minute. And don’t look so stern, else I won’t tell you about the
‘espanto.’ And you will be sorry if you don’t hear about it--it would
make such a good story.” (Insinuatingly.)
“Then go ahead with it.” (Ungraciously.)
“Well, last night I was waiting for West. He was to meet me here, after
which it was our intention to hit the--that is, I mean we were going out
together. (I nod scornfully.) And it seems that while I was patiently
waiting here, in my usual sweet-tempered way, the blank idiot had his
supper and then lay down to rest himself for a while. You know how
delicate he is? (Another contemptuous nod.) Unfortunately he forgot the
engagement, and slept on. He says he never awoke until three o’clock,
and so didn’t come, thinking I wouldn’t be there. Meantime I also went
to sleep, and might have snoozed on until three, likewise, but for the
fact that the ghost woke me----”
“Well? Do go on,” I urge.
“The ghost woke me, as I said,” proceeds the simpleton, slowly. “It was
passing its cold fingers over my face and groaning. Really, it was most
extraordinary. At first I didn’t know what it was; then, as I felt the
icy fingers stroking my face and heard blood-curdling groans issuing
from the darkness, I knew what it was. And I remembered the story of the
prince and his little duel down in the patio, and knew it was the ghost
of the prince’s victim. By the way, you don’t know what a funny
sensation it is to have a ghost pat your face, Miss James----”
“Pat nothing,” I retort, indignantly. “I wonder you are not ashamed to
tell me such fibs. Such a ta-ra-diddle! And as for the man that the
prince killed downstairs, you know as well as I do that he was taken
home to Spain and buried there. Why, then, should he come back here,
into our offices, and pat your face?”
“Ah, that I can’t say,” with a supercilious drawl. “I can only account
for it by thinking that the ghost has good taste--better than that of
some people I know,” meaningly. “But honestly, I swear that I am telling
you the truth--cross my heart and hope to die if I am not! And you
don’t know how brave I was--I never screamed; in fact, I never made a
sound; oh, I was brave!”
“Then what did you do?” sternly.
“I ran. Por Dios, how I ran! You remember with what alacrity we got down
the stairs during the November earthquake? (I remember only too
distinctly.) Well, last night’s run wasn’t a run, in comparison--it was
a disappearance, a flight, a sprint! I went down the four flights of
stairs like a streak of blue lightning, and the ghost flew with me. I
heard the pattering of its steps and its groans clean down to the patio
door, and I assure you I quite thought I had made such an impression
that it was actually going on home with me. And the thought made me feel
so weak that I felt perforce obliged to take a--have a--that is,
strengthen myself with a cocktail. After which I felt stronger and went
home quite peacefully. But it was an uncanny experience, wasn’t it?”
“Was it before or after taking that cocktail?” I ask, incredulously.
“And did you take one only or eleven?”
I am hard on the man, but he really deserves it. Ghosts! Spirits,
perhaps, but not ghosts. Whereat his feelings are quite “hurted”--so
much so that he vows he will never tell me anything again; I had better
read about Doubting Thomas; he never has seen such an unbelieving woman
in all his life, and if I were only a man he would be tempted to pray
that I might see the ghost; it would serve me right. Then, wrathfully
departs, to notice me no more that day.
Not believing the least bit in ghosts I gave the matter no more thought.
In fact, when you fall heir to a set of books that haven’t been posted
for nineteen days, and you have to do it all, and get up your trial
balance, too, or else give up your Christmas holidays, you haven’t much
time to think about ghosts, or anything else, except entries. And though
I had been working fourteen hours per day, the 24th of December, noon
hour, found me with a difference of $13.89. The which I, of course, must
locate and straighten out before departing next morning on my week’s
holiday. Por supuesto, it meant night work. Nothing else would do; and
besides, our plans had all been made to leave on the eight o’clock train
next morning. So I would just sit up all night, if need be, and find the
wretched balance and be done with it.
Behold me settled for work that night at seven o’clock in my own office,
with three lamps burning to keep it from looking dismal and lonely, and
books and ledgers and journals piled up two feet high around me. If hard
work would locate that nasty, hateful $13.89 it would surely be found. I
had told the portero downstairs on the ground floor to try and keep
awake for a time, but if I didn’t soon finish the work I would come down
and call him when I was ready to go home.
He lived in a little room, all shut off from the rest of the building,
so that it was rather difficult to get at him. Besides, he was the very
laziest and sleepiest peon possible, and though he was supposed to take
care of the big building at night, patrolling it so as to keep off
ladrones, he in reality slept so soundly that the last trumpet, much
less Mexican robbers, would not have roused him.
And for this very reason, before settling to my work I was careful to go
around and look to locks and bolts myself; everything was secure, and
the doors safely fastened. So that if ladrones did break through they
would have to be in shape to pass through keyholes or possess false
keys.
With never a thought of spirits or porteros, or anything else, beyond
the thirteen dollars and eighty-nine cents, I worked and added and
re-added and footed up. And at eleven o’clock, grazia a Dios, I had the
thirteen dollars all safe, and would have whooped for joy, had I the
time. However, I wasn’t out of the woods yet, the sum of eighty-nine
dollars being often more easy of location than eighty-nine cents. The
latter must be found, also, before I could have the pleasure of shouting
in celebration thereof.
At it I went again. After brain cudgeling and more adding and prayerful
thought I at last had under my thumb that abominable eighty cents.
Eureka! Only nine cents out. I could get it all straight and have some
sleep, after all! Inspired by which thought I smothered my yawns and
again began to add. I looked at my watch--ten minutes to twelve. Perhaps
I could get it fixed before one.
I suppose I had worked at the nine cents for about twenty minutes. One
of the cash entries looked to me to be in error. I compared it with the
voucher--yes, that was just where the trouble lay! Eleven
cents--ten--nine----
S-t-t! Out went the lights in the twinkling of an eye--as I sat, gaping
in my astonishment, from out of the pitchy darkness of the room came the
most dreary, horrible, blood-curdling groan imaginable. As I sat
paralyzed, not daring to breathe, doubting my senses for a moment, and
then thinking indignantly that it was some trick of that wretched
cashier, I felt long, thin, icy fingers passing gently over my face.
Malgame Dios! what a sensation! At first I was afraid to move. Then I
nervously tried to brush the icy, bony things away. As fast as I
brushed, with my heart beating like a steam-hammer, and gasping with
deadly fear, the fingers would come back again; a cold wind was blowing
over me. Again came that dreadful groan, and too frightened to move or
scream, I tumbled in a heap on the floor, among the books and ledgers.
Then I suppose I fainted.
When I regained my senses I was still in a heap with the ledgers; still
it was dark and still I felt the cold fingers caressing my face. At
which I became thoroughly desperate. No ghost should own me! I had
laughed at the poor cashier and hinted darkly at cocktails. Pray, what
better was I?
I scrambled to my feet, the fingers still stroking my face. I must
address them--what language--did they understand English or Spanish, I
wondered? Spanish would doubtless be most suitable, if indeed, it was
the ghost of the murdered count----.
“Will you do me the favor, Senor Ghost,” I started out bravely, in my
best Spanish, but with a very trembling voice, “to inform me what it is
that you desire? Is there anything I can do for you? Because, if not, I
would like very much to be allowed to finish my work, which I cannot do
(if you will pardon my abruptness) if I am not alone.”
(Being the ghost of a gentleman and a diplomat, surely he would take the
hint and vanish. Ojala!)
Perhaps the ghost did not understand my Spanish; at any rate there was
no articulate reply; there was another groan--again the fingers touched
me, and then there was such a mournful sigh that I felt sorry for the
poor thing--what could be the matter with it? With my pity, all fear was
lost for a moment, and I said to the darkness all about me:
“What is it that you wish, pobre senor? Can I not aid you? I am not
afraid--let me help you!”
The fingers moved uncertainly for a moment; then the ledgers all fell
down, with a loud bang; a cold hand caught mine, very gently--I tried
not to feel frightened, but it was difficult--and I was led off blindly,
through the offices. I could not see a thing--not a glimmer of light
showed; not a sound was heard except my own footsteps, and the faint
sound of the invisible something that was leading me along--there were
no more groans, thank goodness, else I should have shrieked and fainted,
without a doubt. Only the pattering footsteps and the cold hand that led
me on and on.
We--the fingers and I--were somehow in the great hall, then on the
second floor, and at last on the stairs, going on down, flight after
flight. Then I knew that I was being led about by the fingers on the
tiled floor of the patio, and close to the portero’s lodge. Simpleton
that he was! Sleeping like a log, no doubt, while I was being led about
in the black darkness by an invisible hand, and no one to save me! I
would have yelled, of course, but for one fact--I found it utterly
impossible to speak or move my tongue, being a rare and uncomfortable
sensation.
But where were we going? Back into the unused lumber rooms, joining onto
the patio? Nothing there, except barrels and slabs and empty boxes. What
could the ghost mean? He must be utterly demented, surely.
In the middle of the first room we paused. I had an idea of rushing out
and screaming for the portero, but abandoned it when I found that my
feet wouldn’t go. I heard steps passing to and fro about the floor, and
waited, cold and trembling. They approached me; again my hand was taken,
and I was led over near the corner of the room. Obedient to the unseen
will, I bent down and groped about the floor, guided by the cold fingers
holding mine, until I felt something like a tiny ring, set firmly in the
floor. I pulled at it faintly, but it did not move, at which the ghost
gave a faint sigh. For a second the cold fingers pressed mine, quite
affectionately, then released me, and I heard steps passing slowly into
the patio, then dying away. Where was it going, and what on earth did it
all mean?
But I was so tired and wrought up I tried to find the door, but couldn’t
(the cashier would have been revenged could he have seen me stupidly
fumbling at a barrel, thinking it was the door), and at last, too
fatigued and sleepy to stand, I dropped down on the cold stone floor
and went to sleep.
I must have slept for some hours, for when I awoke the light of dawn was
coming in at the window, and I sat up and wondered if I had taken leave
of my senses during the night. What on earth could I be doing here in
the lumber-room? Then, like a flash, I remembered, and, half
unconsciously, crept about on the floor seeking the small ring. There it
was! I caught it and jerked at it hard. Hey, presto, change! For it
seemed to me that the entire floor was giving way. There was a sliding,
crashing sound, and I found myself hanging on for dear life to a barrel
that, fortunately, retained its equilibrium, and with my feet dangling
into space. Down below me was a small, stone-floored room, with big
boxes and small ones ranged about the walls. Treasure! Like a flash the
thought struck me, and with one leap I was down in the secret room
gazing about at the boxes.
But, alas! upon investigation, the biggest chests proved empty. The bad,
wicked count! No wonder he couldn’t rest in his Spanish grave, but must
come back to the scene of his wickedness and deceit to make reparation!
But the smaller chests were literally crammed with all sorts of
things--big heavy Spanish coins, in gold and silver--gold and silver
dinner services, with the crest of the unfortunate emperor; magnificent
pieces of jeweled armor and weapons, beautiful jewelry and loose
precious stones. I deliberately selected handfuls of the latter, giving
my preference to the diamonds and pearls--I had always had a taste for
them, which I had never before been able to gratify!--and packed them in
a wooden box that I found in the lumber-room. The gold and dinner
services and armor, etc., I left as they were, being rather cumbersome,
and carried off, rejoicing, my big box of diamonds and pearls and other
jewelry.
Needless to say we didn’t go away for the holidays on the eight o’clock
train. But I did come down to the office and proceeded to locate my
missing nine cents. After which I unfolded the tale of the ghost and the
treasure--only keeping quiet the matter of my private loot. Of which I
was heartily glad afterwards. For when the government learned of the
find what do you suppose they offered me for going about with the ghost
and discovering the secret room and treasure? Ten thousand dollars! When
I refused, stating that I would take merely, as my reward, one of the
gold dinner services, the greedy things objected at first, but I finally
had my way. And to this very day they have no idea that I--even I--have
all the beautiful jewels. Wouldn’t they be furious if they knew it? But
they aren’t apt to, unless they learn English and read this story. Which
isn’t likely.
THE OLD MANSION.
Down on Long Beach, that narrow strip of sand which stretches along the
New Jersey coast from Barnegat Inlet on the north to Little Egg Harbor
Inlet on the south, the summer sojourner at some one of the numerous
resorts, which of late years have sprung up every few miles, may, in
wandering over the sand dunes just across the bay from the village of
Manahawkin, stumble over some charred timbers or vestiges of crumbling
chimneys, showing that once, years back, a human habitation has stood
there. If the find rouses the jaded curiosity of the visitor
sufficiently to impel him to question the weatherbeaten old bayman who
sails him on his fishing trips he will learn that these relics mark the
site of one of the first summer hotels erected on the New Jersey coast.
“That’s where the Old Mansion stood,” he will be informed by Captain
Nate or Captain Sam, or whatever particular captain it may chance to be,
and if by good fortune it chances to be Captain Jim, he will hear a
story that will pleasantly pass away the long wait for a sheepshead
bite.
It was my good luck to have secured Captain Jim for a preceptor in the
angler’s art during my vacation last summer, and his stories and
reminiscences of Long Beach were not the least enjoyable features of the
two weeks’ sojourn.
Captain Jim was not garrulous. Few of the baymen are. They are a sturdy,
self-reliant and self-controlled people, full of strong common sense,
but still with that firm belief in the supernatural which seems inherent
in dwellers by the sea.
“The Old Mansion,” said Captain Jim, “or the Mansion of Health, for that
was its full name, was built away back in 1822, so I’ve heard my father
say. There had been a tavern close by years before that was kept by a
man named Cranmer, and people used to come from Philadelphia by stage,
sixty miles through the pines, to ‘Hawkin, and then cross here by boat.
Some would stop at Cranmer’s and others went on down the beach to
Homer’s which was clear down at End by the Inlet. Finally some of the
wealthy people concluded that they wanted better accommodations than
Cranmer gave, so they formed the Great Swamp Long Beach Company, and
built the Mansion of Health. I’ve heard that when it was built it was
the biggest hotel on the coast, and was considered a wonder. It was 120
feet long, three stories high, and had a porch running all the way
around it, with a balcony on top. It was certainly a big thing for
those days. I’ve heard father tell many a time of the stage loads of gay
people that used to come rattling into ‘Hawkin, each stage drawn by four
horses, and sometimes four or five of them a day in the summer. A good
many people, too, used to come in their own carriages, and leave them
over on the mainland until they were ready to go home. There were gay
times at the Old Mansion then, and it made times good for the people
along shore, too.”
“How long did the Old Mansion flourish, Captain?” I asked.
“Well, for twenty-five or thirty years people came there summer after
summer. Then they built a railroad to Cape May, and that, with the
ghosts, settled the Mansion of Health.”
“What do you mean by the ghosts?” I demanded.
“Well, you see,” said Captain Jim, cutting off a mouthful of navy plug,
“the story got around that the old house was haunted. Some people said
there were queer things seen there, and strange noises were heard that
nobody could account for, and pretty soon the place got a bad name and
visitors were so few that it didn’t pay to keep it open any more.”
“But how did it get the name of being haunted, Captain Jim?” I
persisted.
“Why, it was this way,” continued the mariner. “Maybe you’ve heard of
the time early in the fifties when the Powhatan was wrecked on the beach
here, and every soul on board was lost. She was an emigrant ship, and
there were over 400 people aboard--passengers and crew. She came ashore
here during the equinoctial storm in September. There wasn’t any
life-saving stations in them days, and everyone was drowned. You can see
the long graves now over in the ‘Hawkin churchyard, where the bodies
were buried after they came ashore. They put them in three long trenches
that were dug from one end of the burying-ground to the other. The only
people on the beach that night was the man who took care of the old
mansion. He lived there with his family, and his son-in-law lived with
him. He was the wreckmaster for this part of the coast, too. It wasn’t
till the second day that the people from ‘Hawkin could get over to the
beach, and by that time the bodies had all come ashore, and the
wreckmaster had them all piled up on the sand. I was a youngster, then,
and came over with my father, and, I tell you, it was the awfullest
sight I ever saw--them long rows of drowned people, all lying there with
their white, still faces turned up to the sky. Some were women, with
their dead babies clasped tight in their arms, and some were husbands
and wives, whose bodies came ashore locked together in a death embrace.
I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live. Well, when the coroner
came and took charge he began to inquire whether any money or valuables
had been found, but the wreckmaster declared that not a solitary coin
had been washed ashore. People thought this was rather singular, as the
emigrants were, most of them, well-to-do Germans, and were known to have
brought a good deal of money with them, but it was concluded that it had
gone down with the ship. Well, the poor emigrants were given pauper
burial, and the people had begun to forget their suspicions until three
or four months later there came another storm, and the sea broke clear
over the beach, just below the Old Mansion, and washed away the sand.
Next morning early two men from ‘Hawkin sailed across the bay and landed
on the beach. They walked across on the hard bottom where the sea had
washed across, and, when about half way from the bay, one of the men saw
something curious close up against the stump of an old cedar tree. He
called the other man’s attention to it, and they went over to the stump.
What they found was a pile of leather money-belts that would have filled
a wheelbarrow. Every one was cut open and empty. They had been buried in
the sand close by the old stump, and the sea had washed away the
covering. The men didn’t go any further.
“They carried the belts to their boats and sailed back to ‘Hawkin as
fast as the wind would take them. Of course, it made a big sensation,
and everybody was satisfied that the wreckmaster had robbed the bodies,
if he hadn’t done anything worse, but there was no way to prove it, and
so nothing was done. The wreckmaster didn’t stay around here long after
that, though. The people made it too hot for him, and he and his family
went away South, where it was said he bought a big plantation and a lot
of slaves. Years afterward the story came to ‘Hawkin somehow that he was
killed in a barroom brawl, and that his son-in-law was drowned by his
boat upsettin’ while he was out fishin’. I don’t furnish any affidavits
with that part of the story, though.
“However, after that nobody lived in the Old Mansion for long at a time.
People would go there, stay a week or two, and leave--and at last it was
given up entirely to beach parties in the day time, and ghosts at
night.”
“But, Captain, you don’t really believe the ghost part, do you?” I
asked.
Captain Jim looked down the bay, expectorated gravely over the side of
the boat, and answered, slowly:
“Well, I don’t know as I would have believed in ’em if I hadn’t seen the
ghost.”
“What!” I exclaimed; “you saw it? Tell me about it. I’ve always wanted
to see a ghost, or next best thing, a man who has seen one.”
“It was one August, about 1861,” said the captain. “I was a young
feller then, and with a half dozen more was over on the beach cutting
salt hay. We didn’t go home at nights, but did our own cooking in the
Old Mansion kitchen, and at nights slept on piles of hay upstairs. We
were a reckless lot of scamps, and reckoned that no ghosts could scare
us. There was a big full moon that night, and it was as light as day.
The muskeeters was pretty bad, too, and it was easier to stay awake than
go to sleep. Along toward midnight me and two other fellers went out on
the old balcony, and began to race around the house. We hollered and
yelled, and chased each other for half an hour or so, and then we
concluded we had better go to sleep, so we started for the window of the
room where the rest were. This window was near one end on the ocean
side, and as I came around the corner I stopped as if I had been shot,
and my hair raised straight up on top of my head. Right there in front
of that window stood a woman looking out over the sea, and in her arms
she held a little child. I saw her as plain as I see you now. It seemed
to me like an hour she stood there, but I don’t suppose it was a second;
then she was gone. When I could move I looked around for the other boys,
and they were standing there paralyzed. They had seen the woman, too. We
didn’t say much, and we didn’t sleep much that night, and the next night
we bunked out on the beach. The rest of the crowd made all manner of
fun of us, but we had had all the ghost we wanted, and I never set foot
inside the old house after that.”
“When did it burn down, Captain?” I asked, as Jim relapsed into silence.
“Somewhere about twenty-five years ago. A beach party had been roasting
clams in the old oven, and in some way the fire got to the woodwork. It
was as dry as tinder, and I hope the ghosts were all burnt up with it.”
A MISFIT GHOST.
Every boy with a knowledge of adventurous literature, otherwise “novels
of action,” knows of the “phantom ship,” the spook of the high seas.
But it has not been known that ships themselves are haunted, and that in
the service of the United States Coast Survey there is a vessel now in
commission that is by her own officers supposed to be haunted.
Yet the Eagre, a 140-foot schooner of the coast survey, is looked upon
in the service as a very undesirable vessel to be aboard of. About her
there is an atmosphere of gloom that wardroom jest cannot dispel.
Duty on board her has been shunned as would be a pestilence, and stories
have been told by officers who have cruised aboard her that are not good
for timid people to hear. Officers have hesitated about telling these
uncanny stories, but they have become sufficiently well known to make a
billet to duty aboard the Eagre unwelcome among the coast survey men.