Bramleigh Place, a fine specimen of an early Jacobean dwelling, had
been in the Millard family for nearly three centuries, but of late
years the Millards had fallen on evil days. There was no money to
maintain the property in fitting state, the farms were let, as well as
the shooting; graziers rented the park to the borders of the pleasure
ground; the house was closed, and abandoned to dust and spiders;
the garden was free to weeds and birds. An elderly couple had been
installed in “The Place” as caretakers, but these looked upon it as
nothing more or less than a lonesome, draughty, inconvenient abode--a
whole mile from the village and a glass of whisky.
Now and then, in summer-time, lodgers at farms, or in the village,
would walk over to the stately old mansion, and bribe Mrs. Pilcher to
show them around; and she was not inaccessible. Odd shillings, also the
price of tea and bread and butter, made a nice little addition to her
weekly wages. She opened the tall doors and the heavy shutters, and
invited paying visitors into the great saloon, there to gaze upon the
Bramleigh Vandyke--a handsome cavalier, with a satin coat and long fair
locks--as well as many other valuable paintings and family portraits
by Reynolds and Lely, old lacquered cabinets and Chippendale chairs,
wonderful settees, card-tables, and screens. Most of the great lofty
rooms were half empty, for on the bankruptcy of the late Sir Aubrey
Millard there had been a sensational auction, but the residue happened
to be heirlooms, and as such, fixtures; and the house was in the
curious condition of being neither unfurnished nor yet furnished. Mrs.
Pilcher, as she ushered her customers in and out of apartments, and up
and down stairs, related many surprising tales of the Millards, and
gave the house the reputation of being badly haunted. She was a clever
old body, with a loose tongue and a warm imagination, and such were her
powers of description, that more than one of her listeners, passing
late on the distant highroad, looked down upon the dignified Place,
standing in a hollow, with a sensation of fearsome awe.
Young Millard, the owner, was with his regiment in India; there he made
the acquaintance of a wealthy American family on tour, and subsequently
married the daughter--a charming girl, with a fabulous fortune. Young
Lady Millard fell in love with Bramleigh at first sight--it was a place
after her own heart!--and she hurried from room to room, exclaiming
in raptures as she made discoveries of pictures, tapestries, and
furniture--hailing these, one by one, as delightful possessions and
priceless treasures. The prompt and energetic new mistress commanded
that Bramleigh was to be set in order without delay; the aged Pilchers
were dismissed with a pension, and replaced, first by an army of
workmen and upholsterers, and then by a staff of gardeners, grooms, and
indoor servants. Soon there were horses and motors in the great empty
yard, as well as new stables, and a garage. The mouldy Justice Room was
turned into a lounge, and long-deserted Bramleigh was transformed by
the enchanted wand, which is known as “Money.”
Lady Millard and her husband were young, gay, and popular; they
entertained parties for shooting, cricket, and week-ends, as London was
only forty miles away; they also were entertained, and frequently from
home--or spending a week or two in town. On these occasions, the large
number of unemployed servants had ample time to themselves--and Satan
was not idle.
Among the women, Fanny Lappage, second housemaid, was the ringleader in
mischief and fun; moreover, a remarkably pretty girl and a shameless
flirt, with half the men at her beck and call. For all her giddiness,
she was a first-rate housemaid, and never shirked work--only for this,
the housekeeper would have dismissed her; she was too flighty, too
saucy, and too pretty; but there never was a better girl for polishing
furniture or turning out a room--and besides, her ladyship liked Fanny.
Chief among Fanny’s slaves was James Hegan, a tall, fine-looking
footman, Irish by descent, with jet-black hair, and deep-set dark blue
eyes. Naturally smart, silent, and impassive, he was an admirable
servant--though plagued out of his wits by Fanny Lappage and her
vagaries. She was continually teasing him, and ridiculing him in the
servants’ hall, or the still-room, and the long stone passages often
echoed with her ringing laugh at Hegan’s expense; whilst he could only
stare stupidly, marvel at her cleverness, and admire her bewitching
little face.
Trail, the butler, and Mrs. Madden, housekeeper, had often and vainly
remonstrated with giddy Fanny--sometimes she really went too far.
By a curious instinct, she had discovered that Hegan was nervous
and superstitious--on this subject she chaffed him constantly and
mercilessly; yet, strange to say, the more she flouted and tormented
him, the more ardently he adored her. He was of a naturally silent and
melancholy disposition, and it was Fanny’s amazing liveliness that
appealed to him. As for superstition--superstition was in his blood
(as a child, he had listened to many a weird tale from the lips of an
Irish grandmother), and this characteristic was kept alive, and even
fanned, by conversations he overheard at his master’s table whilst he
waited automatically--listening with all his ears.
Lady Millard had imbibed the modern taste for the occult and psychical
speculations; and some of the experiences he overheard were so vividly
described as to be almost hair-raising. Hegan’s hand shook as he handed
dishes and plates. Certain subjects lay beyond his mental reach, but
one was easily comprehended. He understood a genial gentleman--a
neighbour--who, with a jovial laugh, remarked:
“I suppose, Lady Millard, you know that you have something _here_!--an
apparition--and, by all accounts, it’s pretty bad too; it is----”
Here Lady Millard made a quick little sign, and then she too laughed,
and said something in French, and the guest replied:
“Oh yes; by Jove!--all right, then--another time!”
But all the same, the seed had taken root in Hegan’s mind--“Something”
had assumed alarming and sinister proportions.
* * * * *
The family were yachting at Cowes; it was an unusually warm and sultry
July, and the staff at Bramleigh, with nothing to do, and an ample
allowance of animal food and beer, felt more or less lazy--not to
say comatose. The visit of Mrs. Pilcher (late caretaker) effected
an agreeable diversion; this old body was full of stimulating local
gossip and housewives’ tales, and always well worth her tea! The maids
encouraged her to talk; they drew her out, and she entertained them
with amazing stories, and “they says” of the Millard family.
“You lived here fifteen year, Mrs. Pilcher,” said the vivacious Fanny,
“and never saw anything worse nor yourself--eh?--come now! Why, surely
there must be a ghost in a big rambling old place like this? Don’t you
tell _me_ there ain’t!”
“There may be,” rejoined Mrs. “Pil,” nursing her teacup as she
spoke, “but I never went about after dark. Tom and me allus sat in
the library, and slep’ in the morning-room--us hadn’t the breath for
stairs--and them above rampaged about as they liked; no need for us an
inter-meddling--and them passages and corridors for wind would skin you
alive!”
“Didn’t you never _see_ anything?” persisted Fanny. “Come, now, we’re
all friends here.”
“Only rats in plenty--the kitchen was black wid ’em--and them as big as
rabbits.”
“Rats like rabbits--but nothing more? Come, now, Mrs. Pil; surely
someone has seen a ghost--try and remember, and I’ll give you a nice
little present. I do love to hear of horrors.”
“Well, then, Fanny Lappage, since you _are_ so set on and eager, I
did hear summat--summat as was told me by the folk as was here afore
us--and left.”
“Did they see anything? Oh, Jim!” beckoning to Hegan, “and Rosie,
Ethel, and George and Tom--_do_ come along and listen--it’s awful fun.
Mrs. Pil is going to tell us about the ghost that’s here--she will make
our flesh creep. Won’t it be lovely!”
“I’m not so sure,” muttered Jim, turning to Mrs. Pilcher. “What’s it
all about, mother?”
Mrs. Pilcher appreciated an audience; she wiped her mouth deliberately
with a spotted handkerchief, rubbed her hands on her knees, nodded at
the circle which had gathered about her, and cleared her throat.
“You all know the old wing--the long passage, and the swing-door?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, yes, yes--why, to be sure!”
“The three big low rooms looking south over the shrubberies and into
the park--main old, they say--well, it’s _there_!” and she paused
dramatically. Mrs. “Pil” was a gifted story-teller. “Afore our time”
(she spoke as if they had been deposed sovereigns) “the caretaker and
wife and girl lived in that wing, as it were warm and convenient.
They allowed they heard walking and talking, but were never properly
frightened, till one hot summer night when the man was late in the
village. There was a full moon, and it was that stifling they had the
doors and windows open--’twas the middle room, d’ye see? Mother and
girl was a-making ready for bed, and the house locked up. All of a
sudden they fell in a terrible taking, a sort of fright as threw ’em
into a cold sweat--and they could not say for why, or wherefore; but
hot as it was, they felt like two blocks of ice. Then they heard the
swing-door slam, and someone in high heels come a-pattering along the
passage--nearer and nearer. There it must be in the doorway, for the
floor had a loose board and creaked. They was awful afraid to look,
as they knew in their bones something not right was standin’ there,
and yet look they had to! And sure enough, right on the creakin’ board
was a lady in a queer, puffed-out sort of dress, awful old-fashioned.
She had a long, shiny knife in her hand, and they two felt turned to
stone. At the moment they heard the man below shoutin’ for the key of
the side door, and the wife had just strength to tie it in her apron
and throw it out of the window. Then the lady went off; they heard
her a-patterin’ quick down the passage, and the swing-door a-slammin’
behind her. After that, they lived down below--but never saw her
again, nor ever give her a chance, as they did not venture above after
dusk. They say she had black eyes and looked awful wicked--just set
on ill-doing, but young, and handsome. When the man died--he was
found dead, they do say--the wife and daughter come away and were
thankful--and we took the place; but if it was my last breath, though I
heard what I heard--I never _saw_ nothing!”
“And so it’s the middle room in the old wing,” said Fanny briskly. “I
know--it has a high chimney-piece and three windows.”
“Aye, that’s it; and they give out the noises and the trouble is allus
worser in summer-time, and full o’ the moon, and that whenever you hear
a board creak in these old floors, _she_ is not far off!”
Mrs. Pilcher suddenly rose to her feet, shook the crumbs from her gown,
and took leave; she understood the value of a brief and effective
departure.
At supper that evening there was an animated discussion respecting the
creaking board, and the lady with the shining knife. Fanny, in the
wildest spirits, challenged George, James, Tom, or Mr. Trail himself,
to go and meet the ghost in the middle room--she even offered them a
vague reward. But no one came forward to pick up her gage, in spite of
her jeers and gibes. The household was, however, profoundly interested
to recognise among the family portraits in the library the identical
lady, as described by Mrs. Pilcher, with a long thin face, black eyes,
white powdered hair, and a mole on her chin.
The days that followed were dull and drowsy. Fanny invested all her
superfluous energies in incessantly tormenting James Hegan. At last he
became desperate, and said:
“Well, look here, Fan; as you say the moon is near the full, it’s
summer--now’s my chance for the ghost! But if I go alone to the middle
room in the oak corridor at twelve o’clock, leave the door open, and
bring your thimble from off the mantelpiece, and stay there for an
hour, you will marry me--come, now. I’ll go for that--and no less, I
swear!”
To this ultimatum Fanny, after much sparring and giggling, eventually
agreed. Jim was a handsome fellow; though he had no talk, he had more
inches and broader shoulders than anyone in the house--not to speak of
considerable savings.
Sir Eldred and Lady Millard were not expected for a week, and the
ordeal was fixed for a certain day and hour. Fanny was unusually
lively, talkative, and irresponsible, and all the under-servants were
agog with keen anticipation.
When the great evening arrived, Jim, who was secretly in a deadly
fright (and had fortified himself with two glasses of beer), was
conducted to the swing-door, and seen off about eleven o’clock by all
his associates, with many jokes, and good wishes for the success of his
adventure. He was too early--his friends had been so anxious to speed
him; he felt a sense of dull resentment as he pulled the baize door
behind him, walked down the corridor, and entered the middle room, now
flooded by moonlight. First of all he went over to the chimney-piece
and appropriated Fanny’s dainty little thimble. Then for a long time
he stood by the window gazing on the sleeping woods, and waiting--for
what? he asked himself. The night air was hot and breathless, every
sound was audible, from the flutter of a bat’s wings or the hoot of an
owl to the far-away barking of a dog or the hum of a belated motor on
the distant highroad.
Gradually he became aware of a stillness, a chilliness, and a
silence--as if Nature were holding her breath prior to some prodigious
effort. He was also sensible of a cold sensation of creeping
uneasiness, and began to realise that his Dutch courage had evaporated,
and that he felt sickeningly nervous. Tales from his grandmother,
and tales from the dinner-table, invaded his memory, and repeated
themselves with a vividness of detail, and a plausibility befitting the
hour, the locality, and the man.
Yet, so far, nothing had happened! Possibly it was all nonsense and
rot, urged another cheerful mental voice; his spirits stirred, and
rose. But what was _that_?
A sudden reckless slamming of the swing-door--yes, and footsteps--quick,
light footsteps, coming along the corridor! Hegan’s heart flew into his
throat; he felt almost suffocated with terror as he backed into the
window, and stared at the entrance.
But the noise had entirely ceased--ceased for five immensely long
minutes; for ten--there was nothing to be seen! With an extraordinary
sensation of relief he turned away, leant his elbows on the open sash,
and once more gazed down into the moonlit park. In ten minutes more he
would be free to go! As he stood listening anxiously for the striking
of the stable clock, his senses were strung to the utmost--his ears
alive to every sound.
Suddenly he heard the sharp creaking of a board, and flung round.
She stood in the doorway! A lady with a powdered head and bunchy
petticoats; by one hand she held a handkerchief to her face, in the
other was a long and glittering knife!
And--she was coming in--she was approaching. Panic seized upon him,
and seemed to gnaw his knees. In a spasm of mortal fear--the frenzy of
the trapped animal that turns on its destroyer--he snatched up a heavy
old chair. Hegan was a powerful man--it was as a straw to him in his
present desperation--and he dashed at the figure in a fury of terror,
struck it twice with all his force, and felled it to the ground.
The thing gave a stifled shriek, and moaned--yes--but he threw down
his weapon, and fled as for his very life.
When he gained the hall, ghastly and breathless, he found an eagerly
expectant crowd. The first footman, noticing his face, exclaimed:
“Hallo! Jimmy, old boy--you look as if you’d seen her!”
“Yes,” he gasped out, “she was there--knife and all!”
“And what did you do?”
“I picked up a chair and struck at her, and ran!” He was still livid
and panting for breath.
Several of the women looked at one another significantly, and at last
the cook said:
“Why, James, don’t you know it was all a bit of a joke?”
“Joke!” he repeated, and his eye travelled swiftly round the circle, in
speechless quest of Fanny. “Where’s Fanny?” he asked abruptly.
“You’ve just seen her; the ghost was Fanny herself. We dressed her up,
and floured her hair--and----”
“And,” he added in a loud, hoarse voice, “I believe--I’ve done for her!
I--I hit her a terrible blow! Fanny! Fanny!” he shouted, and he raced
up the stairs, followed by all the inmates of the Place.
They crowded through the swing-door and streamed along the passage into
the middle room. There on the floor lay a little dressed-up figure with
a horrible wound in her head--a knife clutched in her grasp--stone dead!
Nor was this the worst. When Hegan realised that he had unintentionally
killed his pretty, mocking sweetheart, he kissed her, rose from beside
her, and, before anyone had guessed his intention, sprang on the sill,
hurled himself out of the window, and, with a crash among branches,
fell heavily on the lawn with a broken neck.
Sir Eldred and Lady Millard, hastily summoned from Cowes, were
horrified to find on their return home that two of their household lay
awaiting an inquest in the old unused laundry--their fate the result of
a practical joke--and for many months Lady Millard deserted the Place,
and made her home in Continental hotels.
At Bramleigh the middle room in the oak corridor has long been closed;
but the double tragedy has left its mark. After dusk, the maids go
about in couples; a creaking board throws them into a paroxysm of
terror, and they snatch at one another, and whisper, “_She’s_ somewhere
about!” for Bramleigh enjoys the unique reputation of being haunted by
the ghost--of a ghost!