SISTER AGATHA’S GHOST.
“True as the knights of story,
Sir Lancelot and his peers,
Brave in his calm endurance,
As they in tilt of spears.
* * * * *
Knight of a better era,
Without reproach or fear!
Said I not well that Bayards
And Sidneys still are here?”
_Whittier._
It was customary to hold missionary meetings in the various villages
of the Kesterton Circuit during the months of winter; and these
occasions were almost always characterised by an outcome of
hospitality on the part of the sympathising villagers, an enthusiasm
in the great mission cause, and a liberality in its support which was
very beautiful to see. The speakers usually consisted of, at least,
one of the circuit ministers, a minister from a neighbouring circuit
as “the deputation,” and a local preacher or two, with some
neighbouring man of influence and means to take the chair. The reading
of the “report,” containing an abstract of the general doings of the
society, was not usually a popular part of the programme, but the
statement of local subscriptions and donations always made up for
that. Probably the names of one or two neighbouring farmers appeared
with the time-honoured “guinea” appended as their annual donation.
There was sure to be a missionary box or two, containing the result of
much patient painstaking on the part of the collector during the
preceding year. Not seldom, a missionary lamb, or goose, or pear-tree,
or other cash-producing entity, figured in the report, and told of
contrivance and self-sacrifice on the part of some who desired to have
an honourable “share in the concern.”
About the period of which I am writing, the annual meeting was
appointed to be held at Bexton, a considerable village situated a few
miles from the circuit town. As usual, the day was regarded by the
generality of Bextonians as being quite as fit an occasion for a
holiday as the village feast. The farmyards of the Methodist farmers,
as well as the open space beside the “King’s Head,” was filled with
gigs, traps, spring-carts, and other vehicles, which had brought a
large number of invited visitors; for the good folks of Bexton were
resolved that the proceeds of the anniversary should go “beyond last
year.” They accounted themselves peculiarly fortunate in having
secured the young squire of Waverdale as the chairman on this
auspicious occasion, and on having captured a “great gun from York as
the deputation.” Both Mr. Clayton and his colleague were present, as
well as Mr. Harrison, a local preacher from Kesterton; and last, not
least, Old Adam Olliver had accepted the warm invitation of a sister
of Mrs. Houston’s who resided in the village, and as the quaint old
man was a prime favourite all round the neighbourhood, nothing would
do but he must take a seat on the platform and say a few words to the
people.
Philip Fuller opened the proceedings with a brief and simple address,
and did his work in such a transparently earnest and unassuming
fashion that he was heartily cheered; and Mr. Mitchell was led
subsequently to make the original remark that “the chairman had struck
the keynote, and given a good tone to the meeting.” Philip described
himself as only a “raw recruit” in the great army, but, “thanks to his
old friend, Adam Olliver,” he had no doubt of his enlistment in the
Church militant, and, said he, “by God’s help, I will not only never
desert or betray my Captain, but will spend my life in the interests
of His cause.”
In the course of the meeting, the Chairman, having called upon Mr.
Mitchell, Mr. Clayton, and Mr. Harrison, said that “Mr. Olliver” would
now address the meeting. Loud and long-continued cheers greeted the
announcement, amid which Adam retained his seat, looking all round the
platform and the congregation, and finally at the door, to see the man
who was having so warm a welcome. When the cheering had subsided, the
Chairman looked at Adam, and Adam looked at him. All at once a light
broke in on the old man, and jumping to his feet, he said,--
“Lawk-a-massy! Maister Philip! Ah didn’t knoa ’at yo’ meant me. Ah
nivver was called ‘Mr. Olliver’ i’ all mi’ life afoore, an’ me an’ it
dizn’t seeam te agree. It’s like blo’in’ t’ cooachman’s ’orn iv a
wheelbarro’, or puttin’ a gilt knocker on a barn deear. Ah’ve been
ax’d te say a few wods, bud ah isn’t mitch ov a speeaker, an’ yo’
needn’t be freeten’d ’at ah sall tak’ up mitch o’ yer tahme. Ah knoa
’at yo’ want te hear t’ greeat man ’at’s cum all t’ way frae York te
help i’ this good cause. God bless ’im! an’ give him mooth, matter,
an’ wisdom, an’ tak’ ’im seeafe yam ageean, nae warse i’ body an’
better i’ sowl. Maister Philip, ah’ve cum frae Kesterton mainly te see
you i’ that chair. You’re t’ right man i’ t’ right spot. Ah sall
nivver forget that ’appy day upo’ Nestleton Woad, when the Lord
‘listed yo’, as you say, an’ gav’ yo’ the boonty munny o’ pardonin’
peeace. Ah’s quite sartain ’at t’ greeat Captain ov oor salvaytion
meeans yo’ te be, nut a private souldier, bud a general i’ t’ hosts o’
God’s elect; an’ ah pray ivvery day o’ my life ’at God ’ll bless yo’,
an’ mak’ yo’ a blessin’: that yo’ may fight the good fight o’ fayth
an’ lay hod ov etarnal life. Ah luv t’ mission cause, because it
brings perishin’ sowls te Jesus, an’ tak’s t’ blood-stayned banner o’
t’ Cross inte heeathen lands. Ah prays for it all’us, an’ ah gives all
t’ brass ah can spare, efter buyin’ breead an’ cheese for me an’ Judy,
te the Lord’s cause beeath at worn an’ abroad. Ah’s glad te see sae
monny labourin’ men here te-neet. Mah deear frens, you an’ me can’t
gie mitch munny, but we can pray as hard as onybody; an’ it isn’t hoo
mitch we gie, bud hoo mitch we luv, an’ hoo ’artily we deea wer best.
Angels can deea nae mair then that, an’ God ’ll bless it. T’ poor
wido’ ’at nobbut put two mites inte t’ box, did what was pleeasing te
Jesus, an’ her munny fell thro’ t’ nick wiv a sweeter chink then t’
golden sovereigns o’ t’ rich fooaks meead, because she put ’er heart
atween t’ bits o’ brass, an’ sae gay’ mair then ’em all. May the Lord
bless uz, an’ cause His feeace te shine on uz, an may His way be knoan
upo’ t’ ’arth an’ His seeavin’ health te all naytions.”
Adam’s speech elicited a round of applause, and then the deputation
had full swing. A collection succeeded, and Mr. Mitchell was able to
announce that the financial results were more than five pounds ahead
of last year’s. The “Doxology” was sung with much enthusiasm, and the
village missionary meeting was brought to a close. It was a little
meeting, it is true, but there are thousands of such meetings held in
Methodism, and in the aggregate they wield an influence which reaches
to the uttermost parts of the earth, carries saving health to
thousands who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, and helps
to overspread the world with the “glory of the Lord.”
After partaking of the bounteous and really sumptuous supper provided
by his hosts, Adam Olliver was prevailed upon to smoke his pipe in the
chimney-corner in company with other guests who indulged in that
regalement. It was getting late when the old man mounted his faithful
steed, and started on his homeward way. For a while he was favoured
with the companionship of fellow guests, but as he proceeded, first
one and then another turned down highway or byeway, until, at length,
Balaam and his master were left to jog along, beneath the stars,
alone.
As usual, the old hedger made a confidant of his dumb companion. It
was a bright moonlight night; the clear blue sky was studded with
stars, and Balaam’s hoofs were pattering along the frosty road, when
the big bell at Cowley Priory boomed out the hour of eleven.
“Balaam, aud friend, this is a bonny tahme o’ neet for thoo an’ me te
be wanderin’ throo’ t’ coontry, when a’most ivvery honest body’s gone
te bed. Besides, thoo knoas it’s dangerous travellin’ noo-a-days, for
there’s robbers, an’ hoosebrekkers, an’ ’ighwaymen aboot. They’ll hae
sum trubble te rob me, hooivver, for that man frae York ’ticed ivvery
copper oot o’ my pocket, an’s left ma’ as poor as a chotch moose.
What’ll Judy think on us, gallivantin’ aboot at midneet i’ this
oathers? She’ll think thoo’s run away wi’ ma’, Balaam.” The idea of
Balaam being guilty of any such absurd indiscretion, tickled the old
man’s risible faculties so finely, that he broke out into a hearty fit
of laughter, loud and long. Scarcely had the sound subsided than there
rose upon the air a scream so wild and piercing, that for a moment
both Balaam and his rider were astonished. Rising up in his stirrups,
Adam Olliver looked across the adjoining hedge. The hoary gables of
the old Abbey stood out bold and clear, and the crumbling walls and
shapeless heaps of stone, and the all-pervading ivy were to be seen
almost as clearly as by day. But there was one sight that never could
be seen by day which now displayed itself to Adam’s wondering gaze.
This was nothing less than the veritable apparition of the ancient
nun. Robed in flowing white, with white folds across the brow, and
that awful crimson stain upon the breast, there it stood, or slowly
walked with measured pace around the ruined pile. One death-white hand
was laid upon the bosom, the other one was lifted heavenward, as if in
deprecation or in prayer.
“Balaam,” said Adam, as he settled himself again in his saddle, “there
_is_ a boggle, hooivver!”
This startling information was received by that philosophic quadruped
with no symptoms of surprise. The fact is that Balaam had, for reasons
which will shortly appear, made up his mind in favour of the
genuineness of the ghost in which even his sceptical master had now
confessed a tardy, but definite belief. Balaam simply laid one ear
backwards, and cocked the other upright, as who should say as plain as
signs could speak,--
“There, I told you so, but you didn’t believe me. You see I’m right,
after all.”
“All right, Balaam,” said Adam Olliver. “Ah telled tha’ ’at if thoo
didn’t tonn tayl if we sud see it, ah wadn’t. What diz tho’ say? will
tho’ feeace it?”
By this time they had arrived at the gate of the paddock in which the
haunted ruins stood. Balaam had for many years enjoyed the free run of
that pasturage whenever he was off duty, and this with the hearty
good-will of Farmer Houston, for his owner’s sake. This familiarity
with the haunts of Sister Agatha doubtless accounted for Balaam’s
belief in spiritualism, as he had in this way repeated opportunities
of studying the remarkable phenomena connected with this particular
illustration of that occult and mysterious science. As Piggy Morris
said, “Seein’s believin’, all the world over,” and as “familiarity
breeds contempt,” according to the well-known proverb, there is little
cause of surprise that the sagacious animal did not display any fear
of the dread nocturnal visitor that filled all Nestleton with alarm.
Be this as it may, Balaam, altogether unaccustomed to such
unconscionably late hours, promptly came to the conclusion that his
master would now turn him into the paddock for the night, and so he
trotted boldly up to the gate, and inserting his nose between the
bars, looked with wistful eye, though not much like the poet’s
“disconsolate Peri,” into the green and restful Paradise within.
“Well dun, Balaam! That’s a challenge, at ony rayte,” said Adam, “an’
ah weean’t refuse it. Ah nivver was freetened o’ nowt bud the divvil,
an’ noo, thenk the Lord, ah deean’t care a button for ’im. Nut ’at ah
think it is ’im. It’s sum Tom Feeal, ah fancy, at’s deein’ it for a
joak; bud he hez neea business te flay fooaks oot o’ the’r wits, an’
ah’ll see whea it is.”
He opened the gate, and, nothing loth, Balaam boldly trotted over the
grass, and again the apparition showed itself, just as it had appeared
to Jake Olliver several nights ago.
“Woy,” said Adam to his reckless steed, and the ghost, observing the
daring intruder, stretched out its hands in menace, and advanced until
it stood beneath the arch, on the spot it usually selected for its
subterranean evanishment. Here another woeful, wailing shriek arose;
Adam for the first time felt an odd tingling sensation, and a sort of
creepy-crawly feeling that would be difficult to analyse. The ass,
however, showed not the least surprise, so Adam stood up again in his
stirrups, though he was “a goodish bit dumfoonder’d,” as he afterwards
confessed, and said in a loud voice,--
“Jesus the neeame ’igh ower all,
I’ hell or ’arth or sky;
Aingels an’ men afoore it fall,
An’ divvils fear an’ fly!”
Hereupon the ghost itself was “a goodish bit dumfoonder’d” too;
however, the last act of the drama was accomplished as usual, for
instantly a pale blue flash surrounded the figure, which sank, at once
among the briars and brambles that grew in unchecked profusion on that
uncanny ground.
“Cum oop! Balaam,” said the daring knight of the slashing-knife, and
that unflinching steed, worthy to rank henceforth with Rosinante,
Bucephalus, the war-horse of the Roman Curtius, and other equine
heroes, trotted under the broken arch! Adam’s observant eye had
noticed that as the figure sank the brambles bent and waved to and
fro, as if set in motion by some living thing. He was not greatly
learned in ghost lore, still he had the idea that a real, genuine
ghost, with no nonsense about it, ought to have gone through the
briars with no more commotion than the moonbeams made.
“That’ll deea for te-neet, Balaam,” said Adam; “t’ ghaust’s run te
’arth like a fox, an’ we mun dig ’im oot.”
Balaam obeyed the bridle, turned his steps homeward, and in a few
minutes the anxiety of Judy was allayed by the appearance of her good
man, all safe and sound.
“Adam!” said she, “Wherivver hae yo’ been, te be so late?”
“Why, me an’ Balaam’s been te see t’ boggle!”
“What, Sister Agatha’s ghost?” said Judy, who was not by any means a
sceptic with regard to spirits from the vasty deep in general, and
this one in particular.
“Sister Agatha’s gran’mother,” said Adam, contemptuously. “It’s my
opinion ’at it isn’t a sister at all, but a brother, an’ a precious
rascal at that, wiv ’is white smock, an’ ’is bloody breest, an’ ’is
blue bleeazes. If he dizn’t mind, he’ll get mair o’ them last sooat o’
things then he’ll care for; bud we’ll dig ’im oot.”
The next day Adam related his midnight encounter to Farmer Houston
and Nathan Blyth, and they resolved to go and explore the haunted
spot. They were ultimately rewarded by the discovery of an underground
cave, probably the handiwork of the monkish denizens of Cowley Priory,
with whose monastery it was said Nestleton Abbey had been connected by
a subterranean passage in those “auld-warld” times, when Rome ruled
the roast in England, and when its anchorites led not only an ignoble
and wasted life, but were guilty of evil doings and malpractices that
were infinitely worse. The spacious hollow which the explorers
discovered, penetrated far into the earth. Candles were provided to
prosecute the search, and there they found much thievish booty,
including the tin box which had been abstracted from Waverdale Hall.
The astonished discoverers kept their secret, and quickly arranged to
set a secret watch on the bramble-covered entrance to the burglar’s
den. Two or three nights afterwards they were successful in capturing
a man just as he was in the act of descending to his secret lair. He
was seized by strong hands and carried to Farmer Houston’s kitchen. As
may be imagined, the entrance of the redoubtable ghost caused no
little stir among that peaceful household, each of whom in turn came
to “have a look” at him. Among the rest came Hannah Olliver, who was
plying her needle for the good of the household wardrobe, and as soon
as she set her eyes upon the prisoner she screamed out, “Aubrey
Bevan!” and fell fainting on the floor. The quondam valet was safely
lodged in York Castle. Eventually that crafty, clever, but
craven-hearted rascal turned king’s evidence; the entire gang, which
had long been a terror to the country side, was captured, and speedily
“left their country for their country’s good.” It is gratifying to be
able to say that both poetical and practical justice was at length
able to lay its hands on Master Bevan himself, and he, too, was sent
to join his former comrades in the distant and uncomfortable
settlements of Botany Bay. Hannah Olliver, who had been instrumental
in his identification, was permitted to be the bearer of the tin box
to its rightful owner, and on giving up the precious article to Squire
Fuller, she received a kind and full forgiveness for the unwary folly
of which she had been guilty in introducing the burglars into
Waverdale Hall.