The Swithland ghost
HITHERTO, the susceptibilities of a ghost have received scant consideration from a mundane generation.
The narrative of the grey lady, compelling in its realism, may help us to understand a fact that we had never dimly suspected—that a spectre has a definite point of view, and moreover has some claim on our indulgence.
How we chanced upon this unique ghostly reminiscence may not be divulged, for indeed it would be breaking a confidence not lightly given. Neither the grey lady nor the mad butler have been seen this many a year, and we think it unlikely that their eerie visitations will be repeated.
THE GREY LADY’S NARRATIVE.
THERE are countless folk who will have nought to do with stories of ghosts, who decry with infinite scorn the tales they have heard of the appearance of the spirits of the dead in the gloomy churchyard or ancient manor house.
Very wise these people deem themselves when they opine that a ghost has to be seen to be believed. Fools that they are, they will never understand that we have to be believed, ere we may be seen.
For truly we are sensitive and have our due and proper pride; moreover we can sense in a moment that dire atmosphere of scepticism which daunts the courage and must ever damp the enthusiasm of the most resolute ghost.
This appalling scepticism is a modern growth and largely accounts for the rarity of ghostly visitations in latter years. It is grossly unfair that such a state should exist.
Will mortals ne’er realise our trials, our difficulties, and our rights ?
For to die in bed is a happy and restful fate, but to be the victim of a horrible murder, to see a madman, with gruesome intent vividly expressed in staring eyes creeping stealthily towards you, such an experience can never be erased from the mind, such a memory can never fade. Therefore, instead of remaining peacefully in the grave, I cannot rest, but needs must haunt the neighbourhood in a vain seeking after unattainable peace.
But I have anticipated, you shall forthwith hear my story which is like unto the tale which every genuine ghost can unfold.
My father was surely to blame for the events of that terrible day.
He was a masterful man, and once his mind was made up he would n e’er change his decision.
We had been from home for some weeks in distant Yorkshire, and were due to return immediately.
The house, our dear old Rectory, was left in the charge of the butler, a man I ever did loathe, but who seemed to possess some strange power over my father.
Without any warning I suddenly received orders to proceed a day ahead of the rest of the family to see that all was well in the house for the homecoming.
Surely everybody must fain agree that it was a most improper errand for n young gentlewoman of scarce twenty years, to make a long journey alone and entirely unprotected.
But my father would pay no heed to our feeble protestations and thus perforce I set out on the stage coach at six of the clock on a misty June morning.
At three in the afternoon I alighted at the “Plough” in Loughborough Marketplace, and sought a private conveyance which could carry me to Swithland village.
I had not been long home when I was sorely beset with uneasy misgivings. Parker, the butler, though properly respectful in manner, yet made me vaguely apprehensive. For his eyes were bloodhot and heavy in appearance, moreover he reeled somewhat in his gait, so that I began to fear that he must be grievously sick. But I pretended that I perceived nothing strange in his manner, and hoped that all would be well, in spite of my fears and suspicion.
I retired to my room that evening determined that I would not sleep but would watch through the hours of the short summer night until day did break.
I locked my door and lay down on the bed to rest my weary limbs. I did not disrobe but remained in my dress of grey brocade, ready for any unexpected happening that might arise.
Alas my resolve to stay awake was a vain one. Wearied by my long journey, I fell into a restless sleep from which I was rudely awakened.
The door was opening slowly but steadily, I sprang hastily from the bed, but ere I could defend myself I was roughly seized.
I struggled with all my power, but my frantic efforts were entirely unavailing.
What chance indeed has’ a girl against a man endowed with a madman’s strength ?
Here the strange narrative of the grey lady finishes abruptly.
Her story is confirmed by village legend, though it is now forgotten in Swithland. The butler at the old rectory a century and a half ago undoubtedly had periods of madness which were frequently intensified by his deplorable habit of intemperance.
Unfortunately in the absence of his master’s family he had found access to the cellar and was drinking steadily and deeply, day by day. Evidently the homicidal instinct had lain dormant in his mind awaiting only a favour-able opportunity.
The criminal folly of his master in sending on his daughter a day ahead gave the butler his long desired chance of satisfying his blood lust.
At midnight he forced the lock, crept into the bedroom, overpowered his young mistress and hanged her with a rope attached to the top of the four poster bed.
The deed sobered him, sanity returned and with it the realisation of what he had done.
He hurried down into the pantry seized a large carving knife and cut his throat, and on the following evening the two bodies were found by the family on their return.
Sometimes, it is said, the butler has been seen at night with his throat cut, dripping blood, and emitting hoarse cries of anguish.
But the grey lady, in her dress of grey brocade, has made many appearances though of late years she has seldom been seen.
In the past she has been noticed at garden parties and guests have remarked on her old fashioned dress, and have supposed that she was a lady of the old school.
Maybe she will never be seen in Swithland again, possibly because of the sceptical atmosphere referred to in her narrative nevertheless we do earnestly hope that her absence may be attributed to the fact that she has at last found that peace which for many years she did seek in vain.