The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular
note occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast,
they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. `I don't think
it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,' said Washington, `for I have
tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.' He accordingly rubbed out the
stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third
morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by
Mr. Otis himself, and the key carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite
interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his
denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining
the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers
and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when
connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence of
phantasmata were removed for ever.
The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening,
the whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine o'clock,
when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so
there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectation which so
often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed,
as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary
conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense
superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sara Bernhardt as an actress; the
difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best
English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul;
the advantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; and the
sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London drawl. No mention at
all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to
in any way. At eleven o'clock the family retired, and by half-past all the
lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in
the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed
to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked
at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse,
which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it
he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a
small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in
front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His
eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in
matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged,
and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.
`My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis, `I really must insist on your
oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of
the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon
one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the
wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for
you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more should
you require it.' With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle
down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest.
For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in
natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished
floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a
ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak
staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and
a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost,
so, hastily adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he
vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.
On
reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a
moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realise his position.
Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he
been so grossly insulted. He thought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had
frightened into a fit as she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds;
of the four housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely grinned
at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the
parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the
library, and who had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a
perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who,
having wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair
by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with
an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to the
Church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic Monsieur de
Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville was
found choking in his dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down
his throat, and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles
James Fox out of #50,000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore
that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back to
him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had
seen a green hand tapping at the window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield,
who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the
mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last
in the card pond at the end of the King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism
of the true artist he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled
bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last appearance as Red Reuben,
or the Strangled Babe,' his débute' as
`Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley a Moor,' and the furore
he
had excited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own
bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this, some wretched modern
Americans were to come and offer him the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw
pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghost in
history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to
have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought.
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