Hugh Lamb - Ghosts in the House - Tales of Terror by A. C. Benson and R. H. Benson

But Basil had left me; the door was wide open; and in a moment the farmer and his wife came hurrying along with blanched faces to ask who it was that had cried out, and what had happened.

I made some pitiful excuse that I had dozed in my chair and had awoke crying out some unintelligible words. For in the quest I was about to engage in I did not wish that any mortal should be with me.

They left me, asking for Mr Netherby and still not satisfied. Indeed, Mrs Hall looked at me with so penetrating a look that I felt that she understood something of what had happened. And then at once I went up to Basil’s room. I do not know where I found the courage to do it; but the courage came.

The room was dark, and a strong wind was blowing through it from the little door. I stepped across the room, feeling my way; went down the stairs, and finding the door open at the bottom, I went out into the snake-like path.

I went some yards along it; the moon had risen now. There came a sudden gap in the trees to the left, through which I could see the pale fields and the corner of the wood casting its black shadow on the ground.

The shrubs were torn, broken, and trampled, as though some heavy thing had crashed through. I made my way cautiously down, endowed with a more than human strength – it was a steep bank covered with trees – and then in a moment I saw Basil.

He lay some distance out in the field on his face. I knew at a glance that it was all over; and when I lifted him I became aware that he was in some way strangely mangled, and indeed it was found afterwards that though the skin of his body was hardly contused, yet that almost every bone of the body was broken in fragments.

I managed to carry him to the house. I closed the doors of the staircase; and then I managed to tell Farmer Hall that Basil had had, I thought, a fall and was dead. And then my own strength failed me, and for three days and nights I lay in a kind of stupor.

When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself in bed in my own room. Mrs Hall nursed me with a motherly care and tenderness which moved me very greatly; but I could not speak of the matter to her, until, just before my departure, she came in, as she did twenty times a day, to see if I wanted anything. I made a great effort and said, ‘Mrs Hall, I am very sorry for you. This has been a terrible business, and I am afraid you won’t easily forget it. You ought to leave the house, I think.’

Mrs Hall turned her frozen gaze upon me, and said, ‘Yes, sir, indeed, I can’t speak about it or think of it. I feel as if I might have prevented it; and yet I have been over and over it in my mind and I can’t see where I was wrong. But my duty is to the house now, and I shall never leave it; but I will ask you, sir, to try and find a thought of pity in your heart for him ’ – I knew she did not mean Basil – ‘I don’t think he clearly knows what he has done; he must have his will, as he always did. He stopped at nothing if it was for his pleasure; and he did not know what harm he did. But he is in God’s hands; and though I cannot understand why, yet there are things in this life which He allows to be; and we must not try to be judges – we must try to be merciful. But I have not done what I could have done; and if God gives me strength, there shall be an end of this.’

A few hours later Mr Vyvyan called to see me; he was a very different person to the Vyvyan that had showed himself to me in Holborn.

I could not talk much with him but I could see that he had some understanding of the case. He asked me no questions, but he told me a few details. He said that they had decided at the inquest that he had fallen from the terrace. But the doctor, who was attending me, seems to have said to Mr Vyvyan that a fall it must have been, but a fall of an almost inconceivable character. ‘And what is more,’ the old doctor had added, ‘the man was neither in pain nor agitation of mind when he died.’ The face was absolutely peaceful and tranquil; and the doctor’s theory was that he had died from some sudden seizure before the fall.

And so I held my tongue. One thing I did: it was to have a little slab put over the body of my friend – a simple slab with name and date – and I ventured to add one line, because I have no doubt in my own mind that Basil was suddenly delivered, though not from death. He had, I supposed, gone too far upon the dark path, and he could not, I think, have freed himself from the spell; and so the cord was loosed, but loosed in mercy – and so I made them add the words:

‘And in their hands they shall bear thee up.’

I must add one further word. About a year after the events above recorded I received a letter from Mr Vyvyan, which I give without further comment.

ST SIBBY, Dec. 18, 189–.

DEAR MR WARD,

I wish to tell you that our friend Mrs Hall died a few days ago. She was a very good woman, one of the few that are chosen. I was much with her in her last days, and she told me a strange thing, which I cannot bring myself to repeat to you. But she sent you a message which she repeated several times, which she said you would understand. It is simply this, ‘Tell Mr Ward I have prevailed.’ I may add that I have no doubt of the truth of her words, and you will know to what I am alluding.

The day after she died there was a fire at Treheale: Mr Hall was absolutely distracted with grief at the loss of his wife, and I do not know quite what happened. But it was impossible to save the house; all that is left of it is a mass of charred ruins, with a few walls standing up. Nothing was saved, not even a picture. There is a wholly inadequate insurance, and I believe it is not intended to rebuild the house.

I hope you will bear us in mind; though I know you so little, I shall always feel that we have a common experience which will hold us together. You will try and visit us some day when the memory of what took place is less painful to you. The grass is now green on your poor friend’s grave; and I will only add that you will have a warm welcome here. I am just moving into the Rectory, as my old Rector died a fortnight ago, and I have accepted the living. God bless you, dear Mr Ward.

Yours very sincerely,

JAMES VYVYAN

It was universally voted on Monday that Father Brent should tell his story and we looked with some satisfaction on his wholesome face and steady blue eyes, as he took up his tale after supper.

‘Mine is a very poor story,’ he began, ‘and, what is worse, there is no explanation that I have ever heard that seemed to me adequate. Perhaps someone will supply one this evening.’

He drew at his cigarette, smiling, and we settled ourselves down with looks of resolute science on our features. I at least was conscious of wishing to wear one.

‘After my ordination to the subdiaconate I was in England for the summer and went down to stay with a friend on the Fal, at the beginning of October.

‘My friend’s house stood on a spot of land running out into the estuary; there was a beechwood behind it and on either side. There was a small embankment on which the building actually stood, of which the sea-wall ran straight down on to the rocks, so that at high tide the water came half-way up the stonework. There was a large smoking-room looking the same way and a little paved path separated its windows from the low wall.

‘We had a series of very warm days when I was there, and after dinner we would sit outside in the dark and listen to the water lapping below. There was another house on the further side of the river, about half-a-mile away, and we could see its lights sometimes. About three miles up stream – that is, on our right – lay Truro, and Falmouth, as far as I can remember, about four miles to the left. But we were entirely cut off from our neighbours by the beechwoods all round us, and, except for the house opposite, might have been clean out of civilisation.’