Humorous Ghost Stories - Dorothy Scarborough (i can read book club .TXT) 📗

A. Hobson.

I knew it was easy. I swung myself aloft on the spikes and stones leading to the donjon window. When I was high enough I gazed in, my chin about even with the sill. And there I saw the prettiest girl I ever beheld, gazing down at a book tranquilly, as though gentlemanly rescuers were common as toads around that tower. She wore something soft and golden; her hair was night-black, and her eyes were that peculiar shade of gray that—but what's the use?

“Pardon,” I said, holding on with my right hand, lifting my hat with my left. “Pardon, am I addressing Miss Annie Hobson?”

“You are not,” she replied, only half looking up. “You are addressing Miss Anita Hobson. Calling me Annie is another little habit father ought to break himself of.” She went on reading.

“Is that a very interesting book?” I asked, because I didn't like to go without saying something more.

“It isn't!” She arose suddenly and hurled the book into a corner. “It's Anthony Hope—and if there's anything I hate it's him. Father always gives me Prisoner of Zenda and Ivanhoe to read when he locks me into this donjon. Says I ought to read up on the situation. Do you think so?”

“There are some other books in the library,” I suggested. “Bernard Shaw and Kipling, you know. I'll run over and get you one.”

“That's fine—but no!” she besought, reaching out her hand to detain me. “No, don't go! If you went away you'd never come back. They never do.”

“Who never do?”

“The young men. The very instant father sees one coming he pops me in the tower and turns the key. You see,” she explained, “when I was in Italy I was engaged to a duke—he was a silly little thing and I was glad when he turned out bogus. But father took the deception awfully to heart and swore I should never be married for my money. Yet I don't see what else a young girl can expect,” she added quite simply.

I could have mentioned several hundred things.

“He has no right!” I said sternly. “It's barbarous for him to treat a girl that way—especially his daughter.”

“Hush!” she said. “Dad's a good sort. But you can't measure him by other people's standards. And yet—oh, it's maddening, this life! Day after day—loneliness. Nothing but stone walls and rusty armor and books. We're rich, but what do we get out of it? I have nobody of my own age to talk to. How the years are passing! After a while—I'll be—an old maid. I'm twenty-one now!” I heard a sob. Her pretty head was bowed in her hands.

Desperately I seized the bars of the window and miraculously they parted. I leaned across the sill and drew her hands gently down.

“Listen to me,” I said. “If I break in and steal you away from this, will you go?”

“Go?” she said. “Where?”

“My aunt lives at Seven Oaks, less than an hour from here by train. You can stay there till your father comes to his reason.”

“It's quite like father never to come to his reason,” she reflected. “Then I should have to be self-supporting. Of course, I should appreciate employment in a candy shop—I think I know all the principal kinds.”

“Will you go?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied simply, “I'll go. But how can I get away from here?”

“To-night,” I said, “is Christmas Eve, when Pierrepont the Ghost is supposed to walk along the wall—right under this window. You don't believe that fairy story, do you?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. But can't you see? The haunted wall begins at my window on one end of the castle and ends at your window on the other. The bars of your cell, I see, are nearly all loose.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “I pried them out with a pair of scissors.”

I could hear Hobson's voice across the court giving orders to servants.

“Your father's coming. Remember to-night,” I whispered.

“Midnight,” she said softly, smiling out at me. I could have faced flocks and flocks of dragons for her at that moment. The old man was coming nearer. I swung to the ground and escaped into a ruined court.

Well, the hours that followed were anxious and busy for me. I worked in the glamour of romance like a soldier about to do some particularly brave and foolish thing. From the window of my room I looked down on the narrow, giddy wall below. It was a brave and foolish thing. Among the rubbish in an old armory I found a coil of stout rope, forty or fifty feet of it. This I smuggled away. From a remote hall I borrowed a Crusader's helmet and spent the balance of the afternoon in my room practicing with a sheet across my shoulders, shroud-fashion.

We dined grandly at eight, the old man and I. He drank thirstily and chatted about the ghost, as you might discuss the chances in a coming athletic event. After what seemed an age he looked at his watch and cried: “Whillikens! Eleven o'clock already! Well, I'll be going up to watch from the haunted room. I think, Jeff, that you'll bring me luck to-night.”

“I am sure I shall!” I answered sardonically, as he departed.

Three quarters of an hour later, wearing the Crusader's helmet and swathed in a bedsheet, I let myself down from the window to the haunted wall below. It was moonlight, bitter cold as I crouched on the wall, waiting for the stroke of twelve, when I should act the spook and walk along that precarious ledge to rescue Anita.

The “haunted wall,” I observed from where I stood, was shaped like an irregular crescent, being in plain view of Hobson's “haunted room” at the middle, but not so at its north and south ends, where my chamber and Anita's tower were respectively situated. I pulled out my watch from under my winding-sheet. Three minutes of twelve. I drew down the vizor of my helmet and gathered up my cerements preparatory to walking the hundred feet of wall which would bring me in sight of the haunted room where old Hobson kept his vigil. Two minutes, one minute I waited, when—I suddenly realized I was not alone.

A man wearing a long cloak and a feather in his cap was coming toward me along the moonlit masonry. Aha! So I was not the only masquerading swain calling on the captive princess in the prison tower. A jealous pang shot through me as I realized this.

The man was within twenty feet of me, when I noticed something. He was not walking on the wall. He was walking on air, three or four feet above the wall. Nearer and nearer came the man—the Thing—now into the light of the moon, whose beams seemed to strike through his misty tissue like the thrust of a sword. I was horribly scared. My knees loosened under me, and I clutched the vines at my back to save me from falling into the moat below. Now I could see his face, and somehow fear seemed to leave me. His expression was so young and human.

“Ghost of the Pierrepont,” I thought, “whether you walk in shadow or in light, you lived among a race of Men!”

His noble, pallid face seemed to burn with its own pale light, but his eyes were in darkness. He was now within two yards of me. I could see the dagger at his belt. I could see the gory cut on his forehead. I attempted to speak, but my voice creaked like a rusty hinge. He neither heeded nor saw me; and when he came to the spot where I stood, he did not turn out for me. He walked through me! And when next I saw him he was a few feet beyond me, standing in mid-air over the moat and gazing up at the high towers like one revisiting old scenes. Again he floated toward me and poised on the wall four feet from where I stood.

“What do you here to-night?” suddenly spoke, or seemed to speak, a voice that was like the echo of a silence.

No answer came from my frozen tongue. Yet I would gladly have spoken, because somehow I felt a great sympathy for this boyish spirit.

“It has been many earth-years,” he said, “since I have walked these towers. And ah, cousin, it has been many miles that I have been called to-night to answer the summons of my race. And this fortress—what power has moved it overseas to this mad kingdom? Magic!”

His eyes seemed suddenly to blaze through the shadows.

“Cousin,” he again spoke, “it is to you that I come from my far-off English tomb. It was your need called me. It is no pious deed brings you to this wall to-night. You are planning to pillage these towers unworthily, even as I did yesterday. Death was my portion, and broken hearts to the father I wronged and the girl I sought.”

“But it is the father wrongs the girl here,” I