Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James (37 page)

“‘I told him what I thought, only I couldn’t remember the name of the silly tree. And then he wanted to know why I put it down, and I had to say something or other. And after that he left off talking about it, and asked me how long I’d been here, and where my people lived, and things like that. And then I came away, but he wasn’t looking a bit well.’

“I don’t remember any more that was said by either of us about this. Next day McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind, and it was a week or more before he was in school again. And as much as a month went by without anything happening that was noticeable.

“Whether or not Mr. Sampson was really startled, as McLeod had thought, he didn’t show it. I am pretty sure, of course, now, that there was something very curious in his past history, but I’m not going to pretend that we boys were sharp enough to guess any such thing.

“There was one other incident of the same kind as the last which I told you. Several times since that day we had had to make up examples in school to illustrate different rules, but there had never been any row except when we did them wrong. At last there came a day when we were going through those dismal things which people call Conditional Sentences, and we were told to make a conditional sentence, expressing a future consequence. We did it, right or wrong, and showed up our bits of paper, and Sampson began looking through them.

“All at once he got up, made some odd sort of noise in his throat, and rushed out by a door that was just by his desk. We sat there for a minute or two, and then—I suppose it was incorrect—but we went up, I and one or two others, to look at the papers on his desk.

“Of course I thought someone must have put down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had gone off to report him. All the same, I noticed that he hadn’t taken any of the papers with him when he ran out.

“Well, the top paper on the desk was written in red ink—which no one used—and it wasn’t in anyone’s hand who was in the class. They all looked at it—McLeod and all—and took their dying oaths that it wasn’t theirs.

“Then I thought of counting the bits of paper.

“And of this I made quite certain: that there were seventeen bits of paper on the desk, and sixteen boys in the form. Well, I bagged the extra paper, and kept it, and I believe I have it now.

“And now you will want to know what was written on it. It was simple enough, and harmless enough, I should have said:
Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te,
which means, I suppose, ‘If you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you.’”

“Could you show me the paper?” interrupted the listener.

“Yes, I could. But there’s another odd thing about it. That same afternoon I took it out of my locker—I know for certain it was the same bit, for I made a finger-mark on it—and no single trace of writing of any kind was there on it.

“I kept it, as I said, and since that time I have tried various experiments to see whether sympathetic ink had been used, but absolutely without result.

“So much for that. After about half-an-hour Sampson looked in again: said he had felt very unwell, and told us we might go. He came rather gingerly to his desk, and gave just one look at the uppermost paper, and I suppose he thought he must have been dreaming. Anyhow, he asked no questions.

“That day was a half-holiday, and next day Sampson was in school again, much as usual. That night the third and last incident in my story happened.

“We—McLeod and I—slept in a dormitory at right angles to the main building. Sampson slept in the main building on the first floor. There was a very bright full moon. At an hour which I can’t tell exactly, but sometime between one and two, I was woken up by somebody shaking me. It was McLeod, and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in.

“‘Come,’ he said. ‘Come! There’s a burglar getting in through Sampson’s window.’

“As soon as I could speak, I said, ‘Well, why not call out and wake everybody up?’

“‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure who it is. Don’t make a row: come look.’

“Naturally I came and looked, and naturally there was no one there. I was cross enough, and should have called McLeod plenty of names, only—I couldn’t tell why—it seemed to me that there
was
something wrong—something that made me very glad I wasn’t alone to face it.

“We were still at the window looking out, and as soon as I could, I asked him what he had heard or seen.

“‘I didn’t
hear
anything at all,’ he said, ‘but about five minutes before I woke you, I found myself looking out of this window here, and there was a man sitting or kneeling on Sampson’s window-sill, and looking in, and I thought he was beckoning.’

“‘What sort of man?’

“McLeod wriggled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you one thing—he was beastly thin, and he looked as if he was wet all over. And,’ he said, looking around and whispering as if he hardly liked to hear himself, ‘I’m not at all sure that he was alive.’

“We went on talking in whispers some time longer, and eventually crept
back to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. I believe we did sleep a bit afterward, but we were very cheap next day.

“And next day Mr. Sampson was gone: not to be found; and I believe no trace of him has ever come to light since.

“In thinking it over, one of the oddest things about it all has seemed to me to be the fact that neither McLeod nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any third person whatever. Of course no questions were asked on the subject, and if they had been, I am inclined to believe that we could not have made any answer: we seemed unable to speak about it.

“That is my story,” said the narrator. “The only approach to a ghost story connected with a school that I know, but still, I think, an approach to such a thing.”

The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional; but a sequel there is, and so it must be produced.

There had been more than one listener to the story, and, in the latter part of that same year, or of the next, one such listener was staying at a country house in Ireland.

One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and ends in the smoking-room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box. “Now,” he said, “you know about old things. Tell me what that is.”

My friend opened the little box, and found in it a thin gold chain with an object attached to it. He glanced at the object and then took off his spectacles to examine it more narrowly. “What’s the history of this?” he asked.

“Odd enough,” was the answer. “You know the yew thicket in the shrubbery: well, a year or two back we were cleaning out the old well that used to be in the clearing here, and what do you suppose we found?”

“Is it possible that you found a body?” said the visitor, with an odd feeling of nervousness.

“We did that. But what’s more, in every sense of the word, we found two.”

“Good Heavens! Two? Was there anything to show how they got there? Was this thing found with them?”

“It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of the bodies. A bad business, whatever the story of it may have been. One body had the arms tight around the other. They must have been there thirty years or more
—long enough before we came to this place. You may judge we filled the well up fast enough. Do you make anything of what’s cut on that gold coin you have there?”

“I think I can,” said my friend, holding it to the light (but he read it without much difficulty). “It seems to be G.W.S., July 24, 1865.”

T
OWARDS THE END
of an autumn afternoon an elderly man with a thin face and gray Piccadilly weepers pushed open the swing-door leading into the vestibule of a certain famous library, and addressing himself to an attendant, stated that he believed he was entitled to use the library, and inquired if he might take a book out.

Yes, if he were on the list of those to whom that privilege was given. He produced his card—
Mr. John Eldred
—and, the register being consulted, a favorable answer was given.

“Now, another point,” said he. “It is a long time since I was here, and I do not know my way about your building. Besides, it is near closing-time, and it is bad for me to hurry up and down stairs. I have here the title of the book I want: is there anyone at liberty who could go and find it for me?”

After a moment’s thought the doorkeeper beckoned to a young man who was passing. “Mr. Garrett,” he said, “have you a minute to assist this gentleman?”

“With pleasure,” was Mr. Garrett’s answer. The slip with the title was handed to him. “I think I can put my hand on this; it happens to be in the class I inspected last quarter, but I’ll just look it up in the catalog to make sure. I suppose it is that particular edition that you require, sir?”

“Yes, if you please; that, and no other,” said Mr. Eldred. “I am exceedingly obliged to you.”

“Don’t mention it I beg, sir,” said Mr. Garrett, and hurried off. “I thought so,” he said to himself, when his finger, traveling down the pages of the catalog, stopped at a particular entry. “Talmud: Tractate Middoth, with the
commentary of Nachmanides, Amsterdam, 1707. 11.3.34. Hebrew class, of course. Not a very difficult job this.”

Mr. Eldred, accommodated with a chair in the vestibule, awaited anxiously the return of his messenger—and his disappointment at seeing an empty-handed Mr. Garrett running down the staircase was very evident.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir,” said the young man, “but the book is out.”

“Oh dear!” said Mr. Eldred, “is that so? You are sure there can be no mistake?”

“I don’t think there is much chance of it, sir: but it’s possible, if you like to wait a minute, that you might meet the very gentleman that’s got it. He must be leaving the library soon, and I
think
I saw him take that particular book out of the shelf.”

“Indeed! You didn’t recognize him, I suppose? Would it be one of the professors or one of the students?”

“I don’t think so: certainly not a professor. I should have known him; but the light isn’t very good in that part of the library at this time of day, and I didn’t see his face. I should have said he was a shortish old gentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a cloak. If you could wait, I can easily find out whether he wants the book very particularly.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Eldred, “I won’t—I can’t wait now, thank you—no. I must be off. But I’ll call again tomorrow if I may, and perhaps you could find out who has it.”

“Certainly, sir, and I’ll have the book ready for you if we—”

But Mr. Eldred was already off, and hurrying more than one would have thought wholesome for him.

Garrett had a few moments to spare; and, thought he, “I’ll go back to that case and see if I can find the old man. Most likely he could put off using the book for a few days. I dare say the other one doesn’t want to keep it for long.” So off with him to the Hebrew class.

But when he got there it was unoccupied, and the volume marked 11.3.34 was in its place on the shelf. It was vexatious to Garrett’s self-respect to have disappointed an inquirer with so little reason. And he would have liked, had it not been against library rules, to take the book down to the vestibule then and there, so that it might be ready for Mr. Eldred when he called. However,
next morning he would be on the look-out for him, and he begged the doorkeeper to send and let him know when the moment came.

As a matter of fact, he was himself in the vestibule when Mr. Eldred arrived, very soon after the library opened and when hardly anyone besides the staff were in the building.

“I’m very sorry,” he said; “it’s not often that I make such a stupid mistake, but I did feel sure that the old gentleman I saw took out that very book and kept it in his hand without opening it, just as people do, you know, sir, when they mean to take a book out of the library and not merely refer to it. But, however, I’ll run up now at once and get it for you this time.”

And here intervened a pause. Mr. Eldred paced the entry, read all the notices, consulted his watch, sat and gazed up the staircase, did all that a very impatient man could, until some twenty minutes had run out. At last he addressed himself to the doorkeeper and inquired if it was a very long way to that part of the library to which Mr. Garrett had gone.

“Well, I was thinking it was funny, sir: he’s a quick man as a rule, but to be sure he might have been sent for by the librarian, but even so I think he’d have mentioned to him that you was waiting. I’ll just speak him up on the toob and see.”

And to the tube he addressed himself. As he absorbed the reply to his question his face changed, and he made one or two supplementary inquiries which were shortly answered. Then he came forward to his counter and spoke in a lower tone.

“I’m sorry to hear, sir, that something seems to have ’appened a little awkward. Mr. Garrett has been took poorly, it appears, and the librarian sent him ’ome in a cab the other way. Something of an attack, by what I can hear.”

“What, really? Do you mean that someone has injured him?”

“No, sir, not violence ’ere, but, as I should judge, attacked with an attack, what you might term it, of illness. Not a strong constitootion, Mr. Garrett. But as to your book, sir, perhaps you might be able to find it for yourself. It’s too bad you should be disappointed this way twice over—”