September came in: which made it a year since Nash died. And on one of
its bright days, when the sun was high, and the blue sky cloudless,
Church Dykely had a stir given it in the sight of the mistress of
Caromel's Farm. She and her father were in a gig together, driving off
on the Worcester road: and it was so very rare a thing to see her abroad
now, that folks ran to their windows and doors to stare. Her golden
hair, what could be seen of it for her smart blue parasol, shone in the
sunlight; but her face looked white and thin through the black crape
veil.
"Just like a woman who gets disturbed o' nights," pronounced Sam Rimmer,
thinking of the ghostly presence that was believed to haunt the house.
Before that day's beautiful sun had gone down to light the inhabitants
of the other hemisphere, ill-omened news reached Church Dykely. An
accident had happened to the horse and gig. It was said that both Nave
and his daughter were dreadfully injured; one of them nearly killed.
Miss Gwinny, left at home to take care of Caromel's Farm, posted off to
the scene of damage.
Holding Caromel's Farm in small respect now, the Squire yet chose to
show himself neighbourly; and he rose up from his dinner to go there and
inquire particulars. "You may come with me, lads, if you like," said he.
Tod laughed.
"He's afraid of seeing Caromel," whispered he in my ear, as we took down
our hats.
And, whether the Squire was afraid of it or not, he did see him. It was
a lovely moonlight night, bright and clear as the day had been. Old
Grizzel could not tell us much more of the accident than we had heard
before; except that it was quite true there had been one, and that Miss
Gwinny had gone. And, by the way Grizzel inwardly shook and shivered
while she spoke, and turned her eyes to all corners in some desperate
fear, one might have thought she had been pitched out of a gig herself.
We had left the door--it was the side-entrance--when the Squire turned
back to put some last query to her. Tod and I went on. The path was
narrow, the overhanging trees on either side obscured the moonlight,
making it dark. Chancing to glance round, I noticed the Squire, at the
other end of the path, come soberly after us. Suddenly he seemed to
halt, to look sideways at the trees, and then he came on with a bound.
"Boys! Boys!" cried he, in a half-whisper, "come on. There's Caromel
yonder."
And to see the pater's face in its steaming consternation, and to watch
him rush on to the gate, was better than a play. Seen Caromel! It was
not so long since he had mocked at us for saying it.
Through the gate went he, bolt into the arms of some unexpected figure,
standing there. We peered at it in the uncertain lights cast by the
trees, and made it out to be Dobbs, the blacksmith.
Dobbs, with a big coat on, hiding his shirt-sleeves and his leather
apron: Dobbs standing as silent as the grave: arms folded, head bent:
Dobbs in stockinged feet, without his shoes.
"Dobbs, my good fellow, what on earth do you put yourself in people's
way for, standing stock-still like a Chinese image?" gasped the Squire.
"Dobbs--why, you have no boots on."
"Hush!" breathed Dobbs, hardly above his breath. "I ask your pardon,
Squire. Hush, please! There's something uncanny in this place; some ugly
mystery. I mean to find it out if I can, sirs, and this is the third
night I've come here on the watch. Hark!"
Sounds, as of a woman's voice weeping and wailing, reached us faintly
from somewhere--down beyond the garden trees. The pater looked regularly
flustered.
"Listen!" repeated Dobbs, raising his big hand to entreat for silence.
"Yes, Squire; I don't know what the mystery is; but there is something
wrong about the place, and I can't sleep o' nights for it. Please
hearken, sirs."
The blacksmith was right. Wrong and mystery, such as the world does not
often hear of, lay within Caromel's Farm. Curious mystery; wicked wrong.
Leaning our arms on the gate, watching the moonlight flickering on the
trees, we listened to Dobbs's whispered revelation. It made the Squire's
hair stand on end.