A True Story.
by E. Burrowes.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #9 (Dec 1905).
This story possesses an unusual interest from the fact that, in the main, it is perfectly true. The names of the heroine and other characters in the drama are, of course, fictitious, but the incidents so vividly described actually occurred some years ago.
Up until last Christmas I never really believed in dreams, but since then my views have undergone a great change.
It is a trite and much-quoted saying that there are more things in Heaven and earth than our philosophy dreams of, but it is, nevertheless, very true, as I think you will grant when you hear my story, which really began during the autumn when we were staying in Scotland, on the moor which my father had taken for the shooting.
We had a good many people staying with us, and at an adjoining house there was an equally large house-party, so that we saw a great many people, and had a real good time, as Dick said.
Dick and I—well, that's another story, and he doesn't come into this one very much, but I may as well say that Dick and I were just engaged then—not altogether with the consent of my people, for Dick was poor and unknown and I, you see, as the only child of Stafford Ismay, the millionaire, was expected by my friends and relatives to make what is generally called a brilliant match!
But I knew better than to barter happiness for anything in the shape of a title and a number of tiresome big houses, so Dick Selby and I were just at that time in the very seventh Heaven of happiness, in spite of the opposition which we knew we must encounter from the Powers that Were.
It was ridiculous to call him a fortune hunter, for we had been in love with each other long before father made his pile, so that excuse availed nothing. But to my story.
It was at a small dance given at a neighbouring mansion that I first saw the Man. He had a name, of course—they called him Baron von Reusselberg, and he was reported to be a most interesting person.
All I noticed was his very unpleasant manner of staring at one, and the horrid look in his eyes, and though he was tall and good-looking I took a violent dislike to him at once, and refused to allow him to be introduced to me. He asked my hostess to do so, but I made some excuse, and went off with Dick. I shall never forget the awful look of rage which leapt into the Baron's face as he turned and saw us disappearing together. Dick laughed at me when I told him how I hated the man.
"Why, you absurd child, you've never even seen him before!" he said, "I had no idea you took such violent dislikes to innocent people, Phil!"
"I don't as a rule," I said seriously, "but that man—I wonder how anyone can trust him, Dick. He looks as if—" I stopped short. Some extraordinary fear killed the words on my lips.
"As if he would like to run away with you and your pearls, eh?" said Dick with his cheery laugh, "and I can't blame him, darling. I'm most eager to do the very same thing myself—not that I care a button about your pearls. All I want is yourself."
"The pearls might come in useful when we were hard up, though," I said laughing, running the pretty things through my fingers as I spoke. They were famous pearls, and had once decked the fair neck of an unhappy queen, so father told me. He gave them to me when I came of age, and they are said to be worth a fabulous sum.
Well, I only saw the Baron once again in the distance, but again his horrible eyes were fixed on me, and I shivered as I met his glance. But I dismissed him from my mind as being unworthy of a moment's consideration, and a day or two later I was told he had left the neighbourhood and had gone back to Australia, and he never even entered my mind again until—I had that awful dream.
It was just a week before Christmas, and I was going over to Ireland to spend the festive season with the Fermanaghs, who were distant cousins of Dick. We expected to have a delightful time together, and I was looking forward immensely to my visit to such charmingly kind people.
I was to leave by the morning mail, and Dick had promised to meet me in Dublin, so that I went to bed early the previous evening, full of happy anticipations. And it was quite early in the morning that I woke with a start, bathed in perspiration, my heart beating like a sledgehammer, out of the most horrible and vivid dream: This was what I dreamt:
I seemed to accomplish my journey to the Fermanaghs' place quietly and safely, but on arrival at the Castle, instead of the door being opened to me by the family butler whom I knew quite well, a man with the face of the Baron von Reusselberg appeared in his place, looked at me keenly, and ushered me into the drawing-room. Then I dreamt that I was put to sleep in a distant wing of the Castle, which contained only a large bedroom and a boudoir at the end of a corridor. I went to bed peacefully enough, and then in my dream I saw the figure of the man with the face like the Baron creeping—creeping into my room in the night—and, last and most horrible of all, I saw myself lying in the bed—murdered!
It was so vivid, and so terrible, that I then and there made up my mind to wire to the Fermanaghs saying I could not come. If the dream were a warning, it ought to be taken. I would not go, and with this determination I felt calmer, and went down to breakfast where I spoke of my resolve.
"Not going!" said my father, "my dear child, why not? You will put them out dreadfully, and I thought you were looking forward to this visit so much."
"So I was," I said with a shudder, "but I've had a most terrible dream, and I simply can't go."
My father looked at me and laughed heartily.
"My dear Phyllis," he said reprovingly, "don't be such a goose. The idea of putting off a journey and a delightful visit for the sake of a fancy! What was this terrible dream, child?"
I told it, and both he and my mother simply laughed at me and my fears.
"You had violent indigestion," declared mother with decision, "and that was the meaning of the whole thing. As to putting off your journey, Phyllis, it is not to be thought of for a moment. What would Lady Fermanagh say? Besides, at the last minute. like this, it would be most inconvenient."
"I suppose I must go," I murmured doubtfully and miserably, "but I'd much rather not."
"Nonsense, my dear," said mother briskly, "don't be so foolish. Besides, if when you get there you find any of your fears realised, you can always come home at once, you know! But you'll forget all about it by the time you get there. Look at the time! You ought to be getting ready, Phyllis."
Well, of course, all my objections were overruled, and I went. Dick met me in Dublin, and the rest of the journey with him was delightful. Some of my ghastly fears were certainly abated, and his cheerful presence had something to do with my rising spirits. After all, what harm could come to me when he was near!
The thought gave me new courage, and I began to think that perhaps it was only a nightmare, and nothing more. But I said nothing about it to Dick. I thought that perhaps later on I might; but I knew he, too, would only laugh at me, and I still had a germ of a fear at the memory of the awful night of horror I had passed.
It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at Castlecomeragh, where the Fermanaghs' carriage was waiting for us, and the drive through a rugged mountain pass in that still, cold air was delightful. I had my jewel bag containing my famous pearls in my hand—I never let my maid take it, for one never knows how careless servants may be—and with Dick at my side, and the peace of a sunny winter's day around me, I felt my fears slip away insensibly.
The Castle, which we reached in about half-an-hour, was a fine old place, standing on a slight eminence; below it, in the extensive grounds, a lake glimmered, frozen like glass, and held out great promise of good skating.
As we drew up with a flourish under the arched portico, the great doors were flung open, and I turned to get out, taking Dick's hand as I did so. He told me afterwards I pinched it so violently that he felt it for days. I had good reason, for there, instead of the family butler whose kindly old face I knew so well, stood a new manservant. And his face was that of the man in my dream!
I can scarcely remember how I crossed the hall behind that man. I know I pulled myself together with an effort, but a shiver ran through me as he turned at the door of the ante-room and his horrible, furtive eyes met mine. He was the Baron—and yet not the Baron, but the resemblance was terrifying.
"Miss–Ismay?" he said deferentially, and then flung open the doors. Lady Fermanagh was alone by the fire, with the tea-table drawn near its cheerful blaze, and she uttered a little cry as she kissed me affectionately. The butler had vanished noiselessly, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"My dear Phil! How ill you look! Why, child, you are shaking from head to foot. What is the matter with her, Dick! Sit down, my dear—the journey has been too much for you, or is it the cold? Let me give you some tea, unless you'd rather have a glass of port? Ring the bell, Dick, and I'll get Phil something, for I'm sure—"
I flung out my hand imploringly.
"Don't ring," I said hurriedly, "I–I shall be all right in a moment. It—it was the cold."
My teeth chattered—but that was not from cold. I felt that if that horrible, silent-footed man came into the room again I should faint.
"Why didn't you tell me you were cold?" said Dick anxiously, as he gave me some tea and hot toast, and fussed over me a little, while Alice Fermanagh looked on with a smile. "I'd have got you out an extra cloak if I'd known, but—do you feel better now? That's a glorious fire, Alice."
"I'm all right," I asserted valiantly, "don't bother about me, Dick, dear. You've got a new butler," I continued, plunging into the subject, "since I was here last?"
"Yes. Such a nuisance, but old Andrew—our dear, faithful factotum—had to hurry away to see his dying mother, and, by great good luck, we got this man as a stop-gap; he had been with the Dawsons, at Emyleague, you know, Dick, and they gave him a wonderful character. He's a foreigner, but a first-rate servant."
"H'm!" said Dick, his mouth full of buttered toast, "I never cotton to foreign servants much, but, I say—there's some thing about that man's face that seems quite familiar to me. Who does he remind me of, Phil?"
I hesitated a minute, and again that horrible fear swept over me.
"Well, I saw a resemblance to that Baron von Reusselberg," I said quietly, and Dick positively jumped.
"You're right. That's it," he said. "The man's uncommonly like him, only, of course, he's clean-shaven, while the Baron had a beard, and he was a trifle bigger, too, I fancy. Rum what likenesses one sees in people."
When we had finished tea, Alice Fermanagh bore me off to see my room. As we went up the great oaken staircase she said:
"I hope you're not nervous, Phil, but I've had to put you in one of the side wings—we're so full up—and that was the only place I could fit you into a really comfortable room. There's a boudoir and everything, so I daresay you won't mind it. Here it is."
She led the way down a corridor—I followed with shaking knees—and flung open one of the doors at the end. I looked into the firelit room.
It was the room I had seen in my dream!
* * * *
My partner at dinner that night must have found me sadly distrait, and it was indeed with the greatest effort that I roused myself to converse rationally with the nice looking soldier who took me in, or even with Dick, who had been thoughtfully placed on my other side, while as to food—well, I choked some down resolutely, mindful of the fact that the butler was in the room, and might possibly notice me if I made myself conspicuous by not eating anything.
I looked round the well-filled table, and wondered whether anyone at that hospitable board had ever passed through such a gruesome experience as this. I could not help glancing now and again at the butler, who was deftly serving the other side of the table, but never by look or sign did he appear other than what he seemed to be—an admirably well-trained servant.
"I say, Phil," said Dick in a low tone, just as Lady Fermanagh was gathering together her fan and gloves preparatory to making a move, "you'd better go to bed early, darling. You're looking positively ghastly. I wish I knew what was wrong with you."
I shuddered, then, catching Alice's eye, got up from the table.
"Don't worry about me, dear old boy," I whispered, "I couldn't go to bed, Dick—that would only make me worse!"
In the drawing-room there was much laughter and chatter, but most of the ladies of the party owned frankly to being a little tired with the day's rough shooting and long tramp over the heather, and one and all seemed inclined for bed, so that the party broke up early. By eleven, indeed, only Alice and I were left in the drawing-room, and the men had just come in from the smoking-room. I felt that the moment had now come for me to say what could no longer remain unsaid, and I boldly took the bull by the horns.
"Alice," I said hurriedly, "I ought to have told you before but—I really can't sleep in that wing room to-night! I had such a horrible dream about it."
They all stared at me in amazement, and Alice put her arm round me.
"My dear," she said, "I am so sorry. I would never have put you into that wing if I could have found a corner anywhere else for you. Of course, someone might change with you even now but—"
"No—no," I said decidedly, "for the horrible fate I dreamt of might come to them instead of me."
"What was the dream?" asked Dick with obvious anxiety.
In as few words as possible I told it to them, and I could see that Alice, at any rate, was impressed. She has a certain amount of superstition in her and so perhaps that was why she rather sympathised with my fears! The men, of course, laughed, and tried to chaff me out of it, but they desisted after a while, seeing that this dream assumed more serious proportions to me than they could altogether understand, and then Alice, after a few minutes' consultation with her husband, turned to me and said:
"Look here, Phil, I have an idea. You shall sleep in that room to-night just as if nothing had happened, but you must lock both your doors, and someone will keep watch so that nothing can possibly harm you. I think, dear, you're a little over-strung, and so this dream has taken a greater hold on your imagination than it would have done otherwise. Of course, I see myself quite well how terrifying it must have been to you, especially as the odd coincidence of our new man having the face of the man you saw in the dream, has stamped it still more on your memory. Don't you think my plan is a good one, Dick?"
"First rate. And look here, you fellows, let us all sit up and keep watch, and if anything does go wrong we can nab the man. What about that long cupboard in the corridor near the wing rooms, Alice? We could lie in wait there and no one could get to the wing rooms without being seen by us."
"An excellent plan," said Lord Fermanagh at once, "we'll do it, Dick. And now, Miss Ismay," he continued, turning kindly to me, "go up and sleep in peace. There will be five of us watching over your safety, and I fancy we ought to be a match for any number of murderous butlers! If you should be awake, and if you hear any suspicious noises, ring your bell loudly, and be sure to lock both your bedroom door which opens into the corridor, and also the door leading into the boudoir. Now, good-night, and don't be in the least uneasy."
I said "Good-night" to them all and went up to my wing room with Alice. Certainly the bedroom looked delightfully comfortable with its blazing fire and electric light. There was nothing in the least alarming or gruesome about it, and a glance at the long, capacious cupboard in the corridor, where the five men were to secrete themselves when they left the smoking room, gave me quite a feeling of confidence.
Alice gave a last look round, and herself bolted and locked the second door which led into the pretty little boudoir—this boudoir, I ought to mention, had also a separate door leading into the outer corridor—and then she kissed me and said "Good night."
"Keep your light burning if you like, dear," she said, "but you needn't be in the least nervous, you know, with all those men outside. They will quite enjoy such an adventure—even if anything did happen—but I am quite sure it won't. Good-night, dear."
When she had gone and I had locked the outer door securely, I got into a warm dressing-gown, turned out all the electric lights except one small reading lamp which I set near me on a table, and settled myself comfortably in a capacious arm-chair near the fire. I had no intention of going to bed, or trying to sleep; I was far too nervous and excited to do either, and, after a while, as I sat there with a book, on which I vainly tried to fix my wandering attention, I heard the banging of doors as the men came up, then footsteps along the corridor, and someone tapped cautiously at my door.
"Are you all right, Phil, darling?" said Dick's voice, "we've just come up, so your bodyguard is in perfect readiness for any adventure. Good-night."
"Good-night," I said, "I hope nothing will happen, Dick."
For a long time—it must have been two or three hours—I sat there by my fire, waiting—with every nerve tense and strung. Somehow I knew that something would happen, and presently it did.
My ears, unnaturally acute, caught a stealthy—very, very stealthy—footstep outside. I rose quietly and kooked at the door, and as I did so I distinctly saw and heard the handle cautiously turned. Then the same thing happened at the door into the boudoir.
Someone was trying each door in turn.
I held my breath, my heart beating so fast that it nearly stifled me. Once again the handle turned softly, and I heard a cautious movement as if the person were trying to force the lock. And at that, I tore to the bell and pealed it madly, while the room reeled under my feet.
* * * *
Dick told me what happened afterwards in the corridor, and I give it in his words:
"We had been waiting in the corridor for quite two hours before we heard a stealthy footstep coming from the other end of the house where the staircase winds up to the servants' wing on the top floor. I heard it first, and gave the tip to the rest, and by moving the cupboard door open the least little bit, we were able to keep a watch on the corridor.
"A moon was shining in from the big window, and by that light we were able to see quite distinctly the figure of a man carrying something in one hand, treading noiselessly towards your door. As he passed, I caught sight of his face, and it was the butler!
"Well, we waited, till we heard him try your door twice—for you see we knew you were quite safe behind the locked doors—then your bell pealed, and Fermanagh stepped out into the corridor, cutting off the scoundrel's escape. I followed, and the others waited in the background. Fermanagh had turned up the electric light, and we heard the man give a sort of snarl as he whipped round and found himself caught.
"'What are you doing here at this hour of the night?' asked Fermanagh.
"The man muttered something about the M'amselle's boudoir fire wanting keeping up, and then we saw that the thing he carried in one hand was a coal scuttle.
"'Fires are not kept up in this house at such an hour,' said Fermanagh shortly. 'I don't know what the ways of a house are in your country, but we don't do these things here. Besides which, there was no need for you to try the bedroom door as well as the other.'
"The fellow glanced from Fermanagh to me and then back again; I think he was meditating a rush past us, but we nipped that little plan in the bud by a simple foot trick we had learnt in our Eton days, and as he made an ugly rush forward Fermanagh neatly tripped him up; a minute later he was securely pinioned, and with the help of the others we carried him to one of the cellars where he was safely locked in, bound hand and foot. Them—this is the worst of the whole thing, and upon my soul, Phil, I'll never laugh at a dream again—Fermanagh picked up the coal scuttle the man had dropped in his struggle, and out of it fell—not coals, for it was empty—but a long, oddly shaped knife."
I know I gasped at that, but Dick had me in his arms, and I felt so safe now that it was all over. But my dream had come true in every detail except its gruesome climax. Can it be doubted for a moment that it was a veritable warning?
But a startling denouement came out later at the trial of the man for attempted theft—for, of course, all the world knew of my famous pearls which had evidently been the object of the man's endeavours—when it was conclusively proved that he was one of a celebrated gang of French thieves, who, masquerading in various disguises, had been overrunning England and the Continent of late years.
Further, it came out that the man, Philippe Marcel, had posed as an Austrian, Baron von Reusselberg, and in this capacity had obtained much valuable information as to the whereabouts of different priceless jewels, amongst them my historic pearls.
I may say that several jewel robberies which had puzzled the police for some months—and in one case, even a year or two—were brought home to this desperate character, and he is now serving a long term of penal servitude.
Such was the story of the most exciting Christmas I ever spent, and the most vivid dream I ever dreamt. I have never had any similar warnings. There is no cause for them, I suppose, and, as Dick's wife, I am so supremely happy that all such horrors seem to belong only to the past.