Ghost Stories of an Antiquary by Montague Rhodes James (large screen ebook reader txt) 📕

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

some time 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

and 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 round 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 afterwards, 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 round 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., 24 July, 1865.’

Mr and Mrs Anstruther were at breakfast in the parlour of Westfield Hall,

in the county of Essex. They were arranging plans for the day.

‘George,’ said Mrs Anstruther, ‘I think you had better take the car to

Maldon and see if you can get any of those knitted things I was speaking

about which would do for my stall at the bazaar.’

‘Oh well, if you wish it, Mary, of course I can do that, but I had half

arranged to play a round with Geoffrey Williamson this morning. The

bazaar isn’t till Thursday of next week, is it?’

‘What has that to do with it, George? I should have thought you would

have guessed that if I can’t get the things I want in Maldon I shall have

to write to all manner of shops in town: and they are certain to send

something quite unsuitable in price or quality the first time. If you

have actually made an appointment with Mr Williamson, you had better keep

it, but I must say I think you might have let me know.’

‘Oh no, no, it wasn’t really an appointment. I quite see what you mean.

I’ll go. And what shall you do yourself?’

‘Why, when the work of the house is arranged for, I must see about laying

out my new rose garden. By the way, before you start for Maldon I wish

you would just take Collins to look at the place I fixed upon. You know

it, of course.’

‘Well, I’m not quite sure that I do, Mary. Is it at the upper end,

towards the village?’

‘Good gracious no, my dear George; I thought I had made that quite clear.

No, it’s that small clearing just off the shrubbery path that goes

towards the church.’

‘Oh yes, where we were saying there must have been a summer-house once:

the place with the old seat and the posts. But do you think there’s

enough sun there?’

‘My dear George, do allow me some common sense, and don’t credit me

with all your ideas about summer-houses. Yes, there will be plenty of sun

when we have got rid of some of those box-bushes. I know what you are

going to say, and I have as little wish as you to strip the place bare.

All I want Collins to do is to clear away the old seats and the posts and

things before I come out in an hour’s time. And I hope you will manage to

get off fairly soon. After luncheon I think I shall go on with my sketch

of the church; and if you please you can go over to the links, or—’

‘Ah, a good idea—very good! Yes, you finish that sketch, Mary, and I

should be glad of a round.’

‘I was going to say, you might call on the Bishop; but I suppose it is no

use my making any suggestion. And now do be getting ready, or half the

morning will be gone.’

Mr Anstruther’s face, which had shown symptoms of lengthening, shortened

itself again, and he hurried from the room, and was soon heard giving

orders in the passage. Mrs Anstruther, a stately dame of some fifty