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 Programming C# 4.0
Ian Griffiths
Matthew Adams
Jesse Liberty
Editor
Mike Hendrickson

Editor
Laurel Ruma

Copyright © 2010 Ian Griffiths and Matthew Adams

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Preface
Microsoft unveiled the .NET Framework in 2000, and in the decade that
followed, it became an extremely popular choice for developing software
for Windows. While .NET supports many programming languages, it is
most strongly associated with the language designed specifically for the
platform: C#.

C# has grown considerably since its launch. Each new version enabled new
programming techniques—C# 2.0 added generics and enhanced functional
programming capabilities, then integrated query features and yet more
powerful functional capabilities arrived in C# 3.0, and now C# 4.0 adds
new dynamic language capabilities.

The .NET Framework has grown with the language. Back in .NET 1.0, the
class libraries offered relatively patchy coverage of the underlying
Windows capabilities. Moreover, the library features that were unique to
.NET, rather than being wrappers for something else, were relatively
modest. Now, as well as more comprehensive platform coverage we have a
GUI framework (WPF), much stronger database capabilities, powerful
support for concurrent execution, and an extensive set of communication
services (WCF), to name just a few of the available features. And the
features that have been there since version 1.0, such as web support
(ASP.NET), have been fleshed out substantially.

.NET is no longer limited to running just on Windows. Some people

recognized its potential for platform independence early on, but for years,
Microsoft supported C# just on Windows, leaving open source projects to
offer the only way to run C# on other systems. But in 2008, the release of
Silverlight 2 saw C# code running with Microsoft’s full support on non-
Windows platforms such as the Mac for the first time.

The C# language has come a long way since 2000, in both reach and size.
Our goal with Programming C# 4.0 is to show how to use C#.
How This Book Is Organized
The book begins by looking at the details of the C# language that you will
use in everyday programming. We then look at the most common parts of
the .NET Framework class library that you will also use very regularly.
Next, we move into some more specialized areas of the framework. Finally,
we look at some of the application frameworks for building Windows and
web applications in .NET.

Chapter 1, Introducing C#

This chapter talks about the nature of C# and its relationship with the
.NET Framework.

Chapter 2, Basic Programming Techniques

In this chapter, we show the core elements of C# code—the steps

required to get up and running, and fundamental features such as
variables, flow control, loops, and methods.

Chapter 3, Abstracting Ideas with Classes and Structs

C# supports object-oriented programming, and this chapter describes

the language features dedicated to these techniques.

Chapter 4, Extensibility and Polymorphism

This chapter continues the discussion from the preceding chapter,

illustrating how C# supports inheritance, interfaces, and related
concepts.

Chapter 5, Composability and Extensibility with Delegates

C# isn’t limited to object-oriented programming—it also supports some

very powerful functional programming idioms. This chapter shows how
these can sometimes be more flexible and also simpler than OO
techniques.

Chapter 6, Dealing with Errors

All programs encounter failures, whether due to programming errors,

unexpected input, network failures, or a host of other eventualities. This
 chapter shows the options for detecting and responding robustly to
errors.

Chapter 7, Arrays and Lists

This chapter shows the tools C# offers for representing simple

collections of information.

Chapter 8, LINQ

It’s not enough merely to be able to represent collections, so this chapter

shows how you can use the integrated query features in C# to process
your collections of data.

Chapter 9, Collection Classes

This chapter shows some of the more specialized classes for working
with collections in particular ways.

Chapter 10, Strings

Text is a particularly important data type for most applications, so this

chapter shows how text is represented, and how you can format data
into textual form.

Chapter 11, Files and Streams

This chapter shows how to store information on disk and read it back in,
and how to perform other filesystem operations. It also shows how
some of the abstractions used when working with files can be applied in
other scenarios.

Chapter 12, XML

This chapter shows the classes offered by the .NET Framework for
processing XML, and how these can work in conjunction with the
LINQ features in C#.

Chapter 13, Networking

In this chapter, we look at the various techniques for communicating

over a network.

Chapter 14, Databases

This chapter shows how to access a database from C#.

Chapter 15, Assemblies

In this chapter, we show how to compile code into libraries for reuse,
and how programs made up from multiple components work.

Chapter 16, Threads and Asynchronous Code

Many programs need to deal with concurrency, and this chapter shows
the tools and techniques available.

Chapter 17, Attributes and Reflection

C# has the ability to inspect the structure of code, which makes it easier
to automate certain kinds of tasks. This chapter shows the API for doing
this, and how you can extend the structural information through
attributes.

Chapter 18, Dynamic

One of the new features in C# 4.0 is support for dynamic binding. This
is particularly useful in certain interop scenarios, as we discuss in this
chapter.

Chapter 19, Interop with COM and Win32

Sometimes it’s necessary for C# code to communicate with components

not designed to be used from .NET. This chapter shows how to do this
with both COM components and Win32-style DLLs.

Chapter 20, WPF and Silverlight

WPF and Silverlight offer very similar programming models for

building user interfaces. This chapter shows how to use that model from
C#.

Chapter 21, Programming ASP.NET Applications

This chapter shows how to use ASP.NET, the part of the .NET
Framework designed for building web applications.

Chapter 22, Windows Forms

This chapter shows how to use Windows Forms, which is a wrapper

around the classic Windows user interface mechanisms. While it is less
flexible than WPF, it can offer an easier way to integrate with old
components such as ActiveX controls.
Where to Find Features New in C# 4.0 and
.NET 4
Although this book is written to be read as a whole, we expect that some
readers will want to look for the features new to C# 4.0, and also to .NET 4.
Since our goal is to show how the C# language is used today, we have
avoided structuring the book around the history of the language, because
you will use language features of varying ages in combination. As it
happens, one of the new features in C# 4.0 serves a very specific purpose,
so it gets its own chapter, but for the most part, new language features are
spread throughout the book, because we aim to mention them where you
need to know about them. We cannot point you at a particular set of
chapters, so instead, here’s a quick guide to where we discuss these
features.

Chapter 1 talks about the broad goals behind the new features in C# 4.0.
Chapter 3 shows the use of default values and named arguments (and these
come up again very briefly in Chapters 11 and 17). Chapter 7 describes
variance, a rather technical feature of the type system that has some useful
implications for collection types. Chapter 16 talks about the extensive new
multithreading support added in .NET 4. Chapter 18 is dedicated entirely to
a new language feature: support for dynamic programming. Chapter 19
describes the new no-PIA feature, and some features that allow more
elegant code in some interop scenarios.
Who This Book Is For
If you have some basic knowledge of C# but want to brush up your skills,
or if you are proficient in another programming language such as C++ or
Java, or even if C# is your first programming language, this book is for you.
What You Need to Use This Book
To make the best use of this book, please obtain the latest release of Visual
Studio 2010. Any edition will do, including the free Express edition for C#,
which can be downloaded from http://www.microsoft.com/express/.

For Chapter 14 you will need a copy of SQL Server or SQL Server Express.
Some editions of Visual Studio will install SQL Server Express for you by
default, so you may already have this.

The example source code for this book is available through the O’Reilly
site at http://oreilly.com/catalog/9780596159832/.
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Pay special attention to notes set apart from the text with the following
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WARNING
This is a warning. It helps you solve and avoid annoying problems.
Using Code Examples
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We appreciate, but do not require, attribution. An attribution usually

includes the title, author, publisher, and ISBN. For example: "Programming
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Copyright 2010 Ian Griffiths and Matthew Adams, 978-0-596-15983-2.”
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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
others, many, even of greater rarity and value, bound uniformly in
those covers of rich Moroccan leather so characteristic of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
One among all others had riveted our attention from the very first.
I have already alluded to the peculiar and ghastly phenomenon
produced by the sun’s rays penetrating the coloured glass in the
corridors and on the staircases; here it was even more pronounced
though only very locally, the full force of the rays being focussed in
the most startling manner on the metal clasp of a volume of
stupendous size and apparently vast antiquity; the result being that
whereas the entire book was bathed in a bloody halo, the others
were left in a comparatively clear and normal light.
Appalled yet fascinated by this unaccountable anomaly, we had
several times attempted to remove the volume in order to pry into
its contents but we were unable to do so, owing, we imagined, to its
having stuck or being fastened in some peculiar manner to the shelf
—and we were afraid to use any great force for fear of damaging the
cover; consequently our curiosity had to remain unsatisfied.
The night, however, preceding our departure from the Abbey
(August 11) my husband had already left by a mid-day train, I was
whiling away the few remaining hours in the study—Mary and Eunice
being as I thought, engaged in packing—when—suddenly—I heard
some one approach the door as if on tiptoe. The next moment there
came a loud knock and the sonorous sound of the grandfather clock
in the alcove beside me commencing to strike seven, the two noises
were almost simultaneous.
Wondering who my visitor could be—our only servant, a woman
from the nearest village, having left an hour ago—I smoothed my
gown and walking hastily to the door threw it open.
As I did so a current of cold air, tainted with the most disgusting
and detestable stench conceivable, sent me half staggering, half
choking backwards, and I perceived standing on the threshold, not
ten paces from me two figures of hellish horror. Featureless,
fleshless, foul, clad in the tattered, rotted garments of a monk and
nun, they confronted me motionless, silent, and then the voice of my
Eunice attracting their attention, they slowly wheeled round and
glided ghoulishly along the passage.
I gave one shriek of warning to Eunice as she hove in sight,
carrying in her arms a tray of odds and ends for me to sort.
For a second or so she stood too petrified to move—and—then—
as the things appeared on the verge of touching her with their long,
outstretched arms, she dropped the tray and, uttering a kind of
terrified gasp, fled precipitately.
They did not pursue her, but gliding onward with the same
mechanical movements, suddenly vanished on reaching the wall at
the end of the corridor; nor did we, I am thankful to say see them
again.
The smell had explained itself.
Anxious to get to Eunice and fearsome lest she should have
fainted, I was about to quit the study, when my eyes were attracted
to an object on the floor. It was the mysterious volume which,
loosened from the shelf in some miraculous fashion, had fallen to
the ground, and now lay open, its ponderous, gilded clasps undone
and limp.
The fading sunlight concentrating its rays on the pages of the
book in a final and prodigiously bloody effort, enabled me to read
the following extract: “and for this great and unpardonable sin of the
Abbess Hilda and the Monk Nicholas, we—the Saintly and Beloved
Abbot Matthew, the learned Franciscan brother Raymond, the
laymen and labourers, Barber and Brooks together with I, Sir John
Hickson Leigh, Knight did entomb them alive, clasped in each other’s
arms, cursing man and blaspheming heaven, on the eve of the 11th
day of August, 1521. And of the exact spot in the Abbey of Wolsey
wherein they be buried, no man—save we who placed them there—
knoweth, nor shall any discover the same until the day cometh when
the secrets of all flesh shall be revealed.”
This much I read and no more for the light proving too strong for
me, I was compelled to remove my gaze and when I opened my
eyes and saw again the volume it had gone, and lo! to my intense
and unfeigned amazement it was back again in its customary place
on the shelf, nor could the united efforts of myself and daughters
remove it from that spot.
Regarding this extraordinary incident, as the only feasible
explanation of the phenomena Eunice and I had seen, we could
arrive at no other conclusion than that the house (once Wolsey
Abbey) was haunted by the phantasms of the Abbess Hilda and the
Monk Nicholas; and with such an explanation we have had to be
content.
 NO. XYZ EUSTON ROAD
THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN IN THE
HELIOTROPE SKIRT

Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of the dead

Source of authenticity: Personal experience of author
Cause of haunting: Murder

Of all the most annoying things in this world few are more so than
missing one’s train, especially when it happens to be the last in the
day.
This unpleasant experience happened to me one evening early in
September 1895. I came into Euston just as the 7 p.m. for
Northampton—the last train connected with Brixworth—was
steaming out of the station—and so, willy-nilly, I had to remain in
town all night.
“Where to put up,” now became the absorbing question. I wanted
to be close to the station in order to catch the earliest morning train,
but, although there were plenty of rich men’s hotels, there seemed a
sore dearth of “go-betweens;” it was either five shillings the night or
sixpence; Purgatory or Hell: I could see no place that suited me.
At last after traversing many squares and the more respectable of
the side streets, I retraced my steps, eventually alighting on a
private and inconsequential looking hotel in Euston Road.
The interior of the establishment was in keeping with the exterior
—gloomy and forbidding, and the damp, earthy smell that seemed to
rise from the basement made me gravely apprehensive of
rheumatism; still the tariff was in strict accordance with my means,
and feeling too tired to wander further, I decided to remain.
 The room in which I had a very sparse supper was like the
majority of dining-rooms in middle-class hotels: overcrowded with
unwieldy furniture, frowsy, ill-ventilated; imagine that the table had
been laid once and for all (it had undoubtedly presented the same
spectacle for months), and that the cloth, never very white, was
removed, only, when it grew too begrimed even for the blunted
susceptibilities of the proprietress. I afterwards found that the beef
did not belie its looks, that the bread was in excellent accord, and
that the water might well have been the receptacle of innumerable
generations of bacilli.
There were other visitors besides myself, either Germans or
commercial travellers, probably both; but as their conversation
carried on over plates of half raw meat, was neither particularly
edifying nor interesting, I preferred an antique number of Vanity Fair
until, at length, tiring of that, I picked up a candlestick and made my
way to bed.
The moment I crossed the threshold of my room, that peculiar
and indefinable sensation that invariably suggests the immediate
proximity of the superphysical came over me, I felt sure the house
was haunted. But by what? Ah! that was the problem left for me to
solve.
The furniture of the room was of the orthodox lodging-house type
—inartistic, scant and seedy; a gaunt four-poster propped against
the middle of the wall running at right angles to the door was
adorned with exceedingly dirty valances of a nondescript pink and
white pattern; facing this was a fireplace the register of which was
of course down; to the left of this was a hanging wardrobe that I at
once examined and found to contain nothing more formidable than a
score or two of black-beetles that scuttled unceremoniously away
into holes at the sight of my candle; whilst on the opposite side of
the room, facing the window, was a rickety dressing-table
surmounted by a still more rickety looking-glass. In one corner of
the room stood a washing-stand from which the white paint had
peeled in a hundred places, and in the other corner a dismantled
bureau that resembled some vessel after a great storm. These, I
believe, apart from a couple of cane-bottomed chairs, constituted
the entire furniture, nor can I say this scantiness, taking into
consideration the poorness of the quality, was any matter of regret.
The carpet, undoubtedly the best feature of the room, and either
an Axminster or a Brussels—not being an expert on such a point I
cannot tell which—hid all the boarding save where the margins were
stained with a preparation of potash.
I give all these details to show that several years of practical
investigation of haunted houses had developed my inquiring faculties
to a very high degree, little, if anything, escaping my notice.
The raison d’être of ghosts often lies where it is least expected; in
some article of furniture, not infrequently a cupboard near at hand,
in the panelling, the skirting, or, not infrequently again, on or under
the boards.
When I am in a haunted room, my first instinct, therefore, is to
take a very careful stock of my surroundings; the bare appearance
or touch of a piece of furniture often supplying me with the
necessary clue.
On this occasion, however, nothing arousing my suspicions and
feeling abnormally sleepy, I bolted my door and lay on the bed; I say
“on,” not “in,” as a cursory glance at the pillow made me draw
deductions as to the sheets. Within a few minutes I went to sleep,
falling into a heavy, dreamless slumber from which I was suddenly
and most alarmingly awakened by the feeling I was no longer alone
in the room.
Opening my eyes, I perceived the apartment flooded with a bright
unnatural light that apparently emanated from, or at all events
accompanied, the figure of a little old woman with yellow hair and a
heliotrope skirt. I noticed these idiosyncrasies of person and dress
directly, the nature of the light accentuating them, and my senses
being, as they always are in the presence of superphysical
phenomena, wonderfully and painfully acute.
Standing in front of the dressing-table, the eccentric individual
was examining herself with the greatest curiosity in the crazy
looking-glass to which allusion has already been made.
 Her profile was angular, her lack of colour ghastly, whilst from her
ears hung that style of drop-earring worn by ladies in the days of the
crinoline; otherwise her costume might have belonged to the latter
seventies or early eighties. There was nothing actually horrible about
her, save her reflection, and as my eyes turned with irresistible
fascination towards the looking-glass, my blood turned to ice. The
surface of the mirror, made preternaturally bright, flashed back the
most hideous, the most incomparably hideous image of Fear.
Never! never in all my life had I seen depicted in aught but
Wiertz’s pictures such inconceivably awful terror as that which
confronted me there—and now as I gazed at it, a sickly curiosity
seized me as to what could be the origin of such Hellish Fear. Was it
Fear of Death; of the Unknown metetherical Abysses; of Eternal
Damnation; of what?
Then—as I followed the direction of the dilating pupils—I saw—
God help me—the Cause! Descending from a few inches above her
head were the snake-like coils of a rope. Had I been able to turn my
head, maybe I should have seen whence they came; but I could not
move a muscle, and could only feel the keynote to some great and
hitherto unsolvable mystery was at hand but purposely hidden from
me.
There was scant time for speculation. The enactment of this
drama was brief as it was lurid; uttering an appalling scream that
was quickly converted into a gurgle of the most blood-curdling
significance, the old lady clawed the air with her spidery fingers.
The murderer was pitiless, the noose coming to with an irresistible
snap, jerked the wretched victim off her feet.
For one instant—the most harrowing of all—I watched her falling
backwards; watched the changing of her deadly pallor into a deep
and vivid purple, watched the rolling of her starting eyeballs, the
foam-flakes on her lips, and the frenzied movements of her
stiffening arms and then—then—as she struck the ground with a
reverberating crash—all was darkness. The ghostly tragedy for this
night at least was over.
 This I realised, but my nerves being too completely unstrung by
what I had witnessed to allow me to sleep, I crept under the
counterpane and lay there shivering till the welcome rays of early
dawn converted the room into another place. My first movement was
to examine the scene of the ghostly murder, and upon turning up
the carpet, I discovered not a bloodstain, but a comparatively new
piece of boarding!
With that, drawing my own conclusions, I had to rest content—
there was nothing else in the room that could in any way have been
transmuted into evidence.
The moment the clock struck six I picked up my valise, and
gobbling down a lukewarm breakfast with little relish, quitted the
house, determining to pay it another visit before very long.
In this, however, I was doomed to disappointment. Some months
elapsed before I could again visit the neighbourhood of Euston, and
when I did so, I found the hotel had vanished nor have I to this day
been able to identify the house wherein I slept.
I have but lately been informed that a good many years ago
(when we middle-aged fogies were mere children) a singularly
repulsive murder was committed at a house in or near Euston Road,
the victim being a somewhat extraordinary old lady. Further details I
do not know, therefore I can only surmise that what I saw may
possibly have been her phantasm—but please remember, it is only a
surmise.
 PANMAUR HOLLOW
MERIONETH
THE BLACK PEDLAR

Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of the dead

Source of authenticity: “Ladies’ Cabinet,” 1835, and elsewhere
Cause of haunting: Murder

The “Ladies Cabinet” for 1835 contains an account of a haunting in

Merioneth that seems to me of sufficient psychic interest to record.
Hence I append it; but since the original text is a trifle too
intricate in places, I have taken the liberty to tell the story more or
less in my own words:
“In the summer of 1832 I was on a walking tour in Wales; in
selecting, as the principal scene of my operations, Merioneth, and
chancing one evening to be overtaken by a storm, when midway
between Dolgelly and Bala, I was speedily placed in the most
unpleasant of predicaments. To go on I was afraid, to turn back was
impossible; what could I do? The night was dark, the rain almost
tropical, and the roadway so broken up with furrows that I could
only grope along with the utmost difficulty; whilst the frequent
windings, steep ascents, and sharp declivities not only added to my
embarrassment, but greatly increased my weariness. At every few
yards I either plunged into a miniature morass or, stumbling over a
boulder, found myself smarting in the centre of a gorse bush.
“At length I grew desperate—human nature could stand it no
longer—and resolving to perish with the cold rather than flounder on
under such pitiable conditions, I threw myself down on a rock and
prepared to lie there till daybreak.
 “It is possible I had remained in this position for ten or so
minutes, when I was roused to a sense of deliverance by the bright
glow of a lamp, and starting up to my feet, I discovered I was no
longer alone. Confronting me was the figure of a short man,
wrapped in a shaggy great-coat, and wearing a slouched hat. He
was holding a lantern in his hand. By a series of pantomimic
gestures he assured me that his intentions were amicable, and that
he was anxious to guide me to some place of shelter where I should
have a more comfortable pallet than a bare rock.
“I accepted his offer, though not without some misgivings, as I
could not remember ever having met with any one quite so uncouth
or bizarre.
“Turning abruptly to the right he struck across a wide moor
covered with gorse and innumerable boulders, and so studded with
pools of water that I seemed to be in a perpetual state of wading.
Emerging from this, we wended our way along the side of a
precipice, at the bottom of which roared one of those mountain
torrents so characteristic of all parts of Wales.
“Beckoning to me to follow, my guide mysteriously disappeared,
and peering over the edge of the chasm, I perceived him, to my
amazement, making his descent by an almost invisible and
perpendicular pathway. For a second or so I hesitated, and then,
making up my mind to brave anything rather than remain by myself
in such an unfamiliar and dangerous neighbourhood, I gingerly
lowered myself over the brink, and, after a few tumbles, succeeded
in overtaking him just as he arrived at the bottom.
“We now found ourselves in a valley of stygian darkness, and of
such restricted dimensions that the spray from the river bathed me
from head to foot. My companion pressed resolutely on, and,
maintaining the same extraordinary and uncanny silence, conducted
me to a recess in the hillside where the outlines of a bare,
dismantled house gradually arose to greet us. It was merely a pile of
ruins, old, yet naked, without any of those evidences of vegetation
one usually associates with the antique. I particularly noticed this
deficiency; it impressed and perplexed me. If moss and lichens grew
elsewhere—why not here?
“The situation of the house was strikingly romantic and weird—
indeed, one could not well imagine a more dismal spot. A giant mass
of black rock reared itself in the background like a Brobdingnagian
bat. In the foreground, and at so close a distance that the spray
blowing madly over my face and clothes drenched me to the skin,
rushed a seething mass of sable water, whilst to accentuate all this
Avernian horror, the wind whistled demoniacally, and the rain fell
with ever-increasing fury. Turning to my guide, I impatiently
requested him ‘to move on,’ and take me with the greatest
expedition to the nearest available hostelry.
“In reply he took off his hat, and, thrusting his monstrous head
forward, revealed to my horror-stricken gaze a shapeless, sodden
mass of black flesh!
“The cause of his silence was now obvious—he couldn’t speak
because he had no mouth; but neither had he eyes, ears, or nose;
nothing but that awful, unmeaning, rotund protuberance.
“I stood aghast, too terrified to stir, almost too terrified to breathe,
with the hideous Thing looming there before me, and the booming
of the river behind. It was a ghastly situation.
“The creature advanced an inch—my blood turned to ice; it raised
its arms—my soul sickened within me; it lunged suddenly forward—
and—fell right through me. As it did so I heard a fiendish chuckle,
which, dying slowly out, gave way to a succession of blood-curdling
groans that seemed to proceed from the interior of the ruins. The
figure, however, was nowhere to be seen; it must have
dematerialised on the spot.
“Very much relieved at this, though still considerably frightened, I
was now able to use my limbs, and turning my back on the ghostly
building, I felt my way along the bank of the river. I dare not glance
at the boiling foam, the very sound of it made my flesh creep; nor
did I feel in any degree safe till a winding of the footpath brought
me to a bridge, on the opposite side of which I saw the twinkling
lights of many houses. I was now, once again, in the land of the
living, and a substantial meal by a cosy fire helped, in a good
measure, to dissipate my fears and recompense me for all the trials I
had undergone.
“Prior to leaving the inn next day I learned from my host that the
hollow was known to be haunted, and, on that account, was
universally shunned after sunset. Half a century ago the ruins—then
a neat grey cottage—had been inhabited by the Evanses, a bad,
thriftless ‘lot.’
“At the instigation of her husband, and with the motive of robbery,
Mrs. Evans, a buxom woman—handsome in a bad bold style—had
flirted openly with a pedlar, known locally as ‘Black Dave.’
“This man was easily induced to put up at their house, and his
suspicions being lulled to rest by the amorous overtures of the
woman, he was surprised in his sleep and butchered.
“Fearing, however, either to commit the body to the river or bury
it in their garden lest it should be found, and being at the time very
hard pressed for food—they improvised an oven in the earth and ate
it!
“The vengeance of Heaven was, however, close on their track; the
cottage, paid for out of their ill-gotten gains, caught fire during a
drunken carousal, and Mrs. Evans was burned to death, whilst her
husband only lingered long enough to make a full confession of the
crime.
“The house was never rebuilt; the phantasm of Dave, in the
disgusting guise in which he appeared to me, still haunts the
precincts, and, delighting to gull unsuspecting wayfarers, leads them
out of their proper courses, guiding them with a fiendish skill to the
black ruin—the scene of his ghastly murder.”
 CATCHFIELD HALL, THE
MIDLANDS
THE TERRIBLE HEADS THAT RISE
THROUGH THE FLOOR

Technical form of apparitions: Phantoms of the dead

Source of authenticity: Accumulative hearsay evidence

No. — The Terrace, Worcester.

March 1, 1908.
Dear Mr. Elliott O’Donnell,
I thought you would be interested to hear I met Mrs. Blake last
night at the Stowes, where I got out of her with no small amount of
pumping an account of “what she saw” at that notorious ball at
Catchfield some years ago. It is very horrible, too horrible, perhaps
even for such a “spook gourmand” as you. Of course all the names I
have given you are fictitious. You know there have been several libel
cases lately, in connection with haunted houses so that one cannot
be too careful. &c. &c. &c.
Yours sincerely,
Evelyn D. O’Grady.

THE STORY
My invitation to spend the Christmas holidays with Lady
Wentworth came as a delightful surprise.
Imagine me a poor, insignificant little schoolmistress in St.
Rudolphs, suddenly blossoming out into a much envied guest at
Catchfield. Who can blame me if I indulged in a momentary outburst
of pride?
 So far my lot in life had not been all couleur de rose. Losing my
husband shortly after our marriage, I had been obliged to do
something for a bare living.
My education though fair had fallen short of Girton or a degree,
and I was barely qualified to teach any but very small children. Had I
but foreseen the future, I might no doubt have done better. As it
was my position was only that of a kindergarten schoolmistress in
St. Rudolphs.
I do not think you can truly estimate a person’s disposition till you
see how they behave to those who have the misfortune to be in
subordinate positions, nor can you always tell a shoddy lady from a
real one until you have discovered how she treats her governess and
servants. Until I taught in St. Rudolphs I had no idea how thoroughly
common were the majority of its so-called aristocracy, but one term
was quite sufficient to show me that dealing with such hopelessly
and innately vulgar people would be almost more than I could bear.
It was therefore scarcely a matter of wonder—that when
Christmas drew nigh—the Christmas after my first sojourn in St.
Rudolphs—I was almost beside myself with joy on receiving a
pressing invitation to stay at Catchfield Hall. Nothing soothes the
sensitive nature of a snob more than to call other people snobbish.
The parents of my children were of the middle class—middlish—
snobs with a very big S, and should any one need a proof of the
correctness of this assertion let me point to him the fact that
whenever a moneyed person came to reside within any get-at-able
distance whatever, the people I have designated as “snobs” made all
haste to call on them; even the bishop whose object in coming to St.
Rudolphs was obviously only “to confirm,” was inundated with
invitations to dinner, and the rival claims to eligibility of those invited
to meet him, were openly discussed at afternoon tea and bridge
parties. Let me also add that their club, ludicrously labelled “select,”
boycotted one of its members for some trivial remark, true enough,
but like so many other homely truths better left unsaid, and that
these very people who had sat in judgment, themselves indulged in
the most scathingly rude remarks to those who for certain reasons
were obliged to “grin and bear it.”
Therefore I repeat again, the parents of my children were snobs,
and being snobs would not allow any one in the humble position of a
schoolmistress to say any thing that might in any way be construed
into snobbishness.
Depict to yourself then how indignant they were, and how I
laughed up my sleeve when I let slip, quite by mischance you
understand, the fact that I was going to spend Christmas with my
near, my very near kinsman Lord Robert Wentworth.
A schoolmistress related to a peer! How preposterous! how
absurd! how snobbish! and they laughed at first scornfully, then
incredulously—then pityingly, and I—I humbly bowed them out of
the house, and running upstairs continued my packing. Vale St.
Rudolphs! Welcome Catchfield!
Under these circumstances you can imagine why I tell you all this
—it is to show you how more than overjoyed I was at the thought of
eating my Christmas pudding among gentlefolk.
When I got out at Highfield—the nearest station to Catchfield—my
lord’s brougham stood in waiting.
“They are very full up at the Hall, madam,” the coachman said,
touching his hat respectfully, “otherwise miladi would have sent one
of the motors, but they have both had to go out longish distances.”
“Is there a house-party?” I faltered, giving one of the horses—I
love horses—a gentle pat on the head.
“What! didn’t you know? I beg your pardon, madam,” the fellow
added suddenly, recollecting himself, “but it is the Coming of Age
party of the Hon. Walter early next week that has fetched well-nigh
half the county; you see he is the eldest son—and—well, madam,
there is to be a very big ball. I made sure madam knew all about it.”
I shook my head despairingly, balls were not for such as I. I had
neither a dress nor yet the money wherewith to buy one. Most
decidedly I ought not to have come! I glanced at the man to see if
he understood my misgivings, apparently he did not; perhaps he
would not; his manner at all events was in no degree less
deferential, and as he shut the carriage door with the courtly air of
an old gallant, I compared him with the parents at St. Rudolphs—the
comparison of course being all in his favour.
I will not attempt to describe the exterior of Catchfield, it has been
done so often and so well in historical romances, in biographies, and
in County Directories that any additional effort of mine would be at
once superfluous and poor.
I arrived there late—too late for dinner—and partook of a dainty
supper laid expressly for me in the ball-room presumptive. Fancy
supper by myself in a ball-room! But there was apparently a doubt
as to which of the rooms would be used for the occasion, his
lordship being somewhat reluctant at present to allow this
handsomely, I might almost say sombrely, furnished apartment to be
used for such a frivolous purpose.
Remembering Robert’s sanctimonious bringing up I was not in the
least surprised at his qualms, my only wonder being that he
countenanced a ball at all, but of course that was miladi’s doings. I
much wished to inquire why a solitary meal for such as I should be
served in a room of such splendid dimensions, and one that in most
households would undoubtedly have been used as a drawing-room,
but I refrained, not desiring to appear inquisitive in the eyes of the
servants. Her ladyship arrived as I was finishing my second cup of
fragrant coffee, and despite a certain languid hauteur characteristic
of the nobility, especially of the modern nobility, she appeared to
welcome me.
I felt this, and yet somehow I was puzzled—puzzled at an
indescribable something in her manner that was quite apart from
pride—something that left me with the decidedly unpleasant
impression she was surely acting a part, and—yet—why should she?
Why should her ladyship be anything but frank with the poor and
inoffensive cousin of her husband?
But what was it that made her eyes fall as they encountered mine,
and wander furtively round the room; and why that sudden look of
fear that crept into them as they alighted on the fireplace.
 “You wont mind sitting here till bedtime, will you?” she observed,
“I will tell Webster, my maid, to bring you your candle at eleven
o’clock. If there is anything you want, you have only to tell her. All
our guests play bridge, and I concluded from what Robert told me
you didn’t approve of gambling, so I thought you would be happier
here. We are expecting other anti-gamblers in a few days, so your
banishment will only be temporary! You will excuse us for a time,
wont you?”
What other reply could I give but “O yes! most certainly! It is
indeed kind of you to allow me the use of such a lovely room, &c.,”
and Lady Wentworth departed from my presence with a gracious—a
most patronising and highly gracious smile. I was of course charmed
and flattered, as any poor connection by marriage should be, but I
wished all the same that Robert had also come to welcome me, I
should have felt more at ease with Robert! I liked Robert, and—well,
I did not like his beautiful and accomplished wife. Had he come only
for two minutes I should not have minded, but I was tired, I felt
neglected, and I longed for kindness. Kindness after St. Rudolphs. It
was not like Robert, we had been such friends in our youth; children
together, playmates, chums! Had money and position changed his
nature?
Money! I grew dispirited! I was poor! terribly poor! I was lonely!
Oh, so lonely!
The room was huge, the night cold and the fire small—very small.
Drawing my chair close to it I simulated ease; I tried to feel cosy!
Cosy!
What a barrier, an insurmountable barrier, was poverty to
pleasure! Would Robert’s wife have banished a countess? Fancy a
countess experiencing a reception such as this! A countess in a vast
room empty save for draughts and a Liliputian fire! A countess! I
laughed! I was growing common like the mediocre parents of St.
Rudolphs. Vulgarity is catching! It is both epidemic and endemic.
Had Robert told her I disapproved of playing cards for money? Of
course not, that was a society taradiddle! He couldn’t know my
scruples or he would never have asked me to meet his wife. She,
she had guessed my poverty by my profession—all schoolmistresses
are poor; every one that teaches is poor—education must be gratis.
A cold blast of air from the chimney made me shiver. The room was
indeed draughty! and how still! I did not altogether like such
stillness, it got on my nerves. And how dark! Why were not all the
gas jets lighted—why only this one? Because I was poor; the poor
should learn to be economical, and example is better than precept!
Hence this feeble flicker: a flicker that failing to reach the further
extremities of the chamber, left the corners enveloped in shrouds of
darkness—of a black impenetrable darkness I could neither fathom
nor comprehend. The furniture was superb, but it was of too
funereal a texture and colour to be pleasing to me just then, I would
have preferred something of a brighter tone.
The floor was covered by a carpet that must assuredly have been
made expressly for that room since it stretched right up to the
skirting, concealing every particle of bare board.
I could not see the pattern, I could only devise by the soft tread of
the carpet that it was either of Persian or Turkish manufacture. In
some places, where kissed by the moonlight, it was almost white,
whilst in other parts it was rendered black by a hotch-potch of
countless shadows lying thick upon it.
Through the great bay windows opposite me, a magnificent
panorama of lawn, meadows and rivers, beyond which I fancied I
could detect the needle-like front of a steeple, spread itself before
my eyes. All this natural beauty lay enhanced by a thin covering of
gleaming snow. It was Christmas! The glamour of the hour and
season enchanted me; past injuries and St. Rudolphs were
forgotten; I was at peace with all men.
At peace! What wouldn’t I give if I could always be so; if these
broad acres, this noble mansion, this stately apartment were mine—
mine—all mine—and the stillness of the room again oppressed me.
Where were the many guests miladi had mentioned? Where were
the sounds of revelry? The high-pitched voices of women, the
hoarser tones of men, the indistinct murmuring of conversation such
as I had sat and listened to in days of yore; how it had hummed and
buzzed around me when plunged in pleasant reverie, it then had no
more effect on my hearing than the lapping of the gentlest waves on
the seashore. There were no such sounds now; these massive walls
were a sure, impenetrable barrier to whatever might be going on
outside—this room—far from being filled with giddy babblers—was
empty, distractedly, painfully empty, empty save for the dancing
moonbeams and the moving shadows.
But was it empty? My heart gave a violent, sickly throb as I
recollected the look of disquietude, of grave, of indisputably grave
apprehension in miladi’s eyes as she peered around! Of what had
she been afraid—of the approaching twilight, of the shadows, of the
gloom; and as I cast a terrified glance ahead of me I fancied—
foolish fancy! that those palls of darkness I have already mentioned
had come out further from the nooks and crannies and were fast
approaching me.
Those of us who have ever ridden on horseback by night across
some dreary wilderness, or along a lonely road have doubtless had
occasion to observe a strange alteration in the behaviour of our
beast; its psychic propensities have been suddenly and mysteriously
awakened; it fights shy of some particular tree, or stone, or gap in
the hedge; its ears twitch, its flanks quiver, it is all on the tremble,
the slightest sound would now make it take the bit between its teeth
and bolt; it is afraid not necessarily of what it has seen, but what it
fears may be there! And—to an anomalous species of terror I found
myself a bounden slave.
I dreaded to think of the effect even the most trivial sound or
incident might now produce on my agitated mind. Had I been able, I
would have risked the displeasure of my hostess and left the room,
but I could not; every atom of strength seemed to have quitted my
body—I was pro tempore cataleptic—paralysed.
A faint and almost imperceptible movement suddenly attracted my
attention to a square patch of light on the carpet immediately before
me.
To my horror something was coming through the floor. Slowly, very
slowly, first of all a head, a head surmounted with long dishevelled
black hair, then a face! God save me from seeing the like again—a
face that might have once been beautiful, or plain, or ugly, but was
now—nothing—nothing—I won’t describe—nothing but the grave;
then shoulders, bust, what was once a body, legs. Held in its arms in
close embrace—was the figure of a baby—in a like state of nudity
and decay.
For a moment, only for a moment, they stood swaying silently to
and fro in the moonlight, and then with a snakelike movement of her
body the phantom of the woman glided across the room, vanishing
in the recess containing the large bay window.
After the subsidation of intense terror at this hideous spectacle I
had been compelled to witness, the pulsating of my heart once again
becoming normal, I was able to reflect with comparative calmness
on what I had seen.
I say with comparative calmness, for a strong suspicion now
entered my mind that Lady Wentworth may have anticipated all
along what would happen, and that I had been put in that room as a
mere experiment to see whether it were still haunted. The bare idea
of such perfidy filled me with so great an indignation that I seriously
thought of trumping up some excuse and returning home; my
resolutions being shattered only by the opportune arrival of Cousin
Robert, whose cordial welcome acting like a stimulant made me
decide to remain.
With a thoughtfulness that had singled him out from among his
companions as a boy, he noticed my weariness, and putting it down
to the fatigue of my journey went in search of his wife’s maid.
Need I say that I was thankful to get to bed and there, despite my
ghostly adventures, I slept very soundly till the gong went for
breakfast, at which free and easy meal I made the acquaintance of
some very charming guests.
Miladi was of course too much in request to spend more than a
few minutes with poor, insignificant me; she expressed an earnest
hope that I had not been too dull for words and that I had found the
room warm and comfortable. “At all events,” she added, “you can sit
and read there without fear of interruption. I know how fond of
books you ‘clever’ people are—you must go into the library and
choose some. You were not disturbed last night were you?”
Though this question was put in the most artless manner possible
and with all apparent ingenuousness I detected a half frightened,
half inquiring expression in her eyes that she vainly tried to stifle, an
expression which converted the suspicion I had entertained into a
conviction, a conviction that this woman was isolating me to serve
some deep and subtle purpose.
I tried to get out of the lady’s-maid what this purpose might be,
but if Webster knew she most certainly showed no signs of it, being
doubtless as accomplished an actress as her mistress.
As one may readily conclude I looked forward to the evening with
little equanimity, offering up fervent prayers for any incident that
might add to the duration of dinner.
Now I hate grand dinners as a rule; their regality unnerves me; I
am appalled at the number of people; at the dazzling display of
plate, at the multiplicity of the courses (many of the dishes being
unknown to me), at the ceaseless flow of conversation, at the clatter
of glasses, at the wine, at everything; but on this occasion I simply
revelled in it; the greatest formalities appealed to me as pleasantly
distracting; I was poor, my companions wealthy scions of the
aristocracy. I had nothing to do but eat—eat and be silent; be silent
and listen; listen and look, and I saw all that one would have wanted
to see in the atelier of the very best costumière in Paris or the West
End.
My own dress was shabby but what of that! No one seemed aware
of it, no one noticed me; I was a nonentity, mute, a consuming
machine; in no one’s way because each of my neighbours was far
too engrossed in eating to care about carrying on a conversation.
Once I thought a lady cast a half enviable glance at my hands;
they are my best point, particularly so, when nicely manicured—and
once I imagined, dear Robert, but there, that was only imagination.
Well the dinner, like all good things, came to an end at last. I
enjoyed the dessert most; the bonbons were heavenly; every one
ate them as if they were hungry; I caught myself actually pitying our
hostess. At a signal from miladi, we all got up; I left the other ladies
in the hall; they trooped away to fetch their purses, whilst I, feeling
very much like some poor whipped schoolgirl, slunk off to the ball-
room.
It was not until the door closed behind me, I understood the full
horror of the situation; I was alone! for the second time within
twenty-four hours—in that chamber—Alone! Alone save for those
foul pollutions that might rise at any instant from beneath the floor. I
believe, even then, I would have flown had not the stubbornness
and pride innate in all my family restrained me. Come what would,
her ladyship should never call me a coward.
So—I stuck to my post with heroic resolutions. Much as I suffered
the previous day, my sufferings then in comparison with now were
small, nor did the dreadful anticipations that tortured me without
cessation as I sat there, waiting for the boards to part asunder, in
any way surpass the awful realisation. Step by step, detail by detail
the psychic drama was repeated in all its damnable horror; my
recovery after witnessing it being slower on this occasion,
accompanied by relapses into a state of terror too painful even to
recall.
Yet I survived and succeeded in so far pulling myself together, that
I met the kindly greeting of her ladyship at breakfast next morning
with a calm and unembarrassed air. She did not suspect me. Once
again the ordeal came and miladi, with a refinement of cruelty
worthy of her steel-blue eyes and thin lips, herself conducted me to
the fatal ball-room.
“To-morrow, you will have company,” she murmured, her face
shining white amid that semi-gloom, “I must apologise for not giving
you more light, but—for some unearthly reason or other—only one of
those gas jets will ever burn. Odd is it not?” And as her eyes met
mine, I walked to the fire and burst out laughing.
She was disarmed! Could any one laugh who was afraid of ghosts?
She speedily, very speedily left me and once again I underwent it
all.
 Suspense—horror—prostration. I think I suffered more this third
night than on either of the other two.
Yet, long before morning I had recovered from the shock.
I saw a look of genuine relief rush into her ladyship’s face as she
encountered my smiling countenance: whatever apprehensions she
might have had with regard to that room were now unquestionably
removed.
“It must be cleared out without further delay!” I heard her remark
to Robert, “the floor will take some time polishing—and—remember
the incandescent burners!”
The incandescent burners! I chuckled, what effect would they have
on ghosts. I half expected she would now tell me why she had been
anxious I should remain in the room: she was assured it was no
longer haunted, why trouble about the past?
But a moment’s reflection made me think that after all it might be
“the past” she was most anxious to conceal; hauntings, especially of
so gruesome a nature as this, usually point to some blot on the
escutcheon, to a disreputable something in the history of the house
—and that is why so many people object to seeing their family
ghosts appear in print.
Accordingly, miladi, having the honour of the Wentworths at heart,
would take very good care she did not give me as much as a hint as
to what she herself, quite possibly, attributed to legends.
Webster did indeed favour me with the information, that neither
her ladyship nor any one else, save Lord Wentworth and the old
charwoman (who dusted) were ever known to enter the room, at all
events since she had been at the Hall, and that was well nigh ten
years; which information clearly implied that entrance was strictly
forbidden.
It was interesting to speculate what course miladi would have
adopted, had I told her what I had seen! She was proud,
domineering and tactful; would she have “pooh-poohed!” the whole
thing; commanded me to be silent; resorted to bribery, or what? I
couldn’t imagine her pleading—and yet—the Honour of the Old
Aristocracy is very dear to them; they sometimes value it more than
—life.
* * * * *
The next few days passed agreeably and all too quickly for me.
The non-card playing element, though rather stiff and prudish, were
kindly disposed towards me, no doubt on account of my shy
disposition and impecunious widowhood.
Of Robert I saw very little; the host and hostess in a big house
never have a moment to spare. To prepare the ball-room an extra
staff of servants was employed incessantly for three days, at the end
of which time it was pronounced ready for the occasion.
I can find no words to convey to others the singular way in which
the altered room impressed me. Though stripped of all its massive,
gloomy furniture, brilliantly illuminated with many jets of
incandescent gas (Robert had a strange aversion to electricity) and
adorned with festoons of Oriental flowers, banners, and the gayest
coloured bunting, it still retained an air of sadness, and an
indescribable something, that nothing, nothing short of total
annihilation, could ever eradicate or modify.
Her ladyship clad in a snowy dress of the most costly material
trimmed with the rarest lace, her fair arms and bosom glittering with
the Wentworth diamonds, looked like a fairy queen standing on the
threshold of an enchanted castle.
I looked closely at her but could see no remnant of apprehension
either in her eyes or gestures, she was perfectly at ease and
sublimely unconscious of aught but the enjoyment of those around
her and the importance attached to herself, the well-dressed
handsome hostess.
With Robert it was otherwise; in spite of his smiles, his bows, his
many pretty actions of old-world gallantry, I could see that the wan,
grey spirit of unrest stalking at his elbow never left him. He would
have staked his soul to glance occasionally at the spot before the
fireplace, but fear lest some one might see him effectually held him
back. This continual mental struggle, unsuspected even by his wife,
was only too obviously apparent to me, and I seemed to hear a sigh
of relief—of deep and earnest relief—issue from his lips when the
orchestra began.
And now all was symphony and movement. There was much glare
and glitter and piquancy; snake-like evolutions, spasmodic
convergences, dexterous extrications, all performed and repeated
with mathematical precision and untiring repetition.
The music changed—the waltz gave place to a novel and
somewhat wildly executed fandango. It was her ladyship’s whim to
include in her programme exotic dances; a resuscitation of long-
forgotten Terpsichore, they were undoubtedly the distinguishing and
characteristic features of her entertainments, raising them far above
the commonplace, and gaining for miladi a world-wide and much-
coveted reputation. She hated anything merely popular and vulgar.
In this dance that now commenced and which I beheld for the
first time, there was much of the beautiful, the wanton, the bizarre,
and just a suspicion of “something” which might have shocked a
very exacting “Grundy.”
As the greater number of the guests, like myself, were
unacquainted with it, the floor was left comparatively free for the
performers, the onlookers lining the walls, the doorway, and the big
bay window.
Never had I witnessed such enthusiasm; the dancers, throwing
their very heart and soul into their antics, gyrated and pirouetted in
such lively fashion as evoked spontaneous outbursts of applause
from the delighted, albeit bewildered and somewhat puzzled
spectators.
The faster the music, the quicker the feet, the louder the clapping.
And now, at a moment when the revelry had reached its height
and the attention of all was riveted on the dancers, a sudden
commotion in their midst made everybody wonder. What was it?
What had happened?
I glanced at the clock, Robert glanced too; our eyes met, and I
read in his a deadly fear; it was the hour for the dead to rise.
The space in front of the fireplace was now deserted, and the
dancers, grouped around on either side, were eagerly peering
forward to ascertain the cause of their alarm.
Curiosity, repulsion, and horror—horror wild and undiluted—were
now depicted on every countenance as the gently heaving boards,
slipping noiselessly asunder, revealed two hideous heads, rising as it
were from the bowels of the earth.
Slowly, very slowly, with a gradation suggestive of machinery, the
phantoms I knew so well at length came into full view. But
stupendous as was the sensation this unlooked-for tableau
produced, not a sound was uttered—and, as if to accentuate the
silence, the music broke off abruptly, dancers, audience, and
orchestra being similarly affected.
For a few seconds the female phantom, clutching in one arm its
loathsome burden, paused irresolutely beside its tomb—and then,
shaking a hand in the direction of the Honourable Walter, it made a
sudden dart at the spot where he stood.
A thrill of the most intense horror accompanied this unexpected
movement, all eyes being now transferred to the wretched youth.
I gave one glance at my cousin Robert—I dare not look again—his
expression was frightful—he could do nothing to help his son—his
position was that of the damned.
The crucial moment arrived—no one breathed—the Things from
the Grave reached Walter—there was no hesitation—they passed
right through him. I looked at the wall, I rubbed my eyes—the
spectres had vanished!
A convulsive throb now ran through the assemblage, the revellers
exchanged frightened and embarrassed glances, there was a general
movement to the door, the room emptied, the dance was over.
* * * * *
I did not see her ladyship again—I merely received a message of
farewell, but Robert came to say good-bye.
“I wonder,” he said, gazing at me with his pensive harrowed eyes,
“I wonder very much if the ghosts appeared to you when alone in
that room? If so you have indeed been brave, and to keep it secret
served us right. The story of the hauntings,” he continued, “has up
to the present been revealed only to the male members of our