Uncanny Tales Read online

  AT THE DIP OF THE ROAD.

  Have I ever seen a ghost?

  I do not know.

  That is the only reply I can truthfully make to the question now-a-daysso often asked. And sometimes, if inquirers care to hear more, I go onto tell them the one experience which makes it impossible for me toreply positively either in the affirmative or negative, and restricts meto "I do not know".

  This was the story.

  I was staying with relations in the country. Not a very isolated orout-of-the-way part of the world, and yet rather inconvenient of accessby the railway. For the nearest station was six miles off. Though thefamily I was visiting were nearly connected with me I did not know muchof their home or its neighbourhood, as the head of the house, an uncleof mine by marriage, had only come into the property a year or twopreviously to the date of which I am writing, through the death of anelder brother.

  It was a nice place. A good comfortable old house, a prosperous,satisfactory estate. Everything about it was in good order, from thefarmers, who always paid their rents, to the shooting, which was alwaysgood; from the vineries, which were noted, to the woods, where theearliest primroses in all the country side were yearly to be found.

  And my uncle and aunt and their family deserved these pleasant thingsand made a good use of them.

  But there was a touch of the commonplace about it all. There was nothingpicturesque or romantic. The country was flat though fertile, the house,though old, was conveniently modern in its arrangements, airy, cheery,and bright.

  "Not even a ghost, or the shadow of one," I remember saying one day witha faint grumble.

  "Ah, well--as to that," said my uncle, "perhaps we----" but just thensomething interrupted him, and I forgot his unfinished speech.

  Into the happy party of which for the time being I was one, there fellone morning a sudden thunderbolt of calamity. The post brought news ofthe alarming illness of the eldest daughter--Frances, married a year ortwo ago and living, as the crow flies, at no very great distance. Butas the crow flies is not always as the railroad runs, and to reach theAldoyns' home from Fawne Court, my uncle's place, was a complicatedbusiness--it was scarcely possible to go and return in a day.

  "Can one of you come over?" wrote the young husband. "She is already outof danger, but longing to see her mother or one of you. She is worryingabout the baby"--a child of a few months old--"and wishing for nurse."

  We looked at each other.

  "Nurse must go at once," said my uncle to me, as the eldest of theparty. Perhaps I should here say that I am a widow, though not old, andwith no close ties or responsibilities. "But for your aunt it isimpossible."

  "Quite so," I agreed. For she was at the moment painfully lamed byrheumatism.

  "And the other girls are almost too young at such a crisis," my unclecontinued. "Would you, Charlotte----" and he hesitated. "It would besuch a comfort to have personal news of her."

  "Of course I will go," I said. "Nurse and I can start at once. I willleave her there, and return alone, to give you, I have no doubt, betternews of poor Francie."

  He was full of gratitude. So were they all.

  "Don't hurry back to-night," said my uncle. "Stay till--till Monday ifyou like." But I could not promise. I knew they would be glad of news atonce, and in a small house like my cousin's, at such a time, an inmatethe more might be inconvenient.

  "I will try to return to-night," I said. And as I sprang into thecarriage I added: "Send to Moore to meet the last train, unless Itelegraph to the contrary."

  My uncle nodded; the boys called after me, "All right;" the old butlerbowed assent, and I was satisfied.

  Nurse and I reached our journey's end promptly, considering the four orfive junctions at which we had to change carriages. But on the whole"going," the trains fitted astonishingly.

  We found Frances better, delighted to see us, eager for news of hermother, and, finally, disposed to sleep peacefully now that she knewthat there was an experienced person in charge. And both she and herhusband thanked me so much that I felt ashamed of the little I had done.Mr. Aldoyn begged me to stay till Monday; but the house was upset, and Iwas eager to carry back my good tidings.

  "They are meeting me at Moore by the last train," I said. "No, thankyou, I think it is best to go."

  "You will have an uncomfortable journey," he replied. "It is Saturday,and the trains will be late, and the stations crowded with the marketpeople. It will be horrid for you, Charlotte."

  But I persisted.

  It _was_ rather horrid. And it was queer. There was a sort of uncannyeeriness about that Saturday evening's journey that I have neverforgotten. The season was very early spring. It was not very cold, butchilly and ungenial. And there were such odd sorts of people about. Itravelled second-class; for I am not rich, and I am very independent.I did not want my uncle to pay my fare, for I liked the feeling ofrendering him some small service in return for his steady kindness tome. The first stage of my journey was performed in the company of twoold naturalists travelling to Scotland to look for some small plantwhich was to be found only in one spot in the Highlands. This I gatheredfrom their talk to each other. You never saw two such extraordinarycreatures as they were. They both wore black kid gloves much too largefor them, and the ends of the fingers waved about like feathers.

  Then followed two or three short transits, interspersed with wearywaitings at stations. The last of these was the worst, and tantalising,too, for by this time I was within a few miles of Moore. The station wascrowded with rough folk, all, it seemed to me, more or less tipsy. So Itook refuge in a dark waiting-room on the small side line by which I wasto proceed, where I felt I might have been robbed and murdered and noone the wiser.

  But at last came my slow little train, and in I jumped, to jump outagain still more joyfully some fifteen minutes later when we drew up atMoore.

  I peered about for the carriage. It was not to be seen; only two orthree tax-carts or dog-carts, farmers' vehicles, standing about, whiletheir owners, it was easy to hear, were drinking far more than was goodfor them in the taproom of the Unicorn. Thence, nevertheless--not tothe taproom, but to the front of the inn--I made my way, though notundismayed by the shouts and roars breaking the stillness of the quietnight. "Was the Fawne Court carriage not here?" I asked.

  The landlady was a good-natured woman, especially civil to any member ofthe "Court" family. But she shook her head.

  "No, no carriage had been down to-day. There must have been somemistake."

  There was nothing for it but to wait till she could somehow or otherdisinter a fly and a horse, and, worst of all a driver. For the "men"she had to call were all rather--"well, ma'am, you see it's Saturdaynight. We weren't expecting any one."

  And when, after waiting half an hour, the fly at last emerged, my heartalmost failed me. Even before he drove out of the yard, it was veryplain that if ever we reached Fawne Court alive, it would certainly bemore thanks to good luck than to the driver's management.

  But the horse was old and the man had a sort of instinct about him. Wegot on all right till we were more than half way to our journey's end.The road was straight and the moonlight bright, especially after we hadpassed a certain corner, and got well out of the shade of the treeswhich skirted the first part of the way.

  Just past this turn there came a dip in the road. It went down, downgradually, for a quarter of a mile or more, and I looked up anxiously,fearful of the horse taking advantage of the slope. But no, he joggedon, if possible more slowly than before, though new terrors assailed mewhen I saw that the driver was now fast asleep, his head swaying fromside to side with extraordinary regularity. After a bit I grew easieragain; he seemed to keep his equilibrium, and I looked out at the sidewindow on the moon-flooded landscape, with some interest. I had neverseen brighter moonlight.

  Suddenly from out of the intense stillness and loneliness a figure, ahuman figure, became visible. It was that of a man, a young and activeman, running along the footpath a few feet to our left, app
arentlyfrom some whim, keeping pace with the fly. My first feeling was ofsatisfaction that I was no longer alone, at the tender mercies of mystupefied charioteer. But, as I gazed, a slight misgiving came over me.Who could it be running along this lonely road so late, and what was hismotive in keeping up with us so steadily. It almost seemed as if he hadbeen waiting for us, yet that, of course, was impossible. He was notvery highwayman-like certainly; he was well-dressed--neatly-dressed thatis to say, like a superior gamekeeper--his figure was remarkably good,tall and slight, and he ran gracefully. But there was something queerabout him, and suddenly the curiosity that had mingled in my observationof him was entirely submerged in alarm, when I saw that, as he ran, hewas slowly but steadily drawing nearer and nearer to the fly.

  "In another moment he will be opening the door and jumping in," Ithought, and I glanced before me only to see that the driver was morehopelessly asleep than before; there was no chance of his hearing ifI called out. And get out I could not without attracting the strangerunner's attention, for as ill-luck would have it, the window was drawnup on the right side, and I could not open the door without rattling theglass. While, worse and worse, the left hand window was down! Even thatslight protection wanting!

  I looked out once more. By this time the figure was close, close to thefly. Then an arm was stretched out and laid along the edge of the door,as if preparatory to opening it, and then, for the first time I saw hisface. It was a young face, but terribly, horribly pale and ghastly, andthe eyes--all was so visible in the moonlight--had an expression such asI had never seen before or since. It terrified me, though afterwards onrecalling it, it seemed to me that it might have been more a look ofagonised appeal than of menace of any kind.

  I cowered back into my corner and shut my eyes, feigning sleep. It wasthe only idea that occurred to me. My heart was beating like a sledgehammer. All sorts of thoughts rushed through me; among them I remembersaying to myself: "He must be an escaped lunatic--his eyes are soawfully wild".

  How long I sat thus I don't know--whenever I dared to glance outfurtively he was still there. But all at once a strange feeling ofrelief came over me. I sat up--yes, he was gone! And though, as I tookcourage, I leant out and looked round in every direction, not a trace ofhim was to be seen, though the road and the fields were bare and clearfor a long distance round.

  When I got to Fawne Court I had to wake the lodge-keeper--every one wasasleep. But my uncle was still up, though not expecting me, and verydistressed he was at the mistake about the carriage.

  "However," he concluded, "all's well that ends well. It's delightful tohave your good news. But you look sadly pale and tired, Charlotte."

  Then I told him of my fright--it seemed now so foolish of me, I said.But my uncle did not smile--on the contrary.

  "My dear," he said. "It sounds very like our ghost, though, of course,it may have been only one of the keepers."

  He told me the story. Many years ago in his grandfather's time, a youngand favourite gamekeeper had been found dead in a field skirting theroad down there. There was no sign of violence upon the body; it wasnever explained what had killed him. But he had had in his charge awatch--a very valuable one--which his master for some reason or otherhad handed to him to take home to the house, not wishing to keep it onhim. And when the body was found late that night, the watch was not onit. Since then, so the story goes, on a moonlight night the spirit ofthe poor fellow haunts the spot. It is supposed that he wants to tellwhat had become of his master's watch, which was never found. But no onehas ever had courage to address him.

  "He never comes farther than the dip in the road," said my uncle. "Ifyou had spoken to him, Charlotte, I wonder if he would have told you hissecret?"

  He spoke half laughingly, but I have never quite forgiven myself for mycowardice. It was the look in those eyes!