Six Ghost Stories [S.S. Col.] by Jackson Thomas Graham

Author:Jackson, Thomas Graham [Jackson, Thomas Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, Ghost Stories, Horror
Publisher: gothictexts.wordpress.com
Published: 1919-01-01T03:00:00+00:00

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Flaming June was more than half spent when Sir Henry Tiptoft drove up to Castle Maynard, and was welcomed in the hall by his host and hostess. The luncheon bell was ringing, and as soon as the visitor had been shown his room, and washed off the dust of travel, they sat down in the cool oak-panelled dining-room, overlooking the old-fashioned garden. It was the last addition to the house, built in the time of George II., with tall panels reaching up to the ceiling, and a wide marble chimneypiece placed cornerwise across one angle. A room stately and yet homely, not unlike a Common-room at Oxford.

The talk was such as was natural between old friends—Oxford memories, local gossip, speculations concerning the harvest and hay-crop—and after luncheon they adjourned to the garden, and had coffee on the terrace, with a lovely view of park and river, a real English landscape, green and lush. The old house, too, was typically English, and could have been in no other land, a mixture of splendour and homeliness, state and comfort. The main part was Jacobean, of red brick, mellowed by time, with many gables, mullioned windows and projecting bays. But at the end was a considerable part of the old castle of Plantagenet times, finished at the river brink with a huge round tower that rose above the highest roof, and was the most conspicuous feature in the structure. As the ground fell steeply towards the river, the tower descended some twenty feet below the ground floor level and the terrace in front of the rest of the house. The old part was built of flint and wrought stone, with windows enlarged to comfortable dimensions from the original arrow-slits.

Henry Tiptoft was as yet a bachelor, but was to be married shortly. He had passed through Oxford with distinction, and was already making his mark in the county as an able magistrate, and it was thought he meant to contest the seat in Parliament. His tastes, however, were rather literary and scientific than such as make the ardent politician. While an undergraduate at Merton, he had published at his own expense a small volume of poems, of which he was now heartily ashamed, and since then had made some more successful efforts in prose. He was a bit of an antiquary and a student of history. His poetical vein had not been dried up by his early failure; his imagination was strong and active, and not a little touched with sentiment. Castle Maynard appealed to him strongly and roused him to enthusiasm.

“I had not realised,” said he, “what a wonderful old home you have. My old house is not bad, about the date of your Jacobean part, but your remains of the old chateau fort is beyond anything at Tiptoft.”

“Yes; it's not a bad old place, is it,” said Cecil. “I'm very fond of it, and have been amusing myself since I came here with trying to learn all about its history.”

“That's well,” said his friend; “it shows you deserve to own it.

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