A Stable for Nightmares; or, Weird Tales Read online

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  A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES

  A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES]

  A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES

  OR

  WEIRD TALES

  BY

  J. SHERIDAN LE FANU AUTHOR OF "UNCLE SILAS," "HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD,"

  SIR CHARLES YOUNG, BART.

  AND OTHERS

  Illustrated

  NEW YORK NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY 156 FIFTH AVENUE 1896

  Copyright, 1896, by NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PAGE

  DICKON THE DEVIL, 9

  A DEBT OF HONOR, 27

  DEVEREUX'S DREAM, 59

  CATHERINE'S QUEST, 89

  HAUNTED, 115

  PICHON AND SONS, OF THE CROIX ROUSSE, 135

  THE PHANTOM FOURTH, 163

  THE SPIRIT'S WHISPER, 185

  DR. FEVERSHAM'S STORY, 209

  THE SECRET OF THE TWO PLASTER CASTS, 229

  WHAT WAS IT? 241

  DICKON THE DEVIL.

  About thirty years ago I was selected by two rich old maids to visit aproperty in that part of Lancashire which lies near the famous forest ofPendle, with which Mr. Ainsworth's "Lancashire Witches" has made us sopleasantly familiar. My business was to make partition of a smallproperty, including a house and demesne to which they had, a long timebefore, succeeded as coheiresses.

  The last forty miles of my journey I was obliged to post, chiefly bycross-roads, little known, and less frequented, and presenting sceneryoften extremely interesting and pretty. The picturesqueness of thelandscape was enhanced by the season, the beginning of September, atwhich I was travelling.

  I had never been in this part of the world before; I am told it is now agreat deal less wild, and, consequently, less beautiful.

  At the inn where I had stopped for a relay of horses and somedinner--for it was then past five o'clock--I found the host, a hale oldfellow of five-and-sixty, as he told me, a man of easy and garrulousbenevolence, willing to accommodate his guests with any amount of talk,which the slightest tap sufficed to set flowing, on any subject youpleased.

  I was curious to learn something about Barwyke, which was the name ofthe demesne and house I was going to. As there was no inn within somemiles of it, I had written to the steward to put me up there, the bestway he could, for a night.

  The host of the "Three Nuns," which was the sign under which heentertained wayfarers, had not a great deal to tell. It was twentyyears, or more, since old Squire Bowes died, and no one had lived in theHall ever since, except the gardener and his wife.

  "Tom Wyndsour will be as old a man as myself; but he's a bit taller, andnot so much in flesh, quite," said the fat innkeeper.

  "But there were stories about the house," I repeated, "that, they said,prevented tenants from coming into it?"

  "Old wives' tales; many years ago, that will be, sir; I forget 'em; Iforget 'em all. Oh yes, there always will be, when a house is left so;foolish folk will always be talkin'; but I han't heard a word about itthis twenty year."

  It was vain trying to pump him; the old landlord of the "Three Nuns,"for some reason, did not choose to tell tales of Barwyke Hall, if hereally did, as I suspected, remember them.

  I paid my reckoning, and resumed my journey, well pleased with the goodcheer of that old-world inn, but a little disappointed.

  We had been driving for more than an hour, when we began to cross a wildcommon; and I knew that, this passed, a quarter of an hour would bringme to the door of Barwyke Hall.

  The peat and furze were pretty soon left behind; we were again in thewooded scenery that I enjoyed so much, so entirely natural and pretty,and so little disturbed by traffic of any kind. I was looking from thechaise-window, and soon detected the object of which, for some time, myeye had been in search. Barwyke Hall was a large, quaint house, of thatcage-work fashion known as "black-and-white," in which the bars andangles of an oak framework contrast, black as ebony, with the whiteplaster that overspreads the masonry built into its interstices. Thissteep-roofed Elizabethan house stood in the midst of park-like groundsof no great extent, but rendered imposing by the noble stature of theold trees that now cast their lengthening shadows eastward over thesward, from the declining sun.

  The park-wall was gray with age, and in many places laden with ivy. Indeep gray shadow, that contrasted with the dim fires of eveningreflected on the foliage above it, in a gentle hollow, stretched a lakethat looked cold and black, and seemed, as it were, to skulk fromobservation with a guilty knowledge.

  I had forgot that there was a lake at Barwyke; but the moment thiscaught my eye, like the cold polish of a snake in the shadow, myinstinct seemed to recognize something dangerous, and I knew that thelake was connected, I could not remember how, with the story I had heardof this place in my boyhood.

  I drove up a grass-grown avenue, under the boughs of these noble trees,whose foliage, dyed in autumnal red and yellow, returned the beams ofthe western sun gorgeously.

  We drew up at the door. I got out, and had a good look at the front ofthe house; it was a large and melancholy mansion, with signs of longneglect upon it; great wooden shutters, in the old fashion, were barred,outside, across the windows; grass, and even nettles, were growing thickon the courtyard, and a thin moss streaked the timber beams; the plasterwas discolored by time and weather, and bore great russet and yellowstains. The gloom was increased by several grand old trees that crowdedclose about the house.

  I mounted the steps, and looked round; the dark lake lay near me now, alittle to the left. It was not large; it may have covered some ten ortwelve acres; but it added to the melancholy of the scene. Near thecentre of it was a small island, with two old ash-trees, leaning towardeach other, their pensive images reflected in the stirless water. Theonly cheery influence of this scene of antiquity, solitude, and neglectwas that the house and landscape were warmed with the ruddy westernbeams. I knocked, and my summons resounded hollow and ungenial in myear; and the bell, from far away, returned a deep-mouthed and surlyring, as if it resented being roused from a score years' slumber.

  A light-limbed, jolly-looking old fellow, in a barracan jacket andgaiters, with a smirk of welcome, and a very sharp, red nose, thatseemed to promise good cheer, opened the door with a promptitude thatindicated a hospitable expectation of my arrival.

  There was but little light in the hall, and that little lost itself indarkness in the background. It was very spacious and lofty, with agallery running round it, which, when the door was open, was visible attwo or three points. Almost in the dark my new acquaintance led meacross this wide hall into the room destined for my reception. It wasspacious, and wainscoted up to the ceiling. The furniture of thiscapacious chamber was old-fashioned and clumsy. There were curtainsstill to the windows, and a piece of Turkey carpet lay upon the floor;those windows were two in number, looking out, through the trunks of thetrees close to the house, upon the lake. It needed all the fire, and allthe pleasant associations of my entertainer's red nose, to light up thismelancholy chamber. A door at its farther end admitted to the
room thatwas prepared for my sleeping apartment. It was wainscoted, like theother. It had a four-post bed, with heavy tapestry curtains, and inother respects was furnished in the same old-world and ponderous styleas the other room. Its window, like those of that apartment, looked outupon the lake.

  Sombre and sad as these rooms were, they were yet scrupulously clean. Ihad nothing to complain of; but the effect was rather dispiriting.Having given some directions about supper--a pleasant incident to lookforward to--and made a rapid toilet, I called on my friend with thegaiters and red nose (Tom Wyndsour), whose occupation was that of a"bailiff," or under-steward, of the property, to accompany me, as we hadstill an hour or so of sun and twilight, in a walk over the grounds.

  It was a sweet autumn evening, and my guide, a hardy old fellow, strodeat a pace that tasked me to keep up with.

  Among clumps of trees at the northern boundary of the demesne we lightedupon the little antique parish church. I was looking down upon it, froman eminence, and the park-wall interposed; but a little way down was astile affording access to the road, and by this we approached the irongate of the churchyard. I saw the church door open; the sexton wasreplacing his pick, shovel, and spade, with which he had just beendigging a grave in the churchyard, in their little repository under thestone stair of the tower. He was a polite, shrewd little hunchback, whowas very happy to show me over the church. Among the monuments was onethat interested me; it was erected to commemorate the very Squire Bowesfrom whom my two old maids had inherited the house and estate ofBarwyke. It spoke of him in terms of grandiloquent eulogy, and informedthe Christian reader that he had died, in the bosom of the Church ofEngland, at the age of seventy-one.

  I read this inscription by the parting beams of the setting sun, whichdisappeared behind the horizon just as we passed out from under theporch.

  "Twenty years since the Squire died," said I, reflecting, as I loiteredstill in the churchyard.

  "Ay, sir; 'twill be twenty year the ninth o' last month."

  "And a very good old gentleman?"

  "Good-natured enough, and an easy gentleman he was, sir; I don't thinkwhile he lived he ever hurt a fly," acquiesced Tom Wyndsour. "It ain'talways easy sayin' what's in 'em, though, and what they may take or turnto afterward; and some o' them sort, I think, goes mad."

  "You don't think he was out of his mind?" I asked.

  "He? La! no; not he, sir; a bit lazy, mayhap, like other old fellows;but a knew devilish well what he was about."

  Tom Wyndsour's account was a little enigmatical; but, like old SquireBowes, I was "a bit lazy" that evening, and asked no more questionsabout him.

  We got over the stile upon the narrow road that skirts the churchyard.It is overhung by elms more than a hundred years old, and in thetwilight, which now prevailed, was growing very dark. As side-by-side wewalked along this road, hemmed in by two loose stone-like walls,something running toward us in a zig-zag line passed us at a wild pace,with a sound like a frightened laugh or a shudder, and I saw, as itpassed, that it was a human figure. I may confess, now, that I was alittle startled. The dress of this figure was, in part, white: I know Imistook it at first for a white horse coming down the road at a gallop.Tom Wyndsour turned about and looked after the retreating figure.

  "He'll be on his travels to-night," he said, in a low tone. "Easy servedwith a bed, _that_ lad be; six foot o' dry peat or heath, or a nook in adry ditch. That lad hasn't slept once in a house this twenty year, andnever will while grass grows."

  "Is he mad?" I asked.

  "Something that way, sir; he's an idiot, an awpy; we call him 'Dickonthe devil,' because the devil's almost the only word that's ever in hismouth."

  It struck me that this idiot was in some way connected with the story ofold Squire Bowes.

  "Queer things are told of him, I dare say?" I suggested.

  "More or less, sir; more or less. Queer stories, some."

  "Twenty years since he slept in a house? That's about the time theSquire died," I continued.

  "So it will be, sir; not very long after."

  "You must tell me all about that, Tom, to-night, when I can hear itcomfortably, after supper."

  Tom did not seem to like my invitation; and looking straight before himas we trudged on, he said:

  "You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and nout's been troubling folkinside the walls or out, all round the woods of Barwyke, this ten year,or more; and my old woman, down there, is clear against talking aboutsuch matters, and thinks it best--and so do I--to let sleepin' dogs be."

  He dropped his voice toward the close of the sentence, and noddedsignificantly.

  We soon reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the park wall, bywhich we entered the grounds of Barwyke once more.

  The twilight deepening over the landscape, the huge and solemn trees,and the distant outline of the haunted house, exercised a sombreinfluence on me, which, together with the fatigue of a day of travel,and the brisk walk we had had, disinclined me to interrupt the silencein which my companion now indulged.

  A certain air of comparative comfort, on our arrival, in great measuredissipated the gloom that was stealing over me. Although it was by nomeans a cold night, I was very glad to see some wood blazing in thegrate; and a pair of candles aiding the light of the fire, made the roomlook cheerful. A small table, with a very white cloth, and preparationsfor supper, was also a very agreeable object.

  I should have liked very well, under these influences, to have listenedto Tom Wyndsour's story; but after supper I grew too sleepy to attemptto lead him to the subject; and after yawning for a time, I found therewas no use in contending against my drowsiness, so I betook myself to mybedroom, and by ten o'clock was fast asleep.

  What interruption I experienced that night I shall tell you presently.It was not much, but it was very odd.

  By next night I had completed my work at Barwyke. From early morningtill then I was so incessantly occupied and hard-worked, that I had notime to think over the singular occurrence to which I have justreferred. Behold me, however, at length once more seated at my littlesupper-table, having ended a comfortable meal. It had been a sultry day,and I had thrown one of the large windows up as high as it would go. Iwas sitting near it, with my brandy and water at my elbow, looking outinto the dark. There was no moon, and the trees that are grouped aboutthe house make the darkness round it supernaturally profound on suchnights.

  "Tom," said I, so soon as the jug of hot punch I had supplied him withbegan to exercise its genial and communicative influence; "you must tellme who beside your wife and you and myself slept in the house lastnight."

  Tom, sitting near the door, set down his tumbler, and looked at measkance, while you might count seven, without speaking a word.

  "Who else slept in the house?" he repeated, very deliberately. "Not aliving soul, sir;" and he looked hard at me, still evidently expectingsomething more.

  "That _is_ very odd," I said, returning his stare, and feeling really alittle odd. "You are sure _you_ were not in my room last night?"

  "Not till I came to call you, sir, this morning; I can make oath ofthat."

  "Well," said I, "there was some one there, _I_ can make oath of that. Iwas so tired I could not make up my mind to get up; but I was waked by asound that I thought was some one flinging down the two tin boxes inwhich my papers were locked up violently on the floor. I heard a slowstep on the ground, and there was light in the room, although Iremembered having put out my candle. I thought it must have been you,who had come in for my clothes, and upset the boxes by accident. Whoeverit was, he went out, and the light with him. I was about to settleagain, when, the curtain being a little open at the foot of the bed, Isaw a light on the wall opposite; such as a candle from outside wouldcast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started up in the bed,drew the side curtain, and saw that the door _was_ opening, andadmitting light from outside. It is close, you know, to the head of thebed. A hand was holding on the edge of the door and pushing it open; nota bit like
yours; a very singular hand. Let me look at yours."

  He extended it for my inspection.

  "Oh no; there's nothing wrong with your hand. This was differentlyshaped; fatter; and the middle finger was stunted, and shorter than therest, looking as if it had once been broken, and the nail was crookedlike a claw. I called out, "Who's there?" and the light and the handwere withdrawn, and I saw and heard no more of my visitor."

  "So sure as you're a living man, that was him!" exclaimed Tom Wyndsour,his very nose growing pale, and his eyes almost starting out of hishead.

  "Who?" I asked.

  "Old Squire Bowes; 'twas _his_ hand you saw; the Lord a' mercy on us!"answered Tom. "The broken finger, and the nail bent like a hoop. Wellfor you, sir, he didn't come back when you called, that time. You camehere about them Miss Dymock's business, and he never meant they shouldhave a foot o' ground in Barwyke; and he was making a will to give itaway quite different, when death took him short. He never was uncivil tono one; but he couldn't abide them ladies. My mind misgave me when Iheard 'twas about their business you were coming; and now you see how itis; he'll be at his old tricks again!"

  With some pressure, and a little more punch, I induced Tom Wyndsour toexplain his mysterious allusions by recounting the occurrences whichfollowed the old Squire's death.

  "Squire Bowes, of Barwyke, died without making a will, as you know,"said Tom. "And all the folk round were sorry; that is to say, sir, assorry as folk will be for an old man that has seen a long tale of years,and has no right to grumble that death has knocked an hour too soon athis door. The Squire was well liked; he was never in a passion, or saida hard word; and he would not hurt a fly; and that made what happenedafter his decease the more surprising.

  "The first thing these ladies did, when they got the property, was tobuy stock for the park.

  "It was not wise, in any case, to graze the land on their own account.But they little knew all they had to contend with.

  "Before long something went wrong with the cattle; first one, and thenanother, took sick and died, and so on, till the loss began to growheavy. Then, queer stories, little by little, began to be told. It wassaid, first by one, then by another, that Squire Bowes was seen, aboutevening time, walking, just as he used to do when he was alive, amongthe old trees, leaning on his stick; and, sometimes, when he came upwith the cattle, he would stop and lay his hand kindly like on the backof one of them; and that one was sure to fall sick next day, and diesoon after.

  "No one ever met him in the park, or in the woods, or ever saw him,except a good distance off. But they knew his gait and his figure well,and the clothes he used to wear; and they could tell the beast he laidhis hand on by its color--white, dun, or black; and that beast was sureto sicken and die. The neighbors grew shy of taking the path over thepark; and no one liked to walk in the woods, or come inside the boundsof Barwyke; and the cattle went on sickening and dying, as before.

  "At that time there was one Thomas Pyke; he had been a groom to the oldSquire; and he was in care of the place, and was the only one that usedto sleep in the house.

  "Tom was vexed, hearing these stories; which he did not believe the halfon 'em; and more especial as he could not get man or boy to herd thecattle; all being afeared. So he wrote to Matlock, in Derbyshire, forhis brother, Richard Pyke, a clever lad, and one that knew nout o' thestory of the old Squire walking.

  "Dick came; and the cattle was better; folk said they could still seethe old Squire, sometimes, walking, as before, in openings of the wood,with his stick in his hand; but he was shy of coming nigh the cattle,whatever his reason might be, since Dickon Pyke came; and he used tostand a long bit off, looking at them, with no more stir in him than atrunk o' one of the old trees, for an hour at a time, till the shapemelted away, little by little, like the smoke of a fire that burns out.

  "Tom Pyke and his brother Dickon, being the only living souls in thehouse, lay in the big bed in the servants' room, the house being fastbarred and locked, one night in November.

  "Tom was lying next the wall, and, he told me, as wide awake as ever hewas at noonday. His brother Dickon lay outside, and was sound asleep.

  "Well, as Tom lay thinking, with his eyes turned toward the door, itopens slowly, and who should come in but old Squire Bowes, his facelookin' as dead as he was in his coffin.

  "Tom's very breath left his body; he could not take his eyes off him;and he felt the hair rising up on his head.

  "The Squire came to the side of the bed, and put his arms under Dickon,and lifted the boy--in a dead sleep all the time--and carried him outso, at the door.

  "Such was the appearance, to Tom Pyke's eyes, and he was ready to swearto it, anywhere.

  "When this happened, the light, wherever it came from, all on a suddenwent out, and Tom could not see his own hand before him.

  "More dead than alive, he lay till daylight.

  "Sure enough his brother Dickon was gone. No sign of him could hediscover about the house; and with some trouble he got a couple of theneighbors to help him to search the woods and grounds. Not a sign of himanywhere.

  "At last one of them thought of the island in the lake; the little boatwas moored to the old post at the water's edge. In they got, though withsmall hope of finding him there. Find him, nevertheless, they did,sitting under the big ash-tree, quite out of his wits; and to all theirquestions he answered nothing but one cry--'Bowes, the devil! See him;see him; Bowes, the devil!' An idiot they found him; and so he will betill God sets all things right. No one could ever get him to sleep underroof-tree more. He wanders from house to house while daylight lasts; andno one cares to lock the harmless creature in the workhouse. And folkwould rather not meet him after nightfall, for they think where he isthere may be worse things near."

  A silence followed Tom's story. He and I were alone in that large room;I was sitting near the open window, looking into the dark night air. Ifancied I saw something white move across it; and I heard a sound likelow talking, that swelled into a discordant shriek--"Hoo-oo-oo! Bowes,the devil! Over your shoulder. Hoo-oo-oo! ha! ha! ha!" I started up, andsaw, by the light of the candle with which Tom strode to the window, thewild eyes and blighted face of the idiot, as, with a sudden change ofmood, he drew off, whispering and tittering to himself, and holding uphis long fingers, and looking at them as if they were lighted at thetips like a "hand of glory."

  Tom pulled down the window. The story and its epilogue were over. Iconfessed I was rather glad when I heard the sound of the horses' hoofson the courtyard, a few minutes later; and still gladder when, havingbidden Tom a kind farewell, I had left the neglected house of Barwyke amile behind me.