"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
downstairs 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
grey 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 whilst 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 neighbouring 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 everyone! 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 parlour-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, "Bartram! 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 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
gentlemen. 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 a 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? fiddle-sticks! 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 gentlemen rang out into the road.
What did it all mean?