‘Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad’
‘I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full Term is over, Professor,’ said a person not in the story to the Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast in the hospitable1 hall of St James’s College.
The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘my friends have been making me take up golf this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast — in point of fact to Burnstow —(I dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope to get off tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Parkins,’ said his neighbour on the other side, ‘if you are going to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars’ preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any good to have a dig there in the summer.’
It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian pursuits who said this, but, since he merely appears in this prologue2, there is no need to give his entitlements.
‘Certainly,’ said Parkins, the Professor: ‘if you will describe to me whereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you an idea of the lie of the land when I get back; or I could write to you about it, if you would tell me where you are likely to be.’
‘Don’t trouble to do that, thanks. It’s only that I’m thinking of taking my family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to me that, as very few of the English preceptories have ever been properly planned, I might have an opportunity of doing something useful on off-days.’
The Professor rather sniffed3 at the idea that planning out a preceptory could be described as useful. His neighbour continued:
‘The site — I doubt if there is anything showing above ground — must be down quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached tremendously, as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should think, from the map, that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, at the north end of the town. Where are you going to stay?’
‘Well, at the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact,’ said Parkins; ‘I have engaged a room there. I couldn’t get in anywhere else; most of the lodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it is, they tell me that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-bedded one, and that they haven’t a corner in which to store the other bed, and so on. But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some books down, and mean to do a bit of work; and though I don’t quite fancy having an empty bed — not to speak of two — in what I may call for the time being my study, I suppose I can manage to rough it for the short time I shall be there.’
‘Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing it, Parkins?’ said a bluff4 person opposite. ‘Look here, I shall come down and occupy it for a bit; it’ll be company for you.’
The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous5 manner.
‘By all means, Rogers; there’s nothing I should like better. But I’m afraid you would find it rather dull; you don’t play golf, do you?’
‘No, thank Heaven!’ said rude Mr Rogers.
‘Well, you see, when I’m not writing I shall most likely be out on the links, and that, as I say, would be rather dull for you, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, I don’t know! There’s certain to be somebody I know in the place; but, of course, if you don’t want me, speak the word, Parkins; I shan’t be offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never offensive.’
Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously6 polite and strictly7 truthful8. It is to be feared that Mr Rogers sometimes practised upon his knowledge of these characteristics. In Parkins’s breast there was a conflict now raging, which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. That interval9 being over, he said:
‘Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was considering whether the room I speak of would really be large enough to accommodate us both comfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn’t have said this if you hadn’t pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature of a hindrance10 to my work.’
Rogers laughed loudly.
‘Well done, Parkins!’ he said. ‘It’s all right. I promise not to interrupt your work; don’t you disturb yourself about that. No, I won’t come if you don’t want me; but I thought I should do so nicely to keep the ghosts off.’ Here he might have been seen to wink11 and to nudge his next neighbour. Parkins might also have been seen to become pink. ‘I beg pardon, Parkins,’ Rogers continued; ‘I oughtn’t to have said that. I forgot you didn’t like levity12 on these topics.’
‘Well,’ Parkins said, ‘as you have mentioned the matter, I freely own that I do not like careless talk about what you call ghosts. A man in my position,’ he went on, raising his voice a little, ‘cannot, I find, be too careful about appearing to sanction the current beliefs on such subjects. As you know, Rogers, or as you ought to know; for I think I have never concealed13 my views —’
‘No, you certainly have not, old man,’ put in Rogers sotto voce.
‘— I hold that any semblance14, any appearance of concession15 to the view that such things might exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all that I hold most sacred. But I’m afraid I have not succeeded in securing your attention.’
‘Your undivided attention, was what Dr Blimber actually said,’4 Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire for accuracy. ‘But I beg your pardon, Parkins: I’m stopping you.’
4 Mr Rogers was wrong, vide Dombey and Son, chapter xii.
‘No, not at all,’ said Parkins. ‘I don’t remember Blimber; perhaps he was before my time. But I needn’t go on. I’m sure you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Rogers, rather hastily —‘just so. We’ll go into it fully16 at Burnstow, or somewhere.’
In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the impression which it made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman — rather henlike, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute17, alas18! of the sense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in his convictions, and a man deserving of the greatest respect. Whether or not the reader has gathered so much, that was the character which Parkins had.
* * * * *
On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed in getting away from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made welcome at the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large double-bedded room of which we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrange his materials for work in apple-pie order upon a commodious19 table which occupied the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides by windows looking out seaward; that is to say, the central window looked straight out to sea, and those on the left and right commanded prospects20 along the shore to the north and south respectively. On the south you saw the village of Burnstow. On the north no houses were to be seen, but only the beach and the low cliff backing it. Immediately in front was a strip — not considerable — of rough grass, dotted with old anchors, capstans, and so forth22; then a broad path; then the beach. Whatever may have been the original distance between the Globe Inn and the sea, not more than sixty yards now separated them.
The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a golfing one, and included few elements that call for a special description. The most conspicuous23 figure was, perhaps, that of an ancien militaire, secretary of a London club, and possessed24 of a voice of incredible strength, and of views of a pronouncedly Protestant type. These were apt to find utterance25 after his attendance upon the ministrations of the Vicar, an estimable man with inclinations26 towards a picturesque27 ritual, which he gallantly28 kept down as far as he could out of deference29 to East Anglian tradition.
Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics was pluck, spent the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow in what he had called improving his game, in company with this Colonel Wilson: and during the afternoon — whether the process of improvement were to blame or not, I am not sure — the Colonel’s demeanour assumed a colouring so lurid30 that even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walking home with him from the links. He determined31, after a short and furtive32 look at that bristling33 moustache and those incarnadined features, that it would be wiser to allow the influences of tea and tobacco to do what they could with the Colonel before the dinner-hour should render a meeting inevitable34.
‘I might walk home tonight along the beach,’ he reflected —‘yes, and take a look — there will be light enough for that — at the ruins of which Disney was talking. I don’t exactly know where they are, by the way; but I expect I can hardly help stumbling on them.’
This he accomplished35, I may say, in the most literal sense, for in picking his way from the links to the shingle36 beach his foot caught, partly in a gorse-root and partly in a biggish stone, and over he went. When he got up and surveyed his surroundings, he found himself in a patch of somewhat broken ground covered with small depressions and mounds37. These latter, when he came to examine them, proved to be simply masses of flints embedded38 in mortar39 and grown over with turf. He must, he quite rightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he had promised to look at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of the explorer; enough of the foundations was probably left at no great depth to throw a good deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguely40 that the Templars, to whom this site had belonged, were in the habit of building round churches, and he thought a particular series of the humps or mounds near him did appear to be arranged in something of a circular form. Few people can resist the temptation to try a little amateur research in a department quite outside their own, if only for the satisfaction of showing how successful they would have been had they only taken it up seriously. Our Professor, however, if he felt something of this mean desire, was also truly anxious to oblige Mr Disney. So he paced with care the circular area he had noticed, and wrote down its rough dimensions in his pocket-book. Then he proceeded to examine an oblong eminence41 which lay east of the centre of the circle, and seemed to his thinking likely to be the base of a platform or altar. At one end of it, the northern, a patch of the turf was gone — removed by some boy or other creature ferae naturae. It might, he thought, be as well to probe the soil here for evidences of masonry42, and he took out his knife and began scraping away the earth. And now followed another little discovery: a portion of soil fell inward as he scraped, and disclosed a small cavity. He lighted one match after another to help him to see of what nature the hole was, but the wind was too strong for them all. By tapping and scratching the sides with his knife, however, he was able to make out that it must be an artificial hole in masonry. It was rectangular, and the sides, top, and bottom, if not actually plastered, were smooth and regular. Of course it was empty. No! As he withdrew the knife he heard a metallic43 clink, and when he introduced his hand it met with a cylindrical44 object lying on the floor of the hole. Naturally enough, he picked it up, and when he brought it into the light, now fast fading, he could see that it, too, was of man’s making — a metal tube about four inches long, and evidently of some considerable age.
By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing else in this odd receptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think of undertaking45 any further search. What he had done had proved so unexpectedly interesting that he determined to sacrifice a little more of the daylight on the morrow to archaeology46. The object which he now had safe in his pocket was bound to be of some slight value at least, he felt sure.
Bleak47 and solemn was the view on which he took a last look before starting homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, on which a few figures moving towards the club-house were still visible, the squat48 martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbon of sands intersected at intervals49 by black wooden groynings, the dim and murmuring sea. The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his back when he set out for the Globe. He quickly rattled50 and clashed through the shingle and gained the sand, upon which, but for the groynings which had to be got over every few yards, the going was both good and quiet. One last look behind, to measure the distance he had made since leaving the ruined Templars’ church, showed him a prospect21 of company on his walk, in the shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed to be making great efforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any, progress. I mean that there was an appearance of running about his movements, but that the distance between him and Parkins did not seem materially to lessen51. So, at least, Parkins thought, and decided52 that he almost certainly did not know him, and that it would be absurd to wait until he came up. For all that, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on that lonely shore, if only you could choose your companion. In his unenlightened days he had read of meetings in such places which even now would hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinking of them, however, until he reached home, and particularly of one which catches most people’s fancy at some time of their childhood.’ Now I saw in my dream that Christian53 had gone but a very little way when he saw a foul54 fiend coming over the field to meet him.’ ‘What should I do now,’ he thought, ‘if I looked back and caught sight of a black figure sharply defined against the yellow sky, and saw that it had horns and wings? I wonder whether I should stand or run for it. Luckily, the gentleman behind is not of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off now as when I saw him first. Well, at this rate, he won’t get his dinner as soon as I shall; and, dear me! it’s within a quarter of an hour of the time now. I must run!’
Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing55. When he met the Colonel at dinner, Peace — or as much of her as that gentleman could manage — reigned56 once more in the military bosom57; nor was she put to flight in the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was a more than respectable player. When, therefore, he retired58 towards twelve o’clock, he felt that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactory way, and that, even for so long as a fortnight or three weeks, life at the Globe would be supportable under similar conditions —‘especially,’ thought he, ‘if I go on improving my game.’
As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe, who stopped and said:
‘Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was abrushing your coat just now there was something fell out of the pocket. I put it on your chest of drawers, sir, in your room, sir — a piece of a pipe or somethink of that, sir. Thank you, sir. You’ll find it on your chest of drawers, sir — yes, sir. Good night, sir.’
The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery of that afternoon. It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned it over by the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw, and was shaped very much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact it was — yes, certainly it was — actually no more nor less than a whistle. He put it to his lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand or earth, which would not yield to knocking, but must be loosened with a knife. Tidy as ever in his habits, Parkins cleared out the earth on to a piece of paper, and took the latter to the window to empty it out. The night was clear and bright, as he saw when he had opened the casement59, and he stopped for an instant to look at the sea and note a belated wanderer stationed on the shore in front of the inn. Then he shut the window, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at Burnstow, and took his whistle to the light again. Why, surely there were marks on it, and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing rendered the deeply-cut inscription60 quite legible, but the Professor had to confess, after some earnest thought, that the meaning of it was as obscure to him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There were legends both on the front and on the back of the whistle. The one read thus:
The other:
‘I ought to be able to make it out,’ he thought; ‘but I suppose I am a little rusty61 in my Latin. When I come to think of it, I don’t believe I even know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem simple enough. It ought to mean: “Who is this who is coming?” Well, the best way to find out is evidently to whistle for him.’
He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased at the note he had elicited62. It had a quality of infinite distance in it, and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round. It was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents63 possess) of forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for a moment a vision of a wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh wind blowing, and in the midst a lonely figure — how employed, he could not tell. Perhaps he would have seen more had not the picture been broken by the sudden surge of a gust64 of wind against his casement, so sudden that it made him look up, just in time to see the white glint of a seabird’s wing somewhere outside the dark panes65.
The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could not help trying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if at all, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion — no picture followed, as he had half hoped it might. “But what is this? Goodness! what force the wind can get up in a few minutes! What a tremendous gust! There! I knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so — both candles out. It is enough to tear the room to pieces.”
The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might count twenty Parkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as if he were pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was the pressure. It slackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched66 itself. Now to relight the candles and see what damage, if any, had been done. No, nothing seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But the noise had evidently roused at least one member of the household: the Colonel was to be heard stumping67 in his stockinged feet on the floor above, and growling68. Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall at once. On it went, moaning and rushing past the house, at times rising to a cry so desolate69 that, as Parkins disinterestedly70 said, it might have made fanciful people feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, he thought after a quarter of an hour, might be happier without it.
Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of the researches in the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure. Awake he remained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am afraid I often do myself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner of fatal disorders71: he would lie counting the beats of his heart, convinced that it was going to stop work every moment, and would entertain grave suspicions of his lungs, brain, liver, etc.— suspicions which he was sure would be dispelled72 by the return of daylight, but which until then refused to be put aside. He found a little vicarious comfort in the idea that someone else was in the same boat. A near neighbour (in the darkness it was not easy to tell his direction) was tossing and rustling73 in his bed, too.
The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined to give sleep every chance. Here again over-excitement asserted itself in another form — that of making pictures. Experto crede, pictures do come to the closed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little to his taste that he must open his eyes and disperse74 them.
Parkins’s experience on this occasion was a very distressing75 one. He found that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous. When he opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut them once more it framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neither quicker nor slower than before. What he saw was this:
A long stretch of shore — shingle edged by sand, and intersected at short intervals with black groynes running down to the water — a scene, in fact, so like that of his afternoon’s walk that, in the absence of any landmark76, it could not be distinguished77 therefrom. The light was obscure, conveying an impression of gathering78 storm, late winter evening, and slight cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor was visible. Then, in the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; a moment more, and it was a man running, jumping, clambering over the groynes, and every few seconds looking eagerly back. The nearer he came the more obvious it was that he was not only anxious, but even terribly frightened, though his face was not to be distinguished. He was, moreover, almost at the end of his strength. On he came; each successive obstacle seemed to cause him more difficulty than the last. ‘Will he get over this next one?’ thought Parkins; ‘it seems a little higher than the others.’ Yes; half climbing, half throwing himself, he did get over, and fell all in a heap on the other side (the side nearest to the spectator). There, as if really unable to get up again, he remained crouching79 under the groyne, looking up in an attitude of painful anxiety.
ghoststoriesana00jamegoog_0232
So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been shown; but now there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker80 of something light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness and irregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as a figure in pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was something about its motion which made Parkins very unwilling81 to see it at close quarters. It would stop, raise arms, bow itself towards the sand, then run stooping across the beach to the water-edge and back again; and then, rising upright, once more continue its course forward at a speed that was startling and terrifying. The moment came when the pursuer was hovering82 about from left to right only a few yards beyond the groyne where the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual castings hither and thither83 it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised high, and then darted84 straight forward towards the groyne.
It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his resolution to keep his eyes shut. With many misgivings85 as to incipient86 failure of eyesight, overworked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finally resigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the night waking, rather than be tormented87 by this persistent88 panorama89, which he saw clearly enough could only be a morbid90 reflection of his walk and his thoughts on that very day.
The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must have startled some creatures of the night — rats or what not — which he heard scurry91 across the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear, dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt better, and a candle and book were duly procured92, over which Parkins pored till sleep of a wholesome93 kind came upon him, and that in no long space. For about the first time in his orderly and prudent94 life he forgot to blow out the candle, and when he was called next morning at eight there was still a flicker in the socket95 and a sad mess of guttered96 grease on the top of the little table.
After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to his golfing costume — fortune had again allotted97 the Colonel to him for a partner — when one of the maids came in.
‘Oh, if you please,’ she said, ‘would you like any extra blankets on your bed, sir?’
‘Ah! thank you,’ said Parkins. ‘Yes, I think I should like one. It seems likely to turn rather colder.’
In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.
‘Which bed should I put it on, sir?’ she asked.
‘What? Why, that one — the one I slept in last night,’ he said, pointing to it.
‘Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of ’em; leastways, we had to make ’em both up this morning.’
‘Really? How very absurd!’ said Parkins. ‘I certainly never touched the other, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to have been slept in?’
‘Oh yes, sir!’ said the maid. ‘Why, all the things was crumpled98 and throwed about all ways, if you’ll excuse me, sir — quite as if anyone ‘adn’t passed but a very poor night, sir.’
‘Dear me,’ said Parkins. ‘Well, I may have disordered it more than I thought when I unpacked99 my things. I’m very sorry to have given you the extra trouble, I’m sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by the way — a gentleman from Cambridge — to come and occupy it for a night or two. That will be all right, I suppose, won’t it?’
‘Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s no trouble, I’m sure,’ said the maid, and departed to giggle100 with her colleagues.
Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game.
I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in this enterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the prospect of a second day’s play in his company, became quite chatty as the morning advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as certain also of our own minor101 poets have said, ‘like some great bourdon in a minster tower’.
‘Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night,’ he said. ‘In my old home we should have said someone had been whistling for it.’
‘Should you, indeed!’ said Perkins. ‘Is there a superstition102 of that kind still current in your part of the country?’
‘I don’t know about superstition,’ said the Colonel. ‘They believe in it all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast; and my experience is, mind you, that there’s generally something at the bottom of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for generations. But it’s your drive’ (or whatever it might have been: the golfing reader will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper intervals).
When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:
‘A propos of what you were saying just now, Colonel, I think I ought to tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, in fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the “supernatural”.’
‘What!’ said the Colonel,‘do you mean to tell me you don’t believe in second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?’
‘In nothing whatever of that kind,’ returned Parkins firmly.
‘Well,’ said the Colonel, ‘but it appears to me at that rate, sir, that you must be little better than a Sadducee.’
Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, the Sadducees were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old Testament103; but feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them was to be found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation104 off.
‘Perhaps I am,’ he said; ‘but — Here, give me my cleek, boy!— Excuse me one moment, Colonel.’ A short interval. ‘Now, as to whistling for the wind, let me give you my theory about it. The laws which govern winds are really not at all perfectly105 known — to fisherfolk and such, of course, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric habits, perhaps, or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour, and is heard whistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer106 could have foretold107 that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no barometers108, and only a few rough rules for prophesying109 weather. What more natural than that the eccentric personage I postulated110 should be regarded as having raised the wind, or that he or she should clutch eagerly at the reputation of being able to do so? Now, take last night’s wind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew a whistle twice, and the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call. If anyone had seen me —’
The audience had been a little restive111 under this harangue112, and Parkins had, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at the last sentence the Colonel stopped.
‘Whistling, were you?’ he said. ‘And what sort of whistle did you use? Play this stroke first.’ Interval.
‘About that whistle you were asking, Colonel. It’s rather a curious one. I have it in my — No; I see I’ve left it in my room. As a matter of fact, I found it yesterday.’
And then Parkins narrated113 the manner of his discovery of the whistle, upon hearing which the Colonel grunted114, and opined that, in Parkins’s place, he should himself be careful about using a thing that had belonged to a set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be affirmed that you never knew what they might not have been up to. From this topic he diverged115 to the enormities of the Vicar, who had given notice on the previous Sunday that Friday would be the Feast of St Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be service at eleven o’clock in the church. This and other similar proceedings116 constituted in the Colonel’s view a strong presumption117 that the Vicar was a concealed Papist, if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily follow the Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him. In fact, they got on so well together in the morning that there was not talk on either side of their separating after lunch.
Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or at least, well enough to make them forget everything else until the light began to fail them. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do some more investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance, he reflected. One day was as good as another; he might as well go home with the Colonel.
As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was almost knocked down by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed, and then, instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting. The first words of the warrior118 were naturally those of reproof119 and objurgation, but he very quickly discerned that the boy was almost speechless with fright. Inquiries120 were useless at first. When the boy got his breath he began to howl, and still clung to the Colonel’s legs. He was at last detached, but continued to howl.
‘What in the world is the matter with you? What have you been up to? What have you seen?’ said the two men.
‘Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder,’ wailed121 the boy, ‘and I don’t like it.’
‘What window?’ said the irritated Colonel. ‘Come pull yourself together, my boy.’
‘The front winder it was, at the ‘otel,’ said the boy.
At this point Parkins was in favour of sending the boy home, but the Colonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he said; it was most dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one had had, and if it turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should suffer for it in some way. And by a series of questions he made out this story: The boy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with some others; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going, when he happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving at him. It seemed to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as he knew — couldn’t see its face; but it wived at him, and it warn’t a right thing — not to say not a right person. Was there a light in the room? No, he didn’t think to look if there was a light. Which was the window? Was it the top one or the second one? The seckind one it was — the big winder what got two little uns at the sides.
‘Very well, my boy,’ said the Colonel, after a few more questions. ‘You run away home now. I expect it was some person trying to give you a start. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw a stone — well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter, or to Mr Simpson, the landlord, and — yes — and say that I advised you to do so.’
The boy’s face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the likelihood of Mr Simpson’s lending a favourable122 ear to his complaint, but the Colonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:
‘And here’s a sixpence — no, I see it’s a shilling — and you be off home, and don’t think any more about it.’
The youth hurried off with agitated123 thanks, and the Colonel and Parkins went round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was only one window answering to the description they had been hearing.
‘Well, that’s curious,’ said Parkins; ‘it’s evidently my window the lad was talking about. Will you come up for a moment, Colonel Wilson? We ought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties in my room.’
They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the door. Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.
‘This is more serious than I thought,’ was his next remark. ‘I remember now that before I started this morning I locked the door. It is locked now, and, what is more, here is the key.’ And he held it up. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘if the servants are in the habit of going into one’s room during the day when one is away, I can only say that — well, that I don’t approve of it at all.’ Conscious of a somewhat weak climax124, he busied himself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in lighting125 candles. ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing seems disturbed.’
‘Except your bed,’ put in the Colonel.
‘Excuse me, that isn’t my bed,’ said Parkins. ‘I don’t use that one. But it does look as if someone had been playing tricks with it.’
It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted together in a most tortuous126 confusion. Parkins pondered.
‘That must be it,’ he said at last. ‘I disordered the clothes last night in unpacking127, and they haven’t made it since. Perhaps they came in to make it, and that boy saw them through the window; and then they were called away and locked the door after them. Yes, I think that must be it.’
‘Well, ring and ask,’ said the Colonel, and this appealed to Parkins as practical.
The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed128 that she had made the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room, and hadn’t been there since. No, she hadn’t no other key. Mr Simpson, he kep’ the keys; he’d be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.
This was a puzzle. Investigation129 showed that nothing of value had been taken, and Parkins remembered the disposition130 of the small objects on tables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks131 had been played with them. Mr and Mrs Simpson furthermore agreed that neither of them had given the duplicate key of the room to any person whatever during the day. Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was, detect anything in the demeanour of master, mistress, or maid that indicated guilt132. He was much more inclined to think that the boy had been imposing133 on the Colonel.
The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive134 at dinner and throughout the evening. When he bade goodnight to Parkins, he murmured in a gruff undertone:
‘You know where I am if you want me during the night.’
‘Why, yes, thank you, Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there isn’t much prospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way,’ he added, ‘did I show you that old whistle I spoke135 of? I think not. Well, here it is.’
The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.
‘Can you make anything of the inscription?’ asked Parkins, as he took it back.
‘No, not in this light. What do you mean to do with it?’
‘Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit it to some of the archaeologists there, and see what they think of it; and very likely, if they consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the museums.’
‘M!’ said the Colonel. ‘Well, you may be right. All I know is that, if it were mine, I should chuck it straight into the sea. It’s no use talking, I’m well aware, but I expect that with you it’s a case of live and learn. I hope so, I’m sure, and I wish you a good night.’
He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the bottom of the stair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.
By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor curtains to the windows of the Professor’s room. The previous night he had thought little of this, but tonight there seemed every prospect of a bright moon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later on. When he noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with an ingenuity136 which I can only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the help of a railway-rug, some safety-pins, and a stick and umbrella, a screen which, if it only held together, would completely keep the moonlight off his bed. And shortly afterwards he was comfortably in that bed. When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to produce a decided wish to sleep, he cast a drowsy137 glance round the room, blew out the candle, and fell back upon the pillow.
He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a sudden clatter138 shook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized what had happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a very bright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highly annoying. Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? or could he manage to sleep if he did not?
For some minutes he lay and pondered over all the possibilities; then he turned over sharply, and with his eyes open lay breathlessly listening. There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed on the opposite side of the room. Tomorrow he would have it moved, for there must be rats or something playing about in it. It was quiet now. No! the commotion139 began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely more than any rat could cause.
I can figure to myself something of the Professor’s bewilderment and horror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thing happen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it was to him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an empty bed. He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash towards the window, where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had propped140 his screen. This was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could have done, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smooth motion, slipped from the bed and took up a position, with outspread arms, between the two beds, and in front of the door. Parkins watched it in a horrid141 perplexity. Somehow, the idea of getting past it and escaping through the door was intolerable to him; he could not have borne — he didn’t know why — to touch it; and as for its touching142 him, he would sooner dash himself through the window than have that happen. It stood for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what its face was like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture143, and all at once the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that it must be blind, for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled144 arms in a groping and random145 fashion. Turning half away from him, it became suddenly conscious of the bed he had just left, and darted towards it, and bent146 and felt over the pillows in a way which made Parkins shudder147 as he had never in his life thought it possible. In a very few moments it seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then, moving forward into the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the first time what manner of thing it was.
Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did once describe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumpled linen148. What expression he read upon it he could not or would not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is certain.
But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidable quickness it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped and waved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins’s face. He could not, though he knew how perilous149 a sound was — he could not keep back a cry of disgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue. It leapt towards him upon the instant, and the next moment he was half-way through the window backwards150, uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch of his voice, and the linen face was thrust close into his own. At this, almost the last possible second, deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonel burst the door open, and was just in time to see the dreadful group at the window. When he reached the figures only one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint, and before him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bed-clothes.
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Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in keeping everyone else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed; and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed, for the rest of the night. Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he would have been a day before, and the three of them held a very long consultation151 in the Professor’s room. At the end of it the Colonel left the hotel door carrying a small object between his finger and thumb, which he cast as far into the sea as a very brawny152 arm could send it. Later on the smoke of a burning ascended153 from the back premises154 of the Globe.
Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and visitors at the hotel I must confess I do not recollect155. The Professor was somehow cleared of the ready suspicion of delirium156 tremens, and the hotel of the reputation of a troubled house.
There is not much question as to what would have happened to Parkins if the Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have fallen out of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident what more the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done than frighten. There seemed to be absolutely nothing material about it save the bedclothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel, who remembered a not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of the opinion that if Parkins had closed with it it could really have done very little, and that its one power was that of frightening. The whole thing, he said, served to confirm his opinion of the Church of Rome.
There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may imagine, the Professor’s views on certain points are less clear cut than they used to be. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplice hanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in a field late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleepless157 night.
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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cylindrical
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| adj.圆筒形的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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54
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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56
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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57
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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58
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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59
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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66
latched
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| v.理解( latch的过去式和过去分词 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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disinterestedly
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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74
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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76
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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77
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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80
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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81
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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82
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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83
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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86
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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91
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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92
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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93
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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94
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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95
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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96
guttered
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| vt.形成沟或槽于…（gutter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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99
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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100
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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101
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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102
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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103
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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104
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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105
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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106
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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107
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
barometers
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| 气压计，晴雨表( barometer的名词复数 ) | |
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109
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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110
postulated
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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112
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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113
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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115
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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116
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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117
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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118
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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119
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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120
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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121
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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123
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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124
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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125
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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126
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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127
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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128
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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129
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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130
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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131
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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132
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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133
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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134
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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135
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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136
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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137
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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138
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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139
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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140
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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142
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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143
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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144
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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145
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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146
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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147
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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148
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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149
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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150
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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151
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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152
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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153
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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155
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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156
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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157
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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