when it heard the marriage banns read out one Sunday morning between
Louis Roe, of the parish of St. Swithin, Worcester (he was staying there
at the time), and Henriette Adèle Marie Roe. Miss Timmens, who had not
been taken into confidence, started violently; Mademoiselle Henriette
Adèle Marie, sitting by her side, held up her head and her blooming
cheeks with unruffled equanimity. It was said there was a scene when
they got home: Miss Timmens's sister (once Mrs. Garth, but then our
bailiff's wife, James Hill) looking in at the school-house to assist
at it. Neither of them could make anything of Harriet.
"I'll tell you what it is, Aunt Susan and Aunt Nancy," said the girl
passionately, when her temper got roused: "_my mind is made up to marry
Louis_; and if you don't drop this magging now and for good; if you
attempt to worry me any further, I'll go off to Worcester, and stay with
him till the day arrives. There! how would you like that? I will, I
declare. It would be thought nothing at all of in my country, with the
wedding so near."
This shut them up. Mrs. Hill, a meek, gentle little woman, who had her
sorrows, and habitually let Miss Timmens do all the talking when they
were together, began to cry. Harriet ate her cold dinner standing, and
went off for an afternoon promenade with Monsieur Louis. From that time,
even Miss Timmens gave up all thought of opposition, seeing that events
must take their course. Harriet's parents were dead; she was over age,
and her own mistress in the eye of the law.
"Would you mind taking a turn with me in the withy walk, Harriet Roe?"
asked Maria Lease, as they were coming out of church that same night.
Harriet was alone. Louis Roe had gone back to Worcester. The request
surprised her considerably. Since Daniel Ferrar's death the past
November, Maria had been very distant with her; averting her head if
they happened to meet.
"So you have come to your senses, have you, Maria Lease?" was the half
insolent, half good-natured answer. "I'll walk down it with you if you
like."
"Come to my senses in what way?" asked Maria, in low, subdued, sad
tones, as they went towards the withy walk.
"About--_you_ know what. You blamed _me_ for what happened. As good as
laid his death at my door."
"Did you ever hear me say so?"
"Oh, I could see: your manner was enough. As if I either helped it
on--or could have prevented it! We used to have just a bit of talking
and laughing together, he and I, but that was all."
That's all! And the gold chain was still on Harriet's neck. Maria
suppressed a sigh.
"Whether I blamed you for it, Harriet Roe, or whether I blamed myself,
is of no moment now. The past can never be recalled or redeemed in this
world--its remembrance alone remains. I want to do you a little service,
Harriet. Nothing may come of it, but it is my duty to speak."
Amidst the shadows of the withy beds, under the silent stars, Maria
spoke, dropping her voice to a whisper. In a sufficiently curious but
accidental manner, she had heard something said the previous week about
Louis Roe. A stranger, who had known him in France, spoke very much
in his disfavour. He said that any girl, if she cared for her future
happiness and credit would be mad to unite herself to him. Maria had
asked no particulars; they might not have been given if she had; but the
impression of Louis Roe left on her mind was not a good one. All this
she quietly repeated to Harriet. It was received in anything but a
friendly spirit.
"Thank you for nothing, Maria Lease. Because you lost your own
husband--that was to have been--you think you'll try what you can do
to deprive me of mine. A slice of revenge, I suppose: but it won't
succeed."
"Harriet, you are mistaken," rejoined Maria; and Miss Harriet thought
she had never in her life heard so mournfully sad a tone as the words
were spoken in. "So much self-reproach fell upon me that bitter evening
when he was found dead: reproach that can never be lifted from me while
time shall last: that I do not think I can ever again do an ill turn in
this life, or give an unkind word. The whole world does not seem to be
as sinful in its wickedness as I was in my harsh unkindness; and there's
no sort of expiation left to me. If I pass my whole existence laying my
hands under other people's feet in humble hope to serve them, it cannot
undo the bitterness of my passion when I exposed him before Johnny
Ludlow. The exposure was more than he could bear; and he--he put an end
to it. I suffer always, Harriet Roe; my days are one prolonged burning
agony of repentance. Repentance that brings no relief."
"My goodness!" cried Harriet, her breath almost scared away at hearing
this, careless-natured though she was. "I'll tell you what, Maria: I
should turn Roman Catholic in your place; and let a priest absolve me
from the sin."
A priest absolve her from the sin! The strange anguish on her compressed
lips was visible as Maria Lease turned her face upwards in the
starlight. ONE Most High and merciful Priest was ever there, who could,
and would, wash out her sin. But--what of Daniel Ferrar, who had died in
his?
"If there is one person whom I would more especially seek in kindness
to serve, it is you, Harriet," she resumed, putting her hand gently
on Harriet's arm--and her fingers accidentally touched the chain
that Daniel Ferrar had hung round the girl's neck in his perfidy.
"Revenge!--from me!"
"The very idea of my giving up Louis is absurd," was Harriet's
rejoinder, as they came out of the withy walk. "Thank you all the
same, Maria Lease; and there's my hand. I see now that you meant
kindly: but no one shall set me against my promised husband."
Maria shook the hand in silence.
"Look here, Maria--don't go and tell your beautiful scandal to sharp
Susan Timmens. Not that I care whether you do or not, except on the
score of contention. She would strike up fresh opposition, and it might
come to scratching and fighting. My temper has borne enough: one can't
be a lamb always."
The wedding came off on Easter Tuesday. Harriet wore a bright silk
dress, the colour of lilac, with a wreath and veil. When the latter
ornaments came home, Miss Timmens nearly fainted. Decent young women in
their station of life were married in bonnets, she represented: not in
wreaths and veils. But Harriet Roe, reared to French customs, said
bonnets could never be admissible for a bride, and she'd sooner go to
church in a coal-scuttle. The Batley girls, in trains and straw-hats,
were bridesmaids. Miss Timmens wore a new shawl and white gloves; and
poor little David Garth--who was to die of fright before that same year
came to an end--stood with his hand locked in his mother's.
And so, in the self-same church where she had sat displaying her graces
before the ill-fated Daniel Ferrar, and by the same young clergyman who
had preached to her then, Harriet became the wife of Louis Roe, and went
away with him to London.
* * * * *
The next move in the chain of events was the death of David Garth in
Willow Cottage. It occurred in November, when Tod and I were staying
at home, and has been already told of. James Hill escaped without
punishment: it was said there was no law to touch him. He protested
through thick and thin that he meant no harm to the boy; to do him
justice, it was not supposed he had: he was finely repentant for it,
and escaped with a reprimand.
Mrs. Hill refused to remain in the cottage. What with her innate
tendency to superstition, with the real facts of the case, and with that
strange belief--that David's spirit had appeared to her in the moment of
dying; a belief firm and fixed as adamant--she passed into a state of
horror of the dwelling. Not another night could she remain in it. The
doctor himself, Cole, said she must not. Miss Timmens took her in as a
temporary thing; until the furniture could be replaced in their former
house, which was not let. Hill made no objection to this. For that
matter, he seemed afraid of the new place himself, and was glad to get
back to the old one. All his native surliness had left him for the time:
he was as a subdued man whose tongue has departed on an excursion. You
see, he had feared the law might come down upon him. The coroner's
inquest had brought in a safe verdict: all Hill received was a censure
for having locked the boy in alone: but he could not yet feel sure that
the affair would not be taken up by the magistrates: and the parish said
in his hearing that his punishment ought to be transportation at the
very least. Altogether, it subdued him.
So, as soon as David's funeral was over, and while his wife was still
with Miss Timmens, Hill began to move back his goods in a sort of humble
silence. Crowds collected to see the transport, much to Hill's annoyance
and discomfiture. The calamity had caused intense excitement in the
place; and Miss Timmens, who had a very long tongue, and hated Hill just
as much as she had loved David, kept up the ball. Hill's intention was
to lock up Willow Cottage until he could get Mr. Todhetley to release
him from it. At present he dared not ask: all of us at Crabb Cot,
from the Squire downwards, were bitterly against him for his wicked
inhumanity to poor David.
Curious to say--curious because of what was to happen out of it--as Hill
was loading the truck with the last remaining things, a stranger came up
to the cottage door. Just at the first moment, Hill did not recognize
him; he had shaved off his moustache and whiskers, and grown a beard
instead. And that alters people.
"How are you, Hill? What are you up to here?"
It was Louis Roe--who had married Mademoiselle Henriette the previous
Easter. Where they had been since, or what they had done, was a sort of
mystery, for Harriet had written only one letter. By that letter, it was
gathered that they were flourishing in London: but no address was given,
and Miss Timmens had called her a heartless jade, not to want to hear
from her best relatives.
Hill answered that he was pretty well, and went on loading; but said
nothing to the other question. Louis Roe--perceiving sundry straggling
spectators who stood peering, as if the loading of a hand-barrow with
goods were a raree-show--rather wondered at appearances, and asked
again. Hill shortly explained then that they had moved into Willow
Cottage; but his wife found it didn't suit her, and so they were moving
back again to the old home.
He went off with the truck, before he had well answered, giving no time
for further colloquy. Louis Roe happened to come across young Jim Batley
amidst the tag-rag, and heard from him all that had occurred.
"He must be a cruel devil, to leave a timid child all night in a
house alone!" was Mr. Roe's indignant comment; who, whatever his
shortcomings might be in the eyes of Miss Timmens, was not thought
to be hard-hearted.
"His mother, she sees his ghost," went on Jim Batley. "Leastways, heered
it."
Mr. Roe took no notice of this additional communication. Perhaps ghosts
held a low place in his creed--and he appeared to have plunged into a
reverie. Starting out of it in a minute or two, he ran after Hill, and
began talking in a low, business tone.
Hill could not believe his ears. Surely such luck had never befallen a
miserable man! For here was Louis Roe offering to take Willow Cottage
off his hands: to become his, Hill's, tenant for a short time. The
double rent; this, and that for the old house he was returning to; had
been weighing upon Hill's mind as heavily as David weighed upon it. The
man had saved plenty of money, but he was of a close nature. Squire
Todhetley was a generous man; but Hill felt conscious that he had
displeased him too much to expect any favour at present.
"What d'ye want of the cottage?" asked Hill, suppressing all signs of
satisfaction. "Be you and Harriet a-coming to live down here?"
"We should like to stay here for a few weeks--say till the dead of
winter's over," replied Roe. "London is a beastly dull place in bad
weather; the fogs don't agree with Harriet. I had thought of taking two
or three rooms at Birmingham: but I don't know but she'll like this
cottage best--if you will let me have it cheap."
It would be cheap enough. For Hill named the very moderate rent he
had agreed to pay the Squire. Only too glad was he, to get that. Roe
promised to pay him monthly.
North Crabb was electrified at the news. Mr. and Mrs. Roe were coming to
stay in the cottage where poor David Garth had just died. No time was
lost over it, either. On the following day some hired furniture was put
into it, and Harriet herself arrived.
She was looking very ill. And I'm sure if she had appeared with a beard
as well as her husband, her face could not have seemed more changed. Not
her face only, but her manners. Instead of figuring off in silks and
ribbons, finer than the stars, laughing with every one she met, and
throwing her handsome eyes about, she wore only plain things, and went
along noticing no one. Some people called it "pride;" Miss Timmens said
it was disappointment. The first time Tod and I met her, she never
lifted her eyes at all. Tod would have stayed to speak; but she just
said, "Good morning, gentlemen," and went on.
"I say, Johnny, there's some change there," was Tod's remark, as he
turned to look after her.
They had been in the place about a week--and Roe seemed to keep indoors,
or else was away, for no one ever saw him--when a strange turn arose,
that was destined to set the neighbourhood in an uproar. I was running
past the school-house one evening at dusk, and saw Maria Lease sitting
with Miss Timmens by fire-light. Liking Maria very much--for I always
did like her, and always shall--I went bolt in to them. James Hill's
wife was also there, in her mourning gown with crape on it, sitting
right back in the chimney corner. She had gone back to Hill then, but
made no scruple of leaving him alone often: and Hill, who had had his
lesson, put up with it. And you would never guess; no, not though you
had tried from then till Midsummer; what they were whispering about, as
though scared out of their seven senses.
David Garth's ghost was haunting Willow Cottage.
Miss Timmens was telling the story; the others listened with open
mouths. She began at the beginning again for my benefit.
"I was sitting by myself here about this time last evening, Master
Johnny, having dismissed the children, and almost too tired with their
worry to get my own tea, when Harriet Roe came gliding in at the door,
looking whiter than a sheet, and startling me beyond everything. 'Aunt
Susan,' says she in so indistinct a tone that I should have boxed one of
the girls had she attempted to use such, 'would you take pity on me and
let me stay here till to-morrow morning? Louis went away this afternoon,
and I dare not stop alone in the place all night.' 'What are you afraid
of?' I asked, not telling her at once that she might stay; but down she
sat, and threw her mantle and bonnet off--taking French leave. I never
saw _her_ in such a state before," continued Miss Timmens vehemently;
"shivering and shaking as if she had an ague, and not a particle of her
impudence left in her. 'I think that place must be damp with the willow
brook, aunt,' says she; 'it gives me a sensation of cold.' 'Now don't
you talk nonsense about your willow brooks, Harriet Roe,' says I. 'You
are not shaking for willow brooks, or for cold either, but from fright.
What is it?' 'Well then,' says she, plucking up a bit, 'I'm afraid of
seeing the boy.' 'What boy?' says I--'not David?' 'Yes; David,' she
says, and trembles worse than ever. 'He appeared to Aunt Nancy; a sign
he is not at rest; and he is as sure to be in the house as sure can be.
Dying in the way he did, and lying hid in the shed as he did, what else
is to be expected?' Well, Master Johnny, this all seemed to me very
odd--as I've just observed to Nancy," continued Miss Timmens. "It struck
me, sir, there was more behind. 'Harriet,' says I, 'have you _seen_
David Garth?' But at first no satisfactory answer could I get from her,
neither yes nor no. At last she said she had not seen him, but knew she
should if she stayed in the house by herself at night, for that he came
again, and was _in_ it. It struck me she was speaking falsely; and that
she _had_ seen him; or what she took for him."
"I know she has; I feel convinced of it," spoke up poor Mrs. Hill,
tilting back her black bonnet--worn for David--to wipe the tears from
her eyes. "Master Ludlow, don't smile, sir--though it's best perhaps for
the young to disbelieve these solemn things. As surely as that we are
talking here, my dear boy's spirit came to me in the moment of his
death. I feared it might take to haunting the cottage, sir; and that's
one reason why I could not stay in it."
"Yes; Harriet has seen him," interposed Maria Lease in low, firm tones.
"Just as I saw Daniel Ferrar. Master Johnny, _you_ know I saw _him_."
Well, truth to say, I thought she must have seen Daniel Ferrar. Having
assisted at the sight--or if not at the actual sight, at the place and
time and circumstance attending it--I did not see how else it was to be
explained away.
"Where's Harriet now?" I asked.
"She stayed here last night, and went off by rail this morning to her
grandmother's at Worcester," replied Miss Timmens. "Mother will be glad
of her for a day or so, for she keeps her bed still."
"Then who is in the cottage?"
"Nobody, sir. It's locked up. Roe is expected back to-morrow."
Miss Timmens began to set her tea-things, and I left them. Whom should I
come upon in the road, but Tod--who had been over to South Crabb. I told
him all this; and we took the broad path home through the fields, which
led us past Willow Cottage. The fun Tod made of what the women had been
saying, was beyond everything. A dreary dwelling, it looked; cold, and
deserted, and solitary in the dusky night, on which the moon was rising.
The back looked towards Crabb Ravine and the three-cornered grove in
which Daniel Ferrar had taken his own life away; and to the barn where
Maria had seen Ferrar after death. In front was the large field, bleak
and bare; and beyond, the scattered chimneys of North Crabb. A lively
dwelling altogether!--let alone what had happened in it to David Garth.
I said so.
"Yes, it is a lively spot!" acquiesced Tod. "Beautifully lively in
itself, without having the reputation of being haunted. Eugh! Let's get
home to dinner, Johnny."
Mr. and Mrs. Coney and Tom came in after dinner. Old Coney and the
Squire smoked till tea-time. When tea was over we all sat down to Pope
Joan. Mr. Coney kept mistaking hearts for diamonds, clubs for spades;
he had not his spectacles, and I offered to fetch them. Upon that, he
set upon Tom for being lazy and letting Johnny Ludlow do what it was
his place to do. The result was, that Tom Coney and I had a race which
should reach the farm first. The night was bright, the moon high.
Coming back with the spectacles, a man encountered us, tearing along
as fast as we were. And that was like mad.
"Halloa!" cried Tom. "What's up."
Tom had cause to ask it. The man was Luke Macintosh: and never in all
my life had I seen a specimen of such terror. His face was white, his
breath came in gasps. Without saying with your leave or by your leave,
he caught hold of Tom Coney's arm.
"Master, as I be a living sinner, I ha' just seen Davy Garth."
"Seen David Garth?" echoed Tom, wondering whether Luke had been
drinking.
"I see him as plain as plain. He be at that end window o' the Willow
Cottage."
"Do you mean his ghost, or himself?" asked Tom, making game of it.
"Why, his ghost, in course, sir. It's well known hisself be dead and
buried--worse luck! Mercy on us!--I'd ha' lost a month's wages rather
nor see this."
Considering Luke Macintosh was so great a coward that he would not go
through the Ravine after nightfall, this was not much from him. Neither
had his conscience been quite easy since David's death: as it may be
said that he, through refusing at the last moment to sleep in the house,
had in a degree been the remote cause of it. His account was this:
Passing the Willow Cottage on his way from North Crabb, he happened to
look up at the end window, and saw David standing there all in white in
the moonlight.
"I never see nothing plainer in all my born days, never," gasped Luke.
"His poor little face hadn't no more colour in it nor chalk. Drat them
ghosts and goblins, then! What does they come and show theirselves to
decent folk for?"
He was trembling just as Miss Timmens, some three hours before, had
described Harriet Roe to have trembled. An idea flashed into my mind.
"Now, Luke, just you confess--who is it that has put this into your
head?" I asked. But Luke only stared at me: he seemed unable to
understand.
"Some one has been telling you this to-night at North Crabb?"
"Telling me what, Master Ludlow?"
"That David Garth is haunting the cottage. It is what people are saying,
Tom," I added to Coney.
"Then, Master Johnny, I never heered a blessed syllable on't," he
replied; and so earnestly that it was not possible to doubt him. "Nobody
have said nothing to me. For the matter o' that, I didn't stop to talk
to a soul, but just put Molly's letter in the window slit--which was
what I went for--and turned back again. I wish the woman had ha' been
skinned afore she'd got me to go off to the post for her to-night.
Plague on me, to have took the way past the cottage! as if the road
warn't good enough to ha' served me!--and a sight straighter!"
"Were there lights in the cottage, Luke?" asked Coney. "Did you see the
Roes about?"
"There warn't no more sign o' light or life a-nigh the place, Mr. Tom,
no more nor if they'd all been dead and buried inside it."
"It is shut up, Tom," I said. "Roe and his wife are away."
"Lawk a mercy!--not a living creature in it but the ghost!" quaked Luke.
As I have said, this was not much from Luke, taking what he was into
consideration; but it was to be confirmed by others. One of the Coneys'
maid-servants came along, as we stood there, on her way from North
Crabb. A sensible, respectable woman, with no nonsense about her in
general; but she looked almost as scared as Luke now.
"You don't mean to say _you_ have seen it, Dinah?" cried Tom, staring at
her.
"Yes, I have, sir."
"What! seen David Garth?"
"Well, I suppose it was him. It was something at the window, in white,
that looked like him, Mr. Tom."
"Did you go on purpose to look for it, Dinah?" asked Tom ironically.
"The way I happened to go was this, sir. James Hill overtook me coming
out of North Crabb: he was going up to Willow Cottage to speak to Roe;
and I thought I'd walk with him, instead of taking the road. Not but
what he's a beauty to walk with, _he_ is, after his cruelty to his
wife's boy," broke off Dinah: "but company is company on a solitary road
at night. When we got to the cottage, Hill knocked; I stayed a minute to
say how-d'ye-do to Mrs. Roe, for I've not seen her yet. Nobody answered
the door; the place looked all dark and empty. 'They must be out for the
evening, I should think,' says Hill: and with that he steps back and
looks up at the windows. 'Lord be good to us! what's that?' says he,
when he had got round where he could see the end casement. I went to
him, and found him standing like a pump, just as stiff and upright, his
hands clutched hold of one another, and his eyes staring up at the panes
in mortal terror. 'What is it?' says I. 'It's Davvy,' says he; but the
voice didn't sound like Hill's voice, and it scared me a bit. 'Yes, it's
him,' says Hill; 'he have got on the sheet as was wrapped round him to
carry him to the shed. I--I lodged him again that there window to make
the turning; the stairs was awk'ard,' went on Hill, as if he was
speaking again the grain, but couldn't help himself.--And sure enough,
Mr. Tom--sure enough, Master Ludlow, there was David."
"Nonsense, Dinah!" cried Tom Coney.
"I saw him quite well, sir, in the white sheet," said Dinah. "The moon
was shining on the window a'most as bright as day."
"It were brighter nor day," eagerly put in Luke Macintosh. "You'll
believe me now, Mr. Tom."
"I'd not believe it if I saw it," said Tom Coney.