for sewing, either; but not half strong enough or rough enough for a
boy. His soft brown eyes had a shrinking look in them, his face was
delicate as a girl's, and his hair hung in curls. But he was a
little bit deformed in the back--some called it only a stoop in the
shoulders--and, though fourteen, might have been taken for ten. The
boy's love for his mother was something wonderful. They had lived at
Worcester; she had a small income, and he had been well brought up. When
she married Hill--all her friends were against it, and it was in fact a
frightful mistake--of course they had to come to North Crabb; but Davy
was not happy. Always a timid lad, he could not overcome his first fear
of Hill. Not that the man was unkind, only rough and resolute.
Davy was washing up the breakfast-things; his mother sat near, sorting
the contents of a chest: a neat little woman in a green stuff gown, with
the same sweet eyes as David and the same shrinking look in them. She
left off when I went in, and said her ankle was no worse.
"It's a pity it happened just now, Mrs. Hill."
"I'd have given a great deal for it not to, sir. They call me foolish, I
know; always have done; but it just seems to me like an omen. I had a
few articles in my arms, the first trifles we'd begun to move, and down
I fell on going out at this door. To me it seems nothing but a warning
that we ought not to move into Willow Cottage."
David had halted in his work at the tea-cups, his brown eyes fixed
on his mother. That it was not the first time he had listened to the
superstition, and that he was every whit as bad as she, might plainly
be seen.
"I have never liked the thought of that new place from the first, Master
Johnny. It is as if something held me back from it. Hill keeps saying
that it's a convenient dwelling, and dirt-cheap; and so it is; but I
don't like the notion of it. No more does David."
"Oh, I dare say you will like it when you get in, Mrs. Hill, and David,
too."
"It is to be hoped so, sir."
The day went on; and its after events I can only speak of from hearsay.
Hill moved in a good many of his goods, David carrying some of the
lighter things, Luke Macintosh was asked to go and sleep in the house
that night as a safeguard against thieves, but he flatly refused, unless
some one slept there with him. Hill ridiculed his cowardice; and finally
agreed that David should bear him company.
He made the bargain without his wife. She had other views for David. Her
intention was to send the lad over to Worcester by the seven-o'clock
evening train; not so much because his bed and bedding had been carried
off and there was nothing for him to sleep on, as that his dying
grandmother had expressed a wish to see him. To hear then that David was
not to go, did not please Mrs. Hill.
It was David himself who carried in the news. She had tea waiting on the
table when they came in: David first, for his step-father had stopped to
speak to some one in the road.
"But, David, dear--you _must_ go to Worcester," she said, when he told
her.
"He will never let me, mother," was David's answer. "He says the things
might be stolen if nobody takes care of them: and Macintosh is afraid to
be there alone."
She paused and looked at him, a thought striking her. The boy was
leaning upon her in his fond manner, his hand in hers.
"Should you be afraid, David?"
"Not--I think--with Luke. We are to be in the same room, mother."
But Mrs. Hill noticed that his voice was hesitating; his small weak hand
trembled in hers. There was not a more morally brave heart than David
Garth's; he had had a religious training; but at being alone in the dark
he was a very coward, afraid of ghosts and goblins.
"Hill," said she to her husband when he stamped in, the lad having
gone to wash his hands, "I cannot let David sleep in the other house
to-night. He will be too timid."
"Timid!" repeated Hill, staring at the words. "Why, Luke Macintosh will
be with him."
"David won't like it. Macintosh is nothing but a coward himself."
"Don't thee be a fool, and show it," returned Hill, roughly. "Thee'll
keep that boy a baby for his life. Davvy would as soon sleep in the
house alone, as not, but for the folly put into his head by you. And why
not? He's fourteen."
Hill--to give him his due--only spoke as he thought. That any one in the
world, grown to fourteen and upwards, could be afraid of sleeping in a
house alone, was to him literally incomprehensible.
"I said he must go over to Worcester to see mother, James," she meekly
resumed; "you know I did."
"Well, he can't go to-night; he shall go in the morning. There! He may
stop with her for a week, an' ye like, for all the good he is to me."
"Mother's looking for him to-night, and he ought to go. The dying----"
"Now just you drop it, for he can't be spared," interrupted Hill. "The
goods might be stole, with all the loose characters there is about, and
that fool of a Macintosh won't go in of himself. He's a regular coward!
Davvy must keep him company--it's not so much he does for his keep--and
he may start for Worcester by daylight."
Whenever Hill came down upon her with this resolute decision, it struck
her timid forthwith. The allusion to the boy's keep was an additional
thrust, for it was beginning to be rather a sore subject. An uncle at
Worcester, who had no family and was well to do, had partly offered to
adopt the lad; but it was not yet settled. Davy was a great favourite
with all the relatives; Miss Timmens, the schoolmistress, doted on him.
Mrs. Hill, not venturing on further remonstrance, made the best of the
situation.
"Davy, you are to go to Worcester the first thing in the morning," she
said, when he came back from washing his hands. "So as soon as you've
been home and had a bit o' breakfast, you shall run off to the train."
Tea over, Hill went out on some business, saying he should be in at
eight, or thereabouts, to go with Davy to the cottage. As the hour drew
near, David, sitting over the fire with his mother in pleasant talk, as
they loved to do, asked if he should read before he went: for her habit
was to read the Bible to him, or cause him to read to her, the last
thing.
"Yes, dear," she said. "Read the ninety-first Psalm."
So David read it. Closing the book when it was over, he sat with it on
his knee, thoughtfully.
"If we could only _see_ the angels, mother! It is so difficult to
remember always that they are close around, taking care of us."
"So it is, Davy. Most of us forget it."
"When life's over it will be so pleasant for them to carry us away to
heaven! I wish you and I could go together, mother."
"We shall each go when God pleases, David."
"Oh yes, I know that."
Mrs. Hill, remembering this little bit of conversation, word for word,
repeated it afterwards to me and others, with how they had sat, and
David's looks. I say this for fear people might think I had invented it.
Hill came in, and they prepared to go to the other house. David, his
arms full--for, of course, with things to be carried, they did not go
out empty-handed--came suddenly back from the door in going out, flung
his load down, and clasped his mother. She bent to kiss him.
"Good night, my dear one! Don't you and Luke get chattering all night.
Go to sleep betimes."
He burst into tears, clinging to her with sobs. It was as if his heart
were breaking.
"Are you afraid to go?" she whispered.
"I must go," was his sobbing answer.
"Now then, Davvy!" called back Hill's rough tones. "What the plague are
you lagging for?"
"Say good-bye to me, mother! Say good-bye!"
"Good-bye, and God bless you, David! Remember the angels are around
you!"
"I know; I know!"
Taking up his bundles, he departed, keeping some paces behind Hill all
the way; partly to hide his face, down which the tears were raining;
partly in his usual awe of that formidable functionary who stood to him
as a step-father.
Arrived at the house, Hill was fumbling for the key, when some one came
darting out from the shadow of its eaves. It proved to be Luke
Macintosh.
"I was a-looking round for you," said crusty Hill. "I began to think
you'd forgot the time o' meeting."
"No, I'd not forgot it; but I be come to say that I can't oblige you by
sleeping there," was Luke's reply. "The master have ordered me off with
the waggon afore dawn, and so--I'm a-going to sleep at home."
Had I been there, I could have said the master had _not_ ordered Luke
off before dawn; but after his breakfast. It was just a ruse of his,
to avoid doing what he had never relished, sleeping in the house. Hill
suspected as much, and went on at him, mockingly asking if he was
afraid of hobgoblins. Luke dodged away in the midst of it, and Hill
relieved his anger by a little hot language.
"Come along, Davvy," said he at last; "we must put these here things
inside."
Unlocking the door, he went in; and, the first thing, fell against
something or other in the dark. Hill swore a little at that, and struck
a light, the fire having gone out. This lower room was full of articles,
thrown down out of hand; the putting things straight had been left to
the morrow.
"Carry the match afore me, Davvy. These blankets must go upstairs."
By some oversight no candles had been taken to the house; only the box
of matches. David lighted one match after the other, while Hill arranged
the blankets on the mattress for sleeping. This room--the one with the
skylight--was to be David's.
"There," said Hill, taking the box of matches from him, "you'll be
comfortable here till morning. If you find it cold, you might keep on
your trousers."
David Garth stood speechless, a look of horror struggling to his face.
In that first moment he dared not remonstrate; his awe of Hill was too
great.
"What's the matter now?" asked Hill, striking another match. "What ails
you?"
"You'll not leave me here, all by myself?" whispered the unhappy boy, in
desperate courage.
"Not leave you here by yourself! Why, what d'ye think is to harm you?
Don't you try on your nonsense and your games with me, Master Davvy. I'm
not soft, like your mother. Say your prayers and get to sleep, and I'll
come and let you out in the morning."
By a dexterous movement, Hill got outside, and closed the door softly,
slipping the bolt. The match in his fingers was nearly burnt out;
nevertheless, it had shown a last faint vision of a boy kneeling in
supplication, his hands held up, his face one of piteous agony. As Hill
struck another match to light the staircase, a wailing cry mingled with
the sound: entreaties to be let out; prayers not to be left alone; low
moans, telling of awful terror.
"Drat the boy! This comes of his mother's coddling. Hold your row,
Davvy," he roared out, wrathfully: "you'd not like me to come back and
give you a basting."
And Mr. James Hill, picking his way over the bundles, locked the outer
door, and betook himself home. That was our respectable bailiff. What do
you think of him?
"Did you leave Davy comfortable?" asked Mrs. Hill, when he got back.
"He'll be comfortable enough when he's asleep," shortly answered Hill.
"Of all hardened, ungrateful boys, that of yourn's the worst."
"Had Luke come when you got there?" she resumed, passing over the
aspersion on Davy.
"He was waiting: he came right out upon us like an apparition," was
Hill's evasive answer. And he did not tell the rest.
But now, a singular thing happened that night. Mrs. Hill was in a sound
sleep, when a loud, agonized cry of "Mother" aroused her from it. She
started up, wide awake instantly, and in terror so great that the
perspiration began to pour off her face. In that moment the call was
repeated. The voice was David's voice; it had appeared to be in the
room, close to her, and she peered into every corner in vain. Then she
supposed it must have come through the window; that David, from some
cause or other, had come home from Willow Brook, and was waiting to be
let in. A dread crossed her of Hill's anger, and she felt inclined to
order the boy to go back again.
Opening the casement window, she called to him by name; softly at first,
then louder. There was no answer. Mrs. Hill stretched out her head as
far as the narrow casement allowed, but neither David nor anyone else
could she see; nothing but the shadows cast by the moonlight. Just then
the old church clock struck out. She counted the strokes and found it
twelve. Midnight. It was bitterly cold: she closed the window at last,
concluding David had gone off from fear of being punished. All she could
hope was that he would have the sense, that dangerously keen night, to
run off to the brick kilns, and get warm there.
But the terror lay upon her yet; she was unable to tell why or
wherefore; unless from the strangely appealing agony of the cry; still
less could she shake it off. It seemed odd. Hill awoke with the
commotion, and found her trembling.
"What have ye got to be affrighted on?" he asked roughly, when she had
told her tale. And Mrs. Hill was puzzled to say what.
"You had been a-dreaming of him, that's what it was. You've got nothing
else in your mind, day nor night, but that there boy."
"It was not a dream; I am quite positive it was himself; I could not
mistake his voice," persisted Mrs. Hill. "He has come away from the
cottage, for sure. Perhaps that Luke Macintosh might have got teasing
him."
Knowing what Hill knew, that the boy was locked in, he might safely have
stood out that he could not have come away from it; but he said no more.
Rolling himself round, he prepared to go to sleep again, resentful at
having been awakened.
Hill overslept himself in the morning, possibly through the interrupted
rest. When he went out it was broad daylight. David Garth's being locked
up half-an-hour more or less went for nothing with Hill, and he stayed
to load the truck with some of the remainder of his goods.
"Send Davy home at once, James," called out the wife, as he began to
wheel it away. "I'll give him his breakfast, and let him start off to
the train."
For, with daylight, and the sight of the door-key, Mrs. Hill could only
reverse her opinion, and conclude unwillingly that it might have been a
dream. Hill showed her the key, telling her that he had locked the door
"for safety." Therefore it appeared to be impossible that David could
have got out.
The first thing Hill saw when he and his truck approached the cottage,
was young Jim Batley, mounted on the roof and hammering away at the
skylight with his freezing hands. Jim, a regular sailor for climbing,
had climbed a tree, and thence swung himself on to the tiles. Hill
treated him to some hard words, and ordered him to come down and get a
licking. Down came Jim, taking care to dodge out of Hill's reach.
"I can't make David hear," said Jim. "I've got to go to Timberdale, and
I want him to go along with me."
"That's no reason why you should get atop of my roof," roared Hill. "You
look out for a sweet hiding, young Jim. The first time I get hold on
you, you shall have it kindly."
"He sleeps uncommon hard," said Jim. "One 'ud think the cold had froze
him. I've got to take a letter to my uncle's at Timberdale: we shall
find a jolly good hot breakfast when we get there."
Hill condescended to abate his anger so far as to inform Jim Batley that
David could not go to Timberdale; adding that he was going off by train
to see his grandmother at Worcester. Ordering Jim to take himself away,
he unlocked the door and entered the cottage.
Jim Batley chose to stay. He was a tall, thin, obstinate fellow, of
eleven, and meant to wait and speak to David. Given to following his own
way whenever he could, in spite of his father and mother, it occurred to
him that perhaps David might be persuaded to take Timberdale first and
the train after.
He amused himself with the dead leaves while he waited. But it seemed
that David took a long time dressing. The truck stood at the door; Jim
stamped and whistled, and shied a few stones at the topmost article,
which was Mrs. Hill's potato saucepan. Presently Hill came out and began
to unload, beginning with the saucepan.
"Where's Davy?" demanded Jim, from a safe distance. "Ain't he ready
yet?"
"Now if you don't get off about your business I'll make you go," was
Hill's answer, keeping his back turned to the boy. "You haven't got
nothing to stop here for."
"I'm stopping to speak to Davy."
"Davy was away out o' here afore daylight and took the first train to
Worcester. He's a'most there by now."
Young boys are not clever reasoners; but certain contradictory odds and
ends passed through Jim's disappointed mind. For one thing, he had seen
Hill unlock the door.
"I don't think he's gone out yet. I see his boots."
"What boots?" asked Hill, putting a bandbox inside the door.
"Davy's. I see 'em through the skylight; they stood near the mattress."
"Them was a pair of my boots as I carried here last night. I tell ye
Davvy's _gone_: can't ye believe? He won't be home for some days
neither, for his grandmother's safe to keep him."
Jim Batley went off slowly on his way to Timberdale: there was nothing
to stay for, Davy being gone. Happening to turn round, he caught Hill
looking after him, and saw his face for the first time. It had turned
white as death. The contrast was very remarkable, for it was usually of
a deep red.
"Well, I never!" cried Jim, halting in surprise. "Mayhap the cold have
took him! Serve him right."
When Hill had got all the things inside he locked himself in, probably
not to be disturbed while he arranged them. Mrs. Hill had been waiting
breakfast ever so long when she heard the truck coming back.
"Whatever's become of David?" she began. "I expected him home at once."
"David has started for Worcester," said Hill.
"Started for Worcester? Without his breakfast?"
"Now don't you worry yourself about petty things," returned Hill,
crustily. "You wanted him to go, and he's gone. He won't starve; let him
alone for that."
The notion assumed by Mrs. Hill was, that her husband had started the
boy off from the cottage direct to the train. She felt thoroughly vexed.
"He had all his old clothes on, Hill. I would not have had him go to
Worcester in that plight for any money. You might have let the child
come home for a bit of breakfast--and to dress himself. There was not
so much as a brush and comb at the place, to make his hair tidy."
"There's no pleasing you," growled Hill. "Last night you were a'most
crying, cause Davvy couldn't be let go over to see your mother; and, now
that he is gone, _that_ don't please ye! Women be the very deuce for
grumbling."
Mrs. Hill dropped the subject--there could be no remedy--and gave her
husband his breakfast in silence. Hill seemed to eat nothing, and looked
very pale; at moments ghastly.
"Don't you feel well?" she asked.
"Well?--I'm well enough. What should ail me--barring the cold? It's as
sharp a frost as ever I was out in."
"Drink this," she said, pouring him out another cup of hot tea. "It is
cold; and I'm sorry we've got it so for our moving. What time shall we
get in to-day, Hill?"
"Not at all."
"Not at all!" repeated the wife in surprise.
"No, not at all," was Hill's surly confirmation. "What with you
disabled, and Davvy o' no use, things is not as forrard as they ought to
be. I've got to be off to my work too, pretty quick, or the Squire'll be
about me. We shan't get in till to-morrow."
"But nearly all our things are in," she remonstrated. "There's as good
as nothing left here."
"I tell ye we don't go in afore to-morrow," said Hill, giving the table
a thump. "Can't ye be satisfied with that?"
He went off to his work. Mrs. Hill, accepting the change as inevitable,
resigned herself, and borrowed a saucepan to cook the potatoes for
dinner. She might have spared herself the trouble; her husband did not
come in for any. He bought a penny loaf and some cheese, and made his
dinner of it inside our home barn, Molly giving him some beer. He had
done it before when very busy: but the work he was about that day was in
no such hurry, and he might have left it if he would.
"Who is to sleep in the house to-night?" his wife asked him when he got
home to tea.
"I shall," said Hill. "I won't be beholden to nobody."
Mrs. Hill, remembering the experience of the past night, quaked a little
at finding she should have to sleep in the old place alone, devoutly
praying there might be no recurrence of the dream that had thrown her
into such mortal terror. She and Davy were just alike--frightened at
their own shadows in the dark. When Hill was safe off, she hurried into
bed, and kept her head under the clothes.
Hill came back betimes in the morning; and they moved in at once; old
Coney's groom, who happened to be out with the dog-cart, offering to
drive Mrs. Hill. Though her ankle was better and the distance short, she
could hardly have walked. Instead of finding the house in order, as she
expected, it was all sixes and sevens; the things lying about all over
it.
Towards evening, Hannah got me to call at Willow Brook and say she'd
go there in the morning for an hour or two, to help put things in
order--the mistress had said she might do so. The fact was, Hannah was
burning for a gossip, she and Hill's wife being choice friends. It was
almost dark; the front room looked tolerably straight, and Mrs. Hill
sat by the fire, resting her foot and looking out at the window, the
shutters not yet closed.
"I'd be very thankful for her to come, Master Johnny," she said eagerly,
hardly letting me finish. "There's a great deal to do; and, besides
that, it is so lonesome here. I never had such a feeling in all my life;
and I have gone into strange homes before this."
"It does seem lonesome, somehow. The fancy may go off in a day or two."
"I don't know, sir: it's to be hoped it will. Master Johnny, as true as
that we are sitting here, when I got out of Mr. Coney's dog-cart and
put my foot over the threshold to enter, a fit of trembling took me all
over. There was no cause for it: I mean I was not thinking of anything
to give it me. Not a minute before, I was laughing; for the man had been
telling me a joking story of something that happened yesterday at his
master's. A strange fear seemed to come upon me all at once as I stepped
over the threshold, and I began to shake from head to foot. Hill stared
at me, and at last asked if it was the cold; I told him truly that I
did not know what it was; except that it seemed like some unaccountable
attack, for I was well wrapped up. He had some brandy in a bottle, and
made me drink a drop. The fit went off; but I have had a queer lonesome
feeling on me ever since, as if the house was not one to be alone in."
"And you have been alone, I suppose?"
"Every bit of the time, save when Hill came in to his dinner. I don't
remember ever to have had such a feeling before in broad daylight. It's
just as if the house was haunted."
Not believing in haunted houses, I laughed. Mrs. Hill got up to stir the
fire. It blazed, and cast her shadow upon the opposite wall.
"When dusk came on, I could hardly bear it. But for your coming in,
Master Johnny, I should have stood at the door in the cold, and watched
for Hill: things don't feel so lonely to one out of doors as in."
So it seemed that I was in for a stay--any way, till Hill arrived. After
this, it would not have been very kind to leave her alone; she looked so
weak and little.
"I've never liked the thought of moving here from the first," she went
on; "and then there came the accident to my foot. Some people think
nothing at all of omens, Master Johnny, but I do think of them. They
come oftener than is thought for too; only, so few take notice of them.
I wish Davy was back! I can't bear to be in this house alone."
"David is at Worcester, I heard Hill say."
"He went yesterday morning, sir. I expected a letter from him to-day;
and it is very curious that none have come. Davy knew how anxious I
was about mother; and he never fails to write when he's away from me.
Somehow, all things are going crooked and cross just now. I had a fright
the night before last. Master Johnny, and I am hardly quit of it yet."
"What was that?" I asked her.
She stared into the fire for a minute or two before she answered me.
There was no other light in the room; I sat back against the wall beside
the window--the shutters were still open.
"You might not care to hear it, sir."
"I should if it's worth telling."
Turning from the fire, she looked straight at me while she told it from
beginning to end, exactly as I have written it above. The tale would
have been just the thing for Mrs. Todhetley: who went in for marvels.