WHEN, Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told

him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted.

Indeed Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it

his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis, when they came to discuss terms.

"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord Canterville, "since my grand-

aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really

recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for

dinner, and I feet bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been seen by several living

members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier,

who is a fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess,

none very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came of our

younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got from the corridor and the

library."

"My lord," answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I

come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our

spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actresses and

prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at

home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show."

"I fear that the ghost exists," said Lord Canterville, smiling, "though it may have resisted the

overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since

1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family."

"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing,

sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of nature are not going to be suspended for the British

aristocracy."

"You are certainly very natural in America," answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite

understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all

right. Only you must remember I warned you."

A few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the close of the season the

Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R.

Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very

handsome middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies

on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression

that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many

respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really

everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her eldest son,

christened Washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to

regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for

American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three successive

seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the

peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E.

Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large

blue eyes. She was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony

twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of Achilles statue, to the

huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed to her on the spot, and was sent

back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia came the

twins, who were usually called "The Stars and Stripes" as they were always getting swished.

They were delightful boys, and with the exception of the worthy Minister the only true

republicans of the family.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway station, Mr. Otis had

telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high spirits. It

was a lovely July evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pine woods. Now and

then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling

fern, the burnished ****** of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them from the beech trees

as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy

knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of Canterville Chase,

however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold

the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they

reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk, with a

white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady

Canterville's earnest request, had consented to keep on in her former position. She made them

each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, "I bid you

welcome to Canterville Chase." Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor hall into

the library, a tong, low room, paneled in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained-

glass window. Here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat

down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace and,

quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to Mrs. Umney, "I am afraid something has

been spilt there."

"Yes, madam," replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood has been spilt on that

spot."

"How horrid," cried Mrs. Otis. "I don't at all care for blood-stains in a sitting-room. It must

be removed at once."

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, "It is the blood of

Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir

Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his guilty

spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much admired by tourists and others,

and cannot be removed."

"That is all nonsense," cried Washington Otis; "Pinkerton's Champion Stain Remover and

Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time," and before the terrified housekeeper could

interfere he had fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of

what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the blood-stain could be

seen.

"I knew Pinkerton would do it," he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked round at his

admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up

the somber room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney

fainted.

"What a monstrous climate!" said the American Minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. "I

guess the old country is so overpopulated that they have not enough decent weather for

everybody. I have always been of opinion that emigration is the only thing for England."

"My dear Hiram," cried Mrs. Otis, "what can we do with a woman who faints?"

"Charge it to her like breakages," answered the Minister; "she won't faint after that"; and in a

few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was

extremely upset, and she sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the

house.

"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir," she said, "that would make any Christian's hair

stand on end, and many and many a night I have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful

things that are done here." Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul

that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on her new

master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper

tottered off to her own room.

THE storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. The next

morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood

once again on the floor. "I don't think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent," said

Washington, "for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost." He accordingly rubbed

out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning also

it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key

carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that

he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her

intention of joining the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs.

Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when connected

with crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence of phantasmata were removed

for ever.

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went

out for a drive. They did not return home till nine o' clock, when they had a light supper. The

conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions

of receptive expectation which so often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. The

subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the

ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense

superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of

obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the

importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage

check system in railway traveling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to

the London drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de

Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o' clock the family retired and by half-past all the

lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor,

outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every

moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o' clock

He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still

continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a

small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in front of him he

saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red as burning

coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of

antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and

rusty gyves.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have

brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said

to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that

effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for

you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more should you require

it." With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and,

closing his door, retired to rest.

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then,

dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow

groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great

oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large

pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the

Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and

the house became quite quiet.

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam to

recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. Never, in a brilliant and

uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the

Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before the glass in her lace

and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely

grinned at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish,

whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who had

been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and

of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early and seen a

skeleton seated in an armchair by the fire reading her diary had been confined to her bed for

six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to the Church, and had broken off her connection with that notorious skeptic Monsieur de Voltaire.

He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his

dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, just

before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of £50,000 at Crockford's by means

of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great

achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry

because he had seen a green hand tapping at the window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield,

who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the mark of five

fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end

of the King's Walk With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist he went over his most

celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last

appearance as "Red Ruben, or the Strangled Babe," his debut as "Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-

sucker of Bexley Moor," and the furor he had excited one lonely June evening by merely

playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this, some

wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him the Rising Sun Lubricator, and

throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghosts in history had ever been

treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till

daylight in an attitude of deep thought.

THE next morning when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some

length. The United States Minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had

not been accepted. "I have no wish," he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must

say that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't think it is at all polite

to throw pillows at him" -- a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into

shouts of laughter. "Upon the other hand," he continued, "if he really declines to use the

Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quite

impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the bedrooms."

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited any

attention being the continual renewal of the blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was

very strange, as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept

closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a good deal of comment.

Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich

purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the

Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright emerald-green. These

kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the subject were

freely made every evening. The only person who did not enter into the joke was little

Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of

the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was emerald-green. The second

appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after they had gone to bed they were

suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large

suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor,

while, seated in a high-backed chair, was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an

expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their peashooters with them,

at once discharged two pellets on him, With that accuracy of aim which can only be attained

by long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United States Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold

up his hands! The ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a

mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total

darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recovered himself and determined to give his

celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely

useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig grey in a single night, and had certainly

made three of Lady Canterville's French governesses give warning before their month was up.

He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again,

but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a

light blue dressing-gown.

"I am afraid you are far from well," she said, "and have brought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell's

tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy." The ghost glared at her

in fury, and began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an

accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always

attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The

sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he

contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep church-

yard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent

agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally

extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was, that he had been unable to wear

the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by the sight of a

Spectre In Armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their national

poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many

a weary hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides, it was his own suit. He had

worn it with success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highly complimented on it

by no less a person than the ****** Queen herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been

completely overpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had

fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and bruising the

knuckles of his right hand.

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all, except

to keep the blood-stain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself he

recovered, and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his

family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for his appearance, and spent most of that day

in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat with a red

feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a

violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the

old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His plan of action

was this. He was to make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the

foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of slow music. He bore

Washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it was he who was in the habit of

removing the famous Canterville blood-stain, by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent.

Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was then

to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and his wife, and there to place

a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the

awful secrets of the charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made up his

mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he

might grabble at the counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite

determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of course, to sit upon their

chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite

close to each other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, till they

became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the winding-sheet, and crawl round the

room, with white bleached bones and one rolling eyeball, in the character of "Dumb Daniel,

or the Suicide's Skeleton," a role in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great

effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of "Martin the Maniac, or the

Masked Mystery."

At half past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was disturbed by wild

shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the lighthearted gaiety of schoolboys, were

evidently amusing themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was

still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window panes, the

raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a

lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and

storm he could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He stepped

stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the

moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms and

those of his murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil

shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he thought he heard

something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he

went on, muttering strange sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty

dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to luckless

Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks

about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead

man's shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled

to himself and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than, with a piteous wail of

terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him

was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman's

dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and hideous

laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays

of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own,

swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its ****** was a placard with strange writing

in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful

calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a fashion of gleaming steel.

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second

hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding-

sheet as he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's

jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the privacy of his own

apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-bed and hid his face under the clothes.

After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself and he determined to go

and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn was

touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the

grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of

his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the spot, however, a

terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had

entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed forward and

seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body

assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with

a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to

understand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there,

in the grey morning light, he read these fearful words:

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and outwitted! The old

Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his

withered hands high above his head, swore, according to the picturesque phraseology of the

antique school, that when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood

would be wrought, and Murder walk abroad with silent feet.

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of a distant homestead,

a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but

the cock, for some strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival

of the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back to his room,

thinking of his vain hope and baffled purpose. There he consulted several books of ancient

chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which his

oath had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition seize the

naughty fowl," he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I would have run

him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twere in death!" He then retired to a

comfortable lead coffin, and stayed there till evening.