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TALES OF
THE WONDER CLUB.
BY
DRYASDUST
[Decoration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
JOHN JELLICOE AND VAL PRINCE,
AFTER DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR.
HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL,
_Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales._
_All rights reserved._
LONDON:
PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO.,
16, WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
FRONTISPIECE --
TITLE PAGE --
THE PHANTOM FLEA 17
THE SPIRIT LOVERS 57
THE GLACIER KING 118
THE MERMAID 129
THE PIGMY QUEEN 202
THE SPIRIT LEG 314
LOST IN THE CATACOMBS 373
INTRODUCTION.
A PEEP AT THE WONDER CLUB.
Towards the close of the last century there stood in one of the Midland
counties of England, in the centre of two cross-roads, a venerable
hostelry, built in the reign of Elizabeth, and known by the sign of "Ye
Headless Lady." Its ancient gables were shaded by luxuriant elms and
beech trees. The woodwork of the building and its weather-stained walls
of brick were partially overgrown with thick ivy, while its high,
dingy-red roof was tinted with every variety of lichen. The windows were
narrow, and the framework heavy, as is usual in houses of that period.
The host of this establishment, one Jack Hearty, was one of the old
school of landlords--robust, jovial, and never above his business. His
fathers had owned the inn before him, and "he never wished to be a
better man than his father, nor a worse either, for the matter of that,"
as he would say. All day long, when not engaged with his customers
indoors, he was to be seen at the door of his inn, with his apron girt
around him, and a "yard of clay" at his lips, straining his eyes down
the long cross-roads for the first glimpse of a customer.
Often after gazing long and intently into the distance he would turn
back with a sigh, knock the ashes from his pipe, refill it, take a deep
draught of his own home-brewed ale, then, if none of his customers
required anything, and the affairs of his household permitted it, he
would sally out again. This time, perhaps, his eyes would be greeted by
the sight of a solitary wayfarer, or, better still, the stage-coach.
Then it was that the honest landlord's face would brighten up, as it was
certain to bring him some of the "big-wigs" from town. He would rub his
hands and chuckle, while Dame Hearty would begin to bustle about to
welcome the fresh arrivals. It was not often, however, that the
"Headless Lady" was entirely deserted.
A small clique or brotherhood, known as "The Wonder Club," had been
nightly in the habit of assembling here for years, and this served to
bring grist to the mill. Some of the eminent men from the neighbouring
village, among whom were the doctor, the lawyer, an antiquary, an
analytical chemist, and others, had formed among themselves a club,
which was to consist only of very choice spirits, like themselves, and
if any guest were introduced among them, it was only to be with a letter
of introduction and the full consent of all parties. By these strict
rules they hoped to keep the club select. A room at the inn was set
apart for them, into which no one not belonging to the club ever
presumed to enter, unless it was the landlord, who would be called every
now and then to replenish the bowl, and whom sometimes the guests of
the club would "draw out," as it was whispered in the village that the
landlord of the "Headless Lady" knew a rare lot of stories, he did; also
how to tell 'em, too, my word! but these he generally reserved for his
more intimate customers. One strict law of the club that we have not yet
mentioned was that no guest invited was to be a "business man." Should a
commercial traveller ever have the hardihood to enter the sacred
precincts of the club, he was assailed with a battery of glances from
the members that must have completely cowed him, unless he were a man of
more than usual strength of nerve; but as this rarely happened, all such
outward manifestations of contempt were kept within due bounds. Business
was, of course, tabooed; even politics were only admitted on sufferance
and by a special permission of the chairman. There was one evening in
the year, however, when the chairman never granted any such permission,
and that was on the anniversary of the founding of the club. On this
evening such subjects as business and politics would have been cried
down, and the daring introducer of the obnoxious themes would have been
condemned to drink a cup of cold water on his bended knees by way of
expiating his offence. No subjects of public or private interest were
tolerated on this evening, or, indeed, on any other. The chief delight
of this club was to tell or to listen to stories which were all more or
less of the marvellous class, and which each took it by turn to relate
to the rest, the strictest silence and order being preserved during the
recital. The evening that we are about to describe to the reader was the
tenth anniversary of the founding of the club. This was a very grand
event. For any one of its members or guests, whether married or single,
to have been absent, on this occasion would have been little less than
an insult to the rest. Let us try to give our readers a glimpse of the
club room and its guests on this memorable evening.
Imagine, then, a large room with low ceiling and walls of dark oak
panel, a large old-fashioned fireplace with dogs, and a Yule log blazing
on the hearth. The curtains are old and embroidered, and closely drawn.
The room is well lighted, and in the middle is a long table, at which,
through a cloud of tobacco smoke, a party of nine--all lords of the
creation--may be discovered. A bowl of punch is in the centre of the
table, at which every now and then each guest replenishes his glass. Mr.
Oldstone, the antiquary, has been elected chairman. Watch with what
dignity he fills his post of honour. Look! he rises and thumps the
table. He is going to make a speech. The strictest silence reigns; you
might hear a pin drop.
"Gentlemen," began the worthy chairman, after one or two preliminary
"hems," "it is with feelings of mixed pride and pleasure that I feel
myself called upon to-night to preside at this most honourable meeting."
(Hear, hear!) The chairman resumed, "This is the tenth anniversary of
our club of choice spirits (cheers), and so shamefully nicknamed by our
enemies 'The Morbid Club.' (Groans.) Irritated at our exclusiveness, and
envious at the reports of the superior talent that circulates nightly at
our table, and which bursts into a halo of genius on our great
saturnalias, what wonder, gentlemen, if the worthy members of our select
club should make enemies out of their own circle? Only 'birds of a
feather flock together,' and perhaps the contempt of our enemies is the
best compliment they can pay us." (Hear, hear! and various shouts and
yells of delight, amid clapping of hands, stamping, and rattling of
glasses.) Here the chairman paused to take breath, and then, after a
preliminary sip at his glass of punch, proceeded.
"Gentlemen, I feel duly sensible of the honour conferred upon me this
evening in being selected to preside at our meeting on this very
important occasion, an honour which I feel unable to support, and for
which I feel my abilities so inadequate. (No, no!) Gentlemen, we are a
company of nine this evening, the number of the muses--the omen is
auspicious. I see around me faces that were present at the inauguration
of our club, ten years ago, though others, alas! have gone to their long
rest." Here the speaker was visibly moved, and passed his hand over his
eyes to wipe away an incipient tear. Then, recovering himself, "Need I
proceed, gentlemen? Need I trespass longer upon the time and patience of
guests so illustrious? (Yes, yes!) Then, gentlemen," continued the
speaker, "I would but detain you one moment longer, to propose the
following toast, to be drunk with three times three. (Hear, hear!) 'Long
live the "Wonder Club," and all its choice members.'" Here the
president, at the conclusion of his speech, held a bumper above his
head, and repeated the toast with the rest of the company, with a "Hip,
hip, hip, hurrah!" "May their brains be as fertile as the plains of
Elysium, and may the fame of the 'Wonder Club' spread to the ends of the
earth." This sentiment was followed by a burst of applause.
In the midst of the stamping, cheering, and rattling of glasses that
ensued a knock was heard at the door. Who could it be? The landlord? It
was not his wont to disturb the club for a trifle. He only made his
appearance when called for. What was it? Was the inn on fire? Who could
venture to disturb the solemn meeting of the "Wonder Club" on their
tenth anniversary? One of the members rose from his seat and opened the
door ajar, still holding the handle in his hand.
"Who is it? What do you want at this hour?" he asked.
"I beg pardon, gentlemen," said the voice of the honest landlord
without, "for disturbing the company; but a gentleman has just brought a
letter for the chairman, and I thought it _might_ be important.
Leastways, I thought it wouldn't be much harm to deliver it at once.
The gentleman has sent in his card. Excuse the interruption, sirs; I
hope no offence."
The letter was delivered to Mr. Oldstone. He glanced at the card.
"What, a visitor!" he said; "and at this time of night. Let me tell you,
landlord--ahem--that this is a most unwarrantable infringement
of--er--er--of the rules laid down by--er--eh? Stay, what have we here?
Excuse me, gentlemen, while I break the seal. Ha! from my old friend
Rustcoin. You remember him, gentlemen--my brother antiquary, formerly a
member of our club. He writes from Rome:
"'MY DEAR FRIEND,--I dare say you are surprised to hear from me again,
after my long silence. The fact is that I had put off writing to you,
having some time ago formed a resolution of returning to England, when I
hoped to surprise you by suddenly appearing unexpectedly in time for the
tenth anniversary of the inauguration of our club. Certain affairs,
however, have prevented me from being present myself in the flesh, but I
beg to introduce to your notice my young friend, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, an
artist who has for some time past been prosecuting his studies here in
Rome. He is a young man of talent and genius, possessing a great fund of
stories of the marvellous and supernatural order, such as your club
particularly prides itself on. He is quite one of our sort, and you
would be doing me a great favour to introduce him to the rest of the
members. If he could arrive in time for your grand saturnalia, I should
be doubly pleased.--Your old friend,
"'CHARLES RUSTCOIN.'"
"Well, gentlemen," said the president, "what do you say to that? Shall
the neophyte be admitted? You see, he is not a commercial traveller, nor
a business man, but an artist; one of those restless strivers after the
ideal. A traveller, too--a man full of stories, like one of us. What do
you say--shall he be admitted?"
The guests gave an unanimous consent, and the next moment our host
ushered the stranger into the club-room. All eyes were directed towards
the stranger. He was a young man, bordering on thirty, about the middle
height, who, contrary to the custom of the period, wore his own hair,
which at that time was considered extremely vulgar. He wore a slouch hat
instead of the usual three-cornered shape, and an Italian cloak thrown
over the left shoulder.
He doffed his hat with dignity and courtesy as he entered the apartment,
and after shaking the snow from his cloak (for it had been snowing hard
without that night, being in December), he handed cloak and hat to the
landlord and accepted the offer of a chair that Mr. Oldstone had placed
for him near the fire.
"Here! mine host," shouted Mr. Oldstone, "bring another log, and see
that you make this gentleman comfortable to-night, for I see without
asking him any questions that he is one of our set."
"Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord, who was just leaving the room. "Never
fear, sir, I'll see to the gentleman's wants, and my old woman will warm
the bed, for it's a nasty night to be out in. My blessed eyes, how it
snows! The gentleman must have had pressing business with you, sir, to
bring him out here such a night as this."
"No, my good host," replied the artist; "nothing more than a desire to
be present at the tenth anniversary of the club that I have heard so
much about."
The host looked astonished, and the guests felt flattered. The
landlord's respect for the members of the club was augmented
considerably.
"Well, well; to think of that, now," he muttered to himself. "To think
that this gentleman should trouble himself to come from who knows how
far off, just to be present at the tenth anniversary of _our_ club, and
on such a night as this, too."
"By the by, Mr. Hearty," said the new comer to the landlord: "I believe
that's your name, is it not?"
"The same, sir; Jack Hearty, at your service, sir."
"Well, then, Jack Hearty, I have just come from foreign parts, where I
have left an old customer of yours; one Mr. Rustcoin, a great friend of
Mr. Oldstone's. Do you recollect him?"
"_Recollect_ him!" exclaimed the landlord. "Ay, indeed, sir, do I; a
pleasanter gentleman over his bottle of port or over his bowl of punch
hasn't crossed my threshold since he left it. Many's the good yarn we
would have together. I hope you left him very well, sir?"
"In excellent health, thank you, Jack," said the stranger. "He desired
to be remembered to you."
"Thank you, sir," said the host.
"Yes; those slippers will do," said the new guest.
"Draw near to the table, my friend," said Mr. Oldstone, "for I must
introduce you to the other members and guests here to-night."
"My friends," said the chairman, "this gentleman is Mr. Vandyke McGuilp,
an artist from Rome, great friend of my old chum Rustcoin, whom most of
you knew. Mr. McGuilp, this gentleman on my right is Mr. Hardcase, the
lawyer, who will be the first to relate a story to-night. On his right
is Dr. Bleedem, one of our celebrated physicians; next to him is Mr.
Cyanite, professor of geology, and then comes Mr. Blackdeed, one of our
eminent tragedians; next to him is Mr. Parnassus, a young poet of great
promise; after him is Mr. Crucible, analytical chemist, one of the
oldest members of our club; next to him, as guest to-night, is Captain
Toughyarn, commander of Her Majesty's good ship the _Dreadnought_; then,
next door neighbour to yourself is Mr. Jollytoast, celebrated low
comedian."
The new visitor bowed to each guest at the table with urbanity, and the
guests returned the salute cordially.
"Well, gentlemen," began the president, "what do you say to a bumper to
the health of our new guest?"
"Hear, hear!" cried the guests, unanimously.
Each filled up his glass from the punch-bowl, and our artist's health
was drunk with cheers, to which he responded in a short and modest
speech. (Applause.)
"And now, Mr. Hardcase," said the chairman, after the formalities were
gone through, "I think it was arranged that you should tell the first
story. I hope you have one ready. I am anxious for my young friend to
hear a specimen of our far-famed recitals. In this club," said Mr.
Oldstone, addressing the artist, "we always esteem those stories the
highest that are true, and especially if they are facts coming under the
experience of the relater. What sort of story may we expect from you
to-night, Mr. Hardcase?"
"The story I intended to start the club with to-night is one that I
myself took part in in my younger days, and which, although I never
related to any of the club before, I have been upon the point of
relating a hundred times, when I have been invariably interrupted by
someone else who had some other tale to relate. The story I have in
store for you this evening, gentlemen, I propose to entitle 'The Phantom
Flea.'"
"Ha, Bravo!" laughed the guests. "The Phantom Flea! Ha! ha! ha!"
"I assure you, gentlemen," said the lawyer, gravely, "that the narrative
I am about to relate is not one to provoke mirth. It is of a solemn
character, I can promise you. No one felt less inclined to laugh than I
did when I was reluctantly compelled to take part in this tragedy.
Though by no means a timid man, I, nevertheless, experienced a sort of
cold shiver all down my back when----"
"Exactly so," said the doctor.
"And each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful
porcupine," quoted Mr. Blackdeed, the tragedian.
"Belay that," roared Captain Toughyarn, from the depths of his
stentorian lungs, "and make room on board for the 'Phantom Flea.'"
"Bedad, and sure I feel myself itching all over alriddy," broke in Mr.
Jollytoast, assuming an Irish brogue, and scratching himself.
"Order, order! Chair, chair!" called out other guests.
"Silence! gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, with authority, thumping on the
table; "the story is just about to commence."
"The performance is just a-goin' to begin," broke in the incorrigible
little comedian, assuming the air of a showman. "Valk up, valk up,
ladies and gentlemen."
"Hush! Mr. Jollytoast," said the antiquary. "Hush! gentlemen, for the
'Phantom Flea.'"
"Tremulous music, lights half down," muttered the tragedian; but he was
instantly silenced by the chairman.
Mr. Oldstone gave one final authoritative thump on the table, and
glanced severely at all the guests. The silence that ensued was awful,
while Mr. Hardcase, after a sip at his glass and a puff at his long
churchwarden, began his story in the following manner:
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE PHANTOM FLEA.--THE LAWYER'S STORY.[1]
One morning, many years ago, whilst sitting idly in my chambers in town,
I received a letter from Baron ---- to come down for a few days to his
country seat in ----shire. It was on business he wanted me; he had got
involved in some quarrel. The case was about to be brought before the
court, and the Baron wanted a legal adviser.
[1] In the spirit world all those who have been bloodthirsty to
excess inhabit the forms of fleas.--WILLIAM BLAKE, _Poet and
Visionary_. (_Quoted from memory._)
Having heard much of my abilities, as he said, he thought he could not
do better than write to me at once. He regretted that business would
prevent him from being at the Hall on my arrival, but he hoped to return
home some time the next day. In the meantime he had told his housekeeper
to make up a bed for me at the Hall, and had left open his bookcase,
lest the time might hang heavy on my hands.
Glad of an excuse to leave town, as it was getting very hot and I had
nothing to do, I took the stage, and towards the middle of the next day
found myself in front of the Baron's country seat.
It was a fine, stately mansion, surrounded by a moat. I crossed the
drawbridge, and inquired whether the Baron was at home. A respectable
matron answered the door. She replied in the negative to my question.
Then, asking if I were Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, and learning that I
was, she said "The Baron left word that he would be at home some time
to-morrow, or the day after for certain; that in the meantime you were
to make yourself quite at home, sir."
"Oh, very well," said I; "I am rather tired just at present. Leave me
here among the Baron's books. When I have sufficiently rested I should
like to look over the house. It seems a curious old place."
"Yes, sir, it is a _very_ old place," said the housekeeper. "But
wouldn't you like to take a little refreshment first?"
Being then past one o'clock, and having had but a hurried breakfast, I
thanked her and said I thought I could manage a little light
refreshment. She then left me alone, but soon returned with a tray
containing what seemed to be the fag end of a sumptuous banquet. There
was venison pasty, a boiled leg of turkey, some ham, vegetables, bread
and cheese, salad, raspberry and currant tart, a bottle of good old
crusted port, some sherry, Burgundy, etc.
Having done justice to this light repast, I rang the bell for the things
to be cleared away; after which I took down a great number of volumes
from the bookcase, and throwing myself into an easy-chair, I deposited
the books in a heap upon the floor, and began examining their titles,
and occasionally reading a passage here and there when it interested me.
The first book I laid hands on was "Fox's Book of Martyrs," with plates
showing the various modes of torture by which the early Christians were
put to death. I passed on to the next. This was a book of Chinese
punishments, with Chinese illustrations. I opened the book at a plate of
a man being skinned alive.
Having little taste for these sort of horrors, I closed the book and
passed on to the next. The third book was a description of celebrated
executions, with a plate as frontispiece of a man being hanged, drawn,
and quartered. "The Baron seems fond of the horrible," I thought, and I
took up another. This was on bull-baiting, cock-fighting, and other
cruel sports. Another was a book on poisons. A sixth, on the various
modes of self-defence. A seventh, a book on field sports. I put down the
book for a moment and sat musing, trying to imagine to myself what
manner of man the Baron might be. I gazed round the room, and noticed
that it was hung round by trophies of the chase--stags' antlers, foxes'
brushes, intermingled with guns, powder-flasks, etc. Here and there were
hung half suits of armour, belonging, no doubt, to the Baron's
ancestors.
Then, from musing I fell into a dose, and dreamed of the wild hunter and
all sorts of curious and horrible things.
On awaking I reflected that I had not been over the house, so I went in
search of the housekeeper, who asked me if I would like to see the
picture gallery. Nothing loth, I followed my guide, who pointed me out
the portraits of the present Baron's ancestors for I know not how many
generations back.
The portrait of the present Baron was not amongst them. I noticed a
strong family likeness running through all of the portraits, and I
wondered if the Baron inherited the likeness. I asked the housekeeper,
and she assured me that he did in a very striking degree. On leaving the
gallery, I passed through long oaken corridors, through immense chambers
hung with tapestry, on which were depicted either battles or scenes of
the chase.
"The Baron inherits the tastes of his ancestors, it would appear," I
said to the matron.
"Ah! sir," said she, with a sigh, and tried to force a smile, but it was
a bitter one.
I took little notice of her expression at the time, and soon after left
her, to stroll about in the garden. It was a spacious one, laid out in
good taste. There were terraces, broad velvet lawns, cedars of Lebanon,
avenues of yew trees, glimpses of distant hills, flower beds, luxuriant
with every variety of the choicest flowers. There were broad walks and
serpentine paths, oaks, beeches, elms; a lake with an island in the
middle, which was reached by a rustic bridge; weeping-willows,
summer-houses, and everything that could be desired. I strolled about
the garden, struck with admiration every step I took at the exquisite
taste with which everything was carried out, and wondered how it was
that the same mind which took such delight in the horrible should
possess such exquisite refinement of taste in the planning of his
garden.
I doubted the garden being the result of the Baron's own taste, nor was
I mistaken, as I afterwards ascertained from the housekeeper. I strolled
back towards the house, which I examined carefully over for the second
time, then strolled out again into the garden, and so on till supper,
which I took about nine o'clock.
Feeling rather lonely, I invited Mrs. Wharton, the housekeeper, to keep
me company during my solitary meal. She sat down opposite to me as I
commenced devouring my cold fowl and tongue, and helped myself to a
glass of the Baron's ale. She was an agreeable old lady, and seemed to
have known better days.
"This is a curious old place," I began. "Have you any rats here?"
"No, sir, none now," answered the matron.
"Nor bugs?"
"No."
"Nor fleas?"
"No, sir,--that is to say, only one," and her face assumed a solemn
expression.
"Only _one_!" I exclaimed, laughing.
"Yes, sir," said she, gravely--"only the _Phantom_; only the _Baron_."
"_Phantom! Baron!_" I exclaimed, bewildered. "Ah, you have a ghost story
in the family, I see; but I don't think you quite understood my
question," I said. "I did not inquire about phantoms, or barons; my
question referred simply to fleas."
"Yes, yes; I perfectly understand, sir," replied the matron; "and I
repeat that the _phantom flea_ is the only flea that inhabits this
mansion."
"_The Phantom Flea!_" Here I exploded. "Well, of all the odd
superstitions I ever heard of, that beats them all. Really, my good
woman, you should _not_--you should not, indeed, believe in such trash."
"Ah, sir," replied the matron, "it is plain to see that you are a
stranger in these parts. Is it possible you have never heard of the
'Baron's flea?'"
"Never in all my life before, I assure you, my good woman," I replied;
"but, as it is a thing apparently well known, I should like to hear the
particulars of the case."
"Well, sir," began the housekeeper, "you must know that some two hundred
years or so back one of the Baron's ancestors, one Sir Ralph ----
inhabited this mansion. The room that you will sleep in to-night was his
room; the self same bed and furniture that you saw this morning were
there in his time. He was not a man generally liked by those around him;
in fact, it would not be too much to say that he was universally hated.
No one could remember any good act or kind word of the Baron's. He was
cruel, bloodthirsty, tyrannical, avaricious, ambitious, and sensual.
From early youth he was always allowed to have his own way, and when he
came into power he was the scourge of the neighbourhood.
"There was no restraining his cruelty and malignity. Anyone who dared
oppose himself to his will was put to death. He thought no more of
taking the life of a peasant than one would in wringing the neck of a
fowl. Maidens were carried off with impunity, and sometimes murdered;
men were found stabbed or mangled to death by the Baron's hounds;
cottages were set fire to, and their inhabitants driven out to seek
refuge where they could; robberies were committed, churches pillaged,
convents sacked, monks driven out and occasionally burnt alive for
pastime; nuns carried off by ruffians to the Baron's hall; in short,
every species of outrage and plunder conceivable. Such a state of
affairs could not endure for ever. It gave rise to a rebellion. The
long-oppressed people would suffer it no longer, and rose to a man. They
would fain have broken into the Baron's hall, and have torn him limb
from limb; but the Baron's myrmidons were powerful and well armed; and,
cutting their way through the crowd with the Baron at their head, spared
neither man, woman, nor child.
"The mob, driven back, were subdued for a time; but the law interfered,
though with little better success; for the first time that constables
were sent to arrest the Baron, he sent them back again to those who sent
them with their noses and ears slit. Such an insult as this against the
servants of the law could not be stood any longer. Grand preparations
were made for the immediate arrest of the Baron and his ruffians, with
an order to raze his castle to the ground, which would most assuredly
have been carried into effect, had not the sudden death of the Baron
rendered such measures unnecessary.
"The Baron's death was mysterious. Some say he made away with himself,
rather than fall into the hands of justice. Others assert that he was
struck by lightning as a punishment for his many crimes. Others, that he
was killed in a fray. But the story most current is, that a man
introduced himself into the Baron's household as servant, whose bride
the Baron had dishonoured, and avenged himself by putting an end to the
Baron's life by poison.
"However this was, testimony goes much to prove that the Baron was found
dead in his bed. How long he took dying is uncertain, but tradition
tells that his last moments were horrible. He refused to see a father
confessor, and died in his sins.
"He was succeeded by his son, a peaceful and studious youth, much
beloved by the people, who did not seem to inherit a drop of the old
Baron's blood. In some of his later descendants, however, the spirit of
the old Baron seemed to reign again. When the death of the Baron was
made known, great rejoicings manifested themselves in the neighbourhood.
Everyone wanted to know the particulars of the Baron's mysterious end.
Strange stories were set afloat, many of which are believed to this day.
But one thing universally believed is, that, as a punishment for his
sins, the Baron's spirit is condemned to inhabit the form of a flea of
uncommon size, which sucks the blood of all strangers who sleep in that
bed. His power, however, is confined to that chamber. Other rooms are
left unmolested. The marks left on the body by the bite of this fell
insect are extremely large, being about the size of a wen, and the pain
endures for a considerable time. I can speak from experience, for I have
been bitten myself. The flea may be seen by anyone who chooses to sleep
in that room. One night spent in that chamber will be enough to convince
any unbeliever of the truth of my assertion.
"Many and futile have been the attempts to catch this obnoxious insect.
It eludes all chase. It was not for many years after the Baron's death,
and until many of the occupants of that chamber had been repeatedly
bitten, and all attempts to capture the offensive creature had been
abandoned in despair, that the belief that the Baron's spirit inhabited
its fell body grew firmly rooted in the minds of the surrounding gentry.
"If, after what I have related to you, sir, you feel inclined to change
your room, I shall have much pleasure in making you up a bed in another
chamber, although it is against the Baron's orders; for, knowing what a
wretched night you _must_ spend within that haunted chamber, I feel a
compassion for you, sir, and all strangers that the Baron cruelly hands
over to the spirit of his wicked ancestor."
"On the contrary, Mrs. Wharton," I said, "I have the greatest curiosity
to encounter this wonderful flea. Your conversation has been most
interesting, and as it is now past ten o'clock, I don't care how soon I
make his aristocratic acquaintance."
"Do as you please, sir," said Mrs. Wharton, "but if you should feel
uncomfortable in the night, you've but to knock at my door, the next
room to yours, and I will gladly make you up a bed in No. 12."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Wharton; I am much obliged to you all the same. I
have no doubt that the Baron and I will be capital friends."
"Well, sir, I wish you a pleasant night of it, I am sure," said the
housekeeper, as she handed me a candle. "Good-night, sir."
"Good-night, Mrs. Wharton."
I walked up stairs to the haunted chamber. Having reached the landing, I
entered my room and locked myself in for the night. In spite of my
forced levity, I must admit that I felt a certain feeling of awe come
over me upon entering the chamber once occupied by the author of so many
crimes. I could not but think that Mrs. Wharton herself thoroughly
believed in what seemed to me a popular superstition, but the more I
reflected on what she had told me of the Baron's crimes, the less
ludicrous did the idea of the Baron's metempsychosis appear to me.
What, after all, was there ridiculous in a flea more than in any other
hideous creature? The feeling of the ludicrous in my mind was supplanted
by one of horror. "There are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophy," I muttered. I could not make up my mind
to go to rest immediately. In fact, I did not feel in the least sleepy.
I busied myself in examining the room minutely to see if there were any
trap-door or sliding panel; and, tapping all the walls, expected every
moment to touch some spring and for some panel to fly back, discovering
a secret staircase. I examined the bed and under the bed, but could
discover nothing. The Baron's portrait hung over the mantelpiece. I
lifted up the picture to see if there was any hole in the wall
underneath, but there was nothing but good solid panel; nor could I in
any part of the room discover anything suspicious. I partially undressed
and seated myself in a large arm-chair in front of the Baron's portrait.
I was extremely interested in the perusal of his features, and had no
difficulty in believing all the atrocities attributed to the original.
The more I gazed at it, the more it fascinated me. I could not take my
eyes from it. Somehow or other the features seemed familiar to me; I
fancied I had seen them somewhere. I tried to collect my thoughts. Where
had I seen them before?
Suddenly I recollected a horrible criminal, who had murdered a whole
family and committed other heinous atrocities, and had been executed a
year or two before. I had to plead for him at the trial, but the
evidence was so strong against him, that no earthly power could save him
from the gibbet. The likeness between this wretch and the portrait
before me was very remarkable. This, then, was the incarnation of deep
crime. These are the features that mark a life given up to every sort of
cruelty, licentiousness, and depravity. The physiognomy was peculiar,
and never to be forgotten when once seen. The head was round as a
bullet, the hair red, short and bristly, the moustache and peaked beard
of the same hue; the eyes greenish, and obliquely set in the head, like
those of a cat, with an expression of the most indescribable ferocity
and malice. The eyebrows red and tufted, running up also in an oblique
direction, one of them being considerably higher than the other. Between
the brows was a deep line. The forehead was flat, and retired from the
temples in two separate peaks, that appeared to run up nearly to the
back of his head; the nose was at once hooked and flat, like the bill of
a parrot; the mouth was wide; the lips thin and compressed, with
unpleasant lines at the corners; the chin and jaw square and massive;
the neck resembling that of a bull; the ears were unusually large, and
stuck out at the sides; the complexion was florid, with two pouches
under the eyes, which seemed to drag the eyes down and give them a
bloodshot appearance. A deep line in the cheeks, extending from each
wing of the nose to the corners of the mouth, gave to the countenance a
look of cynical disdain, and completed a portrait at once characteristic
and revolting. The costume was early Elizabethan, and the arms of the
Baron, together with his name and his age--forty-six--when the portrait
was taken, were depicted with the date in the corner of the picture. For
a while I sat musing. "Fit spirit," I muttered, "to inhabit the form of
a flea! Heartless, worthless, bloodthirsty." I gazed at the portrait
with feelings of horror and disgust. The eyes seemed to answer my
expression with a look of anger.
I was unable to judge of the merits of the picture as a work of art,
being little versed in such matters; but of one thing I am certain, that
the painter had endeavoured to imitate as truthfully as it lay in his
power all the leading characteristics of the Baron's physiognomy without
any attempt at flattery.
As I mused it grew late; it was now just upon midnight. I finished
undressing and climbed into my bed, a high old-fashioned four-poster
with heavy embroidered curtains. The Baron still scowled at me from the
mantelpiece, but, without returning his gaze, I set to work diligently
to search for the flea. I drew back the top sheet slowly until the whole
bed was uncovered. I shook the blankets and counterpane and looked under
the pillow, but all in vain, not a glimpse of a flea was visible. It was
a clean, well-aired bed, so, feeling now rather sleepy, I covered myself
up with the bed-clothes and blew out the light, with every prospect of
a good night's rest before me. But, alas! how soon was I undeceived.
Hardly had I gone off into my first sleep, when I was suddenly awoke
from a delicious dream with a sharp, sudden pang, like a stab or the
tooth of some venomous reptile in the fleshy part of my thigh. I started
up in horror, hardly able to restrain a slight shriek. The night was
dark and stormy, the winds howled without, and the old mansion shook
from its foundations. "The Phantom Flea!" I muttered, horrified, and
reached out my hand for my tinder-box; but before I was able to strike a
light, I experienced a second sharp stinging pain in the small of the
back, then another in the calf of my leg. By this time I had succeeded
in striking a light. Some scorpion, I thought. So, lighting my candle, I
commenced a rigid search.
At length I caught sight of the vile insect. There it was, sure enough,
a flea, and no mistake about it, but what a monster! It must have been
the size of a coffee bean. What legs! How it hopped from one side of the
bed to the other!
Well, gentlemen, I used my utmost endeavours to capture it; and here let
me add that I am generally rather expert at that sort of game, having
had some practice in my time; but, would you believe it, gentlemen, it
foiled all my best endeavours, although I kept it in sight all the time.
I was a full hour and a half engaged in this undignified chase. The
"Phantom Flea" defied me to the last. What was I to do? I couldn't sit
up all night hunting a flea, and yet to get any sleep with such a
monster in the bed was equally impossible. Suddenly I recollected that I
had a small bottle of opium in my waistcoat pocket, which I had
purchased the day before to relieve a toothache that I had caught from
sitting in the theatre at one end of a row of stalls, close to the door,
which kept continually opening and shutting. I rose and searched for the
bottle, and swallowed more, perhaps, than under ordinary circumstances
would have been good for me, got into bed again, and blew out the light.
The first sensation I experienced was that of a deliciously gradual
dropping off to sleep, but the keenness of my senses was increased a
hundred-fold. My memory and my imagination bordered on the abnormal.
Every event in my life, from the cradle up to the present moment, rose
before my mind in microscopic detail.
The room was dark; nevertheless, my eye, grown accustomed to the light,
and sharpened by the effects of the opium, enabled me to discover every
object in the room distinctly. There was the bed, the counterpane, every
little tuft worked on it with painful distinctness. There was the
texture of the sheets; every fibre of the blankets, and last, but not
least, the "Phantom Flea" hopping about and around me, and biting me
here and there at his pleasure. The opium in some measure relieved the
severity of the bite, though the latter was still painful enough to
prevent me from going off to sleep altogether. The sensation of delirium
(for I can call it nothing else) caused by the opium seemed to
increase. The room appeared to grow lighter and lighter, till it seemed
to glow with a phosphoric glare.
My sight, hearing, and other senses grew rapidly more and more acute.
Everything around me seemed to swell and dilate into proportions
positively enormous. I felt myself grow larger, the bed grew larger, the
room grew larger, the picture grew larger, and the _flea_ grew larger.
Larger and larger swelled the bed; larger, _larger_, and ever larger
grew the flea, till it attained the proportions of a horse. I noticed
that the larger it grew, the less like a flea and more human it became.
At length it appeared to stop growing, and to decrease, if anything. It
had now assumed the size of a man, and a form almost human. There it
stood at the foot of my bed, with its arms folded on its breast, and its
eye steadily fixed upon mine. How shall I describe the horror of my
situation--feeling my eyes rivetted on that hideous face with a
preternatural fascination? To remove them was impossible. Yet to gaze on
it further was death. I can describe my feelings to nothing else than
the sensation of gradually turning into stone. I felt life fast ebbing
from me. My head whirled, I gasped for breath. I tried to speak, to
implore for mercy, but my voice was gone. I felt my last moment had
come.
The remorseless flea seemed conscious of my agony, and gloated on my
sufferings, for he never took his stony eye off me all the while. Unable
to move, and bathed in a profuse perspiration, I must have died in
another instant from sheer agony and terror, had I not by a supernatural
effort gathered up my last dying energies, and burst out in a loud,
despairing yell that seemed to pierce the walls of the whole house. I
felt the spell broken for the time. The fiend himself seemed startled by
the sudden and preternatural shrillness of the scream, and for a moment
changed the expression of his countenance. Feeling his eye no longer
fixed upon mine with that fearful intensity, I dared to breathe again;
but I had awoke Mrs. Wharton in the next room, and she knocked at my
door to ask me what was the matter.
"Nothing, thank you," I said; "only a dream; don't be alarmed."
So Mrs. Wharton retired to her room again.
The monster who had never left me during all this time, at length spoke.
"I have summoned you here to-night, because I have need of you. I am
that Baron Ralph, the ruthless, whose deeds of bloodshed you have
already heard of, and for which deeds he is condemned nightly to inhabit
the form of a flea. You have experienced my power, and your paltry
scepticism has been shaken. Listen now to me. I do not always inhabit
the contemptible form in which you first saw me. In the daytime I wander
to and fro on the earth, and inhabit by turns the bodies of such men
whose natural propensities are in harmony with my own. Wretch! do you
know that the man, who, through your inability to save, was executed
for some few paltry murders, was none other than myself in the flesh?
That it was _my_ body that suffered the pain and disgrace of execution,
_my_ spirit that was driven back by your incapacity, to inhabit the form
of one of the vilest of insects? Think not to escape my resentment. I
have need of you again, it is true, but I do not ask you a favour, I
command you to obey. Spirits of my order do not ask; they command and
threaten, and if disobeyed, punish."
Aware of the awful power of this fell being and knowing all resistance
vain, I thought it best to assume as humble a position as I could, in
order to milden the severity of his look and manner--that fearful look
that I had experienced only a few minutes ago, and which might kill me
outright a second time. Therefore I prostrated myself before him on the
bed, and in the most abject tones began.
"Illustrious flea! I will do all----"
"Irreverent varlet!" exclaimed the Baron, fiercely, darting at me a
glance from his evil eye that froze my very marrow. "That name is
offensive to me, another such title as that, and I'll--I'll"--here the
Baron's face went through the most hideously savage contortions that it
is possible to imagine. The Baron's portrait taken in the flesh was ugly
enough, but it was an ideal of manly beauty compared with the infernal
aspect of this demon flea before me.
"Mercy! mercy!" cried I, gasping.
"Oh, yes, 'Mercy, mercy,'" retorted the Baron, with a sneer. "Very well,
then, this time, but mind----" Here his countenance again assumed a
ferocious expression. "Ha! ha!" he cried. "You thought to outwit me by
taking opium to deaden my bite. Fool! know it was _I_ who made you buy
that opium; not to make you _sleep_, but to _awaken_ your dull senses to
such a pitch that the gross material clay that clogs your vision might
be, as it were, doffed for a moment, and that your keener eyesight might
be able to grasp my form a degree nearer resembling that which I bore in
the flesh, thereby in a measure removing the barrier between our beings;
and each, as it were, meeting on neutral ground, to the end that you
should know my pleasure and obey my commands. It was I who caused you to
catch that toothache, by inspiring you to go to the theatre. It was I
who so ordained the distribution of the tickets that that ticket near
the door should fall to your lot, where I knew you would take cold in
the tooth, being subject to the toothache. I then, by my subtle arts,
caused you to buy that bottle of opium and bring it here with you. I
then worried you by continual biting, till I forced you to seek comfort
in that opium bottle, and now that your usually obtuse senses are raised
to that abnormal state necessary to converse with beings of my order,
listen, and give ear to what I have to say."
"Awful being, say on," I muttered.
"You must know, then," he continued, "that my spirit inhabits by day
the body of the present Baron who bears my name, though at night I am
compelled to assume the ignoble shape of a flea. At this present moment
my descendant lies in his bed lifeless. My spirit will animate his clay
to-morrow. Call upon him early, and you will learn from him what I have
not time to discuss with you now, as it is now daybreak and my power is
on the wane. Farewell."
So saying, he gradually decreased in size, losing every moment more and
more of the _human_ element that he had assumed, and growing more and
more into the likeness of a flea the smaller he grew, till he returned
to the size he appeared when I first saw him, and then vanished
mysteriously. The exciting effects of the opium had worn off, but they
had given place to a feeling of deep depression. My head felt too heavy
for me, and ached terribly; my eyeballs were as if weighed down by lead.
I could not sleep comfortably, and I was too lazy to get up. I loathed
my own existence, and hated everybody and everything around me. Thoughts
of suicide haunted me, and I had a momentary thought of emptying the
whole of the remaining contents of the bottle down my throat, and so put
an end to my misery for ever. But then I bethought me of the Baron; it
might be the means of invoking again the "Phantom Flea."
He might be angry at being recalled, and possibly carry me off, soul and
all. I turned and tossed about restlessly in my bed, and kicked the
bed-clothes on to the floor. The cold grey dawn broke in at my window.
I thought I would get up, so, giving one desperate spring, I found
myself upon my feet. My tongue was parched, and a cold sweat matted my
hair. I felt a prodigious thirst, and emptied a whole water-bottle; then
I proceeded to dress, but I soon found that to shave was an utter
impossibility. My hand shook as with the palsy, so I abandoned the
attempt. Unshaven, unkempt, and negligently dressed, with haggard look
and listless steps, I sauntered about the lonely corridors of the
mansion like a restless spirit, until I heard the footsteps of Mrs.
Wharton about the house. I started at the slightest noise. I was soon
accosted by that worthy, who, of course, wanted to know how I had slept.
"I passed an indifferent night," I replied. "I foolishly took some opium
to make me sleep, and it has given me the headache. By the by,"--I said,
to change the conversation, so as to avoid being questioned, for I saw
the old lady was scanning my countenance--"by the by, where did you say
the Baron was staying? If not too far off, I should like to call upon
him; a walk might do me good."
"About five miles off, sir, in the next village, at the sign of 'The
Swan,'" said the housekeeper; "as straight as ever you can go, sir, you
can't miss it."
"Thank you," said I.
"Poor, poor, gentleman," I heard the housekeeper mutter to herself, as I
started off, "I knew he would suffer."
I set off at a brisk pace; the sun had just risen, a silver mist was
rising, and a gentle breeze somewhat alleviated the fever of my burning
brow, but my legs felt weak. I tottered on for half-a-mile further; here
I found a mile-stone and sat down to rest upon it. My reflections were
gloomy. My recollections of the previous night were painfully vivid. My
dream, my vision, my spiritual visitation, or whatever you like to call
it, did not vanish upon waking, like an ordinary dream, but remained
deeply rooted in my brain with fearful accuracy of detail. I recollected
word for word all the monster had uttered; recalled his tone of voice,
his remarkable shape--that curious and hideous blending of the
characteristics of the flea with the human form, the revolting, fiendish
ugliness of the _tout ensemble_, but above all, of that basilisk eye. My
blood ran cold as I thought of it.
"Have I then lived to hold converse with a being of the lower world?" I
muttered, to myself. "Am I awake, or is this but a continuation of the
dream?" I gave my arm a pinch, a hard twisted pinch, with all my might
and main, to ascertain if I were sleeping or waking, but the scene
before me remained the same, and my recollections of the past night were
as vivid as ever. I took off my hat to wipe my brow and let the cool
breeze play with my locks and about my heated temples. I gazed at the
smiling scene around me. What a contrast to the hell I bore within.
"O glorious orb!" I ejaculated, "author and vivifier of all nature,
through every grade of creation, illumine the haunted chambers of my
dark soul with thy golden beams; bring balm to my jaded spirit and renew
the bright hope of my earlier years. Give me strength to bear my
tottering limbs to the end of my pilgrimage; or, if that be not granted
me, take all there is left--take my life, great orb of day! Type of my
own once aspiring youth, quicken my flagging energies and breathe into
me new life, new hope, new strength."
Whilst thus apostrophising the rising sun, I experienced something like
the fire of my boyish days returning to my frame. I actually felt an
appetite. I rose from my seat considerably refreshed, and continued my
journey. I walked on with buoyant step; I had all but forgotten the
adventure of the past night. If it rose up before me again at intervals,
I speedily chased it from my mind.
At length I espied the village in the distance. Another half-mile led me
up to the door of "The Swan Inn." It was then about seven o'clock. A raw
country youth, evidently the boots, was beating a mat outside the door.
"Is the Baron within?" I asked.
"Wal, he b'ain't up yet, zur," replied the youth.
"Oh, never mind," I said, "I will wait, and as soon as he is up tell him
a gentleman is waiting to see him."
"Very well, zur."
"Would you like to wait here in the parlour, sir?" said the buxom
landlady, who had overheard our dialogue. "The Baron can't be long; he
is generally up by this time, or if you will follow me, sir, I will
knock at his door, and you can wait in his sitting-room till he comes
out."
"Thank you," I said, as I followed the landlady upstairs, and was led
into the sitting-room. The landlady knocked at the Baron's door. No
answer.
"Don't awake him, pray," said I, "if he's asleep."
"Oh, but the Baron told me to call him early, sir."
She knocked again. Again no answer. The landlady paused a few moments to
listen if he was getting up, then tapped again louder, louder still, but
all was silent. The hostess ventured to open the door ajar. The Baron
was in bed. She entered the room. A pause, a slight scream, and the
landlady came running out to me, pale and terrified.
"Oh, sir," she said, in a faint voice, "the Baron--the
Baron--is--_dead_!"
"_Dead!_" I exclaimed. "When? how?"
"It is true, sir. Come and see."
I entered the Baron's chamber. There he lay, sure enough, to all
appearance dead. I touched him; he was as cold as ice. I was much struck
with the singular resemblance of the defunct Baron before me to the
portrait of Baron Ralph that hung over the mantelpiece in my chamber. It
is true that the Baron before me was a younger man, that he wore a
shaven face instead of a moustache and peaked beard, that the livid
colour of the corpse was unlike the florid complexion of Baron Ralph;
but the features were exact, the shape of the head, the colour of the
hair and the way it grew; the same tufted red eyebrows, the right one
considerably higher than the left; the same bent flat nose and tightly
compressed lips, with cruel lines at the corners; the chin, the jaw, the
deep line between the brows, in fact, the whole man seemed the exact
counterpart of the old Baron.
A horrible recollection passed through my mind. I remembered having seen
the criminal before alluded to after his execution. What a startling
likeness between the features of the executed criminal and those of the
Baron's corpse before me. I shuddered. A portion of the phantom's
conversation on the preceding night occurred to me suddenly. What
if--could it be that----
I called the landlady. The whole inn was in a state of confusion. The
news of the Baron's death had circulated through the whole village by
this time.
"Perhaps," said I, "the Baron may not be quite dead, he may be in a
trance, he may be---- At any rate, don't you think it would be best to
send for the doctor, to hear his opinion?"
The doctor was accordingly sent for, and arriving shortly, was at once
shown into the Baron's room. The landlady and a great part of the
household followed.
"Why, of course he's dead," replied the leech, brusquely, in answer to
their eager questions. "Can't you see that?"
"If, nevertheless," said I, timidly, "you would not mind opening a
vein----"
"I'll open a vein, if you like," he answered, bluntly; "but, I tell you,
the man's dead!"
Then, taking out his lancet, he opened a vein in the right arm.
"You see now, I hope," said the leech, "that it is utterly useless;
there is not a drop of blood."
"Then," said the landlady, "the Baron really _is_--dead?"
"Dead! _Dead as mutton_," replied the doctor.
At this juncture the face of the corpse grew violently convulsed, his
eyes rolled, the colour returned suddenly to his cheeks, and leaping
from the bed with terrific energy, he seized the bolster, with which he
belaboured the terrified inmates of "The Swan" right and left, knocking
over the little doctor, and sending me into the landlady's lap, and the
"boots" flying out of the room with a yell of terror, besides upsetting
every utensil of crockery that stood in the way.
"Dead, am I!" roared the Baron, "dead, eh! Where's that scurvy
apothecary--that spreader of plaisters, that pill-maker, that
cow-bleeder--that dared to open one of _my_ veins?"
The little doctor had crept under the bed.
"And you, sir," cried he, turning upon me, "for advising him to try his
filthy experiments upon me," and swinging round his bolster, sent me
tottering against the wall.
"Dead as _mutton_, eh! By the blood of my ancestors, I never had such
foul language used to me before. What! compare the aristocratic flesh
of one descended from such a line of ancestors as mine to mutton! Ugh!
_Mutton_, quotha? I'll mutton _you_," cried the Baron, aiming a blow at
the little doctor's head, which he caught peeping from beneath the bed.
The doctor ducked in his head, and attempted a clandestine escape on his
hands and knees by the door, but was immediately pulled back by the
coat-tails by the Baron.
"Not so easily, young vein-opener, do you escape the clutches of the
Baron. Bind up my wound, Sir Shaveling, and think yourself lucky that I
spare your paltry life for the vile trick which you, in your blind
ignorance of this phenomenon of my aristocratic constitution, dared to
practise upon me. Keep that instrument for the bleeding of cows and
horses. That's more in your line than the flesh of great nobles like
me."
The Baron's wound was bleeding profusely. The floor was covered with
pools of blood. The landlady had fallen into hysterics, and had to be
carried out of the room. The leech stammered out a sort of apology and
set meekly about his task of binding up the Baron's wound.
"Silence!" roared the Baron, "and no more prattle."
The arm being at length bound up, the doctor took his departure without
further severity on the part of the Baron, who had now cooled down
considerably.
Whether it was the loss of blood, or what, a marked change had taken
place in the Baron's demeanour. He apologised amply to me for the
effects of hereditary temper of which he was the victim, and invited me
to breakfast. The breakfast was brought up by the landlord himself, as
everyone else refused to enter the Baron's apartments, saying that the
Baron must be the devil himself, and no one else.
"I'm afraid," said the Baron, addressing the landlord, "that I
frightened your good lady dreadfully this morning, eh?"
"Well, my lord," said the host, "she did take on about it a little,
but----"
"I am sincerely sorry for my rudeness," apologised the Baron, "but my
infirmity is ungovernable. It is a disease I inherit from my ancestors;
I am given every now and then to some uncontrollable burst of passion
when my nerves are a little out of order, which is generally the first
thing in the morning."
"Indeed, my lord," said the good-hearted landlord, with some compassion
in his face, "but your lordship's sudden coming to life again after the
doctor had pronounced you dead, that was what staggered us all
downstairs."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the Baron. "Yes; well, I dare say it did appear rather
startling, but it is nothing to those who know me. The fact is, I am
subject to a peculiar sort of trance, much resembling death; that also I
inherit from my ancestors."
"Well, my lord, it's strange. I hope it's nothing dangerous. At any
rate, I am glad to see your lordship looking so well again," said the
host.
"Thank you, thank you, my good host," replied the Baron.
"It would have been an ugly thing, you know, my lord, for your lordship
to have died suddenly in my inn. It would have looked like foul play,"
said the landlord.
"True, true, my good host; I understand," replied his lordship. "I trust
you'll convey my best apologies to your good lady for----"
"Oh, I trust your lordship won't mention it," said the landlord; "and if
there is anything else your lordship may require----"
"Nothing, thank you," said the Baron; and the landlord left the room.
I was surprised at the change in the Baron's manner. Perhaps, after all,
he might not be so bad as he appeared. His infirmity of temper was
certainly against him. His personal appearance no less so. Nevertheless,
in his better moments he appeared to possess the manners of a gentleman.
I began to fancy that the experiences of the past night might, after
all, have been a dream, until I caught sight again of the enormous
flea-bites on my hands, which still smarted.
The Baron's manner to me during breakfast was most affable. After
breakfast we left the inn together and strolled leisurely towards the
Hall. On the way the Baron made me acquainted with the particulars of
his case, and I promised to do the best I could to serve him.
Nevertheless, I saw at once that the Baron was most decidedly in the
wrong. I told him it was likely to go hard with him; in fact, I said I
did not see how he could well get off.
The Baron frowned, and we walked on in silence towards the Hall. That
very day the case was tried at the assizes, and in spite of all my
efforts, the Baron lost. I will not weary you with the details of the
case. Suffice it that there was oppression and injustice on the part of
the Baron which could not be excused, resulting from a morbid belief in
his own importance.
After the court broke up the Baron led me in silence to the Hall and
beckoned me to his room, the walls of which were covered over with every
sort of weapon of defence under the sun. There were pistols, daggers,
blunderbusses, rapiers, broadswords, cutlasses, Malay creases, poisoned
spear heads, a two-handed sword, probably belonging to his ancestor of
cruel memory, and an iron bar to which were attached a chain and ball of
spikes.
On entering the room he slammed the door, and turning suddenly upon me,
he hissed out, "Paltry pettifogger, this is the second time that through
your d----d bungling I have been brought to disgrace. Not content with
hanging me once, you have played me foul a second time. But think not to
escape me now," and he cleared the room with one terrific stride. (Now
almost for the first time I noticed the enormous length of the Baron's
legs.) "Choose your weapons," he cried, "and thank your stars that I
don't fell you on the spot as I would an ox."
"But--but--I don't see how you have a right to--to--I did all in my
power to----" stammered I. "I don't think you ought to be offended.
Reflect, my dear Baron," I said. "I am sure, in your better mood, you
will see the matter in another light."
"No more prating, but choose your weapon," screamed the Baron.
"Really, Baron," I said, "this conduct of yours is contrary to all the
generally received etiquette in duelling. There are no seconds present,
nothing regular. I accept your challenge, if you really cannot be
brought to reason, but if I die, it must be like a gentleman, in a
regular duel, with all the usual ceremony."
"Driveller! dost prate to me of ceremony? But have it your own way,"
said the Baron. "You do not escape me this time."
"I will write to a friend of mine from town," I said. "Meanwhile, I have
the pleasure of wishing your lordship a remarkably good morning."
I opened the door and made for the staircase, but, with two immense
strides, the Baron was at my heels.
"Take that, Sir Bungler," cried he, and lifting one of his enormous
legs, lunged forth a kick upon that part of my person anatomically known
as the _Glutaeus Major_, which sent me flying from the top of the stairs
to the bottom, at the imminent risk of breaking my neck; but, as good
luck would have it, I landed safely on my feet. Nevertheless the insult
stung me to the quick.
I turned round indignantly, yet striving to master my passion, in order
to preserve my dignity, and said, "Baron, you are no gentleman."
With the yell of a wounded tiger, the Baron vaulted with one bound from
the top of the staircase to the bottom, just as my hand was on the door.
I opened it and slammed it again in his face, and walked briskly in the
direction of the village. I heard the door open behind me and the
Baron's fearful footsteps after me.
I do not know what would have become of me, if just at that moment an
over-driven bull had not come to my rescue and stood between me and the
Baron. Seeing a man striding towards him furiously, he imagined the
attack was meant for himself, and accordingly stood on the defensive.
The Baron tried to pass, but the bull lowered his horns, and looked
menacing, so he wisely retreated to his Hall.
Arrived at "The Swan," I demanded pen, ink, and paper, and wrote to my
friend in town to come to me for the purpose of performing the office of
second, after which I endeavoured to kill time in this lonely village
till dinner. Feeling hungry, I made a sumptuous repast and turned into
bed with feelings full of revenge towards the Baron.
"No more Phantom Fleas to-night," I said to myself as I tucked myself
up in my comfortable little bed at "The Swan," and soon fell into a
sound sleep.
And now, said the lawyer, when he had got thus far in his narrative, I
must root up an old and very painful subject that occurred in my early
life, and which I would fain have allowed to rest for ever.
In my earlier days, when as yet I had no fixed profession, during my
travels in Italy, I became enamoured of a beautiful Italian girl. Poor
Mariangela! how she loved me! That girl possessed the soul of an angel.
I see her before me now, with her sweet, dreamy, saintlike eyes, and her
quiet graceful step. We were never married, for I was not in a position
then to support a wife. She vowed that she would never love anyone else
but me. We parted, and--and--she died; died through love of me.
(Here the lawyer became visibly affected and hastily brushed away a
tear-drop with his hand. Mastering himself at length, he resumed.)
On her death-bed she sent for me. I arrived just in time to catch her
parting breath. When I stooped down to kiss her she hung a small relic
of some saint that had been blessed by the Pope, suspended with a piece
of ribbon, round my neck, and begged me to wear it for her sake, and
said that it would preserve me from all harm. Poor girl! she died in my
arms; I followed her to the grave and was for a long time inconsolable.
But time, that changes everything, changed me. A tender recollection of
her past love only remained; the wild tumultuous passion I had felt for
her while living, and the overwhelming grief I experienced at her death,
had subsided. For two years I wore the relic she gave me round my neck.
Not because I believed in its virtue, not being a Roman Catholic myself,
but for her sake alone--in remembrance of _her_. Afterwards, however, I
wore it less often, and at length discontinued wearing it altogether. I
kept it still at the bottom of my trunk, between the leaves of a book.
This trunk I left in town when I went down to the Baron's. The key, I
must tell you, I had lost a day or two before. I was just thinking of
sending for the locksmith when I received the Baron's letter to come
down to his place for a day or two. I left town hurriedly and the box
behind me, locked--the key lost.
Ever since poor Mariangela's death, even long after I had ceased to
think of her regularly, I have remarked that in those periods of my life
when I was in any difficulty her spirit used to appear to me in a dream
and counsel me, and being guided by her counsel, I found my way
invariably out of my dilemma. When weighed down by any great grief she
was sure to appear and console me.
That night when I turned into my snug little bed at "The Swan," no one
was further from my thoughts than that poor Italian girl who loved me so
well. My thoughts were far too full of ill-feeling towards the Baron and
the preparations for the coming duel to allow room for anything else.
Nevertheless, I had a most remarkable dream towards morning. I thought
Mariangela came towards me as I lay in bed, and reproached me for having
left off wearing the charm that she had hung round my neck.
"Your life is in danger," she said. "Good swordsman and expert with the
pistol as you are, you are no match for the Baron with either, whose
skill is from the Evil One. Listen to me, and do not refuse my last
petition. Wear this round your neck, and it will protect you from all
harm."
Having spoken thus, she kissed me on the brow and vanished. I awoke, and
would you believe it, gentlemen, I found suspended round my neck that
identical relic that I left at the bottom of my trunk in town, the key
of which was lost. Well, I could no longer doubt this being a spiritual
visitation, so I left the relic there suspended.
In the course of the day my friend arrived. The usual ceremonies were
gone through, and the meeting was to be at sundown, in a wood belonging
to the Baron's estate. A surgeon was also provided to bind up the wounds
of the one who should fall, should they not be mortal. As I was asked my
choice of weapon, I chose the rapier, having at that time no
inconsiderable skill in the use of it.
The hour arrived, and we met on the spot. The Baron, at the sight of me,
was unable to restrain his rage, and it was with difficulty that he was
prevented from breaking through every rule of etiquette appertaining to
the duello. Without waiting for the customary salute beforehand, he
rushed at me sword in hand at the first sight of me like a savage. The
seconds interfered, and something like order was restored.
We advanced, retired, clashed swords, lunged, parried. "_Tierce_,
_quarte_, _quinte_, _flanconade_, single attack, double attack, lunge."
The Baron lunged furiously, I parried, and the Baron was disarmed.
Without waiting for my permission to pick up his sword, he, disregarding
all etiquette, made a sudden grab at it, and flew at me again in fury.
The Baron's fencing was very wild. He made three or four successive
desperate lunges at me, but was foiled every time. He grew more and more
furious; he had never been accustomed to be thus thwarted.
I felt my hand grow lame, however. It was like fencing with
Mephistopheles. To tire him out was impossible. His long wind was his
_forte_. I could only try to match the Baron's fury by the most guarded
coolness and self-possession. For some time past I had done nothing but
parry, waiting calmly for an opportunity. At length an opening presented
itself. I lunged, and the Baron fell, pierced right through the heart,
at the foot of one of his own stately oaks. He rolled up his eyes, and
after death still retained the same expression of ferocity that he wore
when living.
Thus died the last Baron ----. With his death the line became extinct,
and the property fell into other hands. Duelling even in those days was
fast falling into disuse, and I had to fly the country. I travelled for
many years, and at length returned home, but never from the day of the
duel up to the present time have I once neglected to wear the pious
relic of that poor Italian girl round my neck.
* * * * *
Bursts of applause followed the lawyer's recital. Mr. Blackdeed said it
ought to be dramatised; that it would "create a sensation," and "bring
down the house." The doctor shook his head gravely. The chairman, in a
short speech, proposed the health of the narrator, and expressed a hope
that he might be free from all such clients for the future.
"Shiver my timbers!" cried Captain Toughyarn, "if that yarn won't do for
the marines. Odds, blood and thunder, if I thought anyone but a tar
could have spun such a yarn as that. I tell you what it is, Hardcase,
you've mistaken your calling. You were meant for the sea."
"I hope, Captain Toughyarn," said the lawyer, "you don't doubt the
veracity of my statement."
"Not I," answered the captain, but with a most provoking look of
scepticism, which belied his words.
"I do believe the captain's a sceptic," said the chairman. "Take care,
captain, the rules of this club are severe. If any member or guest
presumes to doubt the statement of any other member of the club, given
out by the said member as a fact, he shall incur the penalty of being
forced to drink a cup of cold water on his bended knees, and----"
"Ugh!" groaned the captain, before the chairman had finished his
sentence. "Well, chairman," he said, humbly awed at the severity of the
sentence, "I don't mean to say that I'll give a 'lee lurch,' and throw
Mr. Hardcase's cargo overboard altogether; but the fact is I have been
on shore so long, that I have got quite out of the way of shipping those
sorts of goods into my hold, and it rather sticks in my tramway, but I
have no doubt that another glass of grog will send it clean down, and
that I shall find storage-room in my hull for that and as much more
cargo as any of our messmates choose to ship this evening."
"Hear, hear," cried the guests, passing the bowl towards the captain,
who, after having filled up his glass and drained it, declared himself
ready to set sail.
"Another bowl, landlord!" shouted the chairman; "and whilst you are
about it, you might bring up another log as well. See how the cold makes
the fire burn." Then, turning to his guest, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, he
observed, "It is lucky you arrived in time to-night for our great
meeting. You have now heard a specimen of these stories, the fame of
which has reached Rome."
At this moment the host returned with a fresh bowl of punch, which was
received with a murmur of approbation. The landlord then stirred up the
fire, and put on a fresh log. It was getting late, but that was nothing
for the members of the "Wonder Club" on such an occasion as this.
"It's freezing hard to-night, sir," said the landlord to the chairman.
"Is it, mine host?" said Mr. Oldstone, rendered still more good humoured
under the influence of the punch. "Then fill up a bumper and drink to
the health of our club, after which you may sit down here and listen to
the next story, if you can prevent falling asleep. Our first story you
have missed. Oh, I can assure you it would have given you the horrors to
have listened to it."
Here our worthy host filled up a glass, and, nodding his head, drank to
the long life of all the members and guests, and hoped that the club
might have as many more anniversaries as there were hairs in the heads
of all the members put together.
This sentiment was received with applause, and the health of the
landlord was drunk with three times three. He replied to it in a short,
bluff, and unembarrassed speech, amid cheers; and rattling of glasses.
Then modestly taking a seat at some little distance from the table,
filled his pipe, lighted it, and put himself into a listening attitude.
"It is your turn now, doctor," said the chairman. "We're all waiting,
and, mind, we all expect a good one. On this evening, gentlemen, each
one must strive to outdo his neighbour."
"I cannot promise that I will outdo Mr. Hardcase's narrative," said the
doctor, modestly, "but I will do my best to add to the entertainment of
the company in my humble way."
"Bravo, doctor!" cried several voices at once.
Mr. Oldstone thumped the table and called out, "Silence, gentlemen; Dr.
Bleedem will favour us with a story."
Silence immediately ensued, and the doctor began.
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