resembled the Dougal Cratur in “Rob Roy.” My friend, John Clyde, should
have seen him. He had a furious red head of hair and beard of the same
colour, and the street boys used to call after him the song, “The folks
all call me, Carroty, What, what, what, oh! Carroty,” etc. Mrs M’Whisker
was a stout lady with eyes like small tomatoes and a gimlet nose. They
had a son, a boy of ten, called Fernando M’Whisker, because he was born
in Spain. When they came to St Andrews they had purchased a number of
my “Ghost Books.” (These ghosts at present chiefly haunt the _Citizen_
Warehouse, booksellers’ shops, and the railway bookstall.) That is the
reason perhaps that the M’Whiskers invited me to a spiritualistic seance
at their house in South Street. They generally came to St Andrews for
the winter, partly to get away from the cold of their northern home, and
partly because they thought the history and atmosphere of St Andrews
lent itself to an all-pervading presence of ghosts, spooks, and spirits.
I had only been to two such shows before—one at Helensburgh and one at
Cambridge—and was, and still am, very doubtful of the genuineness of
spiritualism. On the day appointed I went to the M’Whiskers’ house in
South Street, and was shown in by a Highlander in the M’Whisker tartan.
It was early in the afternoon, but I found the shutters in the large
room all shut, and a few dim lights only were burning. On a sideboard in
the corner stood plenty of refreshments and everything else to comfort
the inner man. In the centre of the room there was a round table covered
with a M’Whisker tartan tablecloth, which touched the floor all round:
this in itself was suspicious to my mind. I was introduced to the chief
medium, one Mr Peter Fancourt, who looked as if he had been buried and
dug up again. He was in tight, sleek black clothes, and resembled in
every way “Uriah Heep” in “David Copperfield.” The other medium was a
Mrs Flyflap Corncockle. They were supposed not to know each other, but
I am as certain that they were accomplices as that the Bell Rock is
near St Andrews Bay. A number of chairs encircled the table. We had all
to seat ourselves on these chairs, with our thumbs and little fingers
touching round the edge of the table. The first thing that happened was
a kind of “squish,” and then a huge bouquet of flowers descended on the
table from somewhere. It was a clever trick, but the flowers were of the
commonest sort, and what I had seen in all the greengrocers’ shops that
morning. The lights were now turned very low, and a spirit arm and hand
appeared floating about, which shone a good deal. It hovered about from
the ceiling to above our heads, and when I got a chance I jumped on a
chair and seized it with both hands. It seemed to shrink up, and was torn
through my hands very forcibly, and in such a material manner that I was
forced to let go. I don’t know where the hand and arm went to, but it
was simply a juggling trick. After this “Mr Heep” (I beg his pardon, Mr
Fancourt) said that there was an unbeliever present, and as I was that
unbeliever I was relegated to an armchair by the fireplace with one of
M’Whisker’s muckle cigars. From that point of vantage I watched the whole
affair, and they assured me they would tell me all that was going on. The
next very curious thing was that they suddenly all took their hands off
the table, and their eyes slowly followed something ceilingwards. It was
funny to see them all lying back staring up at the roof. Then very slowly
their heads and eyes resumed their normal position. “Did you see that?”
said the M’Whisker triumphantly. “I saw nothing whatever,” I remarked.
“What! did you not see the table float up to the ceiling? It remained
there quite half a second, and then came down as lightly as a feather.”
“I was watching the table the whole time,” I said, “and it never moved
an inch from its place.” “Oh! you are an unbeliever,” said Mrs M’Whisker
sadly, “but later on when it is darker you will see Mr Fancourt float out
of one of the windows and come in at the other.” I fervently hoped if he
did anything of the kind he would come a cropper on the pavement below
and break some of his ribs. The table then started to dance about and
move along, but this, I am certain, was simply engineered by those two
mediums.
After some tomfoolery of this kind they all agreed that “Ouija” should
be brought out. A large oblong yellow board was then produced and laid
on the table. On it were the letters of the alphabet and a number of
figures, also the sun, moon, and stars, and some other fantastic symbols.
On this board was placed a small table with a round body and round head,
it had three hind legs and a front, which was the pointer. These legs had
little red velvet boots on. The two mediums then placed their hands on
each side of this curious table, which immediately began to run about to
the letters and figures, spelling out things and fixing dates in answer
to questions asked. It was not the least like a planchette, which is on
wheels. The first thing they informed me it had said was that a spirit
called Clarissa was present, and for many years she had lain a-dying
in that room. She maintained that she was some distant relation of the
White Lady of the Haunted Tower. It then rushed into poetry. Its first
effort was the “Legend of Purple James and his Girl,” a comic thing which
reminded me of the “Bab Ballads.” They afterwards gave me a copy of this
poem, which I still possess. Next the spirit gave us a Scotch poem about
a haggis, and then one called “Edward and the Hard-Boiled Egg.” It then
devoted its attention to me, whom it characterised as the “Unbeliever.”
It stated that if the Antiquarian Society would dig a pit four feet
square by six feet deep between the two dungeons in the Kitchen Tower
of the Castle, and if the rock were cut through, a cave would be found
full of casks of good red wine. On no condition whatever would I, on
such evidence, recommend the Society to strike a pick in there. The next
spirit that turned up was one Jaspar Codlever. He alluded to me as “the
Cambridge man in the chair with the cigar.” He said that if excavations
were made between the two last trees in Lawpark Wood a stone cist would
be found full of Pictish ornaments. Again he told us that within a cave
on the cliffs there was a chalice of great value placed there by Isabella
the Nun, who still guarded it by night and day, and was very dangerous
to approach. This spirit then went away, and his place was taken by a
monk named Rudolph, who informed us that the entrance to the Crypt or
sub-Chapel was between two of the pillars in the Priory. As there are a
lot of pillars there, it is impossible to know which he meant. He said
this entrance was near Roger’s tomb. Who Roger may be I know not. He then
told us about this Crypt. He said there was something so horrible in it
that it turned him sick. Curiously enough, some thought-reading people
told us the same story in the Town Hall some years ago, but they said the
underground Chapel was at the east end of the Cathedral. The monk then
went on to tell us of this place in the Priory. He said it had Purbeck
marble pillars, a well of clear water, and three small costly altars, and
a number of books of the Vincentian Canons. There was a short interval
now, and the lights were turned up. I was anxious to get away, but they
implored me to stay and see the cabinet and the spirits therein. I told
them in my most dramatic fashion that I was late already, and I had a
meeting on. M’Whisker then begged me, if I would not stay to see the
spirits, to taste some, and he mixed me an excellent whisky-and-soda,
which he called a “Blairgowrie.” I then made my adieu, and was very glad
to get once more into the street and also into a world of sense. The
M’Whiskers informed me some days afterwards that they were very sorry
at my leaving, as, after I had gone, Fancourt had floated out of the
window, and numerous wonderful spirits had appeared in the cabinet. I am
glad I went when I did, as I should certainly have taken a poker to that
cabinet.
The Apparition of Sir Rodger de Wanklyn.
I am very fond indeed of Christmas time. There has been little snow
this season. I think it has forgotten how to snow in these days. Still,
I always feel Christmassy. I think of the good old coaching days, when
there was really snow, of Washington, Irving, and good old Dickens and
Scott, of the yule log and the family gatherings and re-unions, of
the wassail bowl, of frumenty and plum porridge, and mince pies, plum
puddings, and holly and mistletoe and big dances in the servants’ hall,
of good old ancestral ghosts and hearty good cheer.
I am sitting to-day in a cosy armchair (of the old school, no modern
fake) talking to my old friend, Theophilus Greenbracket. Filus, as I
call him, is a clever man of many parts; he is a great traveller and
sportsman, and takes a deep interest in every mortal thing. There is
nothing of the kill joy or fossil about Greenbracket; he is up-to-date
and true blue.
He is sitting opposite me smoking a gigantic cigar and imbibing rum
punch, and talking hard; he always talks hard, but is never a bore, and
never palls on one in the slightest degree. He has an enormous dog at
his feet, with a fierce, vindictive expression, which belies its real
nature, as it is gentle with everything and everybody, except cats and
rats. Greenbracket is, among many other things, a great spiritualist and
visionary, and possesses all kinds of mediumistic appliances, such as
pythos, planchettes and ouijas, which he works with his old butler, Amos
Bradleigh, who is another spirit hunter.
“By the bye,” said Greenbracket, “I am at present taking lessons in music
with Mr Easeboy.” He says this so suddenly that he makes me jump, as we
were talking about sea serpents and the probability of their existence.
“Are you indeed, old chap,” I said.
“Yes, thorough bass, and consecutive fifths and harmony and all that sort
of thing, you know. He has a pupil, Macbeth Churchtimber, who has just
written a thundering pretty waltz called ‘Eleanor Wynne.’”
“I thought Churchtimber,” I mildly suggested, “only played severe
classical stuff.”
“Oh, yes,” replied my friend, “but he occasionally touches on a lighter
theme, and has even written a comic song, called, ‘I lay beside a
milestone with a sunflower on my brow.’”
“I must try it someday,” I said, “but how about your ghosts? Have you
seen any lately?”
“There was one here a few minutes ago,” said Greenbracket, “a tall man in
armour sitting in that corner over there.”
“What rubbish,” I said, quite crossly, “you dream things, or drink, or
eat too much.”
“No I don’t,” said Greenbracket, “do you really mean to tell that you
felt no sensation just now, no pricking or tingling feeling, or a chilly
sensation down your back?”
“Certainly not, nothing of the kind,” I replied.
“Well, that is queer,” he said, “I know you don’t see these things, but I
fancied you would have felt a strange presence in some way. I don’t know
who the man in armour was. I have not seen him before, but my butler has,
at all events. It was not Sir Roger de Wanklyn.”
“Who the ⸺ is he?” I queried.
“Oh,” said my host, “he is the earth-bound spirit of an architect who
lived in St Andrews at the time that James the Fifth married Mary of
Lorraine in the Cathedral; he says he was present at the ceremony and can
describe it all. A gay pageant it was and much revelry.”
“If you can get all this sort of curious information, which I don’t
exactly credit, why on earth can’t you find out something practical and
useful, for instance, where the secret underground hiding place is, and
where all the tons of valuable ornaments, papers, and vestments are
concealed?”
“My dear friend,” said Greenbracket solemnly, “these people won’t be
pumped; they only tell you what they choose to, or are permitted to
reveal.”
“If they really do turn up and talk to you as you say they do, why on
earth can’t you get them to talk some useful sense?”
“I really can’t force their confidence,” said Greenbracket, “all they do
tell me voluntarily is most interesting and absorbing. This Sir Rodger
planned numerous very important structural alterations in the Cathedral
and elsewhere.”
“It is all very odd to me,” I said, “one meets people with strange ideas.
I met a man years ago at Aberystwith who was a firm believer in the
transmigration of souls. He said he quite remembered being a cab horse
in Glasgow, and was certain when he left this planet he would become a
parrot in Mars.”
“I don’t understand that sort of thing a bit,” said my extraordinary
friend, Greenbracket, “but Sir Rodger de Wanklyn has sometimes to visit
the Valley of Fire and Frost, where there are mighty furnaces on one side
of him and ice and snow on the other and it is very painful.”
“I had that sort of experience the other day,” I remarked, “at a meeting.
On one side was a furnace of a fire and on the other a window wide open
with a biting frost wind blowing in.”
“Tuts,” said Greenbracket “that’s here; I am talking of the spirit world.”
“Hang! your spirit stuff. Has your butler, Amos Bradleigh, seen any
spookey things lately?”
“Yes, he is much annoyed by the spirit of an evil old housekeeper here
who lost her life by falling downstairs, and she is continually pushing
him down my cellar stairs. He is furious.”
“Is this butler of yours any connection of Jeremiah Anklebone?” I asked.
“Yes, he is a cousin,” said Greenbracket; “all that family have second
sight, and see and dream strange things.”
“And who,” I asked, “may this housekeeper be who pitched your butler down
stairs?”
“Oh,” said Greenbracket, “she’s a badly constituted wraith, and her name
is Annibal Strongthorn. She was housekeeper ages ago to this Sir Roger de
Wanklyn in this very old house we are in.”
“What happened to this Sir Roger? Has he told you?”
“Oh! yes he fell over the cliffs.”
“Bless me, and did this old housekeeper woman push him over. Was she a
murderess?”
“Oh, how can I tell,” said Greenbracket peevishly, “he has told me
nothing of the kind.”
“Well, old fellow,” I said, “you really do not get much interesting
information out of your ghostly friends, but what I like about you
is that all your numerous ghosts come straight to you, straight to
head-quarters at once—you don’t go fooling about with chairs and tables
and sideboards and other pieces of timber in an idiotic way. If, as
some people say, they can get chairs and tables and other articles of
furniture to follow them about, why don’t they go in for cheap furniture
removals at night when the streets are empty?”
“Don’t make a joke of everything,” said Greenbracket, “I do see and
converse with departed spirits. I do not ask them to come; they come to
me, and half of them I have never heard of before or thought of either.”
“May I ask, my good friend Greenbracket, what sort of clothes they wear
when they pay you these visits; for instance, what does your latest
apparition, Sir Rodger, clothe himself in?”
“Bless me!” said Theophilus, “why in the dress of his times, of course—a
jerken, doublet, and hose, a rapier, and all that sort of thing;
sometimes he wears a sort of coarse fustian cassock with a double breast.”
“I can’t make out,” I said to my spiritualistic friend, “where these
clothes come from. Have they got a sort of theatrical wardrobe wherever
they are existing? If so, why can’t the ghosts of old world clothes come
alone? In such a case you might see a modern suit of evening togs, or
armour, or boots and spurs, or military dress walk into your room without
anything inside them; or you might, with a stretch of imagination, see a
suit of pyjamas, or a pair of slippers going about the place.”
“Shut up talking like that,” said Theophilus, “you don’t possess the
sense—I mean the extra sense to see these beings; but read this document
I have written out. Surely it will convince you that I really do get
valuable inspirations from other worlds, but, mind, keep it a strict
secret at present.”
“All right, I promise you,” I murmured placidly. Then I perused carefully
the more than extraordinary document he had handed me.
“It is very curious,” I said, “if it be one bit true; and if genuine,
might be extremely useful. Mind my lips are sealed. But from whom did you
obtain this remarkable story?”
“From Sir Rodger de Wanklyn, the Cathedral architect,” he replied, and
off I went quite full of my queer friend, Greenbracket, and of Annabel
Strongthorn, Amos Bradleigh, and his cousin Anklebone, and particularly
Rodger de Wanklyn.
[Illustration]
The Bewitched Ermentrude.
Very many years ago now I was sauntering down historic old South Street
one November afternoon, my object being to lunch in one of the quaint
houses with my old time friend, Harold Slitherwick. Lunch was not,
however, the main object of my visit, but to meet a man called Reginald
Sædeger, an ex-Indian judge, who had _actually_ seen a genuine spirit or
ghost.
It is a sad, nay, a melancholy fact (for I have been told this by the
very best authorities) that _I am not Psychic_, despite the fact that
I have spent days and nights in gloomy, grimly-haunted chambers and
ruins, and even a lonesome Hallowe’en night on the summit of St Rule’s
ancient Tower (my only companions being sandwiches, matches, some cigars,
and the necessary and indispensable flask), yet, alas! I have _never_
heard or seen anything the least abnormal, or felt the necessary, or
much-talked-of mystic presence.
Arrived at the old mansion, I was duly ushered in by Slitherwick’s
butler, one Joe Bingworthy, a man with the manner and appearance of
an archbishop, and from whom one always seemed to expect a sort of
pontifical blessing.
There were several fellows there, and I was speedily made known to
Sædeger, a very cheery, pleasant little person, with dark hair and big
eyebrows.
There was a very heated discussion going on when I entered as to what
was really a properly constituted Cathedral. Darkwood was shouting, “No
Bishop’s Chair, _no_ Cathedral.” “If,” he said, “a Bishop had his chair
in a tiny chapel, it was a Cathedral, but if a religious building was as
big as the Crystal Palace, and there was no Bishop’s Chair there, it was
not one bit a Cathedral.”
I stopped this discussion suddenly by asking Sædeger about his ghost,
and was told I would hear the whole story after lunch.
Before we adjourned to the smoke room Sædeger was telling us he felt a
bit knocked up with his long journey. He had a thirty-six hours’ journey
after he left good old Tony-Pandy. Visions of “Tony Lumpkin,” and “Tony
Faust,” in “My Sweetheart,” flitted through my brain, then I suddenly
remembered, luckily, that “Tony-pandy” was a town in Wales.
Once comfortably seated in the smoke-room with pipes, cigars, and whisky,
Reginald Sædeger became at once the centre of all the interest.
“Lots of years ago,” he said, in a quiet legal voice, “I came to visit
some friends in St Andrews, and I had a most unaccountable experience.
I will tell you all about it. I never saw anything supernatural before,
and have never seen anything the least remarkable since; but one night,
my first night in that house, I undoubtedly saw the wraith of the ‘Blue
Girl.’”
“What had you for supper that evening?” I mildly asked.
“Only chicken and salad,” was the reply. “I was not thinking of anything
ghostly. If you fix your mind _intently_ on one thing, some folk can, you
can self-hypnotise yourself. I had no idea but golf in my mind when I
went off to roost.”
“Well, drive ahead,” said I.
“I had a charming, comfortable, big old-world room given me, nice fire,
and all that sort of thing,” continued Sædeger, “and as I was deuced
tired I soon went to bed and to sleep.
“I woke suddenly, later, with the firm conviction that a pair of eyes
were fixed on me. I suppose everyone knows that if you stare fixedly
at any sleeping person, they will soon awake. I got a start when I
half-opened my eyes, for leaning on the mantelpiece staring hard at me
in the mirror was a most beautiful girl in a light blue gauzy dress,
her back, of course, was to the bed, and I saw she had masses of wavy,
golden-brown hair hanging down long past her waist.
“I was utterly astonished, and watched the movements of this beautiful
creature with my eyes almost closed. I felt sure it was someone in the
house having a lark at my expense, so pretended to be asleep. As I
watched, the girl turned round and faced me, and I marvelled at the
extraordinary loveliness of her figure and features. I wondered if she
was a guest in the house, and what she was doing wandering about at
that time of night, and if she was sleep-walking? She then glided—it
certainly _was not walking_—to a corner of the room, and then I noticed
that her feet were bare. She seemed to move along above the carpet—not
on it—a curious motion. She drifted, and stood beneath a big picture,
took out a key and opened a small aumbrey, or cupboard, in the wall quite
noiselessly. And from this receptacle she took out some small things that
glittered in her pretty fingers, long taper fingers.”
“How on earth did you contrive to see all that in a dark bedroom?” I
sarcastically inquired.
“The room wasn’t dark,” said Sædeger. “I always keep the light burning in
a strange house and in a strange room.”
“Oh, I see,” I replied. “Go on.”
“Well,” continued Reginald Sædeger, “she then turned and came towards
the bed, and I got a more distinct view of her. I had never seen anyone
a bit like her before; it was an utterly unforgettable face. I have
certainly never before, or since, seen anyone as pretty as she was—yet it
was a strange, _unearthly_ beauty, and her huge forget-me-not blue eyes
were a perfection of pathos. Nearer, and yet nearer, she came, and when
quite close to the bed, she bent over me and raised her hand with the
glittering thing in it high over my head. Then I made a tremendous spring
out of bed, crying loudly, ‘Now I’ll see who is trying to frighten me.’
I flung out my arms to grasp her, but they closed on nothing, and to my
utter astonishment I saw her standing smiling at me on the opposite side
of the room.
“That was odd and uncanny enough, but then she gradually began to
disappear, dissolving into a thin blue-grey mist, until nothing whatever
remained—I was absolutely alone in the room and dumfoundered.”
“What next?” I asked.
“Well! what could I do or think?” said Sædeger. “I was fairly
flabbergasted at the unexpected turn of events. I admit I felt shaky, so
I took a stiff whisky and soda, smoked a pipe, and went back to bed to
reflect on the matter, and fell asleep. I was wakened in the morning by
my host, Harold Slitherwick, walking into the room carrying a pony brandy
for me.”
“‘Well, old blighter, how have you slept?’ he asked.
“Then I told him about the blue girl.
“‘Bless my heart! Have you seen her too? Lots of people, my wife among
the number, declare they have seen her; but as you have seen her now, I
really begin to believe there is some truth in the tale.’
“I then told my host there was no dubiety about the matter, and pointed
out the place under the picture where there was a cupboard. We both went
and looked. There was no cupboard to be seen.
“‘Very rum thing,’ said my host; ‘there was a murder once took place in
this room ages ago. Perhaps the blue lady had something to do with it;
but let us hunt for your cupboard.’
“On rapping with our knuckles on the wall we found a hollow spot, scraped
off the paper, and there sure enough was the little door I had seen. We
soon forced it open, and discovered a receptacle, about a foot square,
going very deep into the thick stone wall. There were a lot of things
in that place, scissors, a thimble, a dagger, a work-box, and a lot of
old musty, dusty papers. And then we found a long tress of ruddy-gold
hair in an envelope and a beautiful miniature magnificently painted on
ivory of the blue girl I had seen—every detail, the face, the dress,
the hair, and the bare feet, were perfectly exact. On both the envelope
and the miniature were written the names ‘Ermentrude Ermengarde Annibal
Beaurepaire,’ with the date 1559.
“We then examined the old documents which gave us some clue to the
mystery. It was a very long story that we had to read over, but I will
tell it to you briefly. Long ages ago this ancient house was the property
of a Frenchman, Monsieur Louis Beaurepaire. He had an only and lovely
daughter of twenty, named Ermentrude Ermengarde Annibal Beaurepaire, who
was intended to be a bride of the Church, otherwise a nun. This idea,
apparently, did not appeal to her views. She passionately loved a young
student, and was equally beloved by him, whose name was Eugene Malvoisine.