THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE.
The day-spring came at last, and in the sick light of it I went down to
the cottage for spade and pickaxe. In the tumult of my senses I hardly
noted that our prisoner, the dragoon, had contrived to slip his bonds
and steal off in the night.
And then Delia, seeing me return with the sad tools on my shoulder,
spoke for the first time:
“First, if there be a well near, fetch me two buckets of water, and
leave us for an hour.”
Her voice was weary and chill: so that I dared not thank her, but did
the errand in silence. Then, but a dozen paces from the spot where
Joan’s father lay, I dug a grave and strew’d it with bracken, and
heather, and gorse petals, that in the morning air smell’d rarely. And
soon after my task was done, Delia call’d me.
In her man’s dress Joan lay, her arms cross’d, her black tresses
braided, and her face gentler than ever ’twas in life. Over her wounded
breast was a bunch of some tiny pink flower, that grew about the tor.
So I lifted her softly as once in this same place she had lifted me,
and bore her down the slope to the grave: and there I buried her, while
Delia knelt and pray’d, and Molly browsed, lifting now and then her head
to look.
When all was done, we turn’d away, dry-eyed, and walked together to the
cottage. The bay horse was feeding on the moor below; and finding him
still too lame to carry Delia, I shifted the saddles, and mending the
broken rein, set her on Molly. The cottage door stood open, but we did
not enter; only look’d in, and seeing Jan Tergagle curl’d beside the
cold hearth, left him so.
Mile after mile we pass’d in silence, Delia riding, and I pacing beside
her with the bay. At last, tortur’d past bearing, I spoke—
“Delia, have you nothing to say?”
For a while she seem’d to consider: then, with her eyes fix’d on the
hills ahead, answered—
“Much, if I could speak: but all this has changed me somehow—’tis,
perhaps, that I have grown a woman, having been a girl—and need to get
used to it, and think.”
She spoke not angrily, as I look’d for; but with a painful slowness that
was less hopeful.
“But,” said I, “over and over you have shown that I am nought to you.
Surely—”
“Surely I am jealous? ’Tis possible—yes, Jack, I am but a woman, and so
’tis certain.”
“Why, to be jealous, you must love me!”
She look’d at me straight, and answered very deliberate—
“Now that is what I am far from sure of.”
“But, dear Delia, when your anger has cool’d—”
“My anger was brief: I am disappointed, rather. With her last breath,
almost, Joan said you were weaker than she: she lov’d you better than I,
and read you clearer. You _are_ weak. Jack”—she drew in Molly, and let
her hand fall on my shoulder very kindly—“we have been comrades for
many a long mile, and I hope are honest good friends; wherefore I loathe
to say a harsh or ungrateful-seeming word. But you could not understand
that brave girl, and you cannot understand me: for as yet you do not
even know yourself. The knowledge comes slowly to a man, I think; to a
woman at one rush. But when it comes, I believe you may be strong. Now
leave me to think, for my head is all of a tangle.”
Our pace was so slow (by reason of the lame horse), that a great part of
the afternoon was spent before we came in sight of the House of Gleys.
And truly the yellow sunshine had flung some warmth about the naked
walls and turrets, so that Delia’s home-coming seem’d not altogether
cheerless. But what gave us more happiness was to spy, on the blue water
beyond, the bright canvas of the _Godsend_, and to hear the cries and
stir of Billy Pottery’s mariners as they haul’d down the sails.
And Billy himself was on the lookout with his spyglass. For hardly
were we come to the beach when our signal—the waving of a white
kerchief—was answered by another on board; and within half an hour a
boat puts off, wherein, as she drew nearer, I counted eight fellows.
They were (besides Billy), Matt. Soames, the master, Gabriel Hutchins,
Ned Masters, the black man Sampson, Ben Halliday, and two whose full
names I have forgot—but one was call’d Nicholas. And, after many warm
greetings, the boat was made fast, and we climbed up along the peninsula
together, in close order, like a little army.
All this time there was no sign or sound about the House of Gleys to
show that anyone mark’d us or noted our movements. The gate was closed,
the windows stood shutter’d, as on my former visit: even the chimneys
were smokeless. Such effect had this desolation on our spirits, that
drawing near, we fell to speaking in whispers, and said Ned Masters—
“Now a man would think us come to bury somebody!”
“He might make a worse guess,” I answer’d.
Marching up to the gate, I rang a loud peal on the bell; and to my
astonishment, before the echoes had time to die away, the grating was
push’d back, and the key turn’d in the lock.
“Step ye in—step ye in, good folks! A sorry day,—a day of sobs an’
tears an’ afflicted blowings of the nose—when the grasshopper is
a burden an’ the mourners go about seeking whom they may devour the
funeral meats. Y’ are welcome, gentlemen.”
’Twas the voice of my one-eyed friend, as he undid the bolts; and now
he stood in the gateway with a prodigious black sash across his canary
livery, so long that the ends of it swept the flagstones.
“Is Master Tingcomb within?” I helped Delia to dismount, and gave our
two horses to a stable boy that stood shuffling some paces off.
“Alas!” the old man heav’d a deep sigh, and with that began to hobble
across the yard. We troop’d after, wondering. At the house door he
turn’d—
“Sirs, there is cold roasted capons, an’ a ham, an’ radishes in
choice profusion for such as be not troubled wi’ the wind: an’ cordial
wines—alack the day!”
He squeez’d a frosty tear from his one eye, and led us to a large bare
hall, hung round with portraits; where was a table spread with a plenty
of victuals, and horn-handled knives and forks laid beside plates of
pewter; and at the table a man in black, eating. He had straight hair
and a sallow face; and look’d up as we enter’d, but, groaning, in a
moment fell to again.
“Eat, sirs,” the old servitor exhorted us: “alas! that man may take
nothing out o’ the world!”
I know not who of us was most taken aback. But noting Delia’s sad
wondering face, as her eyes wander’d round the neglected room and rested
on the tatter’d portraits, I lost patience.
“Our business is with Master Hannibal Tingcomb,” said I sharply.
The straight-hair’d man look’d up again, his mouth full of ham.
“Hush!”—he held his fork up, and shook his head sorrowfully: and I
wonder’d where I had seen him before. “Hast thou an angel’s wings?” he
ask’d.
“Why, no, sir; but the devil’s own boots—as you shall find if I be not
answer’d.”
“Young man—young man,” broke in the one-eyed butler: “our minister is a
good minister, an’ speaks roundabout as such: but the short is, that my
master is dead, an’ in his coffin.”
“The mortal part,” corrected the minister, cutting another slice.
“Aye, the immortal is a-trippin’ it i’ the New Jeroosalem: but the
mortal was very lamentably took wi’ a fit, three days back—the same
day, young man, as thou earnest wi’ thy bloody threats.”
“A fit?”
“Aye, sir, an’ verily—such a fit as thou thysel’ witness’d. ’Twas the
third attack—an’ he cried, ‘Oh!’ he did, an’ ‘Ah!’—just like that.
‘Oh!’ an’ then ‘Ah!’ Such were his last dyin’ speech. ‘Dear Master,’
says I, ‘there’s no call to die so hard:’ but might so well ha’
whistled, for he was dead as nails. A beautiful corpse, sirs, dang my
buttons!”
“Show him to us.”
“Willingly, young man.” He led the way to the very room where Master
Tingcomb and I had held our interview. As before, six candles were
burning there: but the table was push’d into a corner, and now their
light fell on a long black coffin, resting on trestles in the centre of
the room. The coffin was clos’d, and studded with silver nails; on
the lid was a silver plate bearing these words written—“_Hannibal
Tingcomb_, MDCXLIII.,” with a text of Scripture below.
“Why have you nail’d him down?” I asked.
“Now where be thy bowels, young man, to talk so unfeelin’? An’ where
be thy experience, not to know the ways o’ thy blessed dead in summer
time?”
“When do you bury him?”
“To-morrow forenoon. The spot is two mile from here.” He blinked at me,
and hesitated for a minute. “Is it your purpose, sirs, to attend?”
“Be sure of that,” I said grimly. “So have beds ready to-night for all
our company.”
“All thy—! Dear sir, consider: where are beds to be found? Sure, thy
mariners can pass the night aboard their own ship?”
“So then,” thought I, “you have been on the lookout;” but Delia replied
for me—
“I am Delia Killigrew, and mistress of this house. You will prepare the
beds as you are told.” Whereupon what does that decrepit old sinner but
drop upon his knees?
“Mistress Delia! O goodly feast for this one poor eye! Oh, that Master
Tingcomb had seen this day!”
I declare the tears were running down his nose; but Delia march’d out,
cutting short his hypocrisy.
In the passage she whisper’d—
“Villainy, Jack!”
“Hush!” I answered, “and listen: _Master Tingcomb is no more in that
coffin than I._”
“Then where is he?”
“That is just what we are to discover.” As I said this a light broke on
me. “By the Lord,” I cried, “’tis the very same!”
Delia open’d her eyes wide.
“Wait,” I said: “I begin to touch ground.”
We returned to the great hall. The straight-hair’d man was still eating,
and opposite sat Billy, that had not budg’d, but now beckoning to me,
very mysterious, whisper’d in a voice that made the plates rattle—
“That’s—a damned—rogue!”
’Twas discomposing, but the truth. In fact, I had just solv’d a puzzle.
This holy-speaking minister was no other than the groom I had seen at
Bodmin Fair holding Master Tingcomb’s horses.
By this, the sun was down, and Delia soon made an excuse to withdraw to
her own room. Nor was it long before the rest followed her example. I
found our chambers prepared, near together, in a wing of the house at
some distance from the hall. Delia’s was next to mine, as I made sure by
knocking at her door: and on the other side of me slept Billy with two
of his crew. My own bed was in a great room sparely furnish’d; and the
linen indifferent white. There was a plenty of clean straw, tho’, on the
floor, had I intended to sleep—which I did not.
Instead, having blown out my light, I sat on the bed’s edge, listening
to the big clock over the hall as it chim’d the quarters, and waiting
till the fellows below should be at their ease. That Master Tingcomb
rested under the coffin lid, I did not believe, in spite of the
terrifying fit that I could vouch for. But this, if driven to it, we
could discover at the grave. The main business was to catch him; and
to this end I meant to patrol the buildings, and especially watch the
entrance, on the likely chance of his creeping back to the house (if not
already inside), to confer with his fellow-rascals.
As eleven o’clock sounded, therefore, I tapp’d on Billy’s wall; and
finding that Matt. Soames was keeping watch (as we had agreed upon),
slipp’d off my boots. Our rooms were on the first floor, over a straw
yard; and the distance to the ground an easy drop for a man. But wishing
to be silent as possible, I knotted two blankets together, and strapping
the end round the window mullion, swung myself down by one hand, holding
my boots in the other.
I dropp’d very lightly, and look’d about. There was a faint moon up and
glimmering on the straw; but under the house was deep shadow, and along
this I crept. The straw yard led into the court before the stables, and
so into the main court. All this way I heard no sound, nor spied so much
as a speck of light in any window. The house door was clos’d, and the
bar fastened on the great gate across the yard. I turn’d the corner to
explore the third side of the house.
Here was a group of outbuildings jutting out, and between them and the
high outer wall a narrow alley. ’Twas with difficulty I groped my way
here, for the passage was dark as pitch, and rendered the straiter by a
line of ragged laurels planted under the house; so that at every other
step I would stumble, and run my head into a bush.
I had done this for the eighth time, and was cursing under my breath,
when on a sudden I heard a stealthy footfall coming down the alley
behind me.
“Master Tingcomb, for a crown!” thought I, and crouch’d to one side
under a bush. The footsteps drew nearer. A dark form parted the laurels:
another moment, and I had it by the throat.
“Uugh—ugh—grr! For the Lord’s sake, sir,—”
I loos’d my hold: ’twas Matt. Soames. “Your pardon,” whisper’d I; “but
why have you left your post?”
“Black Sampson is watchin’, so I took the freedom—ugh! my poor
windpipe!—to—”
He broke off to catch me by the sleeve and pull me down behind the bush.
About twelve paces ahead I heard a door softly open’d and saw a shaft of
light flung across the path between the glist’ning laurels. As the ray
touch’d the outer wall, I mark’d a small postern gate there, standing
open.
Cowering lower, we waited while a man might count fifty. Then came
footsteps crunching the gravel, and a couple of men cross’d the path,
bearing a large chest between them. In the light I saw the handle of a
spade sticking out from it: and by his gait I knew the second man to be
my one-ey’d friend.
“Woe’s my old bones!” he was muttering: “here’s a fardel for a man o’ my
years!”
“Hold thy breath for the next load!” growl’d the other voice, which as
surely was the good minister’s.
They pass’d out of the small gate, and by the sounds that follow’d,
we guess’d they were hoisting their burden into a cart. Presently they
re-cross’d the path, and entered the house, shutting the door after
them.
“Now for it!” said I in Matt’s ear. Gliding forward, I peep’d out at the
postern gate; but drew back like a shot.
I had almost run my head into a great black hearse, that stood there
with the door open, back’d against the gate, the heavy plumes nodding
above it in the night wind.
Who held the horses I had not time to see: but whispering to Matt, to
give me a leg up, clamber’d inside. “Quick!” I pull’d him after, and
crept forward. I wonder’d the man did not hear us: but by good luck the
horses were restive, and by his maudlin talk to them I knew he was three
parts drunk—on the funeral wines, doubtless.
I crept along, and found the tool chest stow’d against the further end:
so, pulling it gently out, we got behind it. Tho’ Matt was the littlest
man of my acquaintance, ’twas the work of the world to stow ourselves in
such compass as to be hidden. By coiling up our limbs we managed it; but
only just before I caught the glimmer of a light and heard the pair of
rascals returning.
They came very slow, grumbling all the way; and of course, I knew they
carried the coffin.
“All right, Sim?” ask’d the minister.
“Aye,” piped a squeaky voice by the horses heads (’twas the shuffling
stable boy), “aye, but look sharp! Lord, what sounds I’ve heerd! The
devil’s i’ the hearse, for sure!”
“Now, Simmy,” the one-ey’d gaffer expostulated, “thou dostn’ think the
smoky King is a-took in, same as they poor folks upstairs? Tee-hee!
Lord, what a trick!—to come for Master Tingcomb, an’ find—aw
dear!—aw, bless my old ribs, what a thing is humor!”
“Shut up!” grunted the minister. The end of the coffin was tilted up
into the hearse. “Push, old varmint!”
“Aye-push, push! Where be my young, active sinews? What a shrivell’d
garment is all my comeliness! ‘The devil inside,’ says Simmy—haw, haw!”
“Burn the thing! ’twon’t go in for the tool box. Push, thou cackling old
worms!”
“Now so I be, but my natural strength is abated. ‘Yo-heave ho!’ like the
salted seafardingers upstairs. Push, push!”
“Oh, my inwards!” groans poor Matt, under his breath, into whom the
chest was squeezing sorely.
“Right at last!” says the minister. “Now, Simmy, nay lad, hand the reins
an’ jump up. There’s room, an’ you’ll be wanted.”
The door was clapp’d-to, the three rogues climb’d upon the seat in
front: and we started.
I hope I may never be call’d to pass such another half hour as that
which follow’d. As soon as the wheels left turf for the hard road, ’twas
jolt, jolt all the way; and this lying mainly down hill, the chest and
coffin came grinding into our ribs, and pressing till we could scarce
breathe. And I dared not climb out over them, for fear the fellows
should hear us; their chuckling voices coming quite plain to us from the
other side of the panel. I held out, and comforted Matt, as well as I
could, feeling sure we should find Master Tingcomb at our journey’s end.
Soon we climb’d a hill, which eas’d us a little; but shortly after were
bumping down again, and suffering worse than ever.
“Save us,” moan’d Matt, “where will this end?”
The words were scarce out, when we turn’d sharp to the right, with
a jolt that shook our teeth together, roll’d for a little while over
smooth grass, and drew up.
I heard the fellows climbing down, and got my pistols out.
“Simmy,” growl’d the minister, “where’s the lantern?”
There was a minute or so of silence, and then the snapping of flint and
steel, and the sound of puffing.
“Lit, Simmy?”
“Aye, here ’tis.”
“Fetch it along then.”
The handle of the door was turn’d, and a light flash’d into the hearse.
“Here, hold the lantern steady! Come hither, old Squeaks, and help wi’
the end.”
“Surely I will. Well was I call’d Young Look-alive when a gay, fleeting
boy. Simmy, my son, thou’rt sadly drunken. O youth, youth! Thou
winebibber, hold the light steady, or I’ll tell thy mammy!”
“Oh, sir, I do mortally dread the devil an’ all his works!”
“Now, if ever! The devil,’ says he—an’ Master Tingcomb still livin’,
an’ in his own house awaitin’ us!”
Be sure, his words were as good as a slap in the face to me. For I had
counted the hearse to lead me straight to Master Tingcomb himself. “In
his own house,” too! A fright seiz’d me for Delia. But first I must deal
with these scoundrels, who already were dragging out the coffin.
“Steady there!” calls the minister. The coffin was more than halfway
outside. I levell’d my pistol over the edge of the tool chest, and
fetch’d a yell fit to wake a ghost—at the same time letting fly
straight for the minister.
In the flash of the discharge, I saw him, half-turn’d, his eyes
starting, and mouth agape. He clapp’d his hand to his shoulder. On top
of his wild shriek, broke out a chorus of screams and oaths, in the
middle of which the coffin tilted up and went over with a crash.
“Satan—Satan!” bawled Simmy, and, dropping the lantern, took to his
heels for dear life. At the same moment the horses took fright; and
before I could scramble out, we were tearing madly away over the turf
and into the darkness. I had made a sad mess of it.
It must have been a full minute before the hedge turn’d them, and gave
me time to drop out at the back and run to their heads. Matt. Soames
was after me, quick as thought, and very soon we mastered them, and
gathering up the reins from between their legs, led them back. As luck
would have it, the lantern had not been quench’d by the fall, but lay
flaring, and so guided us. Also a curious bright radiance seem’d growing
on the sky, for which I could not account. The three knaves were nowhere
to be seen, but I heard their footsteps scampering in the distance, and
Simmy still yelling “Satan!” I knew my bullet had hit the minister; but
he had got away, and I never set eyes on any of the three again.
Leaving Matt to mind the horses, I caught up the lantern, and look’d
about me. As well as could be seen, we were in a narrow meadow between
two hills, whereof the black slopes rose high above us. Some paces to
the right, my ear caught the noise of a stream running.
I turn’d the lantern on the coffin, which lay face downward, and with a
gasp took in the game those precious rogues had been playing. For, with
the fall of it, the boards (being but thin) were burst clean asunder;
and on both sides had tumbled out silver cups, silver saltcellars,
silver plates and dishes, that in the lantern’s rays sparkled prettily
on the turf. The coffin, in short, was stuff’d with Delia’s silverware.
I had pick’d up a great flagon, and was turning it over to read the
inscription, when Matt. Soames call’d to me, and pointed over the hill
in front. Above it the whole sky was red and glowing.
“Sure,” said he, “’tis a fire out yonder!”
“God help us, Matt.—’tis the House of Gleys!”
It took but two minutes to toss the silver back into the hearse. I
clapp’d-to the door, and snatching the reins, sprang upon the driver’s
seat.