My Cousin, The Ghost, or,
Something Like a Christmas-Box
by Alfred Paxton, appeared in The Boy's Own Paper, Saturday, January 6th, 1883.
Tell you a good ghost story? Very well. I'll tell you of somthing that happened to me when I was a boy. and you can believe it or not just as you like. There is one thing to be said, though; what I am going to relate to you altered the whole course of my life, and perhaps of yours too, for if I had not seen my cousin's ghost I might never have been owner of Gadsden Grange.
I was eighteen years old at the time, and was spending my holidays at home. I had just left school, and was going to Cambridge next term. Gadsden Grange was a very different place then from what it is now, for my father had not then begun to rebuild it. It was a long, low, rambling, old-fashioned, red-brick house that had been begun about the reign of James I, and after various additions and patchings, flourished in all its glory during the time of Queen Anne. From that period until my father rebuilt it, it had been steadily going to decay. The oldest portion of the house was the west wing, containing the picture gallery.
I well remember coming home the day before Christmas at half-past four. I had been skating, and was in the highest possible spirits. The day was closing in, and the sun had gone to rest like a great solid globe of fire. The snow, covering the ground like a mantle, had a few minutes ago been blushing in response to the last glances of the sun, but it was now assuming a grey, cold colour, which harmonised with the leafless trees standing out tike gaunt skeletons against the sky. The mist was rising blue in the distance as I approached our home, and I was glad to see the cheerful lights within telling me of dinner. When I entered the hall the butler said to me,
"Master Guy, your father wishes to see you in the library."
Without a moments delay I hurried up-stairs to my father's room, whistling and singing as I went. I burst open the door, and was about to make some merry remark when it was suddenly arrested by my father's appearance.
He was seated in his usual armchair, and as I sit here telling you the story I can see him almost as plainly as I afterwards saw—however, that will come ill the proper place.
You do not remember your grandfather, but you know from his portrait what a splendid man he was. He had been in the Indian Army, and his bronzed face, iron-grey hair, and military bearing made his pleasant smile seem all the pleasanter, and the humorous twinkle in his eye all the funnier. But today there was no trace of merriment on his face. His usual erect position was gone, and he stooped almost double as he sat in his chair—the very embodiment misery.
I was so shocked that for a few moments I could not speak. Before I could think of anything to say in the way of comfort my father motioned me to sit down. I silently obeyed him, and waited in some alarm until he spoke to me. On his lap lay a large letter, with an enormous quantity of sealing-wax upon it. The body of it was in a bold round hand, but the signature was in a crabby, blotty handwriting. My father's mouth was nervously twitching, and I remember involuntarily counting the twitches to see if they coincided with the ticking of the clock. My father's favourite setter was crouching at his feet and looking up to him in sympathy. Presently the clock struck five, and my father suddenly sat bolt upright, and said to me,
"Guy, my boy, I have some bad news for you; shut the door, and listen. Don't interrupt, and don't ask questions."
You may imagine how I felt and how I listened.
"You know, Guy," said my father, "that ours is an old house; both the inhabitants and the house itself. The Estcourts have lived in Gadsden Grange for hundreds of years. You know that I inherit it from my grandfather, Roger Estcourt. He took the property upon the death of his nephew, Guy Estcourt, who died when he was the same age as yourself-eighteen. Guy's father had died soon after his son's birth, leaving his little nephew to the care of my grandfather, Roger. The Estcourts were very wealthy in those days, and little Guy would have been the wealthiest squire in the county had he lived to attain his majority. But he did not.
"Roger Estcourt was, from all accounts that have been handed down to us, a hard-featured, sinister-looking man, and his little nephew, like a spring flower, withered under the chilling influence of such guardianship. He had no friends or companions of his own age.
"The story goes that for some reason or other, shortly before the boy attained his eighteenth year, a large sum of money which had been lent out at interest was paid in gold to Roger, as was the custom with mortgages in those days. Roger brought it down from London to the Grange in a strong box, and stayed for some days with his nephew. Then he went away to London, but within three weeks from his uncle's departure poor Guy fell sick and died. The gossips whispered foul play, but scientific analysis had not made much progress then, and though dark hints were circulated that Guy had been poisoned, no one could prove it, and so Roger was permitted to take possession of the estate without hindrance."
My father looked so ill that almost involuntarily I moved from my chair and knelt at his feet. He placed his loving hand upon my head, and said,
"It is for your sake, my lad, that I mostly regret it, but
'I should not love thee, dear, so well,
Loved I not honour more.'
Look at this letter, Guy."
I looked. I saw that the letter was from a firm of solicitors in London, and that it demanded payment of £10,000 in six months' time. My father then explained the matter to me, still speaking so kindly and uncomplainingly that I felt as though I would give all the world to help him in his trouble.
"You know, my boy, that wickedness never prospers, and so it happened to my grandfather Roger. His ill-gotten gains did not seem to do him any good, and consequently, penurious as he was, the estate, owing to outside speculations, became impoverished. My father, who was of a rather speculative and sanguine turn of mind, raised further money on the estate, and though he succeeded in effecting many improvements, he died without having repaid the money he borrowed. All my life long I have been struggling to redeem this debt, and I had reduced it to £10,000, but the seasons have been so bad, that I have failed, and there is nothing for it but to sell this dear old place and try our fortune elsewhere. In the present state of depression it is impossible to either renew or pay off this mortgage and yet remain here.
My father stopped, and he was evidently so overcome with emotion that for some moments I did not break the silence. Then I said,
"It is bad news, father, and it is a strange story you have told me, but I feel that it will all come right somehow, and I will work and do something to make you proud of me yet.
He gave me such a smile as I shall never forget, and replied,
"God bless you, my boy. You take half the load off my mind by bearing your trouble so bravely."
"What became of the box you told me about, father?" I inquired; "the box containing the money that was repaid in my Cousin Guy's time."
"That is one of the most curious parts of the story," he answered. "That box has never been found from that day to this." "However", he continued, "we must not think too much of that old family legend. We have enough to do in the present to keep us from wondering about the past. Come, Guy, let us have dinner."
I followed my father to the dining-room, where my mother and sisters were waiting for us. I knew at once that my mother was aware of what had passed in the library, and. I kissed her before taking my place at. table. My father did all that lay in his power to appear cheerful and happy, and so did my mother, and she was more successful in her endeavours than he was. However, our dinner table was very unlike the usual merry one, and we all felt at last that it was allmost useless to try to keep up appearances any longer. I could hardly eat a mouthful, and I was glad when I found myself alone in my bedroom thinking over the wonderful change which had come over our prospects during the last six hours. I looked at the matter from all possible points of view, and I planned all sorts of schemes for doing something to rescue my parents from the calamity which seemed to overhang them.
At that time, being only a schoolboy, I failed to grasp all the ins and outs of the legal part of the business, but I thoroughly understood how my father would be heartbroken if he really had to leave our home. I am thankful to be able to tell you that I never once thought of myself in the affair, and that all my anxiety was on behalf of my parents. The story that my father had told me had taken a strong hold of my imagination, and my ill-fated cousin seemed to mix himself up in our present difficulties in a most curious and altogether unaccountable manner. I retired to my bedroom, but instead of undressing sat before the fire thinking of the long, long past, and of all my father had told me. Thus I must have fallen into a heavy sleep.
I awoke with a start and a shiver, wondering how long I had been asleep, and why I was so cold. It did not occur to me at the time that the fire had gone out, and that the bells had begun to clash for Christmas.
Then I remembered I had been dreaming, and tried to recall what my dream was about, but it had somehow altogether escaped me. I sat down again, and tried to collect my thoughts. The long fast, or some other cause, must have altogether upset me, and to this day I am not sure how long I was sitting there or what happened to me. At last, as though by a sudden inspiration, I knew what I had dreamed. I had found the strong box containing all the money that had been so mysteriously lost; I had found it in the picture gallery in the west wing. But where?
Impelled by curiosity, if by nothing else, I hurried down the long passage leading from my room to the picture gallery. The house was as still as the grave save for the sound of bells across the snow. The picture gallery is almost exactly the same now as it was then. It is, as you know, divided into three parts; the first part is separated from the middle chamber by the heavy tapestry curtain that still hangs there, and then the door at the other end leads into the smaller gallery. I entered the room from the passage, and as I did so the turret clock chimed.
In the daytime I had never noticed it particularly, but now, as I was alone in the long gallery at midnight, every stroke of the deep bell seemed to go through me and I held my breath between each note, almost fearing to hear myself breathe. It was a most peculiar sensation—more awe than fright—and when I felt the worst I never for one moment had the slightest intention of retreating from my post. I had dreamt that I had found enough money to pay off all my father's debts. Could it be possible that such a dream should come true?
The room was lumbered up with old furniture, armour, books, and all kinds of miscellaneous articles. I eagerly turned them over with boyish enthusiasm, hoping to find something which would assist me.
How long I continued working, with something like feverish anxiety, thus aimlessly in the weird, uncertain light, I do not know, but suddenly I thought I heard a movement in the middle chamber and raised my head. The moon was shining brightly through the window, and fell upon the portraits of the father and mother of the unfortunate Guy.
Then, without the slightest noise, through the open door leading into the farther chamber, my unfortunate cousin seemed to advance with me into the moonlight. He was dressed in a white shirt, and his face looked "more in sorrow than anger."
My heart stood still, and I felt a chill pass through my system, leaving, leaving me almost as cold and rigid as the ghost. Notwithstanding this my faculties were perfectly acute, and I remember that, though my cousin seemed as real as any human being, yet I could plainly see through him, and I noticed the old oak panelling shining in the moonlight through his back.
I tried to speak, but I could not. I had something I wished to say, but my lips refused their office.
"My father is not to blame," I thought. "He never harmed you, Cousin Guy. Why should the sin of Roger Estcourt be visited upon him? We are the same age. I should not have been here had it not been for some good purpose. I am not afraid of you. Help me to help my father."
I advanced a step, and the figure seemed to retreat. I stretched out my hand, and the figure did the same, and retreated slowly before me through the inner chamber. I followed, when the figure gradually faded from sight. I felt the warm blood coming back to me, and I gradually became more excited. I hurried on, fearing that my adventure would come to nothing. As the ghost faded away from my view I quickened my pace to a run, and, with a loud cry, I rushed against the oak panelling at the end of the inner chamber and fell back upon the floor—stunned.
How long I lay there I do not know, but when I opened my eyes my father was standing over me with a light.
"Whatever is the matter, my boy?" he said. "What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?"
I hardly answered him, but, springing up, I snatched the light from his hand, and pointed towards the panel against which I had struck. My knocking against it had touched a secret spring, hitherto unknown to any of us, and there, in a small chamber made in the solid masonry of the wall, lay an old-fashioned brass-bound chest. Then my excitement knew no bounds
"There, father," I cried, "there, I believe, is your money!"
Well, it's no use going on, is it, boys? I always get excited even now when I tell the tale; but there was money in that box that went far to pay off the more pressing claims, and here we are to-day, the same Estcourts in the same house.
What do you say? Was it really a ghost? What do you think? You must remember that I had been out all day, and had had hardly anything to eat; a doctor could easily explain the whole of it, and so might you, perhaps, if, when the moon is shining brightly, you inspect the room and notice the effect of the mirrors. But you asked me for a real ghost story, and having told you one, it is not for me to spoil it by needless explanations.
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