|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 8
"I am unprepared to admit that we have a ghost at all," repeated
Sir Walter. "Ancient houses, as you say, often get some legend
tacked on to them, and here a garden walk, or there a room, or
passage, is associated with something uncanny and contrary to
experience. This is an old Tudor place, and has been tinkered and
altered in successive generations. We have one room at the
eastern end of the great corridor which always suffered from a bad
reputation. Nobody has ever seen anything in our time, and neither
my father nor grandfather ever handed down any story of a personal
experience. It is a bedroom, which you shall see, if you care to
do so. One very unfortunate and melancholy thing happened in it.
That was some twelve years ago, when Mary was still a child--two
years after my dear wife died."
"Tell us nothing that can cause you any pain, Walter," said Ernest
Travers.
"It caused me very acute pain at the time. Now it is old history
and mercifully one can look back with nothing but regret. One must,
however, mention an incident in my father's time, though it has
nothing to do with my own painful experience. However, that is
part of the story--if story it can be called. A death occurred
in the Grey Room when I was a child. Owing to the general vague
feeling entertained against it, we never put guests there, and so
long ago as my father's day it was relegated to a store place and
lumber-store. But one Christmas, when we were very full, there
came quite unexpectedly on Christmas Eve an aunt of my father--an
extraordinary old character who never did anything that might be
foreseen. She had never come to the family reunion before, yet
appeared on this occasion, and declared that, as this was going to
be her last Christmas on earth, she had felt it right to join the
clan--my father being the head of the family. Her sudden advent
strained our resources, I suppose, but she herself reminded us of
the Grey Room, and, on hearing that it was empty, insisted on
occupying it. The place is a bedroom, and my father, who personally
entertained no dislike or dread of it, raised not the least
objection to the strong-minded old lady's proposal. She retired,
and was found dead on Christmas morning. She had not gone to bed,
but was just about to do so, apparently, when she had fallen down
and died. She was eighty-eight, had undergone a lengthy coach
journey from Exeter, and had eaten a remarkably good dinner before
going to bed. Her maid was not suspected, and the doctor held her
end in no way unusual. It was certainly never associated with
anything but natural causes. Indeed, only events of much later
date served to remind me of the matter. Then one remembered the
spoiled Christmas festivities and the callous and selfish anger of
myself and various other young people that our rejoicings should
be spoiled and Christmas shorn of all its usual delights.
"But twelve years ago Mary fell ill of pneumonia--dangerously--
and a nurse had to be summoned in haste, since her own faithful
attendant, Jane Bond, who is still with us, could not attend her
both day and night. A telegram to the Nurses' Institute brought
Mrs. Gilbert Forrester--'Nurse Forrester,' as she preferred to be
called. She was a little bit of a thing, but most attractive and
capable. She had been a nurse before she married a young medical
man, and upon his unfortunate death she returned to her profession.
She desired her bedroom to be as near the patient as possible, and
objected, when she found it arranged at the other end of the
corridor. 'Why not the next room?' she inquired; and I had to tell
her that the next room suffered from a bad name and was not used.
'A bad name--is it unwholesome?' she asked; and I explained that
traditions credited it with a sinister influence. 'In fact,' I
said, 'it is supposed to be haunted. Not,' I added, 'that anything
has ever been seen, or heard in my lifetime; but nervous people do
not like that sort of room, and I should never take the
responsibility of putting anybody into it without telling them.'
She laughed. 'I'm not in the least afraid of ghosts, Sir Walter,'
she said, 'and that must obviously be my room, if you please. It
is necessary I should be as near my patient as possible, so that I
can be called at once if her own nurse is anxious when I am not on
duty.'
"Well, we saw, of course, that she was perfectly right. She was a
fearless little woman, and chaffed Masters and the maids while they
lighted a fire and made the room comfortable. As a matter of fact,
it is an exceedingly pleasant room in every respect. Yet I
hesitated, and could not say that I was easy about it. I felt
conscious of a discomfort which even her indifference did not
entirely banish. I attributed it to my acute anxiety over Mary--
also to a shadow of--what? It may have been irritation at Nurse
Forrester's unconcealed contempt for my superstition. The Grey
Room is large and commodious with a rather fine oriel window above
our eastern porch. She was delighted, and rated me very amusingly
for my doubts. 'I hope you'll never call such a lovely room
haunted again after I have gone,' said she.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|