corpse of Larry Barnes, with not so much as a feature changed by the hand
of Time—with all his clothes intact and whole, and a bunch of samphire in
his breast—lay out upon the shining sands, stiff as marble, but without
any trace of decomposition upon his fresh young features and stalwart
limbs.[1] And beside him, with her cheek bowed down upon his own, knelt
Lizzie Locke. Lizzie, who had braved the winter’s frost, and withstood
the cold of a February night, in order to watch beside the recovered body
of her lover.
‘Lizzie!’ exclaimed Mrs Barnes. ‘Look up now; I’ve come to comfort thee!
Let us thank Heaven that he’s found again, and the evil words they spoke
of him must be took back.’
But the blind girl neither spoke nor stirred.
‘Can’t thee answer, my lass?’ said Isaac the poacher, as he shook her by
the arm.
The answer that she made was by falling backwards and disclosing her
fair, gentle face—white and rigid as her lover’s.
‘Merciful God! she is dead!’ they cried.
Yes, they were right. She was dead—she was at rest. What she had
waited for she had found. What she had striven for she had gained.
How many of us can say the same? Larry had been restored to her. The
shifting quicksand had thrown him upon earth again, and had she not
been there, his body might have been washed out to sea, and no further
knowledge gained of his fate. But she had saved his dust for consecrated
ground—more, she had saved his character for the healing of his mother’s
heart. For in his breast there still reposed the bunch of samphire
he had perilled his life to gather for the farmer’s daughter, and,
grasped tight in his hand, they found the neckcloth of Lord Worcester’s
gamekeeper—a crimson, silk neckcloth, recognised by all three—and
which Larry had seized and held in the last deadly struggle. And the
men of Corston looked on it and knew the truth—that their comrade was
no murderer, but had fallen where he was found in a quarrel (probably
pre-arranged) with Frederick Darley; and they cursed the gamekeeper in
their hearts.
But Lizzie was at rest—happy Lizzie Locke! sleeping in the quiet
churchyard at Corston, with her cheek pillowed on her Larry’s breast.
THE END.
[1] This is a fact, the corpse of a fisherman having been preserved in
like manner for some nine months when buried in the salt marshes of
Norfolk.
[Illustration]
THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE.
‘On the banks of the Wye, Monmouthshire.—To be Let, furnished, a
commodious Family Mansion, surrounded with park-like grounds. Stabling
and every convenience. Only two and a-half miles from station, church,
and post-office. Excellent fishing to be procured in the neighbourhood.
Rent nominal to a responsible tenant.’
Such, with a few trifling additions, was the advertisement that caught my
eye in the spring of 18—.
‘My dear Jane,’ I said, as I handed the paper over to my wife, ‘this, I
think, is the very thing we want.’
I was a London practitioner, with a numerous family and a large circle
of patients; but the two facts, though blessings in themselves, were not
without their disadvantages.
The hostages which I had given to fortune had made that strenuous action
which attention to my numerous patients supplied incumbent on me; but the
consequent anxiety and want of rest had drawn so largely on my mental and
physical resources, that there was no need for my professional brethren
to warn me of the necessity of change and country air. I felt myself that
I was breaking down, and had already made arrangements with a friend to
take my practice for a few months, and set me at liberty to attend to
my own health. And being passionately fond of fishing, and all country
pleasures and pursuits, and looking forward with zest to a period of
complete quiet, the residence alluded to (if it fulfilled the promise of
its advertisement) appeared to be all that I could desire.
‘Park-like grounds!’ exclaimed my wife, with animation. ‘How the dear
children will enjoy themselves.’
‘And two and a-half miles from church or station,’ I responded eagerly.
‘No neighbours, excellent fishing, and at a nominal rent. It sounds too
good to be true.’
‘Oh, Arthur! you must write, and obtain all the particulars this very
day. If you put it off, some one will be sure to take the house before we
have time to do so.’
‘I shall go and see the city agents at once,’ I replied, resolutely. ‘It
is too rare an opportunity to be lost. Only, don’t raise your hopes too
high, my dear. Advertisements are apt to be deceptive.’
But when I had seen Messrs Quibble & Lye on the subject, it really
seemed as though for once they had spoken the truth. Rushmere, the house
in question, had been built and furnished for his own use by an old
gentleman, who died shortly afterwards, and his heirs, not liking the
situation, had placed the property in the agents’ hands for letting.
The owners were wealthy, cared little for money, and had authorised
the agents to let the house on any reasonable terms, and it was really
a bargain to anyone that wanted it. They frankly admitted that the
loneliness of the position of Rushmere was the reason of its cheapness;
but when I heard the rent at which they offered to let me take it, if
approved of, for three months, I was quite ready to agree with Messrs
Quibble & Lye in their idea of a bargain, and that, for those who liked
solitude, Rushmere offered extraordinary advantages.
Armed with the necessary authority, I found my way down into
Monmouthshire, to inspect the premises on the following day; and when
I saw Rushmere, I felt still more disposed to be surprised at the
opportunity afforded me, and to congratulate myself on the promptitude
with which I had embraced it. I found it to be a good-sized country
house, comfortably furnished, and, to all appearance, well built,
standing in enclosed grounds, and on a healthy elevation; but,
notwithstanding its isolated situation, I was too much a man of the world
to believe, under the circumstances, that its greatest disadvantage lay
in that fact. Accordingly, I peered eagerly about for damp walls, covered
cesspools, unsteady joists, or tottering foundations, but I could find
none.
‘The chimneys smoke, I suppose?’ I remarked, in a would-be careless tone,
to the old woman whom I found in charge of the house, and who crept after
me where-ever I went.
‘Chimbleys smoke, sir? Not as I knows of.’
‘The roof leaks, perhaps?’
‘Deary me, no. You won’t find a spot of damp, look where you may.’
‘Then there’s been a fever, or some infectious disorder in the house?’
‘A fever, sir? Why, the place has been empty these six months. The last
tenants left at Christmas.’
‘Empty for six months!’ I exclaimed. ‘How long is it, then, since the
gentleman who built it died?’
‘Old Mr Bennett, sir? He’s been dead a matter of fifteen years or more.’
‘Indeed! Then why don’t the owners of the place sell it, instead of
letting it stand vacant?’ thought I to myself.
But I did not say so to the old woman, who was looking up in my face, as
though anxious to learn what my decision would be.
‘No vermin, I hope?’ I suggested, as a last resource. ‘You are not
troubled with rats or mice at night, are you?’
‘Oh, I don’t sleep here at night, sir, thank heaven!’ she answered in a
manner which appeared to me unnecessarily energetic. ‘I am only employed
by day to air the house, and show it to strangers. I go home to my own
people at night.’
‘And where do your people live?’
‘Better than half a mile from here, sir, and ours is the nearest cottage
to Rushmere.’
And then—apprehensive, perhaps, that her information might prove a
drawback to the letting of the property—she added, quickly,—
‘Not but what it’s a nice place to live in, is Rushmere, and very
convenient, though a bit lonesome.’
I perfectly agreed with her, the ‘lonesomeness’ of the situation proving
no detraction in my eyes.
On my return to London I gave my wife so glowing a description of the
house and its surroundings, that she urged me to conclude the bargain
at once; and, in the course of a few weeks, I and my family were
transplanted from the purlieus of Bayswater to the banks of the Wye. It
was the middle of May when we took possession, and the country wore its
most attractive garb. The children were wild with delight at being let
loose in the flower-bespangled fields, and, as I watched the tributaries
of the river, and perceived the excellent sport they promised me, I felt
scarcely less excited than the children. Only my wife, I thought, became
inoculated with some of the absurd fears of the domestics we had brought
with us from town, and seemed to consider the locality more lonely and
unprotected than she had expected to find it.
‘It’s a charming place, Arthur,’ she acknowledged, ‘and marvellously
cheap; but it is certainly a long way from other houses. I find we shall
have to send for everything to the town. Not even the country carts, with
butter and poultry, seem to call at Rushmere.’
‘My dear Jane, I told you distinctly that it was two and a-half miles
from church or station, and you read it for yourself in the paper. But I
thought we looked out for a retreat where we should run no risk of being
intruded on by strangers.’
‘Oh yes, of course; only there are not even any farmhouses or cottages
near Rushmere, you see; and it would be so very easy for anyone to break
in at night, and rob us.’
‘Pooh, nonsense! What will you be afraid of next? The locks and bolts are
perfectly secure, and both Dawson and I have firearms, and are ready to
use them. Your fears are childish, Janie.’
But all my arguments were unavailing, and each day my wife grew more
nervous, and less willing to be left alone. So much so, indeed, that I
made a practice of seeing that the house fastenings were properly secured
each night myself, and of keeping a loaded revolver close to my hand,
in case of need. But it damped my pleasure to find that Jane was not
enjoying herself; and the country looked less beautiful to me than it had
done at first. One night I suddenly awoke, to find that she was sitting
up in bed, and in an attitude of expectation.
‘My dear, what is the matter with you?’
‘Oh, hush! I am sure that I hear footsteps on the stairs—footsteps
creeping up and down.’
I listened with her, but could detect no sound whatever.
‘Lie down again, Jane—it is only your imagination. Every one is fast
asleep in bed.’
‘I assure you, Arthur, I am not mistaken. Once they came quite near the
door.’
‘If so, it can only be one of the servants. You don’t wish me to get
up and encounter Mary or Susan in her night-dress, do you? Consider my
morals!’
‘Oh no, of course not,’ she replied with a faint smile; yet it was some
time before she fell to sleep again.
It was not many nights before my wife roused me again with the same
complaint.
‘Arthur, don’t call me silly, but I am _certain_ I heard something.’
To appease her fears, I shook off my drowsiness, and, with a lighted
candle, made a tour of the house; but all was as I had left it.
Once, indeed, I imagined that I heard at my side the sound of a quick
breathing; but that I knew must be sheer fancy, since I was alone.
The only circumstance that startled me was finding Dawson, the man
servant, who slept on the ground floor, also awake, and listening at his
door.
‘What roused you, Dawson?’
‘Well, sir, I can hardly say; but I fancied I heard some one going up the
stairs a little while ago.’
‘You heard me coming down, you mean.’
‘No, sir, begging your pardon, it was footsteps going up—lighter than
yours, sir. More like those of a woman.’
Yet, though I privately interrogated the female servants on the following
day, I could not discover that any of them had been out of their beds;
and I forbore to tell my wife what Dawson had said in corroboration of
her statement.
Only I was as much annoyed as astonished when, as I finished my catechism
of Mary, our head nurse, she informed me that she had made up her mind to
leave our service. Mary—my wife’s right hand—who had been with us ever
since the birth of our first child! The announcement took me completely
aback.
‘What on earth is your reason for leaving us?’ I demanded angrily; for I
knew what a blow her decision would be to Jane. ‘What have you to find
fault with?’
‘Nothing with you or the mistress, sir; but I can’t remain in this house.
I wouldn’t stay in it a night longer, if it were possible to get away;
and I do hope you and Mrs Delamere will let me go as soon as ever you
can, sir, as it will be the death of me.’
‘What will be the death of you?’
‘The footsteps, sir, and the voices,’ she answered, crying. ‘I can hear
them about the nurseries all night long, and it’s more than any mortal
can stand—it is, indeed.’
‘Are you infected with the same folly?’ I exclaimed. ‘I see what it is,
Dawson has been talking to you. I didn’t know I had such a couple of
fools in my establishment.’
‘Mr Dawson has said nothing to me about nothing, sir,’ she answered. ‘I
hear what I hear with my own ears; and I wouldn’t stay a week longer in
this ’aunted place, not if you was to strew the floor with golden guineas
for me.’
Not possessing either the capability or the inclination to test Mary’s
fidelity by the means she alluded to, and finding her determination
unalterable, I gave her the desired permission to depart; only making it
a stipulation that she should not tell her mistress the real reason for
her leaving us, but ascribe it to bad news from home, or any other cause.
But though I could not but believe that the woman’s idiotic terrors
had blinded her judgment, I was extremely surprised to find she should
have been so led astray, as I had always considered Mary to possess a
remarkably clear head and good moral sense. The wailing and lamentation,
from both mother and children, at the announcement of her departure made
me still more angry with her obstinacy and folly. But she continued
resolute; and we were driven to try and secure some one to fulfil her
duties from the neighbouring town. But here a strange difficulty met
us. We saw several fresh, rosy-cheeked maidens, who appeared quite
willing to undertake our service, until they heard where we resided,
when, by an extraordinary coincidence, one and all discovered that some
insurmountable obstacle prevented their coming at all. When the same
thing had occurred several times in succession, and Jane appeared worn
out with disappointment and fatigue, the landlord of the inn where we had
put up for the day appeared at the door, and beckoned me out.
‘May I make bold enough to ask if you want a servant to go to Rushmere?’
he inquired of me in a whisper.
‘Certainly, we do. Our nurse has been obliged to leave us suddenly, and
we want some one to supply her place.’
‘Then you may give it up as a bad job, sir; for you’ll never get one of
the country people here about to set a foot in Rushmere—not if you were
to live there till the day of your death.’
‘And why not?’ I demanded, with affected ignorance.
‘What! haven’t you heard nothing since you’ve been there, sir?’
‘Heard? What should I have heard, except the ordinary noises of the
household?’
‘Well, you’re lucky if you’ve escaped so far,’ returned the landlord,
mysteriously; ‘but it ain’t for long. No one who lives in Rushmere lives
there _alone_. I can tell you the whole story if you like?’
‘I have no desire to listen to any such folly,’ I replied, testily. ‘I am
not superstitious, and do not believe in supernatural sights or sounds.
If the people round about here are foolish enough to do so, I cannot help
it; but I will not have the minds of my wife or family imbued with their
nonsense.’
‘Very good, sir; I hope you may be able to say as much two months hence,’
said the man, civilly.
And so we parted.
I returned to Janie, and persuaded her he had told me that all the girls
of that town had a strong objection to leave it, which was the reason
they refused to take service in the country. I reminded her that Susan
was quite competent to take charge of the whole flock until we returned
to London; and it would be better after all to put up with a little
inconvenience than to introduce a stranger to the nursery. So my wife,
who was disappointed with the failure of her enterprise, fell in with my
ideas, and we returned to Rushmere, determined to do as best we could
with Susan only.
But I could not forget the landlord’s earnestness, and, notwithstanding
my incredulity, began to wish we were well out of Rushmere.
For a few days after Mary’s departure we slept in peace; but then the
question of the mysterious footsteps assumed a graver aspect, for my
wife and I were roused from deep slumber one night by a loud knock upon
the bedroom door, and springing up to answer it, I encountered, on the
threshold, Dawson, pale with fright, and trembling in every limb.
‘What do you mean by alarming your mistress in this way?’ I inquired,
angrily.
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he replied, with chattering teeth, ‘but I thought
it my duty to let you know. There’s some one in the house to-night, sir.
I can hear them whispering together at this moment; and so can you, if
you will but listen.’
I advanced at once to the banisters, and certainly heard what seemed to
be the sound of distant voices engaged in altercation; and, light in
hand, followed by Dawson, I dashed down the staircase without further
ceremony, in hopes of trapping the intruders.
But all in vain. Though we entered every room in turn, not a soul was
visible.
I came to the conclusion that the whole alarm was due to Dawson’s
cowardice.
‘You contemptible fool, you are as chicken-hearted as a woman!’ I said,
contemptuously. ‘You hear the frogs croaking in the mere, or the wind
blowing through the rushes, and you immediately conclude the house is
full of thieves.’
‘I didn’t say it was thieves,’ the man interposed, sullenly; but I took
no notice of the muttered remark.
‘If you are afraid to sleep downstairs by yourself,’ I continued, ‘say
so; but don’t come alarming your mistress again, in the middle of the
night, for I won’t allow it.’
The man slunk back into his room, with a reiteration that he had not been
mistaken; and I returned to bed, full of complaints at having been so
unnecessarily roused.
‘If this kind of thing goes on,’ I remarked to my wife, ‘I shall regret
ever having set eyes on Rushmere. That a pack of silly maid-servants
should see a robber in every bush is only to be expected; but how a
sensible man like Dawson, and a woman of education like yourself, can
permit your imagination to betray you into such foolish fears, is quite
past my comprehension.’
Yet, notwithstanding my dose of philosophy, poor Jane looked so pale
upon the following morning, that I was fain to devise and carry into
execution a little excursion into the neighbouring country before she
regained her usual composure.
Some time passed without any further disturbance, and though upon several
occasions I blamed myself for having brought a family, used to a populous
city like London, to vegetate in so isolated a spot as Rushmere, I had
almost forgotten the circumstances that had so much annoyed me.
We had now spent a month in our temporary home. The fields and hedgerows
were bright with summer flowers, and the children passed most of their
time tumbling amongst the new-mown hay. Janie had once more regained
courage to sit by herself in the dusk, and to rest with tolerable
security when she went to bed. I was rejoicing in the idea that all the
folly that had marred the pleasure of our arrival at Rushmere had died a
natural death, when it was vividly and painfully recalled to my mind by
its actual recurrence.
Our second girl, a delicate little creature of about six years old, who,
since the departure of her nurse, had slept in a cot in the same room
as ourselves, woke me up in the middle of the night by exclaiming, in a
frightened, plaintive voice, close to my ear,—
‘Papa! papa! do you hear the footsteps? Some one is coming up the stairs!’
The tone was one of terror, and it roused my wife and myself instantly.
The child was cold, and shaking all over with alarm, and I placed her by
her mother’s side before I left the room to ascertain if there was any
truth in her assertion.
‘Arthur, Arthur! I hear them as plainly as can be,’ exclaimed my wife,
who was as terrified as the child. ‘They are on the second landing. There
is no mistake about it this time.’
I listened at the half-opened door, and was compelled to agree with her.
From whatever cause they arose, footsteps were to be distinctly heard
upon the staircase—sometimes advancing, and then retreating, as though
afraid to venture farther; but, still, not to be mistaken for anything
but the sound of feet.
With a muttered exclamation, I seized my revolver.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I said, hurriedly; ‘there is not the slightest
occasion for it. And, whatever happens, do not venture on the landing. I
shall be quite safe.’
And without further preamble, only desirous to settle the business
once for all, and give the intruders on my domains a sharp lesson on
the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_, I sprang down the staircase. I had not
stayed to strike a light; but the moon was shining blandly in at the
uncurtained passage window, and the landing was as bright as day. Yet
I saw no one there. The thief (if thief it were) must have already
taken the alarm, and descended to the lowest regions. I fancied I could
detect the same footsteps, but more distinctly marked, walk by me with
a hurried, frightened movement, accompanied by a quick, sobbing breath;
and, as I paused to consider what such a mystery could indicate, a pair
of heavily-shod feet rushed past me, or seemed to rush, upon the stairs.
I heard an angry shout commingle with a faint cry of terror below the
landing whereon I stood; then, the discharge of a firearm, followed by a
low groan of pain—and all was still.
Dark and mysterious though it appeared to be, I did not dream of
ascribing the circumstance to any but a natural cause. But there was
evidently no time for hesitation, and in another moment I had flown down
the stairs, and stood in the moonlighted hall. It was empty! Chairs,
table, hatstand, stood in their accustomed places; the children’s garden
hats and my fishing tackle were strewn about; but of animated nature
there was not a sign, of the recent scuffle not a trace!
All was quiet, calm, and undisturbed, and, as I gazed around in mute
bewilderment, the perspiration stood in thick drops upon my brow and chin.
My first collected thought was for my wife and the best means by which
to prevent her sharing the mystification and dread which I have no
hesitation in confessing that I now experienced; but as I turned to
remount the staircase, I caught sight of some dark mass lying at the
further end of the passage, and going up to it, found to my surprise the
body of Dawson, cold and insensible.
The explanation of the mystery was before me—so I immediately determined.
The man, whom I knew to be replete with superstitious terror, imagining
he heard the unaccountable noise of footsteps, had evidently supplied
that which had reached my ear, and in his alarm at my approach had
discharged his firearm at the supposed marauder. Pleasant for me if he
had taken a better aim: So I thought as I dragged his unconscious body
into his bedroom, and busied myself by restoring it to sensation.
As soon as he opened his eyes, and was sufficiently recovered to answer
me, I asked,—
‘What on earth made you discharge your gun, Dawson? I must take it out of
your keeping, if your are so careless about using it.’
‘I didn’t fire, sir.’
‘Nonsense! you don’t know what you are talking about. I heard the shot
distinctly as I came downstairs.’
‘I am only telling you the truth, sir. There is the fowling-piece in that
corner. I have not drawn the trigger since you last loaded it.’
I went up and examined the weapon. What Dawson had said was correct. It
had not been used.
‘Then who did fire?’ I said, impatiently. ‘I could swear to having heard
the report.’
‘And so could I, sir. It was that that knocked me over.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, sir, pray take the mistress and the children away from this place
as soon as possible. It’s no robbers that go up and down these stairs of
nights, sir. It’s something much worse than that.’
‘Dawson, if you begin to talk such folly to me, I’ll discharge you on
the spot. I believe the whole lot of you have gone mad.’