the Cathedral at Easter. All the arrangements were complete for the
nuptials; but fortune is a fickle jade, and willed it otherwise. A rival
turned up on the scene in the person of Marie de Mailross, a cousin
of the Beaurepaires, and a frequent guest at their house. Ermentrude
found that her beloved Eugene had proved faithless, and transferred his
youthful affections to the lovely Marie, and that a speedy elopement was
pending.
“Ermentrude went and consulted a wise woman, otherwise a witch, who
resided in Argyll, outwith the Shoegate Port. This witch, by name
‘Alistoun Brathwaite,’ used her evil powers on the fair Ermentrude, and
enraged her jealousy to fury and a desire for revenge, and presented her
with a potion, and a cunning, well-wrought dagger.
“The witch threw a spell over Ermentrude, and took all the good within
her away, and implanted evil passions within her breast. It seems that
Marie of Mailross slept in this old room, and one night Ermentrude,
willed by the witch, went to Marie’s bedside, and planted the dagger in
her heart, and she died. It seems Ermentrude disappeared, and was never
seen or heard of again, and was supposed to have drowned herself at the
Maiden Rock—hence the name it bears.
“That,” said Sædeger, “is my quaint tale. The room I slept in was the
very room in which in ages past, Marie was done to death by Ermentrude,
and it seems to have been my lot to see Ermentrude and discover the
secret that lay in that old cupboard.”
We all thanked Sædeger, and after thoughtfully consuming a few more
whiskies and sodas, and a few more cigars, went off to the Links
pondering deeply.
A Very Peculiar House.
Last time I visited Cambridge I was invited by a friend to meet a party
of merry undergraduates. They had all nicknames, and what their real
names were I cannot remember. There was Mike, and Whiffle, Toddie,
Bulger, the Infant, Eddie Smith from Ramsgate, and the Coal Scuttle.
We had a most sumptuous repast, as only can be supplied by first-class
Cambridge kitchens, and to which we did ample justice. We were smoking
after lunch when they informed me that they had taken the liberty of
making an engagement for me to go to tea with such a dear old lady called
Sister Elfreda at a house in Bridge Street, opposite St Clement’s Church,
on the following day at 4.30, as she wished to tell me some ghostly
experiences she had had at St Andrews. Of course I said I would very
gladly go. They asked me before I went if I could take them behind the
scenes that night at the Cambridge Theatre. This I had to flatly refuse,
as no undergraduates are allowed within the sacred precincts of the stage
door. Next day was a damp, raw, typical Cambridge day. I wended my way
to Bridge Street, and easily found the house I was going to, as I had
once lodged there. The rooms were kept by two old women who might be
called decayed gentlewomen. Their name was Monkswood, and they had been
nicknamed “The Cruets,” namely, “Pepper” and “Vinegar.” Very different
from them was their niece, a lovely young actress, who was known on the
stage as Patricia Glencluse, who was quite the rage in musical comedy,
and who, it was rumoured abroad, would soon become a Duchess. The door
was opened by Patricia herself, who said, “Oh, I thought it might be you.
Sister Elfreda told me you were coming to tea. You will like her, she
is such a darling—just like the “Belle of New York,” only grown older.
If you write anything about what she tells you, mind you send it to
me, to the Whittington Company, ⸺ Theatre, Birmingham.” “Of course I
will,” I said, “and I will put you in it.” “Now come along upstairs and
I will introduce you to her,” she said. She tapped at a door and then
opened it, and ushered me into the presence of the Sister. “Look here,
Sister,” said Patricia, “I have brought the ghost man from St Andrews to
see you. Here he is.” “Very good of you,” said the Sister as she shook
hands with me warmly. “You know,” she said, “I have read all your ghost
tales.” She then told Patricia to run downstairs and send the servant
up with tea. Then we seated ourselves down to tea and muffins, and the
old lady related her story. She said:—“I wanted very much to tell you
of a little experience I had some months ago. I was asked to come up
for a short time to look after an invalid lady who lived at St Andrews.
Well, I arrived safely there, and went from the station to the house in
a ’bus. It was an old house, and when I entered I felt a queer sort of
creepy sensation come over me such as I had never experienced before.
I was ushered into the presence of my host and hostess and the invalid
lady. He was a splendid example of an old British soldier, and his wife
was a pretty, fragile-looking old piece of china. The invalid lady I
found only suffered from nerves, and very little wonder, I thought, in
such a peculiar house. I had always a fancy that some other human being
resided in the house; but if so, it only remained a feeling. The name of
the cook was Timbletoss, the butler was Corncockle, and oddly enough they
both came from Cambridge.” “What curious names there are here,” I said to
the Sister; “when I first went to Cambridge I thought the names over the
shops must be some gigantic joke—a man once suggested to me that someone
must have been specially engaged to come to Cambridge and invent those
wonderful names.” “Well,” continued the Sister, “it really was a most
extraordinary house. I had never seen anything out of the common before,
and I have never seen anything like that house since. The servants told
me most remarkable tales—how the bedclothes were twitched off the bed in
the night by unseen hands, and how the tables and chairs rattled about
over the floor, and the knives and forks flew off the table. Curious
little coloured flames known there as “Burbilangs” used to float about
in the air at night, and Corncockle, the butler, said the beer taps in
the cellar were constantly turned on and the gas turned off. The servants
had to have their wages considerably raised to keep them in the house. At
luncheon on several occasions the lady used to jump up and run out of the
room in great haste, and did not reappear till dinner, when she looked
very white and shaky. On two occasions I was ordered to go at once to
my room and lock the door and remain there until the old Squire sounded
the hall gong. They seemed very much perturbed when I got down again.
I will only mention one or two curious things I saw. One was a quaint
creature called the ‘Mutilated Football,’ which stotted downstairs in
front of me, and when it reached the lobby a head and a pair of arms and
legs appeared, and it pattered off down the cellar stairs at a breakneck
speed. The story goes that this creature was once a great athlete and
football player, and when he got old and fat would insist on still
playing, though warned not to do so. He got such a severe kick that his
ribs were broken, and he died on the field. I never heard the true story
of the ‘Animated Hairpin,’ but I saw it once seated in an armchair in the
dining-room. It looked as if it had on black tights and close-fitting
black jersey. It had a very long white face, with great round eyes like
an owl’s and black hair standing on end to a great height. When it saw
me it got up quickly from the chair, bowed very low till its head nearly
touched the ground, and then walked in a most stately manner out of
the room. Then I saw ‘The Green Lady’—a tall, beautiful girl with very
long hair and a rustling green brocaded dress. She glided along as if
on wheels. That this was no imagination of mine may be drawn from the
fact that one day when I had a little girl to tea she suddenly clutched
my arm and asked me who that beautiful lady in green with the long hair
was, who had gone past the door on roller skates. I will not enlarge now
on the bangings, crashes, thumpings, and tappings that resounded through
the rooms at all times of day and night, sometimes on the ceilings,
sometimes on the walls, and sometimes on the floors. The doors and
windows, too, had a nasty habit of suddenly opening without any visible
cause; and another very curious thing was that one might be sitting by
a very bright fire when, without any apparent cause, it would suddenly
go out, and leave nothing but inky blackness. The first night I slept
in my room in this peculiar house I examined it most thoroughly, but
there was nothing out of the common to be seen. My door, which I most
carefully locked, flew open with a bang, though the bolt still remained
out. I again closed and re-locked the door, and put a chair against it,
but to my astonishment the door once more flew open and hurled the chair
across the room. After that I decided to leave the door wide open and
see what would happen next. I got quite accustomed to the ‘Burbilangs’
or flying lights—they were like pretty fireworks. Nothing more happened
to me for several days, till one morning I awoke about two o’clock to
find a youngish-looking monk seated in an armchair. ‘Fear not,’ he said,
‘Sister Elfreda, I left this earth many years ago. In life my name was
Walter Desmond, but when I became a monk at St Anthony I was known as
Brother Stanilaus. As a rule I am invisible, but can assume my bodily
shape if necessary. In life I was at St Andrews, Durham, and Cambridge.’
‘When in Cambridge,’ I asked, ‘did you know the writer of St Andrews
ghost stories?’ ‘No, I only knew him by sight. I was very young then, and
was somewhat afraid of him, as I heard when getting on the Links he used
to become very violent if he missed a putt, topped a drive, foozled an
iron shot, or got into any of the numerous ditches which intersect the
Cambridge links. But I came specially to see you to-night to tell you how
to rid this house of the evil influence there is over it. I have here a
manuscript regarding it which I took from a foreign library, and which
I wish you to read and act upon, and so purify this house and render it
habitable, but I must impose the strictest secrecy on you in regard to
what you read; reveal it to no one.’ ‘But how will you get that paper
back?’ I asked the brother. ‘Oh, time and space are nothing to us—I got
this paper from that distant library only a few seconds ago, and when you
have digested it, it will be immediately replaced from whence it came;
only follow all the directions carefully, or my visit will have been of
no avail.’ We read the paper over together most carefully, but of that I
may say no more. ‘Having told you what to do,’ said the monk, ‘I fear I
must hie hence. I have much to do to-night after replacing the paper.’
‘I will fulfill all that you have asked me brother,’ I said, ‘and hope
that it will make this house less fearsome. But before you go, brother,’
I said, ‘as you are a Cambridge man, why do you not pay a visit to the
author of St Andrews Ghost Stories?’ ‘He would not see me because I would
not materialise myself there, I could only appear as a puff of smoke,
or, as it were, a light fog.’ (‘Thanks, Sister,’ I said, ‘do not ask
any nasty damp fogs to come and call on me.’ She laughed.) The monk, in
vanishing, said, ‘Remember, Sister, no bolts, locks, or bars can keep us
from going where we choose.’”
I got up and thanked her, and proceeded to put on a greatcoat. “I never
wear greatcoats,” I said, “in Scotland, but I am afraid of the Cambridge
damp, so I borrowed this topcoat from Colonel Churchtimber.”
“You have dropped something out of the pocket,” said the Sister.
“Hullo,” I said, “this is a piece of classical music which must belong
to Macbeth Churchtimber, the Colonel’s son. Now, good-night, and many
thanks, Sister Elfreda.”
I descended the stairs and said good-night to the Cruets and Patricia.
As I wandered down the street to the theatre in the damp foggy evening
I pondered over what Sister Elfreda had told me, and as I lit my pipe I
kept thinking of those people—“The Mutilated Football,” “The Animated
Hairpin,” and the “Monk Brother Stanilaus,” to whom locks, bolts and bars
were as nothing, and who had the nasty habit of appearing to his friends
as a damp cloud—a habit, I think, not to be encouraged.
* * * * *
Sister Elfreda now informs me that the peculiar house is now quite
“normal,” and that all the “bogies” have vanished into thin air.
[Illustration: St Andrews—_the home of Golf!_
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_Everything that Gentlemen and Boys Wear is ready at_ Charles Donaldson’s
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_GOLF AND GENERAL OUTFITTING_
_Phone No. 112.—Established 1886_
_TWENTY-ONE BELL STREET_
_ST ANDREWS FIFE_]