list of those who were to be guillotined next morning, was brought into
the prison; and Monsieur the Viscount begged for a sight of it. It was
brought to him. First on the list was Antoine! Halfway down was his own
name, "Louis de B--," and a little lower his fascinated gaze fell upon
names that stirred his heart with such a passion of regret as he had
fancied it would never feel again, "Henri de St. Claire, Valerie de St.
Claire."
Her eyes seemed to shine on him from the gathering twilight, and her
calm voice to echo in his ears. "_It has been in my mind all to-day.
There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest._"
_There!_ He buried his face and prayed.
He was disturbed by the unlocking of the door, and the new gaoler
appeared with Antoine! The poor wretch seemed overpowered by terror. He
had begged to be imprisoned for this last night with Monsieur the
Viscount. It was only a matter of a few hours, as they were to die at
daybreak, and his request was granted.
Antoine's entrance turned the current of Monsieur the Viscount's
thoughts. No more selfish reflections now. He must comfort this poor
creature, of whose death he was to be the unintentional cause. Antoine's
first anxiety was that Monsieur the Viscount should bear witness that
the gaoler had treated him kindly, and so earned the blessing and not
the curse of Monsieur le Cure, whose powerful presence seemed to haunt
him still. On this score he was soon set at rest, and then came the old,
old story. He had been but a bad man. If his life were to come over
again, he would do differently. Did Monsieur the Viscount think that
there was any hope?
Would Monsieur the Viscount have recognized himself, could he, two years
ago, have seen himself as he was now? Kneeling by that rough,
uncultivated figure, and pleading with all the eloquence that he could
master to that rough uncultivated heart, the great Truths of
Christianity,--so great and few and simple in their application to our
needs! The violet eyes had never appealed more tenderly, the soft voice
had never been softer than now, as he strove to explain to this ignorant
soul, the cardinal doctrines of Faith and Repentance, and Charity, with
an earnestness that was perhaps more effectual than his preaching.
Monsieur the Viscount was quite as much astonished as flattered by the
success of his instructions. The faith on which he had laid hold with
such mortal struggles, seemed almost to "come natural" (as people say)
to Antoine. With abundant tears, he professed the deepest penitence for
his past life, at the same time that he accepted the doctrine of the
Atonement as a natural remedy, and never seemed to have a doubt in the
Infinite Mercy that should cover his infinite guilt.
It was all so orthodox that even if he had doubted (which he did not)
the sincerity of the gaoler's contrition and belief, Monsieur the
Viscount could have done nothing but envy the easy nature of Antoine's
convictions. He forgot the difference of their respective capabilities!
When the night was far advanced the men rose from their knees, and
Monsieur the Viscount persuaded Antoine to lie down on his pallet, and
when the gaoler's heavy breathing told that he was asleep, Monsieur the
Viscount felt relieved to be alone once more; alone, except for Monsieur
Crapaud, whose round fiery eyes were open as usual.
The simplicity with which he had been obliged to explain the truths of
Divine Love to Antoine, was of signal service to Monsieur the Viscount
himself. It left him no excuse for those intricacies of doubt, with
which refined minds too often torture themselves; and as he paced feebly
up and down the cell, all the long-withheld peace for which he had
striven since his imprisonment seemed to flood into his soul. How
blessed--how undeservedly blessed--was his fate! Who or what was he that
after such short, such mitigated sufferings, the crown of victory should
be so near? The way had seemed long to come, it was short to look back
upon, and now the golden gates were almost reached, the everlasting
doors were open. A few more hours, and then--! and as Monsieur the
Viscount buried his worn face in his hands, the tears that trickled from
his fingers were literally tears of joy.
He groped his way to the stone, pushed some straw close to it, and lay
down on the ground to rest, watched by Monsieur Crapaud's fiery eyes.
And as he lay, faces seemed to him to rise out of the darkness, to take
the form and features of the face of the Priest, and to gaze at him with
unutterable benediction. And in his mind, like some familiar piece of
music, awoke the words that had been written on the fly-leaf of the
little book; coming back, sleepily and dreamily, over and over again--
"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur! Souvenez-vous du Sauveur!_"
(Remember the Saviour!)
In that remembrance he fell asleep.
Monsieur the Viscount's sleep for some hours was without a dream. Then
it began to be disturbed by that uneasy consciousness of sleeping too
long, which enables some people to awake at whatever hour they have
resolved upon. At last it became intolerable, and wearied as he was, he
awoke. It was broad daylight, and Antoine was snoring beside him. Surely
the cart would come soon, the executions were generally at an early
hour. But time went on, and no one came, and Antoine awoke. The hours of
suspense passed heavily, but at last there were steps and a key rattled
into the lock. The door opened, and the gaoler appeared with a jug of
milk and a loaf. With a strange smile he set them down.
"A good appetite to you, citizens."
Antoine flew on him. "Comrade! we used to be friends. Tell me, what is
it? Is the execution deferred?"
"The execution has taken place at last," said the other, significantly;
"_Robespierre is dead!_" and he vanished.
Antoine uttered a shriek of joy. He wept, he laughed, he cut capers, and
flinging himself at Monsieur the Viscount's feet, he kissed them
rapturously. When he raised his eyes to Monsieur the Viscount's face,
his transports moderated. The last shock had been too much, he seemed
almost in a stupor. Antoine got him on the pallet, dragged the blanket
over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurse once more.
On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awoke from
the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror was ended!
CHAPTER III.
It was a year of grace early in the present century.
We are again in the beautiful country of beautiful France. It is the
chateau once more. It is the same, but changed. The unapproachable
elegance, the inviolable security, have witnessed invasion. The right
wing of the chateau is in ruins, with traces of fire upon the blackened
walls; while here and there, a broken statue or a roofless temple, are
sad memorials of the Revolution. Within the restored part of the
chateau, however, all looks well. Monsieur the Viscount has been
fortunate, and if not so rich a man as his father, has yet regained
enough of his property to live with comfort, and, as he thinks, luxury.
The long rooms are little less elegant than in former days, and Madame
the present Viscountess's boudoir is a model of taste. Not far from it
is another room, to which it forms a singular contrast. This room
belongs to Monsieur the Viscount. It is small, with one window. The
floor and walls are bare, and it contains no furniture; but on the floor
is a worn-out pallet, by which lies a stone, and on that a broken
pitcher, and in a little frame against the wall is preserved a crumpled
bit of paper like the fly-leaf of some little book, on which is a
half-effaced inscription, which can be deciphered by Monsieur the
Viscount if by no one else. Above the window is written in large
letters, a date and the word REMEMBER. Monsieur the Viscount is not
likely to forget, but he is afraid of himself and of prosperity lest it
should spoil him.
It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the terrace
with Madame on his arm. He has only one to offer her, for where the
other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on which a bit
of ribbon is stirred by the breeze. Monsieur the Viscount has not been
idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him to die, has
taught him also how to live,--an honorable, useful life.
It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets by
which Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling. Madame (who has a fair face and
ashen hair) stands by him with her little hand on his shoulder and her
large eyes upon the violets.
"My friend! My friend! My friend!" It is Monsieur the Viscount's voice,
and at the sound of it, there is a rustle among the violets that sends
the perfume high into the air. Then from the parted leaves come forth
first a dirty wrinkled leg, then a dirty wrinkled head with gleaming
eyes, and Monsieur Crapaud crawls with self-satisfied dignity on to
Monsieur the Viscount's outstretched hand.
So they stay laughing and chatting, and then Monsieur the Viscount bids
his friend good-night, and holds him towards Madame, that she may do the
same. But Madame (who did not enjoy Monsieur Crapaud's society in
prison) cannot be induced to do more than scratch his head delicately
with the tip of her white finger. But she respects him greatly, at a
distance, she says. Then they go back along the terrace, and are met by
a man-servant in Monsieur the Viscount's livery. Is it possible that
this is Antoine, with his shock head covered with powder?
Yes; that grating voice which no mental change avails to subdue, is his,
and he announces that Monsieur le Cure has arrived. It is the old Cure
of the village (who has survived the troubles of the Revolution), and
many are the evenings he spends at the chateau, and many the times in
which the closing acts of a noble life are recounted to him, the life of
his old friend whom he hopes ere long to see,--of Monsieur the
Preceptor. He is kindly welcomed by Monsieur and by Madame, and they
pass on together into the chateau. And when Monsieur the Viscount's
steps have ceased to echo from the terrace, Monsieur Crapaud buries
himself once more among the violets.
* * * * *
Monsieur the Viscount is dead, and Madame sleeps also at his side; and
their possessions have descended to their son.
Not the least valued among them, is a case with a glass front and sides,
in which, seated upon a stone is the body of a toad stuffed with
exquisite skill, from whose head gleam eyes of genuine topaz. Above it
in letters of gold is a date, and this inscription:--
"MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND."
ADIEU!
THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS.
CHAPTER I.
"Cowards are cruel."
OLD PROVERB.
This story begins on a fine autumn afternoon, when at the end of a field
over which the shadows of a few wayside trees were stalking like long
thin giants, a man and a boy sat side by side upon a stile. They were
not a happy looking pair. The boy looked uncomfortable, because he
wanted to get away, and dared not go. The man looked uncomfortable also;
but then no one had ever seen him look otherwise, which was the more
strange as he never professed to have any object in life but his own
pleasure and gratification. Not troubling himself with any consideration
of law or principle--of his own duty or other people's comfort--he had
consistently spent his whole time and energies in trying to be jolly;
and though now a grown-up young man, had so far had every appearance of
failing in the attempt. From this it will be seen that he was not the
most estimable of characters, and we shall have no more to do with him
than we can help; but as he must appear in the story, he may as well be
described.
If constant self-indulgence had answered as well as it should have done,
he would have been a fine-looking young man; as it was, the habits of
his life were fast destroying his appearance. His hair would have been
golden if it had been kept clean. His figure was tall and strong; but
the custom of slinking about places where he had no business to be, and
lounging in corners where he had nothing to do, had given it such a
hopeless slouch, that for the matter of beauty he might almost as well
have been knock-kneed. His eyes would have been handsome if the lids had
been less red; and if he had ever looked you in the face, you would have
seen that they were blue. His complexion was fair by nature, and
discolored by drink. His manner was something between a sneak and a
swagger, and he generally wore his cap a-one-side, carried his hands in
his pockets, and a short stick under his arm, and whistled when any one
passed him. His chief characteristic perhaps was a habit he had of
kicking. Indoors he kicked the furniture; in the road he kicked the
stones; if he lounged against a wall he kicked it; he kicked all
animals, and such human beings as he felt sure would not kick him again.
It should be said here that he had once announced his intention of
"turning steady, and settling, and getting wed." The object of his
choice was the prettiest girl in the village, and was as good as she was
pretty. To say the truth, the time had been when Bessy had not felt
unkindly towards the yellow-haired lad; but his conduct had long put a
gulf between them, which only the conceit of a scamp would have
attempted to pass. However, he flattered himself that he "knew what the
lasses meant when they said no;" and on the strength of this knowledge
he presumed far enough to elicit a rebuff so hearty and unmistakable,
that for a week he was the laughing-stock of the village. There was no
mistake this time as to what "no" meant; his admiration turned to a
hatred almost as intense, and he went faster "to the bad" than ever.
It was Bessy's little brother who sat by him on the stile; "Beauty
Bill," as he was called, from the large share he possessed of the family
good looks. The lad was one of those people who seem born to be
favorites. He was handsome and merry and intelligent; and being well
brought up, was well-conducted and amiable--the pride and pet of the
village. Why did Mother Muggins of the shop let the goody side of her
scales of justice drop the lower by one lollipop for Bill than for any
other lad, and exempt him by unwonted smiles from her general anathema
on the urchin race? There were other honest boys in the parish who paid
for their treacle-sticks in sterling copper of the realm! The very
roughs of the village were proud of him, and would have showed their
good nature in ways little to his benefit, had not his father kept a
somewhat severe watch upon his habits and conduct. Indeed, good parents
and a strict home counterbalanced the evils of popularity with Beauty
Bill, and on the whole he was little spoilt, and well deserved the favor
he met with. It was under cover of friendly patronage that his companion
was now detaining him; but all the circumstances considered, Bill felt
more suspicious than gratified, and wished Bully Tom anywhere but where
he was.
The man threw out one leg before him like the pendulum of a clock--
"Night school's opened, eh?" he inquired; and back swung the pendulum
against Bill's shins.
"Yes;" and the boy screwed his legs on one side.
"You don't go, do you?"
"Yes, I do," said Bill, trying not to feel ashamed of the fact. "Father
can't spare me to the day-school now, so our Bessy persuaded him to let
me go at nights."
Bully Tom's face looked a shade darker, and the pendulum took a swing
which it was fortunate the lad avoided; but the conversation continued
with every appearance of civility.
"You come back by Yew-lane, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Why, there's no one lives your way but old Johnson; you must come back
alone?"
"Of course I do," said Bill, beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable.
"It must be dark now before school looses?" was the next inquiry; and
the boy's discomfort increased, he hardly knew why, as he answered--
"There's a moon."
"So there is," said Bully Tom, in a tone of polite assent; "and there's
a weathercock on the church steeple; but I never heard of either of 'em
coming down to help a body, whatever happened."
Bill's discomfort had become alarm.
"Why, what could happen?" he asked. "I don't understand you."
His companion whistled, looked up in the air, and kicked vigorously, but
said nothing. Bill was not extraordinarily brave, but he had a fair
amount both of spirit and sense; and having a shrewd suspicion that
Bully Tom was trying to frighten him, he almost made up his mind to run
off then and there. Curiosity, however, and a vague alarm which he could
not throw off, made him stay for a little more information.
"I wish you'd out with it!" he exclaimed impatiently. "What could
happen? No one ever comes along Yew-lane; and if they did, they wouldn't
hurt me."
"I know no one ever comes near it when they can help it," was the reply;
"so to be sure you couldn't get set upon; and a pious lad of your sort
wouldn't mind no other kind. Not like ghosts or anything of that."
And Bully Tom looked round at his companion; a fact disagreeable from
its rarity.
"I don't believe in ghosts," said Bill, stoutly.
"Of course you don't," sneered his tormentor; "you're too well educated.
Some people does, though. I suppose them that has seen them does. Some
people thinks that murdered men walk. P'raps some people thinks the man
as was murdered in Yew-lane walks."
"What man?" gasped Bill, feeling very chilly down the spine.
"Him that was riding by the cross roads and dragged into Yew-lane, and
his head cut off and never found, and his body buried in the
churchyard," said Bully Tom, with a rush of superior information; "and
all I know is, if I thought he walked in Yew-lane, or any other lane, I
wouldn't go within five mile of it after dusk--that's all. But then I'm
not book-larned."
The two last statements were true if nothing else was that the man had
said; and after holding up his feet and examining his boots with his
head a-one-side, as if considering their probable efficiency against
flesh and blood, he slid from his perch, and "loafed" slowly up the
street, whistling and kicking the stones as he went along. As to Beauty
Bill, he fled home as fast as his legs would carry him. By the door
stood Bessy, washing some clothes, who turned her pretty face as he came
up.
"You're late, Bill," she said. "Go in and get your tea, it's set out.
It's night-school night, thou knows, and Master Arthur always likes his
class to time." He lingered, and she continued--"John Gardener was down
this afternoon about some potatoes, and he says Master Arthur is
expecting a friend."
Bill did not heed this piece of news, any more than the slight flush on
his sister's face as she delivered it; he was wondering whether what
Bully Tom said was mere invention to frighten him, or whether there was
any truth in it.
"Bessy!" he said, "was there a man ever murdered in Yew-lane?"
Bessy was occupied with her own thoughts, and did not notice the anxiety
of the question.
"I believe there was," she answered carelessly, "somewhere about there.
It's a hundred years ago or more. There's an old gravestone over him in
the churchyard by the wall, with an odd verse on it. They say the parish
clerk wrote it. But get your tea, or you'll be late, and father'll be
angry;" and Bessy took up her tub and departed.
Poor Bill! Then it was too true. He began to pull up his trousers and
look at his grazed legs; and the thoughts of his aching shins, Bully
Tom's cruelty, the unavoidable night-school, and the possible ghost,
were too much for him, and he burst into tears.
CHAPTER II.
"There are birds out on the bushes,
In the meadows lies the lamb;
How I wonder if they're ever
Half as frightened as I am?"
C. F. ALEXANDER.
The night-school was drawing to a close. The attendance had been good,
and the room looked cheerful. In one corner the Rector was teaching a
group of grown-up men, who (better late than never) were zealously
learning to read; in another the schoolmaster was flourishing his stick
before a map as he concluded his lesson in geography. By the fire sat
Master Arthur, the Rector's son, surrounded by his class, and in front
of him stood Beauty Bill. Master Arthur was very popular with the
people, especially with his pupils. The boys were anxious to get into
his class, and loath to leave it. They admired his great height, his
merry laugh, the variety of walking-sticks he brought with him, and his
very funny way of explaining pictures. He was not a very methodical
teacher, and was rather apt to give unexpected lessons on subjects in
which he happened just then to be interested himself; but he had a clear
simple way of explaining anything, which impressed it on the memory, and
he took a great deal of pains in his own way. Bill was especially
devoted to him. He often wished that Master Arthur could get very rich,
and take him for his man-servant; he thought he should like to brush his
clothes and take care of his sticks. He had a great interest in the
growth of his mustache and whiskers. For some time past Master Arthur
had had a trick of pulling at his upper lip while he was teaching; which
occasionally provoked a whisper of "Moostarch, guvernor!" between two
unruly members of his class; but never till to-night had Bill seen
anything in that line which answered his expectations. Now, however, as
he stood before the young gentleman, the fire-light fell on such a
distinct growth of hair, that Bill's interest became absorbed to the
exclusion of all but the most perfunctory attention to the lesson on
hand. Would Master Arthur grow a beard? Would his mustache be short like
the pictures of Prince Albert, or long and pointed like that of some
other great man whose portrait he had seen in the papers? He was
calculating on the probable effect of either style, when the order was
given to put away books, and then the thought which had been for a time
diverted came back again,--his walk home.
Poor Bill! his fears returned with double force from having been for a
while forgotten. He dawdled over the books, he hunted in wrong places
for his cap and comforter, he lingered till the last boy had clattered
through the door-way and left him with the group of elders who closed
the proceedings and locked up the school. But after this, further delay
was impossible. The whole party moved out into the moonlight, and the
Rector and his son, the schoolmaster and the teachers, commenced a
sedate parish gossip, while Bill trotted behind, wondering whether any
possible or impossible business would take one of them his way. But when
the turning-point was reached, the Rector destroyed all his hopes.
"None of us go your way, I think," said he, as lightly as if there were
no grievance in the case; "however, it's not far. Good-night, my boy!"
And so with a volley of good-nights, the cheerful voices passed on up
the village. Bill stood till they had quite died away, and then, when
all was silent, he turned into the lane.
The cold night-wind crept into his ears, and made uncomfortable noises
among the trees, and blew clouds over the face of the moon. He almost
wished that there were no moon. The shifting shadows under his feet, and
the sudden patches of light on unexpected objects, startled him, and he
thought he should have felt less frightened if it had been quite dark.
Once he ran for a bit, then he resolved to be brave, then to be
reasonable; he repeated scraps of lessons, hymns, and last Sunday's
Collect, to divert and compose his mind; and as this plan seemed to
answer, he determined to go through the Catechism, both question and
answer, which he hoped might carry him to the end of his unpleasant
journey. He had just asked himself a question with considerable dignity,
and was about to reply, when a sudden gleam of moonlight lit up a round
object in the ditch. Bill's heart seemed to grow cold, and he thought
his senses would have forsaken him. Could this be the head of--? No! on
nearer inspection it proved to be only a turnip; and when one came to
think of it, that would have been rather a conspicuous place for the
murdered man's skull to have been lost in for so many years.
My hero must not be ridiculed too much for his fears. The terrors that
visit childhood are not the less real and overpowering from being
unreasonable; and to excite them is wanton cruelty. Moreover, he was but
a little lad, and had been up and down Yew-lane both in daylight and
dark without any fears, till Bully Tom's tormenting suggestions had
alarmed him. Even now, as he reached the avenue of yews from which the
lane took its name, and passed into their gloomy shade, he tried to be
brave. He tried to think of the good God Who takes care of His children,
and to Whom the darkness and the light are both alike. He thought of all
he had been taught about angels, and wondered if one were near him now,
and wished that he could see him, as Abraham and other good people had
seen angels. In short, the poor lad did his best to apply what he had
been taught to the present emergency, and very likely had he not done so
he would have been worse; but as it was, he was not a little frightened,
as we shall see.
Yew-lane--cool and dark when the hottest sunshine lay beyond it--a
loitering-place for lovers--the dearly loved play-place of generations
of children on sultry summer days--looked very grim and vault-like, with
narrow streaks of moonlight peeping in at rare intervals to make the
darkness to be felt! Moreover, it was really damp and cold, which is not
favorable to courage. At a certain point Yew-lane skirted a corner of
the churchyard, and was itself crossed by another road, thus forming a
"four-want-way," where suicides were buried in times past. This road
was the old highroad, where the mail-coach ran, and along which, on such
a night as this, a hundred years ago, a horseman rode his last ride. As
he passed the church on his fatal journey, did anything warn him how
soon his headless body would be buried beneath its shadow? Bill
wondered. He wondered if he were old or young--what sort of a horse he
rode--whose cruel hands dragged him into the shadow of the yews and slew
him, and where his head was hidden and why. Did the church look just the
same, and the moon shine just as brightly, that night a century ago?
Bully Tom was right. The weathercock and the moon sit still, whatever
happens. The boy watched the gleaming highroad as it lay beyond the dark
aisle of trees, till he fancied he could hear the footfalls of the
solitary horse--and yet no! The sound was not upon the hard road, but
nearer; it was not the clatter of hoofs, but something--and a
rustle--and then Bill's blood seemed to freeze in his veins, as he saw a
white figure, wrapped in what seemed to be a shroud, glide out of the
shadow of the yews and move slowly down the lane. When it reached the
road it paused, raised a long arm warningly towards him for a moment,
and then vanished in the direction of the churchyard.
What would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poor lad
experienced is more than any one can say, if at that moment the church
clock had not begun to strike nine. The familiar sound, close in his
ears, roused him from the first shock, and before it had ceased he
contrived to make a desperate rally of his courage, flew over the road,
and crossed the two fields that now lay between him and home without
looking behind him.
CHAPTER III.
"It was to her a real _grief of heart_, acute, as children's
sorrows often are.
"We beheld this from the opposite windows--and, seen thus
from a little distance, how many of our own and of other
people's sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and equally
deserving of ridicule!"
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much more
practical subject than that of ghosts and haunted yew-trees. Bessy was
ill. She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towards night
had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who had pronounced
it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed. He was just coming down-stairs as
Bill burst into the house. The mother was too much occupied about her
daughter to notice the lad's condition; but the doctor's sharp eyes saw
that something was amiss, and he at once inquired what it was. Bill
hammered and stammered, and stopped short. The doctor was such a tall,
stout, comfortable-looking man, he looked as if he couldn't believe in
ghosts. A slight frown however had come over his comfortable face, and
he laid two fingers on Bill's wrist as he repeated his question.
"Please sir," said Bill, "I've seen--"
"A mad dog?" suggested the doctor.
"No, sir."
"A mad bull?"
"No, sir," said Bill, desperately, "I've seen a ghost."
The doctor exploded into a fit of laughter, and looked more comfortable
than ever.
"And _where_ did we see the ghost?" he inquired in a professional voice,
as he took up his coat-tails and warmed himself at the fire.
"In Yew-lane, sir; and I'm sure I did see it," said Bill, half crying;
"it was all in white, and beckoned me."
"That's to say, you saw a white gravestone, or a tree in the moonlight,
or one of your classmates dressed up in a table-cloth. It was all
moonshine, depend upon it," said the doctor, with a chuckle at his own
joke; "take my advice, my boy, and don't give way to foolish fancies."
At this point the mother spoke--
"If his father knew, sir, as he'd got any such fads in his head, he'd
soon flog 'em out of him."
"His father is a very good one," said the doctor; "a little too fond of
the stick, perhaps. There," he added good-naturedly, slipping sixpence
into Bill's hand, "get a new knife, my boy, and cut a good thick stick,
and the next ghost you meet, lay hold of him and let him taste it."
Bill tried to thank him, but somehow his voice was choked, and the
doctor turned to his mother.
"The boy has been frightened," he said, "and is upset. Give him some
supper, and put him to bed." And the good gentleman departed.
Bill was duly feasted and sent to rest. His mother did not mention the
matter to her husband, as she knew he would be angry; and occupied with
real anxiety for her daughter, she soon forgot it herself. Consequently,
the next night-school night she sent Bill to "clean himself," hurried on
his tea, and packed him off, just as if nothing had happened. The boy's
feelings since the night of the apparition had not been enviable. He
could neither eat nor sleep. As he lay in bed at night, he kept his face
covered with the clothes, dreading that if he peeped out into the room
the phantom of the murdered horseman would beckon to him from the dark
corners. Lying so till the dawn broke and the cocks began to crow, he
would then look cautiously forth, and seeing by the gray light that the
corners were empty, and that the figure by the door was not the Yew-lane
Ghost, but his mother's faded print dress hanging on a nail, would drop
his head and fall wearily asleep. The day was no better, for each hour
brought him nearer to the next night-school; and Bessy's illness made
his mother so busy that he never could find the right moment to ask her
sympathy for his fears, and still less could he feel himself able to
overcome them. And so the night-school came round again, and there he
sat, gulping down a few mouthfuls of food, and wondering how he should
begin to tell his mother that he neither dare, could, nor would, go down
Yew-lane again at night. He had just opened his lips when the father
came in, and asked in a loud voice "why Bill was not off." This
effectually put a stop to any confidences, and the boy ran out of the
house. Not, however, to school. He made one or two desperate efforts at
determination, and then gave up altogether. He _could_ not go!
He was wondering what he should do with himself, when it struck him that
he would go while it was daylight and look for the grave with the odd
verse of which Bessy had spoken. He had no difficulty in finding it. It
was marked by a large ugly stone, on which the inscription was green,
and in some places almost effaced.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY.
OF
EPHRAIM GARNETT--
He had read so far when a voice close by him said--
"You'll be late for school, young chap."
Bill looked up, and to his horror beheld Bully Tom standing in the road
and kicking the churchyard wall.
"Aren't you going!" he asked, as Bill did not speak.
"Not to-night," said Bill, with crimson cheeks.
"Larking, eh?" said Bully Tom. "My eyes, won't your father give it you!"
and he began to move off.
"Stop!" shouted Bill in an agony; "don't tell him, Tom. That would be a
dirty trick. I'll go next time, I will indeed; I can't go to-night. I'm
not larking, I'm scared. You won't tell?"
"Not this time, maybe," was the reply; "but I wouldn't be in your shoes
if you play this game next night;" and off he went.
Bill thought it well to quit the churchyard at once for some place where
he was not likely to be seen; he had never played truant before, and for
the next hour or two was thoroughly miserable as he slunk about the
premises of a neighboring farm, and finally took refuge in a shed, and
began to consider his position. He would remain hidden till nine
o'clock, and then go home. If nothing were said, well and good; unless
some accident should afterwards betray him. But if his mother asked any
questions about the school? He dared not, and he would not, tell a lie;
and yet what would be the result of the truth coming out? There could be
no doubt that his father would beat him. Bill thought again, and decided
that he could bear a thrashing, but not the sight of the Yew-lane Ghost;
so he remained where he was, wondering how it would be, and how he
should get over the next school-night when it came. The prospect was so
hopeless, and the poor lad so wearied with anxiety and wakeful nights,
that he was almost asleep when he was startled by the church clock
striking nine; and jumping up he ran home. His heart beat heavily as he
crossed the threshold; but his mother was still absorbed by thoughts of
Bessy, and he went to bed unquestioned. The next day too passed over
without any awkward remarks, which was very satisfactory; but then
night-school day came again, and Bill felt that he was in a worse
position than ever. He had played truant once with success; but he was
aware that it would not do a second time. Bully Tom was spiteful, and
Master Arthur might come to "look up" his recreant pupil, and then
Bill's father would know all.
On the morning of the much-dreaded day, his mother sent him up to the
Rectory to fetch some little delicacy that had been promised for Bessy's
dinner. He generally found it rather amusing to go there. He liked to
peep at the pretty garden, to look out for Master Arthur, and to sit in
the kitchen and watch the cook, and wonder what she did with all the
dishes and bright things that decorated the walls. To-day all was quite
different. He avoided the gardens, he was afraid of being seen by his
teacher, and though cook had an unusual display of pots and pans in
operation, he sat in the corner of the kitchen indifferent to everything
but the thought of the Yew-lane Ghost. The dinner for Bessy was put
between two saucers, and as cook gave it into his hands she asked kindly
after his sister, and added--
"You don't look over-well yourself, lad! What's amiss?"
Bill answered that he was quite well, and hurried out of the house to
avoid further inquiries. He was becoming afraid of every one! As he
passed the garden he thought of the gardener, and wondered if he would
help him. He was very young and very good-natured; he had taken of late
to coming to see Bessy, and Bill had his own ideas upon that point;
finally, he had a small class at the night-school. Bill wondered whether
if he screwed up his courage to-night to go, John Gardener would walk
back with him for the pleasure of hearing the latest accounts of Bessy.
But all hopes of this sort were cut off by Master Arthur's voice
shouting to him from the garden--
"Hi there! I want you, Willie! Come here, I say."
Bill ran through the evergreens, and there among the flower-beds in the
sunshine he saw--first, John Gardener driving a mowing-machine over the
velvety grass under Master Arthur's very nose, so there was no getting a
private interview with him. Secondly, Master Arthur himself, sitting on
the ground with his terrier in his lap, directing the proceedings by
means of a donkey-headed stick with elaborately carved ears; and thirdly
Master Arthur's friend.
Now little bits of gossip will fly; and it had been heard in the
dining-room, and conveyed by the parlor-maid to the kitchen, and passed
from the kitchen into the village, that Master Arthur's friend was a
very clever young gentleman; consequently Beauty Bill had been very
anxious to see him. As, however, the clever young gentleman was lying on
his back on the grass, with his hat flattened over his face to keep out
the sun, and an open book lying on its face upon his waistcoat to keep
the place, and otherwise quite immovable, and very like other young
gentlemen, Bill did not feel much the wiser for looking at him. He had
a better view of him soon, however, for Master Arthur began to poke his
friend's legs with the donkey-headed stick, and to exhort him to get up.
"Hi! Bartram, get up! Here's my prime pupil. See what we can turn out.
You may examine him if you like--Willie! this gentleman is a very clever
gentleman, so you must keep your wits about you. _He'll_ put questions
to you, I can tell you! There's as much difference between his head and
mine, as between mine and the head of this stick." And Master Arthur
flourished his "one-legged donkey," as he called it, in the air, and
added, "Bertram! you lazy lout! _will_ you get up and take an interest
in my humble efforts for the good of my fellow-creatures?"
Thus adjured, Mr. Bartram sat up with a jerk which threw his book on to
his boots, and his hat after it, and looked at Bill. Now Bill and the
gardener had both been grinning, as they always did at Master Arthur's
funny speeches; but when Bill found the clever gentleman looking at him,
he straightened his face very quickly. The gentleman was not at all like
his friend ("nothing near so handsome," Bill reported at home), and he
had such a large prominent forehead that he looked as if he were bald.
When he had sat up, he suddenly screwed up his eyes in a very peculiar
way, pulled out a double gold eye-glass, fixed it on his nose, and
stared through it for a second; after which his eyes unexpectedly opened
to their full extent (they were not small ones), and took a sharp survey
of Bill over the top of his spectacles, and this ended, he lay back on
his elbow without speaking. Bill then and there decided that Mr. Bartram
was very proud, rather mad, and the most disagreeable gentleman he ever
saw; and he felt sure could see as well as he (Bill) could, and only
wore spectacles out of a peculiar kind of pride and vain-glory which he
could not exactly specify. Master Arthur seemed to think, at any rate,
that he was not very civil, and began at once to talk to the boy
himself.
"Why were you not at school last time, Willie? Couldn't your mother
spare you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't you come?" said Master Arthur, in evident astonishment.
Poor Bill! He stammered as he had stammered before the doctor, and
finally gasped--
"Please, sir, I was scared."
"Scared? What of?"
"Ghosts," murmured Bill in a very ghostly whisper. Mr. Bartram raised
himself a little. Master Arthur seemed confounded.
"Why, you little goose! How is it you never were afraid before?"
"Please, sir, I saw one the other night."
Mr. Bartram took another look over the top of his eye-glass and sat bolt
upright, and John Gardener stayed his machine and listened, while poor
Bill told the whole story of the Yew-lane Ghost.
When it was finished, the gardener, who was behind Master Arthur, said--
"I've heard something of this, sir, in the village," and then added more
which Bill could not hear.
"Eh, what?" said Master Arthur. "Willie, take the machine and drive
about the garden a bit wherever you like.--Now John."
Willie did not at all like being sent away at this interesting point.
Another time he would have enjoyed driving over the short grass, and
seeing it jump up like a little green fountain in front of him; but now
his whole mind was absorbed by the few words he caught at intervals of
the conversation going on between John and the young gentleman. What
could it mean? Mr. Bartram seemed to have awakened to extraordinary
energy, and was talking rapidly. Bill heard the words "lime-light" and
"large sheet," and thought they must be planning a magic-lantern
exhibition, but was puzzled by catching the word "turnip." At last, as
he was rounding the corner of the bed of geraniums, he distinctly heard
Mr. Bartram ask,--
"They cut the man's head off, didn't they?"
Then they were talking about the ghost, after all! Bill gave the machine
a jerk, and to his dismay sliced a branch off one of the geraniums. What
was to be done? He must tell Master Arthur, but he could not interrupt
him just now; so on he drove, feeling very much dispirited, and by no
means cheered by hearing shouts of laughter from the party on the grass.
When one is puzzled and out of spirits, it is no consolation to hear
other people laughing over a private joke; moreover, Bill felt that if
they were still on the subject of the murdered man and his ghost, their
merriment was very unsuitable: Whatever was going on, it was quite
evident that Mr. Bartram was the leading spirit of it, for Bill could
see Master Arthur waving the one-legged donkey in an ecstasy, as he
clapped his friend on the back till the eye-glass danced upon his nose.
At last Mr. Bartram threw himself back as if closing a discussion, and
said loud enough for Bill to hear--
"You never heard of a bully who wasn't a coward."
Bill thought of Bully Tom, and how he had said he dared not risk the
chance of meeting with a ghost, and began to think that this was a
clever young gentleman, after all. Just then Master Arthur called to
him, and he took the bit of broken geranium and went.
"Oh, Willie!" said Master Arthur, "we've been talking over your
misfortunes--geranium? fiddlesticks! put it in your button-hole--your
misfortunes, I say, and for to-night at any rate we intend to help you
out of them. John--ahem!--will be--ahem!--engaged to-night, and unable
to take his class as usual; but this gentleman has kindly consented to
fill his place ("Hear, hear," said the gentleman alluded to), and if
you'll come to-night, like a good lad, he and I will walk back with you;
so if you do see the ghost, it will be in good company. But mind, this
is on one condition. You must not say anything about it--about our
walking back with you, I mean--to anybody. Say nothing; but get ready
and come to school as usual. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," said Bill; "and I'm very much obliged to you, sir, and the
other gentleman as well."
Nothing more was said, so Bill made his best bow and retired. As he went
he heard Master Arthur say to the gardener--
"Then you'll go to the town at once, John. We shall want the things as soon
as possible. You'd better take the pony, and we'll have the list ready for
you."
Bill heard no more words; but as he left the grounds the laughter of the
young gentleman rang out into the road.
What did it all mean?
CHAPTER IV.
"The night was now pitmirk; the wind soughed amid the
headstones and railings of the gentry (for we all must die),
and the black corbies in the steeple-holes cackled and
crawed in a fearsome manner."
MANSIE WAUCH.
Bill was early at the night-school. No other of his class had arrived,
so he took the corner by the fire, sacred to first-comers, and watched
the gradual gathering of the school. Presently Master Arthur appeared,
and close behind him came his friend. Mr. Bartram Lindsay looked more
attractive now than he had done in the garden. When standing, he was an
elegant though plain-looking young man, neat in his dress, and with an
admirable figure. He was apt to stand very still and silent for a length
of time, and had a habit of holding his chin up in the air, which led
some people to say that he "held himself very high." This was the
opinion that Bill had formed, and he was rather alarmed by hearing
Master Arthur pressing his friend to take his class instead of the more
backward one, over which the gardener usually presided; and he was
proportionably relieved when Mr. Bartram steadily declined.
"To say the truth, Bartram," said the young gentleman, "I am much
obliged to you, for I am used to my own boys, and prefer them."
Then up came the schoolmaster.
"Mr. Lindsay going to take John's class? Thank you, sir. I've put out
the books; if you want anything else, sir, p'raps you'll mention it.
When they have done reading, perhaps, sir, you will kindly draft them
off for writing, and take the upper classes in arithmetic, if you don't
object, sir."
Mr. Lindsay did not object.
"If you have a picture or two," he said. "Thank you. Know their letters?
All right. Different stages of progression. Very good. I've no doubt we
shall get on together."
"Between ourselves, Bartram," whispered Master Arthur into his friend's
ear, "the class is composed of boys who ought to have been to school,
and haven't; or who have been, and are none the better for it. Some of
them can what they call 'read in the Testament,' and all of them
confound _b_ and _d_ when they meet with them. They are at one point of
general information; namely, they all know what you have just told them,
and will none of them know it by next time. _I_ call it the rag-tag and
bob-tail class. John says they are like forced tulips. They won't
blossom simultaneously. He can't get them all to one standard of
reading."
Mr. Lindsay laughed and said,--
"He had better read less, and try a little general oral instruction.
Perhaps they don't remember because they can't understand;"--and the
Rector coming in at that moment, the business of the evening commenced.
Having afterwards to cross the school for something, Bill passed the new
teacher and his class, and came to the conclusion that they did "get on
together," and very well too. The rag-tag and bob-tail shone that night,
and afterwards were loud in praises of the lesson.
"It was so clear" and "He was so patient." Indeed, patience was one
great secret of Mr. Lindsay's teaching; he waited so long for an answer
that he generally got it. His pupils were obliged to exert themselves
when there was no hope of being passed over, and everybody was waiting.
Finally, Bill's share of the arithmetic lesson converted him to Master
Arthur's friend. He _was_ a clever young gentleman, and a kind one too.
The lesson had been so interesting--the clever young gentleman, standing
(without his eye-glass) by the blackboard, had been so strict and yet so
entertaining, was so obviously competent, and so pleasantly kind, that
Bill, who liked arithmetic, and (like all intelligent children)
appreciated good teaching, had had no time to think of the Yew-lane
Ghost till the lesson was ended. It was not till the hymn began (they
always ended the night-school with singing,) that he remembered it.
Then, while he was shouting with all his might Bishop Ken's glorious old
lines--
"Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,"
he caught Mr. Lindsay's eyes fixed on him, and back came the thoughts of
his terrible fright, with a little shame too at his own timidity. Which
of us trusts as we should do in the "defence of the Most High"?
Bill lingered as he had done the last time, and went out with the
"grown-ups." It had been raining, and the ground was wet and sludgy,
though it was fair overhead. The wind was cold too, and Mr. Lindsay
began to cough so violently, that Bill felt rather ashamed of taking him
so far out of his way, through the damp, chilly lane, and began to
wonder whether he could not summon up courage to go alone. The result
was, that with some effort he said--
"Please, Mr. Lindsay, sir, I think you won't like to come so far this
cold night. I'll try and manage, if you like."
Mr. Lindsay laid one hand on Bill's shoulder, and said quietly--
"No, thank you, my boy, we'll come with you. Thank you, all the same."
"Nevertheless, Bartram," said Master Arthur, "I wish you could keep that
cough of yours quiet--it will spoil everything. A boy was eating
peppermints in the shade of his copybook this very night. I did box his
ears; but I wish I had seized the goodies, they might have kept you
quiet."
"Thank you," was the reply, "I abhor peppermint; but I have got some
lozenges, if that will satisfy you. And when I smell ghosts, I can
smother myself in my pocket-handkerchief."
Master Arthur laughed boisterously.
"We shall smell one if brimstone will do it. I hope he won't set himself
on fire, or the scenic effect will be stronger than we bargained for."
This was the beginning of a desultory conversation carried on at
intervals between the two young gentlemen, of which, though Bill heard
every sentence, he couldn't understand one. He made one effort to
discover what Master Arthur was alluding to, but with no satisfactory
result as we shall see.
"Please, Master Arthur," he said desperately, "you don't think there'll
be two ghosts, do you, sir?"
"I should say," said Master Arthur, so slowly and with such gravity that
Bill felt sure he was making fun of him, "I should say, Bill, that if a
place is haunted at all there is no limit to the number of ghosts--fifty
quite as likely as one.--What do you you say, Bartram?"
"Quite so," said Bartram.
Bill made no further attempts to understand the mystery. He listened,
but only grew more and more bewildered at the dark hints he heard, and
never understood what it all meant until the end came; when (as is not
uncommon) he wondered how he could have been so stupid, and why he had
not seen it all from the very first.
They had now reached the turning point, and as they passed into the dark
lane, where the wind was shuddering and shivering among the trees, Bill
shuddered and shivered too, and felt very glad that the young gentlemen
were with him, after all.
Mr. Lindsay pulled out his watch.
"Well?" said his friend.
"Ten minutes to nine."
Then they walked on in silence, Master Arthur with one arm through his
friend's, and the one-legged donkey under the other; and Mr. Lindsay
with his hand on Bill's shoulder.
"I _should_ like a pipe," said Master Arthur presently; "it's so
abominably damp."
"What a fellow you are!" said Mr. Lindsay. "Out of the question! With
the wind setting down the lane too! you talk of my cough--which is
better, by the bye."
"What a fellow _you_ are!" retorted the other. "Bartram, you are the
oddest creature I know. Whatever you take up, you do drive at so. Now I
have hardly got a lark afloat before I'm sick of it. I wish you'd tell
me two things,--first, why are you so grave to-night? and secondly, what
made you take up our young friend's cause so warmly?"
"One answer will serve both questions," said Mr. Lindsay. "The truth is,
old fellow, our young friend [and Bill felt certain that the "young
friend" was himself] has a look of a little chap I was chum with at
school--Regy Gordon. I don't talk about it often, for I can't very well;
but he was killed--think of it, man!--_killed_ by such a piece of
bullying as this! When they found him, he was quite stiff and
speechless; he lived a few hours, but he only said two words,--my name,
and amen."
"Amen?" said Master Arthur, inquiringly.
"Well, you see when the surgeon said it was no go, they telegraphed for
his friends; but they were a long way off, and he was sinking rapidly;
and the old Doctor was in the room, half heart-broken, and he saw Gordon
move his hands together, and he said, 'If any boy knows what prayers
Gordon minor has been used to say, let him come and say them by him;'
and I did. So I knelt by his bed and said them, the old Doctor kneeling
too and sobbing like a child; and when I had done, Regy moved his lips
and said 'Amen;' and then he said 'Lindsay!' and smiled, and then--"
Master Arthur squeezed his friend's arm tightly, but said nothing, and
both the young men were silent; but Bill could not restrain his tears.
It seemed the saddest story he had ever heard, and Mr. Lindsay's hand
upon his shoulder shook so intolerably while he was speaking, that he
had taken it away, which made Bill worse, and he fairly sobbed.
"What are you blubbering about, young 'un?" said Mr. Lindsay. "He is
better off than any of us, and if you are a good boy you will see him
some day;" and the young gentleman put his hand back again, which was
steady now.
"What became of the other fellow?" said Master Arthur.
"He was taken away, of course. Sent abroad, I believe. It was hushed
up.--And now you know," added Mr. Lindsay, "why my native indolence has
roused itself to get this cad taught a lesson, which many a time I
wished to God, when wishes were too late, that that other bully had been
taught _in time_. But no one could thrash him; and no one durst
complain. However, let's change the subject, old fellow! I've got over
it long since; though sometimes I think the wish to see Regy again helps
to keep me a decent sort of fellow. But when I saw the likeness this
morning, it startled me; and then to hear the story, it seemed like a
dream--the Gordon affair over again. I suppose rustic nerves are
tougher; however, your village blackguard shan't have the chance of
committing murder if we can cure him!"
"I believe you half wanted to undertake the cure yourself," said Master
Arthur.
Mr. Lindsay laughed.
"I did for a minute. Fancy your father's feelings if I had come home
with a black eye from an encounter with a pot-house bully! You know I
put my foot into a tender secret of your man's, by offering to be the
performer!"
"How?"
Mr. Lindsay lowered his voice, but not so that Bill could not hear what
he said, and recognize the imitation of John Gardener.
"He said, 'I'd rather do it, if _you_ please, sir. The fact is, I'm
partial to the young woman myself!' After that, I could but leave John
to defend his young woman's belongings."
"Gently!" exclaimed Master Arthur. "There is the Yew Walk."
From this moment the conversation was carried on in whispers, to Bill's
further mystification. The young gentlemen recovered their spirits, and
kept exploding in smothered chuckles of laughter.
"Cold work for him, if he's been waiting long!" whispered one.
"Don't know. His head's under cover remember!" said the other: and they
laughed.
"Bet you sixpence he's been smearing his hand with brimstone for the
last half hour."
"Don't smell him yet, though."
"He'll be a patent aphis-destroyer in the rose-garden for months to
come."
"Sharp work for the eyelids if it gets under the sheet."
They were now close by the Yews, out of which the wind came with a
peculiar chill, as if it had been passing through a vault. Mr. Bartram
Lindsay stooped down, and whispered in Bill's ear: "Listen, my lad. We
can't go down the lane with you, for we want to see the ghost, but we
don't want the ghost to see us. Don't be frightened, but go just as
usual. And mind--when you see the white figure, point with your own arm
_towards the Church_ and scream as loud as you like. Can you do this?"
"Yes, sir," whispered Bill.
"Then off with you. We shall creep quietly on behind the trees; and you
shan't be hurt, I promise you."
Bill summoned his courage, and plunged into the shadows. What could be
the meaning of Mr. Lindsay's strange orders? Should he ever have courage
to lift his arm towards the church in the face of that awful apparition
of the murdered man? And if he did, would the unquiet spirit take the
hint, and go back into the grave, which Bill knew was at that very
corner to which he must point? Left alone, his terrors began to return;
and he listened eagerly to see if, amid the ceaseless soughing of the
wind among the long yew branches, he could hear the rustle of the young
men's footsteps as they crept behind. But he could distinguish nothing.
The hish-wishing of the thin leaves was so incessant, the wind was so
dexterous and tormenting in the tricks it played and the sounds it
produced, that the whole place seemed alive with phantom rustlings and
footsteps; and Bill felt as if Master Arthur was right, and that there
was "no limit" to the number of ghosts!
At last he could see the end of the avenue. There among the last few
trees was the place where the ghost had appeared. There beyond lay the
white road, the churchyard corner, and the tall gray tombstone
glimmering in the moonlight. A few steps more, and slowly from among the
yews came the ghost as before, and raised its long white arm. Bill
determined that, if he died for it, he would do as he had been told; and
lifting his own hand he pointed towards the tombstone, and gave a shout.
As he pointed, the ghost turned round, and then--rising from behind the
tombstone, and gliding slowly to the edge of the wall which separated
the churchyard from the lower level of the road--there appeared a sight
so awful that Bill's shout merged into a prolonged scream of terror.
Truly Master Arthur's anticipations of a "scenic effect" were amply
realized. The walls and buttresses of the old Church stood out dark
against the sky; the white clouds sailed slowly by the moon, which
reflected itself on the damp grass, and shone upon the flat wet
tombstones till they looked like pieces of water. It was not less bright
upon the upright ones, upon quaint crosses, short headstones, and upon
the huge, ungainly memorial of the murdered Ephraim Garnett. But _the_
sight on which it shone that night was the figure now standing by
Ephraim Garnett's grave, and looking over the wall. An awful figure, of
gigantic height, with ghostly white garments clinging round its headless
body, and carrying under its left arm the head that should have been
upon its shoulders. On this there was neither flesh nor hair. It seemed
to be a bare skull, with fire gleaming through the hollow eye-sockets
and the grinning teeth. The right hand of the figure was outstretched as
if in warning; and from the palm to the tips of the fingers was a mass
of lambent flame. When Bill saw this fearful apparition he screamed with
hearty good-will; but the noise he made was nothing to the yell of
terror that came from beneath the shroud of the Yew-lane Ghost, who, on
catching sight of the rival spectre, flew wildly up the lane, kicking
the white sheet off as it went, and finally displaying, to Bill's
amazement, the form and features of Bully Tom. But this was not all. No
sooner had the first ghost started, than the second (not to be
behind-hand) jumped nimbly over the wall and gave chase. But fear had
put wings on to Bully Tom's feet; and the second ghost, being somewhat
encumbered by his costume, judged it wisdom to stop; and then taking the
fiery skull in its flaming hands, shied it with such dexterity that it
hit Bully Tom in the middle of his back, and falling on to the wet
ground, went out with a hiss. This blow was an unexpected shock to the
Bully, who thought the ghost must have come up to him with supernatural
rapidity, and falling on his knees in the mud, began to roar most
lustily:--
"Lord, have mercy upon me! I'll never do it no more!"
Mr. Lindsay was not likely to alter his opinion on the subject of
bullies. This one, like others, was a mortal coward. Like other men, who
have no fear of God before their eyes, he made up for it by having a
very hearty fear of sickness, death, departed souls, and one or two
other things, which the most self-willed sinner knows well enough to be
in the hands of a Power which he cannot see, and does not wish to
believe in. Bully Tom had spoken the truth when he said that if he
thought there was a ghost in Yew-lane he wouldn't go near it. If he had
believed the stories with which he had alarmed poor Bill, the lad's
evening walk would never have been disturbed, as far as he was
concerned. Nothing but his spite against Bessy would have made him take
so much trouble to vex the peace, and stop the schooling, of her pet
brother; and as it was, the standing alone by the churchyard at night
was a position so little to his taste, that he had drunk pretty heavily
in the public-house for half an hour before-hand, to keep up his
spirits. And now he had been paid back in his own coin, and lay
grovelling in the mud, and calling profanely on the Lord, whose mercy
such men always cry for in their trouble, if they never ask it for their
sins. He was so confused and blinded by drink and fright, that he did
not see the second ghost divest himself of his encumbrances, or know
that it was John Gardener, till that rosy-cheeked worthy, his clenched
hands still flaming with brimstone, danced round him, and shouted
scornfully, and with that vehemence of aspiration in which he was apt to
indulge when excited;--
"Get hup, yer great cowardly booby, will yer? So you thought you was
coming hout to frighten a little lad, did ye? And you met with one of
your hown size, did ye? Now _will_ ye get hup and take it like a man, or
shall I give it you as ye lie there?"
Bully Tom chose the least of two evils, and staggering to his feet with
an oath, rushed upon John. But in his present condition he was no match
for the active little gardener, inspired with just wrath and thoughts of
Bessy; and he then and there received such a sound thrashing as he had
not known since he first arrogated the character of village bully. He
was roaring loudly for mercy, and John Gardener was giving him a
harmless roll in the mud by way of conclusion, when he caught sight of
the two young gentlemen in the lane,--Master Arthur in fits of laughter
at the absurd position of the ex-Yew-lane Ghost, and Mr. Lindsay
standing still and silent, with folded arms, set lips, and the gold
eye-glass on his nose. As soon as he saw them, he began to shout,
"Murder! help!" at the top of his voice.
"I see myself," said Master Arthur, driving his hands contemptuously
into his pockets,--"I see myself helping a great lout who came out to
frighten a child, and can neither defend his own eyes and nose, nor take
a licking with a good grace when he deserves it!"
Bully Tom appealed to Mr. Lindsay:--
"Yah! yah!" he howled. "Will you see a man killed for want of help?"
But the clever young gentleman seemed even less inclined to give his
assistance.
"Killed!" he said contemptuously; "I _have_ seen a lad killed on such a
night as this, by such a piece of bullying! Be thankful you have been
stopped in time! I wouldn't raise my little finger to save you from
twice such a thrashing. It has been fairly earned! Give the ghost his
shroud, Gardener, and let him go; and recommend him not to haunt
Yew-lane in future."
John did so, with a few words of parting advice on his own account.
"Be hoff with you," he said. "Master Lindsay, he speaks like a book.
You're a disgrace to your hage and sect, you are! I'd as soon fight with
an old char-woman.--Though bless you, young gentlemen," he added, as
Bully Tom slunk off muttering, "he is the biggest blackguard in the
place; and what the Rector'll say, when he comes to know as you've been
mingled up with him, passes me."
"He'll forgive us, I dare say," said Master Arthur. "I only wish he
could have seen you emerge from behind that stone! It was a sight for a
century! I wonder what the youngster thought of it!--Hi, Willie, here,
sir! What did you think of the second ghost?"
Bill had some doubts as to the light in which he ought to regard that
apparition; but he decided on the simple truth.
"I thought it looked very horrid, sir."
"I should hope it did! The afternoon's work of three able-bodied men has
been marvellously wasted if it didn't. However, I must say you halloed
out loud enough!"
Bill colored; the more so, as Mr. Lindsay was looking hard at him over
the top of his spectacles.
"Don't you feel rather ashamed of all your fright, now you've seen the
ghosts without their sheets?" inquired the clever young gentleman.
"Yes, sir," said Bill, hanging his head. "I shall never believe in
ghosts again, sir, though."
Mr. Bartram Lindsay took off his glasses and twiddled them in his
fingers.
"Well, well," he said in a low hurried voice; "I'm not the parson, and I
don't pretend to say what you should believe and what you shouldn't. We
know precious little as to how much the spirits of the dead see and know
of what they have left behind. But I think you may venture to assure
yourself that when a poor soul has passed the waves of this troublesome
world, by whatever means, it doesn't come back kicking about under a
white sheet in dark lanes, to frighten little boys from going to
school."
"And that's very true, sir," said John Gardener, admiringly.
"So it is," said Master Arthur. "I couldn't have explained that myself,
Willie; but those are my sentiments; and I beg you'll attend to what Mr.
Lindsay has told you."
"Yes, sir," said Bill.
Mr. Lindsay laughed, though not quite merrily, and said,--
"I could tell him something more, Arthur, though he's too young to
understand it; namely, that if he lives, the day will come, when he
would be only too happy if the dead might come back and hold out their
hands to us, anywhere, and for however short a time."
The young gentleman stopped abruptly; and the gardener heaved a
sympathetic sigh.
"I tell you what it is, Bartram," muttered Master Arthur, "I suppose I'm
too young too, for I've had quite enough of the melancholies for one
night. As to you, you're as old as the hills; but it's time you came
home; and if I'd known before what you told me to-night, old fellow, you
shouldn't have come out on this expedition.--Now, for you, Willie,"
added the young gentleman, whirling sharply round, "if you're not a
pattern Solomon henceforth, it won't be the fault of your friends. And
if wisdom doesn't bring you to school after this, I shall try the
argument of the one-legged donkey."
"I don't think I shall miss next time, sir."
"I hope you won't.--Now, John, as you've come so far, you may as well
see the lad home; but don't shake hands with the family in the present
state of your fists, or you might throw somebody into a fit.
Good-night!"
Yew-lane echoed a round of "Good-nights," and Bill and the gardener went
off in high spirits. As they crossed the road, Bill looked round, and
under the trees saw the young gentlemen strolling back to the Rectory,
arm in arm. Mr. Bartram Lindsay with his chin high in the air, and
Master Arthur vehemently exhorting him on some topic, of which he was
pointing the moral with flourishes of the one-legged donkey.
For those who like to know "what became of" everybody, these facts are
added:--
The young gentlemen got safely home; and Master Arthur gave such a
comical account of their adventure, that the Rector laughed too much to
scold them, even if he had wished.
Beauty Bill went up and down Yew-lane on many a moonlight night after
this one, but he never saw another ghost, or felt any more fears in
connection with Ephraim Garnett. To make matters more entirely
comfortable, however, John kindly took to the custom of walking home
with the lad after night-school was ended. In return for this attention,
Bill's family were apt to ask him in for an hour; and by their fireside
he told the story of the two ghosts so often--from the manufacture in
the Rectory barn, to the final apparition at the cross-roads--that the
whole family declare they feel just as if they had seen it.
Bessy, under the hands of the cheerful doctor, got quite well, and
eventually married. As her cottage boasts the finest window plants in
the village, it is shrewdly surmised that her husband is a gardener.
Bully Tom talked very loudly for some time of "having the law of" the
rival ghost; but finding, perhaps, that the story did not redound to his
credit, was unwilling to give it further publicity, and changed his
mind.
Winter and summer, day and night, sunshine and moonlight, have passed
over the lane and the churchyard, and the wind has had many a ghostly
howl among the yews, since poor Bill learnt the story of the murder; but
he knows now that the true Ephraim Garnett has never been seen on the
cross-roads since a hundred years ago, and will not be till the Great
Day.
In the ditch by the side of Yew-lane, shortly after the events I have
been describing, a little lad found a large turnip, in which some one
had cut eyes, nose and mouth, and put bits of stick for teeth. The
turnip was hollow, and inside it was fixed a bit of wax candle. He
lighted it up, and the effect was so splendid, that he made a show of it
to his companions at the price of a marble each, who were well
satisfied. And this was the last of the Yew-lane Ghosts.
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