chapter 2

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.

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