THE LITTLE OLD MAN.
It happened that Mr. Starling was rather late in arriving at the "Blue
Lion" on the evening following that of the dinner party at the Cedars.
He had been sent over to the nearest market town on some errand of his
master's and had not returned until after the servants' dinner, which
meal he had partaken of "warmed up," a state and condition which he
declared to the cook was enough to drive a parson swearing.
Altogether Jem was not in the brightest of moods when he entered the
hospitable doors of the "Blue Lion", and it did not help to disperse
the gloom to find that the parlor door was locked. The room was not
empty, for he could hear the hum of voices inside talking in a hushed
sort of undertone.
There was no one in the bar, and Mr. Starling, rendered by his early
training and the influence of circumstances suspicious by anything
out of the common, crept back on tiptoe into the street, and peeped
through the crack of the window which was formed by the uplifting of
the curtain.
There he saw that the usual number of the gentlemen was reinforced by
a little old man, whom he seemed to recollect as having seen somewhere
before.
He commenced whistling "Villikins and His Dinah," and re-entered the
bar.
His quick ears detected the unslipping of the bolt, and he pushed open
the door without any difficulty.
All the men had suddenly assumed an air of the usual indifference
and sleepiness, and responded to his cheerful salutation after their
various kinds.
"Bring me a pint of the very best, Miss Polly," said Mr. Starling,
sinking into his seat, and eying from under his frowning eyelids the
strange little man.
"A nice night for salamanders, mates."
"Yes," said Willie Sanderson, "it's mighty hot."
"No fish?" asked Jem.
"No," was the response.
"But we expect a shoal over to-night," said the little man, with an
almost imperceptible glance around the room.
"Ay," said the others, in a chorus. "We may do something to-night."
"And a very pleasant little trip, too," said Mr. Starling, nodding
all round over his pewter pot. "I quite envy you, and I don't mind
volunteering if so be as I shouldn't be in the way."
A slight but unmistakable expression of dismay shot for one instant on
his manly face, then Willie Sanderson laughed slowly.
"Better be in bed, mate. We might have it rough, for all the wind's
so dead now, and if you ain't a first-rate sailor the smell of the
fish--if we get's any--might disagree with ye."
"Ay," said the little man. "Better stay in bed."
"Well, perhaps you're right," said Jem, thinking to himself that they
were all mighty considerate on his behalf. "Yes, perhaps you're right.
I like 'em when they are cooked, though, and I'll just look down in the
morning and see if you've had a take."
"Do," said Willie, shortly, and then started another topic. But
though many others followed, and Mr. Starling was quite as amusing as
usual, the company did not seem to be in the mood for conversation
or laughter, and Jem noticed that every man seemed to be watching or
listening.
Once the door opened rather suddenly, and the little man rose with an
ill attempt at indifference, but only Polly entered with some tobacco,
and the little man sat down again.
Presently the door opened again, and Martha Pettingall entered.
She wore her yellow bandana, and as she looked round the room Jem, who
while lighting his pipe was watching her closely, saw her raise her
hand and scratch her ear.
He looked round the room covertly to see for whom the sign was
intended, and was not surprised to see the little man lift his hand
with a natural air and scratch his ear.
"Well, boys, what do you say, shall we be starting?" And as he spoke
he went to the window and pushed the curtain aside to look out at the
night.
As he did so Jem, who was watching under his eyelids with the most
lynx-like intention, saw a streak of light cleave the sky seawards.
The old man dropped the curtain again immediately, but Mr. Starling's
eyes were sharp ones, and he had seen the light distinctly enough to
know that it was not a natural phenomenon.
"Well, come along, boys," said Willie Sanderson, and, hastily tossing
down the remains of their potations, the boys rose and trudged out,
giving Martha Pettingall and Polly a cheery "good-night" as they passed.
Jem sat for a little while in deep thought. Then he sauntered out.
Outside he paused and looked up at the sky, then scratched his head,
and instead of turning homeward he bent his steps toward the beach.
The tide was coming in; it was a fine night, and Jem could see every
ripple upon the smiling, playful ocean.
There, far out now, were the fishing boats, looking like magnified
walnut shells as they rose and fell on the light swell.
He waited until the boats were lost to sight, then climbed up the beach
again.
As he passed through the street he peeped into the "Blue Lion".
There was no one in the bar, and he was about to peep in when he saw a
light pierce the chink in the cellar flap.
He stooped and knelt down, and was rewarded, not with a sight of Polly
or Martha, but of the little old man, peering on his knees into what
seemed to Jem like the mouth of a well.
"Hello," he thought, "here's the old chap playing larks with old
Grunty-grump's beer," and he was about to run into the bar with the
information.
But before he could get up from his knees another figure, no other than
Martha Pettingall, entered the cellar, and, far from expressing alarm
or indignation at the old man's presence, commenced talking with him in
a low, confidential tone.
Jem would have given one of his large eyes to have heard that
conversation, or for a peep into that hole over which it was held.
But the pair spoke in a faint whisper, and Jem could not catch a word.
Presently the man dropped the lid of the well, spread some sawdust over
it, and, taking up the candle from a cask, lighted Martha up the steps,
following himself immediately after.
Jem got up, gave vent to a noiseless whistle, and, having had his
curiosity sharpened to a most ravening edge, determined to play spy a
little longer.
Accordingly he drew back into the shadow of the house, chose a tree as
ambush, and kept a sharp watch both upon cellar and door.
The light did not appear in the former, and for some time the latter
was not moved, but at last Jem heard voices in the bar, and presently
Martha opened the door.
She stood for a few moments looking up and down the empty street, then
re-entered.
"What they call reckonorriting," muttered Jem. "Now I bet the old
chap'll come out."
And so it proved.
The little old man did come out, and set off at a sharp trot up the
hill.
"Well, I'm blest; that must be funny fishin' up a mountain," said Jem
to himself. "He's in a mighty hurry, too. But what's my move? Do I dog
him or wait here a bit longer and see what the old woman will be up
to? If I sets off arter him he's safe to see me; you could see a brass
farden at two miles in this light. No, I'll stop here."
And he did, but was rather disgusted at his fortune when about half an
hour afterward Martha came out, banged the shutters to, and shut up the
house for the night.
"The performance is hover," said Jem, coming out of his ambush, "and
a werry pretty play it's been, only, as the chap said at the Hitalian
hopera, it 'ud be all the better if I knowed what it means, which
jigger me if I do."
And with a shake of the head Jem hurried his steps homeward.
He looked about him as he went, but nothing more suspicious occurred
than the flitting of a rabbit across the road, at which Mr. Starling
flung a stone, and as he paused within sight of the Park he wiped the
perspiration from his bottle-shaped head, and sighed.
"Where's that chap gone to?" he asked himself. "Got a sweetheart up in
the house, I dare say. I'll ask the cook; he knows everybody, and will
put me right about these 'ere goings on at the "Blue Lion"."
Somewhat cheered by that resolution he trudged on again, looking at
the house, which even to his unpoetical eyes looked beautiful in the
moonlight.
Then he glanced at the sky, in which a few black clouds were gathering.
"All in the dark d'rectly," he muttered.
And as he spoke the moon was obscured.
He turned his eyes up toward it, then was about to lower them, when
they saw something which caused him to start, to stop and to stare.
By this time he was near that part of the Park called the "ruins."
Right before him was the façade with the oriel window.
All the way up the hill, when not thinking of the "Blue Lion" and its
mysterious frequenters, he had been thinking over the various ghost
stories in connection with the Park, and now, just at the moment when
the moon was obscured, and he was thinking of one of the latest he had
heard, he saw something white pass across the window.
He stared and waited breathlessly.
"I'll take my oath I saw it," he muttered. "It's gone, and I mayn't see
it again. But I saw it, I swear! Ah!"
The sharp, smothered exclamation was caused by absolute fear.
It had come again.
There, so plain and distinct that he could see every fold in the white
robe, was the White Nun!
Jem's face turned pale and his teeth shook.
He had a sensation as of cold water being quietly poured down his back,
and his mouth felt dry and hot.
The ghost stood motionless with its back to the window, and a horror
seized upon Jem that it might perhaps turn, see him, and--and--he did
not know what else to dread!
The horror was not ill-founded.
The ghost turned.
Jem saw the hideous white, bleached skull-face, and as the gleaming
eyes seemed to pierce him through he fell on the ground, stricken by
that nameless horror before which the strongest man must succumb.
How long he lay there he did not know.
When he feigned consciousness he found himself covered with dust,
fearfully cold, but with no tangible injury.
He rose, shuddered, and striking the dust from his clothes with a
shaking, uncertain hand walked slowly on, averting his eyes from the
dreadful window.
"Shall I tell the captain what I've seen?" he thought. "No, he'll swear
at me, and say I was drunk, and I should think I was, only I know it
'ud take more than three pints o' beer to knock me silly. Ugh! I shan't
get the sight o' that thing's face and eyes out o' my head till I'm
as dead as she was. This is a rum, unearthly sort o' place, this is,
and if summat uncommon queer and nasty don't happen afore long I'm a
Dutchman."