Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James (46 page)

“You say you don’t wish this to be supplied excepting to personal friends equipped with a authorization from yourself, sir. It shall be done. I quite understand your wish to keep it exclusive—lends it a catchit, does it not, to the suite? What’s every man’s, it’s been said, is no man’s.”

“Do you think it would be popular if it were generally obtainable?” asked Mr. Denton.

“I ’ardly think it, sir,” said Cattell, pensively clasping his beard. “I ’ardly think it. Not popular. It wasn’t popular with the man that cut the block, was it, Mr. ’Iggins?”

“Did he find it a difficult job?”

“He’d no call to do so, sir. But the fact is that the artistic temperament—and our men are artists, sir, every man of them—true artists as much as many that the world styles by that term—it’s apt to take some strange ’ardly accountable likes or dislikes, and here was an example.

“The twice or thrice that I went to inspect his progress: language I could understand, for that’s ’abitual to him, but reel distaste for what I should call a dainty enough thing, I did not, nor am I now able to fathom. It seemed,” said Mr. Cattell, looking narrowly upon Mr. Denton, “as if the man scented something almost Hevil in the design.”

“Indeed? Did he tell you so? I can’t say I see anything sinister in it myself.”

“Neether can I, sir. In fact I said as much. ‘Come, Gatwick,’ I said, ‘what’s to do here? What’s the reason of your prejudice—for I can call it no more than that?’ But, no! No explanation was forthcoming. And I was merely reduced, as I am now, to a shrug of the shoulders, and a
cui bono
. However, here it is,” and with that the technical side of the question came to the front again.

The matching of the colors for the background, the hem, and the knots of ribbon was by far the longest part of the business, and necessitated many sendings to and fro of the original pattern and of new samples. During part of August and September, too, the Dentons were away from the Manor.

So that it was not until October was well in that a sufficient quantity of the stuff had been manufactured to furnish curtains for the three or four bedrooms which were to be fitted up with it.

On the feast of Simon and Jude the aunt and nephew returned from a short visit to find all completed, and their satisfaction at the general effect
was great. The new curtains, in particular, agreed to admiration with their surroundings.

When Mr. Denton was dressing for dinner, and took stock of his room, in which there was a large amount of the chintz displayed, he congratulated himself over and over again on the luck which had first made him forget his aunt’s commission and had then put into his hands this extremely effective means of remedying his mistake.

The pattern was, as he said at dinner, so restful and yet so far from being dull.

And Miss Denton—who, by the way, had none of the stuff in her own room—was much disposed to agree with him.

At breakfast next morning he was induced to qualify his satisfaction to some extent—but very slightly. “There is one thing I rather regret,” he said, “that we allowed them to join up the vertical bands of the pattern at the top. I think it would have been better to leave that alone.”

“Oh?” said his aunt interrogatively.

“Yes. As I was reading in bed last night they kept catching my eye rather. That is, I found myself looking across at them every now and then. There was an effect as if someone kept peeping out between the curtains in one place or another, where there was no edge, and I think that was due to the joining up of the bands at the top. The only other thing that troubled me was the wind.”

“Why, I thought it was a perfectly still night.”

“Perhaps it was only on my side of the house, but there was enough to sway my curtains and rustle them more than I wanted.”

That night a bachelor friend of James Denton’s came to stay, and was lodged in a room on the same floor as his host, but at the end of a long passage, halfway down which was a red baize door, put there to cut off the draft and intercept noise.

The party of three had separated. Miss Denton a good first, the two men at about eleven.

James Denton, not yet inclined for bed, sat him down in an armchair and read for a time. Then he dozed, and then he woke, and bethought himself that his brown spaniel, which ordinarily slept in his room, had not come upstairs with him.

Then he thought he was mistaken: for happening to move his hand which hung down over the arm of the chair within a few inches of the floor, he felt on the back of it just the slightest touch of a surface of hair, and stretching it out in that direction he stroked and patted a rounded something. But the feel of it, and still more the fact that instead of a responsive movement, absolute stillness greeted his touch, made him look over the arm.

What he had been touching rose to meet him. It was in the attitude of one that had crept along the floor on its belly, and it was, so far as could be collected, a human figure. But of the face which was now rising to within a few inches of his own no feature was discernible, only hair.

Shapeless as it was, there was about it so horrible an air of menace that as he bounded from his chair and rushed from the room he heard himself moaning with fear: and doubtless he did right to fly.

As he dashed into the baize door that cut the passage in two, and—forgetting that it opened toward him—beat against it with all the force in him, he felt a soft ineffectual tearing at his back which, all the same, seemed to be growing in power, as if the hand, or whatever worse than a hand was there, were becoming more material as the pursuer’s rage was more concentrated.

Then he remembered the trick of the door—he got it open—he shut it behind him—he gained his friend’s room, and that is all we need know.

It seems curious that, during all the time that had elapsed since the purchase of Poynter’s diary, James Denton should not have sought an explanation of the presence of the pattern that had been pinned into it.

Well, he had read the diary through without finding it mentioned, and had concluded that there was nothing to be said. But, on leaving Rendcomb Manor (he did not know whether for good), as he naturally insisted upon doing on the day after experiencing the horror I have tried to put into words, he took the diary with him. And at his seaside lodgings he examined more narrowly the portion whence the pattern had been taken.

What he remembered having suspected about it turned out to be correct. Two or three leaves were pasted together, but written upon, as was patent when they were held up to the light. They yielded easily to steaming, for the paste had lost much of its strength, and they contained something relevant to the pattern.

The entry was made in 1707.

Old Mr. Casbury, of Acrington, told me this day much of young Sir Everard Charlett, whom he remember’d Commoner of University College, and thought was of the same Family as Dr. Arthur Charlett, now master of ye Coll.

This Charlett was a personable young gent., but a loose atheistical companion, and a great Lifter, as they then call’d the hard drinkers, and for what I know do so now. He was noted, and subject to severall censures at different times for his extravagancies: and if the full history of his debaucheries had bin known, no doubt would have been expell’d ye Coll., supposing that no interest had been imploy’d on his behalf, of which Mr. Casbury had some suspicion.

He was a very beautiful person, and constantly wore his own Hair, which was very abundant, from which, and his loose way of living, the cant name for him was Absalom, and he was accustom’d to say that indeed he believ’d he had shortened old David’s days, meaning his father, Sir Job Charlett, an old worthy cavalier. Note that Mr. Casbury said that he remembers not the year of Sir Everard Charlett’s death, but it was 1692 or 3. He died suddenly in October.
[Several lines describing his unpleasant habits and reputed delinquencies are omitted.]

Having seen him in such topping spirits the night before, Mr. Casbury was amaz’d when he learn’d the death. He was found in the town ditch, the hair as was said pluck’d clean off his head. Most bells in Oxford rung out for him, being a nobleman, and he was buried next night in St. Peter’s in the East.

But two years after, being to be moved to his country estate by his successor, it was said the coffin, breaking by mischance, proved quite full of Hair: which sounds fabulous, but yet I believe precedents are upon record, as in Dr. Plot’s
History of Staffordshire.

His chambers being afterward stripp’d, Mr. Casbury came by part of the hangings of it, which ’twas said this Charlett had design’d expressly for a memorial of his Hair, giving the Fellow that drew it a lock to work by, and the piece which I have fasten’d in here was parcel of the same, which Mr. Casbury gave to me.

He said he believ’d there was a subtlety in the drawing, but had never discover’d it himself, nor much liked to pore upon it.

The money spent upon the curtains might as well have been thrown into the fire, as they were.

Mr. Cattell’s comment upon what he heard of the story took the form of a quotation from Shakespeare. You may guess it without difficulty. It began with the words “There are more things.”

D
R
. A
SHTON
—Thomas Ashton, Doctor of Divinity—sat in his study, habited in a nightgown, and with a silk cap on his shaven head—his wig being for the time taken off and placed on its block on a side table.

He was a man of some fifty-five years, strongly made, of a sanguine complexion, an angry eye, and a long upper lip. Face and eye were lighted up at the moment when I picture him by the level ray of an afternoon sun that shone in upon him through a tall sash window, giving, on the west.

The room into which it shone was also tall, lined with bookcases, and, where the wall showed between them, paneled.

On the table near the doctor’s elbow was a green cloth, and upon it what he would have called a silver standish—a tray with inkstands—quill pens, a calf-bound book or two, some papers, a churchwarden pipe and brass tobacco-box, a flask cased in plaited straw, and a liqueur glass.

The year was 1730, the month December, the hour somewhat past three in the afternoon.

I have described in these lines pretty much all that a superficial observer would have noted when he looked into the room. What met Dr. Ashton’s eye when he looked out of it, sitting in his leather armchair?

Little more than the tops of the shrubs and fruit-trees of his garden could be seen from that point, but the redbrick wall of it was visible in almost all the length of its western side. In the middle of that was a gate—a double gate of rather elaborate iron scrollwork, which allowed something of a view beyond.

Through it he could see that the ground sloped away almost at once to a bottom, along which a stream must run, and rose steeply from it on the other side, up to a field that was park-like in character, and thickly studded with oaks, now, of course, leafless.

They did not stand so thick together but that some glimpse of sky and horizon could be seen between their stems. The sky was now golden and the horizon, a horizon of distant woods, it seemed, was purple.

But all that Dr. Ashton could find to say, after contemplating this prospect for many minutes, was: “Abominable!”

A listener would have been aware, immediately upon this, of the sound of footsteps coming somewhat hurriedly in the direction of the study. By the resonance he could have told that they were traversing a much larger room.

Dr. Ashton turned around in his chair as the door opened, and looked expectant. The incomer was a lady—a stout lady in the dress of the time; though I have made some attempt at indicating the doctor’s costume, I will not enterprise that of his wife—for it was Mrs. Ashton who now entered.

She had an anxious, even a sorely distracted, look, and it was in a very disturbed voice that she almost whispered to Dr. Ashton, putting her head close to his, “He’s in a very sad way, love, worse, I’m afraid.”

“Tt-tt, is he really?” and he leaned back and looked in her face.

She nodded.

Two solemn bells, high up, and not far away, rang out the half-hour at this moment. Mrs. Ashton started. “Oh, do you think you can give order that the minster clock be stopped chiming tonight? ’Tis just over his chamber, and will keep him from sleeping, and to sleep is the only chance for him, that’s certain.”

“Why, to be sure, if there were need, real need, it could be done, but not upon any light occasion. This Frank, now, do you assure me that his recovery stands upon it?” said Dr. Ashton. His voice was loud and rather hard.

“I do verily believe it,” said his wife.

“Then, if it must be, bid Molly run across to Simpkins and say on my authority that he is to stop the clock chimes at sunset. And—yes—she is after that to say to my lord Saul that I wish to see him presently in this room.”

Mrs. Ashton hurried off.

Before any other visitor enters, it will be well to explain the situation.