreespecially that particular kind of fear under which poor Tom was at thatmoment labouring. I would not have heard, nor I believe would he haverecapitulated, just at that moment, for half the world, the details ofthe hideous vision which had so unmanned him."Don't mind telling me anything about your nonsensical dream, Tom," saidI, affecting contempt, really in a panic; "let us talk about somethingelse; but it is quite plain that this dirty old house disagrees with usboth, and hang me if I stay here any longer, to be pestered withindigestion and--and--bad nights, so we may as well look out forlodgings--don't you think so?--at once."Tom agreed, and, after an interval, said----"I have been thinking, Richard, that it is a long time since I saw myfather, and I have made up my mind to go down to-morrow and return in aday or two, and you can take rooms for us in the meantime."I fancied that this resolution, obviously the result of the vision whichhad so profoundly scared him, would probably vanish next morning withthe damps and shadows of night. But I was mistaken. Off went Tom at peepof day to the country, having agreed that so soon as I had securedsuitable lodgings, I was to recall him by letter from his visit to myUncle Ludlow.Now, anxious as I was to change my quarters, it so happened, owing to aseries of petty procrastinations and accidents, that nearly a weekelapsed before my bargain was made and my letter of recall on the wingto Tom; and, in the meantime, a trifling adventure or two had occurredto your humble servant, which, absurd as they now appear, diminished bydistance, did certainly at the time serve to whet my appetite for changeconsiderably.A night or two after the departure of my comrade, I was sitting by mybedroom fire, the door locked, and the ingredients of a tumbler of hotwhisky-punch upon the crazy spider-table; for, as the best mode ofkeeping theBlack spirits and white,Blue spirits and grey,with which I was environed, at bay, I had adopted the practicerecommended by the wisdom of my ancestors, and "kept my spirits up bypouring spirits down." I had thrown aside my volume of Anatomy, and wastreating myself by way of a tonic, preparatory to my punch and bed, tohalf-a-dozen pages of the Spectator, when I heard a step on the flightof stairs descending from the attics. It was two o'clock, and thestreets were as silent as a churchyard--the sounds were, therefore,perfectly distinct. There was a slow, heavy tread, characterised by theemphasis and deliberation of age, descending by the narrow staircasefrom above; and, what made the sound more singular, it was plain thatthe feet which produced it were perfectly bare, measuring the descentwith something between a pound and a flop, very ugly to hear.I knew quite well that my attendant had gone away many hours before, andthat nobody but myself had any business in the house. It was quite plainalso that the person who was coming down stairs had no intentionwhatever of concealing his movements; but, on the contrary, appeareddisposed to make even more noise, and proceed more deliberately, thanwas at all necessary. When the step reached the foot of the stairsoutside my room, it seemed to stop; and I expected every moment to seemy door open spontaneously, and give admission to the original of mydetested portrait. I was, however, relieved in a few seconds by hearingthe descent renewed, just in the same manner, upon the staircase leadingdown to the drawing-rooms, and thence, after another pause, down thenext flight, and so on to the hall, whence I heard no more.Now, by the time the sound had ceased, I was wound up, as they say, to avery unpleasant pitch of excitement. I listened, but there was not astir. I screwed up my courage to a decisive experiment--opened my door,and in a stentorian voice bawled over the banisters, "Who's there?"There was no answer but the ringing of my own voice through the emptyold house,--no renewal of the movement; nothing, in short, to give myunpleasant sensations a definite direction. There is, I think, somethingmost disagreeably disenchanting in the sound of one's own voice undersuch circumstances, exerted in solitude, and in vain. It redoubled mysense of isolation, and my misgivings increased on perceiving that thedoor, which I certainly thought I had left open, was closed behind me;in a vague alarm, lest my retreat should be cut off, I got again into myroom as quickly as I could, where I remained in a state of imaginaryblockade, and very uncomfortable indeed, till morning.Next night brought no return of my barefooted fellow-lodger; but thenight following, being in my bed, and in the dark--somewhere, I suppose,about the same hour as before, I distinctly heard the old fellow againdescending from the garrets.This time I had had my punch, and the morale of the garrison wasconsequently excellent. I jumped out of bed, clutched the poker as Ipassed the expiring fire, and in a moment was upon the lobby. The soundhad ceased by this time--the dark and chill were discouraging; and,guess my horror, when I saw, or thought I saw, a black monster, whetherin the shape of a man or a bear I could not say, standing, with its backto the wall, on the lobby, facing me, with a pair of great greenish eyesshining dimly out. Now, I must be frank, and confess that the cupboardwhich displayed our plates and cups stood just there, though at themoment I did not recollect it. At the same time I must honestly say,that making every allowance for an excited imagination, I never couldsatisfy myself that I was made the dupe of my own fancy in this matter;for this apparition, after one or two shiftings of shape, as if in theact of incipient transformation, began, as it seemed on second thoughts,to advance upon me in its original form. From an instinct of terrorrather than of courage, I hurled the poker, with all my force, at itshead; and to the music of a horrid crash made my way into my room, anddouble-locked the door. Then, in a minute more, I heard the horrid barefeet walk down the stairs, till the sound ceased in the hall, as on theformer occasion.If the apparition of the night before was an ocular delusion of my fancysporting with the dark outlines of our cupboard, and if its horrid eyeswere nothing but a pair of inverted teacups, I had, at all events, thesatisfaction of having launched the poker with admirable effect, and intrue "fancy" phrase, "knocked its two daylights into one," as thecommingled fragments of my tea-service testified. I did my best togather comfort and courage from these evidences; but it would not do.And then what could I say of those horrid bare feet, and the regulartramp, tramp, tramp, which measured the distance of the entire staircasethrough the solitude of my haunted dwelling, and at an hour when no goodinfluence was stirring? Confound it!--the whole affair was abominable. Iwas out of spirits, and dreaded the approach of night.It came, ushered ominously in with a thunder-storm and dull torrents ofdepressing rain. Earlier than usual the streets grew silent; and bytwelve o'clock nothing but the comfortless pattering of the rain was tobe heard.I made myself as snug as I could. I lighted two candles instead ofone. I forswore bed, and held myself in readiness for a sally, candle inhand; for, coute qui coute, I was resolved to see the being, ifvisible at all, who troubled the nightly stillness of my mansion. I wasfidgetty and nervous and tried in vain to interest myself with my books.I walked up and down my room, whistling in turn martial and hilariousmusic, and listening ever and anon for the dreaded noise. I sate downand stared at the square label on the solemn and reserved-looking blackbottle, until "FLANAGAN & CO'S BEST OLD MALT WHISKY" grew into a sort ofsubdued accompaniment to all the fantastic and horrible speculationswhich chased one another through my brain.Silence, meanwhile, grew more silent, and darkness darker. I listened invain for the rumble of a vehicle, or the dull clamour of a distant row.There was nothing but the sound of a rising wind, which had succeededthe thunder-storm that had travelled over the Dublin mountains quite outof hearing. In the middle of this great city I began to feel myselfalone with nature, and Heaven knows what beside. My courage was ebbing.Punch, however, which makes beasts of so many, made a man of meagain--just in time to hear with tolerable nerve and firmness the lumpy,flabby, naked feet deliberately descending the stairs again.I took a candle, not without a tremour. As I crossed the floor I triedto extemporise a prayer, but stopped short to listen, and never finishedit. The steps continued. I confess I hesitated for some seconds at thedoor before I took heart of grace and opened it. When I peeped out thelobby was perfectly empty--there was no monster standing on thestaircase; and as the detested sound ceased, I was reassured enough toventure forward nearly to the banisters. Horror of horrors! within astair or two beneath the spot where I stood the unearthly tread smotethe floor. My eye caught something in motion; it was about the size ofGoliah's foot--it was grey, heavy, and flapped with a dead weight fromone step to another. As I am alive, it was the most monstrous grey rat Iever beheld or imagined.Shakespeare says--"Some men there are cannot abide a gaping pig, andsome that are mad if they behold a cat." I went well-nigh out of my witswhen I beheld this rat; for, laugh at me as you may, it fixed upon me,I thought, a perfectly human expression of malice; and, as it shuffledabout and looked up into my face almost from between my feet, I saw, Icould swear it--I felt it then, and know it now, the infernal gaze andthe accursed countenance of my old friend in the portrait, transfusedinto the visage of the bloated vermin before me.I bounced into my room again with a feeling of loathing and horror Icannot describe, and locked and bolted my door as if a lion had been atthe other side. D--n him or it; curse the portrait and its original! Ifelt in my soul that the rat--yes, the rat, the RAT I had just seen,was that evil being in masquerade, and rambling through the house uponsome infernal night lark.Next morning I was early trudging through the miry streets; and, amongother transactions, posted a peremptory note recalling Tom. On myreturn, however, I found a note from my absent "chum," announcing hisintended return next day. I was doubly rejoiced at this, because I hadsucceeded in getting rooms; and because the change of scene and returnof my comrade were rendered specially pleasant by the last night's halfridiculous half horrible adventure.I slept extemporaneously in my new quarters in Digges' Street thatnight, and next morning returned for breakfast to the haunted mansion,where I was certain Tom would call immediately on his arrival.I was quite right--he came; and almost his first question referred tothe primary object of our change of residence."Thank God," he said with genuine fervour, on hearing that all wasarranged. "On your account I am delighted. As to myself, I assure youthat no earthly consideration could have induced me ever again to pass anight in this disastrous old house.""Confound the house!" I ejaculated, with a genuine mixture of fear anddetestation, "we have not had a pleasant hour since we came to livehere"; and so I went on, and related incidentally my adventure with theplethoric old rat."Well, if that were all," said my cousin, affecting to make light ofthe matter, "I don't think I should have minded it very much.""Ay, but its eye--its countenance, my dear Tom," urged I; "if you hadseen that, you would have felt it might be anything but what itseemed.""I inclined to think the best conjurer in such a case would be anable-bodied cat," he said, with a provoking chuckle."But let us hear your own adventure," I said tartly.At this challenge he looked uneasily round him. I had poked up a veryunpleasant recollection."You shall hear it, Dick; I'll tell it to you," he said. "Begad, sir, Ishould feel quite queer, though, telling it here, though we are toostrong a body for ghosts to meddle with just now."Though he spoke this like a joke, I think it was serious calculation.Our Hebe was in a corner of the room, packing our cracked delft tea anddinner-services in a basket. She soon suspended operations, and withmouth and eyes wide open became an absorbed listener. Tom's experienceswere told nearly in these words:----"I saw it three times, Dick--three distinct times; and I am perfectlycertain it meant me some infernal harm. I was, I say, in danger--inextreme danger; for, if nothing else had happened, my reason wouldmost certainly have failed me, unless I had escaped so soon. Thank God.I did escape."The first night of this hateful disturbance, I was lying in theattitude of sleep, in that lumbering old bed. I hate to think of it. Iwas really wide awake, though I had put out my candle, and was lying asquietly as if I had been asleep; and although accidentally restless, mythoughts were running in a cheerful and agreeable channel."I think it must have been two o'clock at least when I thought I heard asound in that--that odious dark recess at the far end of the bedroom. Itwas as if someone was drawing a piece of cord slowly along the floor,lifting it up, and dropping it softly down again in coils. I sate uponce or twice in my bed, but could see nothing, so I concluded it mustbe mice in the wainscot. I felt no emotion graver than curiosity, andafter a few minutes ceased to observe it."While lying in this state, strange to say; without at first a suspicionof anything supernatural, on a sudden I saw an old man, rather stout andsquare, in a sort of roan-red dressing-gown, and with a black cap on hishead, moving stiffly and slowly in a diagonal direction, from therecess, across the floor of the bedroom, passing my bed at the foot, andentering the lumber-closet at the left. He had something under his arm;his head hung a little at one side; and, merciful God! when I saw hisface."Tom stopped for a while, and then said----"That awful countenance, which living or dying I never can forget,disclosed what he was. Without turning to the right or left, he passedbeside me, and entered the closet by the bed's head."While this fearful and indescribable type of death and guilt waspassing, I felt that I had no more power to speak or stir than if I hadbeen myself a corpse. For hours after it had disappeared, I was tooterrified and weak to move. As soon as daylight came, I took courage,and examined the room, and especially the course which the frightfulintruder had seemed to take, but there was not a vestige to indicateanybody's having passed there; no sign of any disturbing agency visibleamong the lumber that strewed the floor of the closet."I now began to recover a little. I was fagged and exhausted, and atlast, overpowered by a feverish sleep. I came down late; and finding youout of spirits, on account of your dreams about the portrait, whoseoriginal I am now certain disclosed himself to me, I did not care totalk about the infernal vision. In fact, I was trying to persuade myselfthat the whole thing was an illusion, and I did not like to revive intheir intensity the hated impressions of the past night--or to risk theconstancy of my scepticism, by recounting the tale of my sufferings."It required some nerve, I can tell you, to go to my haunted chambernext night, and lie down quietly in the same bed," continued Tom. "I didso with a degree of trepidation, which, I am not ashamed to say, a verylittle matter would have sufficed to stimulate to downright panic. Thisnight, however, passed off quietly enough, as also the next; and so toodid two or three more. I grew more confident, and began to fancy that Ibelieved in the theories of spectral illusions, with which I had atfirst vainly tried to impose upon my convictions."The apparition had been, indeed, altogether anomalous. It had crossedthe room without any recognition of my presence: I had not disturbedit, and it had no mission to me. What, then, was the imaginableuse of its crossing the room in a visible shape at all? Of course itmight have been in the closet instead of going there, as easily asit introduced itself into the recess without entering the chamber in ashape discernible by the senses. Besides, how the deuce had I seen it?It was a dark night; I had no candle; there was no fire; and yet I sawit as distinctly, in colouring and outline, as ever I beheld human form!A cataleptic dream would explain it all; and I was determined that adream it should be."One of the most remarkable phenomena connected with the practice ofmendacity is the vast number of deliberate lies we tell ourselves, whom,of all persons, we can least expect to deceive. In all this, I needhardly tell you, Dick, I was simply lying to myself, and did not believeone word of the wretched humbug. Yet I went on, as men will do, likepersevering charlatans and impostors, who tire people into credulity bythe mere force of reiteration; so I hoped to win myself over at last toa comfortable scepticism about the ghost."He had not appeared a second time--that certainly was a comfort; andwhat, after all, did I care for him, and his queer old toggery andstrange looks? Not a fig! I was nothing the worse for having seen him,and a good story the better. So I tumbled into bed, put out my candle,and, cheered by a loud drunken quarrel in the back lane, went fastasleep."From this deep slumber I awoke with a start. I knew I had had ahorrible dream; but what it was I could not remember. My heart wasthumping furiously; I felt bewildered and feverish; I sate up in the bedand looked about the room. A broad flood of moonlight came in throughthe curtainless window; everything was as I had last seen it; and thoughthe domestic squabble in the back lane was, unhappily for me, allayed, Iyet could hear a pleasant fellow singing, on his way home, the thenpopular comic ditty called, 'Murphy Delany.' Taking advantage of thisdiversion I lay down again, with my face towards the fireplace, andclosing my eyes, did my best to think of nothing else but the song,which was every moment growing fainter in the distance:----"'Twas Murphy Delany, so funny and frisky,Stept into a shebeen shop to get his skin full;He reeled out again pretty well lined with whiskey,As fresh as a shamrock, as blind as a bull."The singer, whose condition I dare say resembled that of his hero, wassoon too far off to regale my ears any more; and as his music died away,I myself sank into a doze, neither sound nor refreshing. Somehow thesong had got into my head, and I went meandering on through theadventures of my respectable fellow-countryman, who, on emerging fromthe 'shebeen shop,' fell into a river, from which he was fished up to be'sat upon' by a coroner's jury, who having learned from a 'horse-doctor'that he was 'dead as a door-nail, so there was an end,' returned theirverdict accordingly, just as he returned to his senses, when an angryaltercation and a pitched battle between the body and the coroner windsup the lay with due spirit and pleasantry."Through this ballad I continued with a weary monotony to plod, down tothe very last line, and then da capo, and so on, in my uncomfortablehalf-sleep, for how long, I can't conjecture. I found myself at last,however, muttering, 'dead as a door-nail, so there was an end'; andsomething like another voice within me, seemed to say, very faintly, butsharply, 'dead! dead! dead! and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!'and instantaneously I was wide awake, and staring right before me fromthe pillow."Now--will you believe it, Dick?--I saw the same accursed figurestanding full front, and gazing at me with its stony and fiendishcountenance, not two yards from the bedside."Tom stopped here, and wiped the perspiration from his face. I felt veryqueer. The girl was as pale as Tom; and, assembled as we were in thevery scene of these adventures, we were all, I dare say, equallygrateful for the clear daylight and the resuming bustle out of doors."For about three seconds only I saw it plainly; then it grew indistinct;but, for a long time, there was something like a column of dark vapourwhere it had been standing, between me and the wall; and I felt surethat he was still there. After a good while, this appearance went too. Itook my clothes downstairs to the hall, and dressed there, with the doorhalf open; then went out into the street, and walked about the town tillmorning, when I came back, in a miserable state of nervousness andexhaustion. I was such a fool, Dick, as to be ashamed to tell you how Icame to be so upset. I thought you would laugh at me; especially as Ihad always talked philosophy, and treated your ghosts with contempt. Iconcluded you would give me no quarter; and so kept my tale of horror tomyself."Now, Dick, you will hardly believe me, when I assure you, that for manynights after this last experience, I did not go to my room at all. Iused to sit up for a while in the drawing-room after you had gone up toyour bed; and then steal down softly to the hall-door, let myself out,and sit in the 'Robin Hood' tavern until the last guest went off; andthen I got through the night like a sentry, pacing the streets tillmorning."For more than a week I never slept in bed. I sometimes had a snooze ona form in the 'Robin Hood,' and sometimes a nap in a chair during theday; but regular sleep I had absolutely none."I was quite resolved that we should get into another house; but I couldnot bring myself to tell you the reason, and I somehow put it off fromday to day, although my life was, during every hour of thisprocrastination, rendered as miserable as that of a felon with theconstables on his track. I was growing absolutely ill from this wretchedmode of life."One afternoon I determined to enjoy an hour's sleep upon your bed. Ihated mine; so that I had never, except in a stealthy visit every day tounmake it, lest Martha should discover the secret of my nightly absence,entered the ill-omened chamber."As ill-luck would have it, you had locked your bedroom, and taken awaythe key. I went into my own to unsettle the bedclothes, as usual, andgive the bed the appearance of having been slept in. Now, a variety ofcircumstances concurred to bring about the dreadful scene through whichI was that night to pass. In the first place, I was literallyoverpowered with fatigue, and longing for sleep; in the next place, theeffect of this extreme exhaustion upon my nerves resembled that of anarcotic, and rendered me less susceptible than, perhaps, I should inany other condition have been, of the exciting fears which had becomehabitual to me. Then again, a little bit of the window was open, apleasant freshness pervaded the room, and, to crown all, the cheerfulsun of day was making the room quite pleasant. What was to prevent myenjoying an hour's nap here? The whole air was resonant with thecheerful hum of life, and the broad matter-of-fact light of day filledevery corner of the room."I yielded--stifling my qualms--to the almost overpowering temptation;and merely throwing off my coat, and loosening my cravat, I lay down,limiting myself to half-an-hour's doze in the unwonted enjoyment of afeather bed, a coverlet, and a bolster."It was horribly insidious; and the demon, no doubt, marked myinfatuated preparations. Dolt that I was, I fancied, with mind and bodyworn out for want of sleep, and an arrear of a full week's rest to mycredit, that such measure as half-an-hour's sleep, in such asituation, was possible. My sleep was death-like, long, and dreamless."Without a start or fearful sensation of any kind, I waked gently, butcompletely. It was, as you have good reason to remember, long pastmidnight--I believe, about two o'clock. When sleep has been deep andlong enough to satisfy nature thoroughly, one often wakens in this way,suddenly, tranquilly, and completely."There was a figure seated in that lumbering, old sofa-chair, near thefireplace. Its back was rather towards me, but I could not be mistaken;it turned slowly round, and, merciful heavens! there was the stony face,with its infernal lineaments of malignity and despair, gloating on me.There was now no doubt as to its consciousness of my presence, and thehellish malice with which it was animated, for it arose, and drew closeto the bedside. There was a rope about its neck, and the other end,coiled up, it held stiffly in its hand."My good angel nerved me for this horrible crisis. I remained for someseconds transfixed by the gaze of this tremendous phantom. He came closeto the bed, and appeared on the point of mounting upon it. The nextinstant I was upon the floor at the far side, and in a moment more was,I don't know how, upon the lobby."But the spell was not yet broken; the valley of the shadow of death wasnot yet traversed. The abhorred phantom was before me there; it wasstanding near the banisters, stooping a little, and with one end of therope round its own neck, was poising a noose at the other, as if tothrow over mine; and while engaged in this baleful pantomime, it wore asmile so sensual, so unspeakably dreadful, that my senses were nearlyoverpowered. I saw and remember nothing more, until I found myself inyour room."I had a wonderful escape, Dick--there is no disputing that--an escapefor which, while I live, I shall bless the mercy of heaven. No one canconceive or imagine what it is for flesh and blood to stand in thepresence of such a thing, but one who has had the terrific experience.Dick, Dick, a shadow has passed over me--a chill has crossed my bloodand marrow, and I will never be the same again--never, Dick--never!"Our handmaid, a mature girl of two-and-fifty, as I have said, stayed herhand, as Tom's story proceeded, and by little and little drew near tous, with open mouth, and her brows contracted over her little, beadyblack eyes, till stealing a glance over her shoulder now and then, sheestablished herself close behind us. During the relation, she had madevarious earnest comments, in an undertone; but these and herejaculations, for the sake of brevity and simplicity, I have omitted inmy narration."It's often I heard tell of it," she now said, "but I never believed itrightly till now--though, indeed, why should not I? Does not my mother,down there in the lane, know quare stories, God bless us, beyant tellingabout it? But you ought not to have slept in the back bedroom. She wasloath to let me be going in and out of that room even in the day time,let alone for any Christian to spend the night in it; for sure she saysit was his own bedroom.""Whose own bedroom?" we asked, in a breath."Why, his--the ould Judge's--Judge Horrock's, to be sure, God rest hissowl"; and she looked fearfully round."Amen!" I muttered. "But did he die there?""Die there! No, not quite there," she said. "Shure, was not it overthe banisters he hung himself, the ould sinner, God be merciful to usall? and was not it in the alcove they found the handles of theskipping-rope cut off, and the knife where he was settling the cord, Godbless us, to hang himself with? It was his housekeeper's daughter ownedthe rope, my mother often told me, and the child never throve after, andused to be starting up out of her sleep, and screeching in the nighttime, wid dhrames and frights that cum an her; and they said how it wasthe speerit of the ould Judge that was tormentin' her; and she used tobe roaring and yelling out to hould back the big ould fellow with thecrooked neck; and then she'd screech 'Oh, the master! the master! he'sstampin' at me, and beckoning to me! Mother, darling, don't let me go!'And so the poor crathure died at last, and the docthers said it waswather on the brain, for it was all they could say.""How long ago was all this?" I asked."Oh, then, how would I know?" she answered. "But it must be a wondherfullong time ago, for the housekeeper was an ould woman, with a pipe in hermouth, and not a tooth left, and better nor eighty years ould when mymother was first married; and they said she was a rale buxom,fine-dressed woman when the ould Judge come to his end; an', indeed, mymother's not far from eighty years ould herself this day; and what madeit worse for the unnatural ould villain, God rest his soul, to frightenthe little girl out of the world the way he did, was what was mostlythought and believed by every one. My mother says how the poor littlecrathure was his own child; for he was by all accounts an ould villainevery way, an' the hangin'est judge that ever was known in Ireland'sground.""From what you said about the danger of sleeping in that bedroom," saidI, "I suppose there were stories about the ghost having appeared thereto others.""Well, there was things said--quare things, surely," she answered, as itseemed, with some reluctance. "And why would not there? Sure was it notup in that same room he slept for more than twenty years? and was it notin the alcove he got the rope ready that done his own business atlast, the way he done many a betther man's in his lifetime?--and was notthe body lying in the same bed after death, and put in the coffin there,too, and carried out to his grave from it in Pether's churchyard, afterthe coroner was done? But there was quare stories--my mother has themall--about how one Nicholas Spaight got into trouble on the head of it.""And what did they say of this Nicholas Spaight?" I asked."Oh, for that matther, it's soon told," she answered.And she certainly did relate a very strange story, which so piqued mycuriosity, that I took occasion to visit the ancient lady, her mother,from whom I learned many very curious particulars. Indeed, I am temptedto tell the tale, but my fingers are weary, and I must defer it. But ifyou wish to hear it another time, I shall do my best.When we had heard the strange tale I have not told you, we put one ortwo further questions to her about the alleged spectral visitations, towhich the house had, ever since the death of the wicked old Judge, beensubjected."No one ever had luck in it," she told us. "There was always crossaccidents, sudden deaths, and short times in it. The first that tuck, itwas a family--I forget their name--but at any rate there was two youngladies and their papa. He was about sixty, and a stout healthy gentlemanas you'd wish to see at that age. Well, he slept in that unlucky backbedroom; and, God between us an' harm! sure enough he was found dead onemorning, half out of the bed, with his head as black as a sloe, andswelled like a puddin', hanging down near the floor. It was a fit, theysaid. He was as dead as a mackerel, and so he could not say what itwas; but the ould people was all sure that it was nothing at all but theould Judge, God bless us! that frightened him out of his senses and hislife together."Some time after there was a rich old maiden lady took the house. Idon't know which room she slept in, but she lived alone; and at anyrate, one morning, the servants going down early to their work, foundher sitting on the passage-stairs, shivering and talkin' to herself,quite mad; and never a word more could any of them or her friends getfrom her ever afterwards but, 'Don't ask me to go, for I promised towait for him.' They never made out from her who it was she meant byhim, but of course those that knew all about the ould house were at noloss for the meaning of all that happened to her."Then afterwards, when the house was let out in lodgings, there wasMicky Byrne that took the same room, with his wife and three littlechildren; and sure I heard Mrs. Byrne myself telling how the childrenused to be lifted up in the bed at night, she could not see by whatmains; and how they were starting and screeching every hour, just all asone as the housekeeper's little girl that died, till at last one nightpoor Micky had a dhrop in him, the way he used now and again; and whatdo you think in the middle of the night he thought he heard a noise onthe stairs, and being in liquor, nothing less id do him but out he mustgo himself to see what was wrong. Well, after that, all she ever heardof him was himself sayin', 'Oh, God!' and a tumble that shook the veryhouse; and there, sure enough, he was lying on the lower stairs, underthe lobby, with his neck smashed double undher him, where he was flungover the banisters."Then the handmaiden added----"I'll go down to the lane, and send up Joe Gavvey to pack up the rest ofthe taythings, and bring all the things across to your new lodgings."And so we all sallied out together, each of us breathing more freely, Ihave no doubt, as we crossed that ill-omened threshold for the lasttime.Now, I may add thus much, in compliance with the immemorial usage of therealm of fiction, which sees the hero not only through his adventures,but fairly out of the world. You must have perceived that what theflesh, blood, and bone hero of romance proper is to the regularcompounder of fiction, this old house of brick, wood, and mortar is tothe humble recorder of this true tale. I, therefore, relate, as in dutybound, the catastrophe which ultimately befell it, which was simplythis--that about two years subsequently to my story it was taken by aquack doctor, who called himself Baron Duhlstoerf, and filled theparlour windows with bottles of indescribable horrors preserved inbrandy, and the newspapers with the usual grandiloquent and mendaciousadvertisements. This gentleman among his virtues did not reckonsobriety, and one night, being overcome with much wine, he set fire tohis bed curtains, partially burned himself, and totally consumed thehouse. It was afterwards rebuilt, and for a time an undertakerestablished himself in the premises.I have now told you my own and Tom's adventures, together with somevaluable collateral particulars; and having acquitted myself of myengagement, I wish you a very good night, and pleasant dreams.
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