AN AMBUSCADE
Gilroyd was awfully slow, and even the town of Saxton dull. Cricket was
quite over. There was no football there. William Maubray used to play at
the ancient game of quoits with Arthur Jones, Esq., the Saxton attorney,
who was a little huffy when he lost, and very positive on points of
play; but on the whole a good fellow. Sometimes in the smoking-room,
under the reading-room, he and Doctor Drake played clattering games of
backgammon, with sixpenny stakes, and called their throws loudly, and
crowed ungenerously when they won.
But these gaieties and dissipations failed to restore William altogether
to his pristine serenity. Although he had been now for four nights quite
unmolested, he could not trust Gilroyd. It was a haunted house, and he
the sport of a spirit. The place was bewitched, but so, unhappily, was
the man. His visit to the Rectory proved that change of place could not
deliver him. He was watched, and made to feel that his liberty was gone.
Violet Darkwell was not to return to the Rectory for a week or more, and
William called on Doctor Wagget, looking ill, and unquestionably in
miserable spirits. To the rector he had confessed something vaguely of
his being in love, and cherishing hopes contrary to the terms which poor
Aunt Dinah had sought to impose upon him.
A few nights later, emboldened by his long respite, he had written some
stanzas, addressed to the young lady’s _carte de visite_, expressive of
his hopes, and in the morning he had found his desk in his bed-room,
though he had left it in the drawing-room, and his bed-room door was as
usual locked. His desk was not open, nor was there any sign of the
papers having been disturbed, but the verses he had that night written
had been taken out and torn into small pieces, which were strewn on top
of the desk.
Since then he had not had a single quiet night, and the last night was
the oddest, and in this respect the most unpleasant, that they had set
the servants talking.
“Tom, he’s a very steady old fellow, you know,” related William, “waked
me up last night at about two o’clock. I called through the door not
knowing but that it might be something.”
“I _know_,” said the rector, with a mysterious nod.
“Yes, Sir; and he told me he had been awake and heard a loud knocking in
the drawing-room, like the hammering of a nail, as indeed it proved to
be; and he ran up to the drawing-room, and saw nothing unusual there,
and then to the lobby, and there he saw a tall figure in a white dress
run up the stairs, with a tread that sounded like bare feet, and as it
reached the top it threw a hammer backward which hopped down the steps
to his feet. It was the kitchen hammer, unhung from the nail there which
we found had been pulled out of the wall. Without waiting to get my
clothes on, down I went with him, but our search showed nothing but one
very curious discovery.”
“Ha! Go on, Sir.”
“I must tell you, Sir, there was a print, a German coloured thing. I had
forgotten it—it was in my poor aunt’s portfolio in a drawer there, of a
great tabby cat pretending to doze, and in reality slyly watching a
mouse that half emerges from its hole, approaching a bit of biscuit, and
this we found nailed to the middle of the door.”
“The inside?”
“Yes.”
“You did not _see_ anything of the apparition yourself?” asked Doctor
Wagget.
“No, I was asleep. I’ve seen nothing whatever but such things as I’ve
described; and the fact is I’m worried to death, and I don’t in the
least know what to do.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said the clergyman, after a pause. “I’ll go down
and spend the night at Gilroyd, if you allow me, and we’ll get Doctor
Drake to come also, if you approve, and we’ll watch, Sir—we’ll spy it
out—we’ll get at the heart of the mystery. Drake’s afraid of nothing, no
more am I—and what do you say, may we go?”
So the bargain was concluded, and at nine o’clock that evening the
parson and Doctor Drake in friendly chat together walked up to the door
of Gilroyd, and were welcomed by William, who led these learned
witch-finders into his study, which commanded easy access to both
drawing-room and parlour, and to the back and the great staircase.
The study looked bright and pleasant—a cheery fire flashed on the silver
teapot and cream-ewer, and old China tea things, and glimmered warmly
over the faded gilded backs of the books. This and the candles lighted
up the room so brightly that it needed an effort—notwithstanding the
dark wainscot—to admit a thought of a ghost.
I don’t know whether the parson had really any faith in ghosts or not.
He thought he had, and cultivated in private a taste for that curious
luxury, though he was reserved on the subject among his parishioners. I
don’t think, however, if his nerves had been as much engaged as they
might, he could have turned over the old tomes of the late Dean of
Crutched Friars with so much interest as he did, or commented so
energetically upon the authors and editions.
Doctor Drake was utterly sceptical, and being “threatened with one of
his ugly colds,” preferred brandy and water to tea—a little stimulus
seasonably applied, often routing the enemy before he had time to make
an impression. So, very snugly they sat round their table. The
conversation was chiefly between the rector and the doctor, William
being plainly out of spirits and a good deal in the clouds. The
Churchman sipped his tea, and the physician his strong drink, and there
was adjusted a plan for the operations of the night.
“Now, Mr. Maubray, you must do as we order; when we bid you, you go to
bed—do you see?—everything must proceed precisely as usual, and Doctor
Drake and I will sit up and watch here—you go, at your accustomed hour,
and lock your door—mind, as usual—and we’ll be on the alert, and ready
to—to⸺”
“To arrest the cabinet—egad!—and garrotte the clock, if either so much
as cracks while we are on duty,” interposed Doctor Drake, poking
William’s flagging spirits with a joke, in vain.
“I dare say,” was William’s parting observation; “just because you are
both here there will be nothing whatever to-night—I’m quite certain; but
I’m awfully obliged to you all the same.”
He was quite wrong, however, as all who please may learn from the
sequel.
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