A little while ago an aged native of Gulval spoke of another ghost that
haunted Kenegie, but only for a short time. Whether it was the “spirit”
of a Harris or an Arundel he couldn’t say, because it was so long past,
but it was all in the same family; for a Harris, he believed, changed
his name for that of Arundel; then, over a generation or two, the
family resumed their former name. People round about always called them
Harrises, and this one was spoken of as the proud squire of Kenegie. He
always rode a high horse. If he met people in the narrow lanes (and
there were but few broad ones in his time) they had to get out of his
way, by leaping hedges sometimes, else he’d ride over them.
They say that the only person who wouldn’t make way for him was an old
Rogers of Treassowe. On Castle Downs there was a wide piece of ground
left for horse-tracks where the road to St. Ives passed, so that when
one path was too much worn another might be taken, on the turf. In some
places the principal paths were divided by rocks or brakes of furze;
and in a little way the branches united again, or crossed others, in a
bewildering maze. ’Tis said that if Rogers, when on a heavy horse,
could make out at a little distance, the track which would lead to that
on which Harris rode, he would be sure to take it; if a deep one all
the better; and so they would both ride up, “full butt,” against each
other, like Æsop’s two goats crossing the brook on a plank, and either
have a “scruff” or a slashing fight with their whips. Yet they were
good friends, at times; hunted together over each other’s lands; and
visited one another on ceremonial occasions.
This burly gentleman-farmer of Treassowe, however, has nothing to do
with the story about to be told; yet thoughts of him occur in
connection with the proud Harris from his being so often spoken of as
his opponent. He was, also, a fair sample of “Ludgvan Hurlers” of old,
who were noted as sturdy “sticklers” for their rights, with a trifle
more from those inclined to domineer, as well as for their devotion to
the manly game which procured them their honourable nickname—still
retained, though for many years past they had never strengthened their
muscles and minds as they were wont to do in days of yore, by hurling
their silver ball, for miles, forward and backward along Market Jew
Green, then a common of great extent, or away inland “to the country.”
The game on the Green was called Hurling to the Goal.
Now, when Harris the proud was on his deathbed he sent a man to
Penzance for a lawyer, because he wanted to make an addition to his
will. “Take the fleetest horse in my stable,” said he to his servant,
“ride for thy life,—for thy life; stop not for anything in thy road;
tell him to take thy horse and hasten away if his own be unsaddled.”
On a chest, near the squire’s bed, sat his son John, rocking himself to
and fro, and crying bitterly. “What art thou crying for, my son?” asked
his father. “Because you are going to die, father,” replied the boy.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” And he went on crying more and
more. “Stop crying, my son,” said his father, “thou wilt do very well,
for I am going to give thee Trengwainton; and Castle Horneck, to look
at; don’t cry any more, my son, for I’m very weak and want to sleep, my
son.”
The lawyer having arrived at the squire’s bedside, and writing
materials being ready, asked what must be added to the will? The
squire, when propped up with pillows, gasped out, “I wish, I wish,”
several times, until he became exhausted, and fell back in bed. After
resting awhile he made signs to be raised again, and then only repeated
the same words, “I wish, I wish,” until the lawyer told him to stop a
moment and then say what it was that he wanted to have written. “That
my son John shall have Trengwainton,” gasped the dying man.
The lawyer, who had also been the squire’s steward for a long time, was
quite confounded. In a minute or two he said, “I don’t know what you
mean; how can your son have Trengwainton? The place doesn’t belong to
you, I can’t understand ’e at all.” The little blood in Harris’s body
seemed to rush into his face and turn blue; then he became pale, and
cried, as hard as he was able, “Thou fool of a lawyer not to know how,
when”——unable to say any more he fell back in bed, more exhausted than
before.
Then he began twitching at the bedclothes, and kept on murmuring “I
wish, I wish,” lower and lower, and slower and slower, until he
breathed his last, with the words on his lips.
The lawyer returned homeward, feeling very sad and much perplexed. He
and the deceased had been constant friends from their boyhood. Of late
years his connection with Harris was mainly as steward of his estate,
and in that character we have to speak of him. The late squire had
undertaken many improvements of his farm, then in progress, as well as
alterations in his premises by his advice; and the steward took just as
much interest in his friend’s family and estate as if they had been his
own. He was, also, the only solicitor of note then in Penzance. People
of that time did not run for legal advice to settle trifling matters in
dispute; they were often a law unto themselves, rough and ready, as
well as warm-hearted; though far less hypocritical then than now.
The unsatisfied dead man was laid in the family vault, when the
customary time for keeping people of his quality above ground had
expired. On the night of his funeral, towards the morning, doleful
sounds were heard proceeding from the late squire’s bedroom, with
plaintive cries of “I wish, I wish,” followed by agonising moans and
groans.
Next day the steward came over to arrange some business that required
his presence on the place; old greyheaded servants of the family soon
told him of the ghostly sounds heard in the ancient mansion, only a few
hours past. The strong-minded man of law ridiculed them, and said it
was only their fearful fancies, followed by disturbing dreams, which
had caused all their dread of their old master’s return. The old
servants followed the lawyer to the outer gate, begging him to stay at
the house over night. “No, no, I’ve other fish to fry,” replied he,
“go’e to rest before you’re all tipsy, and let the squire come if he
will or can.”
The steward proceeded slowly down the hill, thinking of his deceased
friend. As he passed a churchway stile, a little below the principal
entrance gate, a gentleman came over and walked close beside him,
keeping pace with his horse. Neither spoke. The steward didn’t even
give the customary greeting of “Good night,” so usual here when people
meet in country lanes. The strange gentleman’s broad brimmed hat and
drooping plume so shaded his face that his features could not be
distinctly seen; but his tall figure was attired in a dress precisely
like that which had been usually worn by Harris, and which was of too
grand a mode for anybody else in the immediate neighbourhood. The horse
showed signs of great terror by rubbing his rider against the hedge,
and by trying to run off at a gallop; yet, however the steed altered
his paces, the stranger kept alongside, with such an easy motion as if
he floated in air, until, passing the stream which flows to Ponsandane,
when this strange companion disappeared,—there was no knowing whither.
Having crossed the water, and the road ascending for a little way, the
rider let his steed take its course; then it went off at a furious
rate, and only ceased its race when near the watering-trough at the top
of Market-jew Street, opposite the “Star” Inn. After slaking its
thirst, it went down a lane, now built on, and called New Street, which
led to a yard, stable, and garden, at the back of the lawyer’s house,
on the eastern side of Chapel Street (formerly called Our Lady Street)
and a little above the end of Vounder Ver.
It is not known whether the lawyer surmised or not that the companion
of his ride down Kenegie Hill was his late friend’s ghost, which it
was: for he, like most of his profession, could keep his own counsel,
especially in doubtful cases.
Next day, however, when he was expected by the family at Kenegie to
settle such business as could only be arranged with his help, he begged
for delay, on the plea of illness, and took to his bed, which he did
not quit for some days.
Night was dreaded in the old mansion at Kenegie. Even the decline of
day made its inmates shudder with apprehensive terror. The slamming of
doors, rattling of furniture, and other disturbances commenced earlier
and continued later into the morning than they did at first; and the
spirit’s cries of “I wish, I wish,” seemed to be uttered in anger
rather than in grief. During all the family’s trouble the steward was
unable, or unwilling, to come near them. Yet, almost daily, one or
other of Harris’s old servants came in to enquire after the lawyer’s
health, and told his family how their late master’s ghost had been seen
and heard before candle-lighting time in a court behind the house; and
that it was intended, over a few nights, to try what “spirit-quellers,”
as ghost-layers were called, could do in order to give the troubled
spirit rest.
The steward was still far from well, when one night, about a week after
his last visit to Kenegie, and just after he heard an eight-day clock
on his stair-landing strike two, whilst he was listening for the
town-clock, five minutes slower than his own, he heard a loud knocking
at his front door. Shortly afterwards his housekeeper came to his
bedroom door, and asked, “Are ’e waking, master?” Having spoken to her,
she said, “There’s an old clergyman, from over Hayle way, below; I’ve
seen him here before; he must speak with you, he says: he has a message
of the utmost importance to you.” The steward told her to strike a
light and show the parson up at once, as he was an old acquaintance who
didn’t stand on ceremony with him.
The old dame sat on her three-legged stool, hammering away with flint
and steel, in making vain endeavours to kindle the tinder, which wasn’t
touched by a spark, for the box had overturned in her lap without her
knowing it; her skirts being huddled on in a hurry she hardly knew
where to find her knees to steady the tinder-box between them. There
was a glimmer of light coming through the diamond-shaped lead lights
from a ghostly-looking bit of a morning moon, when the venerable
gentleman told her to take no more trouble; as he was well acquainted
with the house and her master he could find the way to his room without
a candle and alone; his business was too urgent for any farther delay.
The reverend gentleman, on entering the lawyer’s bedroom, drew back the
window curtains, and said, whilst shaking hands, “I hope to be excused
for calling at this unseasonable hour on account of the message I
bring; the importance of which, to you, will be best understood when I
tell ye of this night’s occurrences.” Now, the lawyer was impatient to
learn this urgent business, but it would seem as if the parson were in
no hurry—such good men take things easy. For he went to the window,
opened a casement, and looked out, as if to recollect his thoughts. It
was too obscure then for him to enjoy the extensive prospect, as seen
by day—only bounded by distant eastern hills. Returning to the lawyer’s
bedside, the reverend gentleman seated himself and continued thus:—“I
calculate, by the stars now rising, as well as by the altitude attained
by others, that it is now two hours and forty-five minutes since I,
with four other clergymen of our neighbourhood, by a request of the
deceased squire’s family, assembled on the Bowling Green, at Kenegie,
in order to give rest to the unquiet spirit which quitted Proud
Harris’s mortal tenement a fortnight since. Having marked on the turf a
circle, and placed on its circumference three lighted candles, to mark
the points of an equilateral triangle, within which a ghost is as safe
as in consecrated ground—the devil and his hounds are always on the
watch for vagrant spirits, roaming from churchyards—we formed ourselves
in line, facing south and behind the lights, in order of precedence, my
station being at the right hand of all. Then a reverend gentleman, who,
like myself, has much knowledge of planetary influence and other occult
sciences, as well as great ability in laying obdurate spirits, spoke a
form of citation. Not a dozen words of this solemn summons were uttered
when Proud Harris’s ghost, in winding-sheet and shroud came before us,
and, with a frowning countenance and angry gestures, abruptly said,
‘Begone about your own business, if you have any, for you have none
whatever here; and learn, vain mortals, that I will not leave this
place for anything you can do or say, until it pleaseth me to do so.’”
“Ah, I see,” said the steward, “it’s the same resolute spirit still
that always animated my deceased friend, for he never liked those of
your cloth; in fact he couldn’t abide to see men feathered all in black
and white; he used to say, ‘They are like Market-jew crows.’” “Well,
well, let that pass,” replied the reverend gentleman, “You have not yet
heard the matter of importance to you. On my commencing a powerful form
of conjuration the spirit approached me and said, ‘Dear old friend of
my youth, for the sake of those many happy days that we have passed
together in the hunting-field, do thou go from me, and at once, to that
accursed lawyer and steward of mine; tell him that unless he comes
here, and that shortly, to mind his business, I will go to him. Aye,
you see that thin rim of the waning moon; if he be not here, attending
to his duty to me and mine, ere that moon be renewed, I will appear
before him when least expected, whether he be in his office, his
bed-chamber, or elsewhere, alone.’ On my assenting to convey his
message the ghost vanished, and I at once came hither with such speed
as my three-score and six years permit.”
The parson paused a moment, but, the lawyer remaining silent, he
continued: “I advise you as a friend, go, as desired, before you are
three days older, for by that time this moon’s diminished horns will
have recommenced their growth. As I have now faithfully delivered the
spirit’s message, I bid you adieu, hoping you will have grace to follow
my advice.”
“I intend going to Kenegie,” replied the lawyer, “before another night
comes round. Stay and take breakfast; you must need rest after such
trying work.”
“No, I must be gone,” said the parson, “though I have neither eaten nor
slept since my leaving Ruan yesterday morn.”
“Then if you won’t stop, I wish ’e well,” said the steward, “hoping
never more to see ye here with a message from the dead. Farewell.”
After this unpleasant interruption to his night’s rest, the steward lay
awake and turned out of bed before his accustomed time of rising, with
the intention of going to Kenegie without delay. Yet, from feeling very
much out of order, when partly dressed, he returned to bed and sent for
a medical man.
The doctor felt the lawyer’s hot forehead and rapidly-throbbing pulse,
whilst the sick man told him that he could neither get tranquil sleep
nor take his food with any appetite.
“My good friend,” replied the doctor, “you are working yourself to
death, in trying to grapple with your extensive practice. Now, you must
not think of entering your office for a month at least. Go away to the
country; when you are able, for the sake of getting rid of business
cares; your clients must have patience until you get well. If they
won’t, let them go to Old Nick for advice. His counsel will please the
greater part of them much better than the advice of an honest
attorney.”
The patient then said, “I am most anxious first to go over and arrange
some business in Kenegie which requires my presence there.”
“All right,” replied the doctor, “you can do nothing better, when well
enough, mind you, than ride over there daily; but don’t stay long in
the house, and say but little about professional matters. After taking
some light refreshment, ride away up to Castle-an-Dinas, or, at least,
as far as the hamlet called Castle Gate, and ride easily forth and
back, over the stretch of level road on that high ground. When there
you will breathe the sweet air of the hills, mingled with ocean’s
breezes, which will do you more good than any amount of drugs. You
must, however, take a small dose at once, in order to procure tranquil
sleep. Never mind your appetite, that will return when you are able to
take daily rides over the hills, and you will be able to eat like a
horse, as the saying is.”
The doctor having sent for medicine, and seen his patient take the
same, went downstairs, charged the household to keep still, and on no
account to let their master be disturbed with business callers. “If he
should sleep for 24 hours, let him,” said the doctor, “and I’ll call
again shortly.”
The steward said nothing of his having been accompanied by Harris’s
ghost in his ride down Kenegie Hill, nor of the spirit’s message, well
knowing that his medical friend had no faith in supernatural
appearances; and the ailing man himself had but slight belief in such
matters until the evidence of his own eyes, as well as the reverend
gentleman’s words, convinced him, in spite of his reason.
The “doctor’s stuff” had its desired effect. The steward slept soundly
through the night, and until nearly noon next morning, when he took
breakfast in bed, then more medicine, and slept again. About two
o’clock the doctor called and asked the housekeeper how her master was.
“I suppose,” said she, “that he’s going on as well as can be expected,
for he slept well last night, ate a good breakfast for a sick man, and
is sleeping again. A few minutes since I went into his room, and saw
his eyes were shut, and didn’t speak to him, as you told me not to, but
I talked a little to myself, and he didn’t ask me what I was grumbling
about, as he mostly does if I speak a few words to, myself.
“A precious nurse you are,” said the doctor, “can’t you keep your
tongue still when in your master’s room?”
The lawyer had the same tranquil rest on the following night; got up at
his usual time, and soon after an early dinner, took horse for Kenegie.
The steward arrived at the old mansion about three or four o’clock.
Having stayed a few hours with the bereaved family, and said all he
could to comfort them, he recollected that there were alterations, or
repairs, going on down at the mill, which he ought to see. The
lengthening shadows warned him that it was time for his departure, that
he might see the mill on his way home. Having sent his horse down, by a
servant, he took a pathway which made a short cut thither across some
fields. This was always a favourite walk with him and the late squire,
because it afforded delightful views over land and sea. When on the
clear ground, and in sight of Rosemorran, he saw the sunbeams still
shining through a few leafless trees on the hill, but the valley was
all in shadow. On coming to a high-hedged and narrow lane, near the
mill, the gentleman went on slowly, with eyes cast down, musing on
times past. Glancing upwards, when his reverie ended, he beheld, at the
distance of ten or a dozen paces, the late squire, looking as formerly,
and slowly approaching him. The steward, though much terrified at
first, noticed that the garb taken by the apparition was, from
looped-up hat to silver spurs, exactly like that which Harris had
usually worn when following his hounds. At a glance the steward saw the
same bright and unsullied attire for which the late owner of Kenegie
had been distinguished. There were the same untarnished gold-lace and
buttons on his bright scarlet coat; and the boots, with their tops just
touching, without hiding, the jewelled knee-buckles of his nether
garment. Yet, for all this brightness of dress, the ghostly face, as
seen by the terrified man on coming nearer, made his blood run cold.
The eyes were like the unclosed eyes of the dead; and the other
features were pale and motionless as those of a marble image lying on a
tomb. The lawyer had heard, like everybody else here, that one should
never turn back from a ghost, but speak, if only a single word, as a
spirit is powerless to impart its wishes till spoken to; and if long
delayed the person is in danger of receiving bodily harm, and will be
haunted to death if he speak not before. The poor man forced himself,
as it were, to advance with his eyes cast down, for he couldn’t bear to
see the ghastly countenance. When near he could only murmur, “What
shall I do for ’e?”
“I am rejoiced that thou hast come to meet me here, and spoken in time,
for on the morrow I should have gone to thee. The anger I felt at thy
delay hath passed; why shouldst thou fear me, frail mortal that thou
art, when, ere long, thou wilt be as I am, and then seek me with a
greater desire to meet me than thou hast now to shun my company?
Besides thou knowest I always liked thee for thy honesty, and thy
regard to me and mine, as well as for thy doing justice to thy poorer
clients—as far as unjust laws and judges would allow thee. Now, with
regard to my son John,” continued the ghost, looking sorrowfully on his
faithful steward, “Death, as thou knowest, cut short my efforts to
explain how my wishes were to be accomplished touching Trengwainton.
Thy eyes are cast on earth; dost thou attend to what I say?”
“I do my best to,” replied the poor steward like one in a waking dream.
“Well, as thou knowest, there is much money owing to me on the place;
no interest has ever been paid, and more cash is wanted. Do thou supply
more and more until the place be indebted to nearly its value. Our boy
John is now about fourteen. Before he will be of age, foreclose the
mortgage, as the place by that time will be burthened to nearly its
full value. If the estate be offered for sale there will be no
purchaser; everyone hereabouts has enough to do to keep the land he
has. All landowners here are much embarrased to hold what they have.
Yet if the place be worth anything more than its encumbrance, pay over
the balance on putting my son in possession. The management of my
family’s property will be entirely on thy hands for many years, and
thou wilt still be my trusty steward. Now understand me clearly, of a
Harris it must never with truth be said that he got his lands unfairly.
Mark the little more I have to say, that I may depart for good, and no
more have to revisit this miserable world. Look up now, that I may know
thou attendest to my words, and learn that unless my wishes be
accomplished none of my family, nor of thine, will be known in this
part of the country for half the time they have flourished here, nor
have an inch of land more than their graves occupy. Behold those aged
trees which my forefathers planted. Ere they return to dust our ancient
homes will know us no more, if my last wishes be disregarded.”
Before the lawyer could reply—if he had anything to say—Harris’s ghost
had vanished.
The servant, who awaited the lawyer at the Mill, became uneasy when it
was almost night and the gentleman had not arrived; knowing him to be
unwell and that he was a man who would never “say die whilst there was
a shot in the locker,” as the saying is (everybody liked the steward
for his pluck and kindly disposition.) He rode slowly up the lane by
which he expected the steward to arrive, and, at last found him sitting
on a bank beside the road, seeming all bewildered and stupid, like a
person recovering from a trance or just come out of a fit. The servant
roused him up, as he said, but the steward didn’t speak, even when he
mounted his horse, and rode slowly homeward, with the servant following
to his own door, where the doctor was anxiously awaiting his patient’s
return. We heard no more of the good lawyer, but hope he rode out no
more until perfectly recovered.
Harris’s ghost, satisfied with having told the lawyer how its wishes
were to be carried out, has never more been seen nor heard in Kenegie,
from that day to this.