DAME ELEANOR'S GHOST
'What see you there
That hath so cowarded and chased your blood
Out of appearance?'
The weather, which had been beautifully fine and mild for the time of
year during October and the first half of November, kept up for Peggy's
birthday on the twenty-first. By good luck that important occasion fell
on a Saturday, so there was no tiresome school to interfere with the
festivities. As the Vaughan family was more rich in goodwill than in
coin of the realm, the presents were mostly of a kind which I am afraid
either Maud Middleton or Phyllis and Marjorie Norton would have scorned,
but to Peggy they gave the utmost satisfaction. There was the
much-longed-for guinea-pig from Father, which had been smuggled up in a
hamper, and kept with elaborate care in a remote portion of the barn (a
secret which Bobby found the utmost difficulty in preserving); a
nightdress case worked by Lilian's neat fingers; a cork frame from
Bobby, made under Archie's supervision; a round pink-and-white wool mat,
which Nancy had crocheted at odd times during the evenings; and a little
mug from Joe, with a Welshwoman in a tall hat on one side, and 'A
present from Llandrindod' on the other, bought on a visit to the famous
wells which he had paid in company with the church choir. Archie came up
during the morning bearing a pretty writing-case, an offering from
himself and Miss Forster, while a parcel had arrived from India,
containing the loveliest carved sandal-wood box, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, to show that Aunt Helen had not forgotten her little
niece.
As the birthday was not so very long after the fifth of November, they
had decided to keep any Guy Fawkes celebrations until then, and had been
busy for some days collecting sticks for a bonfire. The party consisted
solely of themselves and Archie, for Father's suggestion of the five
Miss Davenports was received with howls of indignation; and Lilian and
Nancy's combined efforts had produced a cake with twelve tiny coloured
wax candles stuck into icing-sugar on the top, one for every year of
Peggy's life, and which had to be blown out in turns by the assembled
company for good luck.
The bonfire was held in the stubble field beyond the stackyard, and
roared up like a fiery furnace, making quite a red glow in the sky,
while its red ashes roasted potatoes and chestnuts to a turn. Archie had
even contrived to manufacture a few fireworks, having shut himself up in
a room over the stables at the Willows, a combination of peculiar odours
and a singed eyebrow alone testifying to his occupation. To be sure, the
catherine-wheel stuck, and utterly refused to turn, in spite of all
pokings and proddings, and the rockets only fizzled off near the ground,
instead of shooting up as they ought to have done; but the squibs and
crackers were quite effective, and a train of gunpowder, laid down to
represent a fiery serpent, blazed away in fine style. The fire-balloon,
however, was the success of the evening, for it shot straight up, and
floated across the sky like a beautiful meteor, its pink and green sides
giving a charming effect, till at length it dwindled away and became a
mere speck in the distance, leaving the children more full of admiration
than ever for Archie's talents.
After the birthday the weather broke and a foretaste of winter arrived,
with cold winds and gray, murky skies and occasional falls of snow.
Archie caught a severe chill hunting for microscopical specimens in the
pond, and was in bed for some weeks, nursed by his doting aunt,
consoling himself for his enforced idleness by planning such
improvements at both the Willows and the Abbey as were calculated to
make their owners' hair stand on end.
As the long evenings closed in, Joe, ever timorous with regard to the
supernatural, became the prey of superstitious fears. He saw shrouds in
the candle and corpse-lights in the churchyard. Rollo's howling filled
him with forebodings, and a screech-owl flying over the orchard sent him
into a panic. He heard ghostly footfalls among the ruins and mysterious
taps on the stable-window when he was suppering the horses, which, in
spite of Lilian's reassurances, he persisted in regarding as a warning,
though for which of his numerous relatives it was intended kept him in a
state of perpetual doubt and uneasiness. The worst of it was that he
infected Nancy with his alarms to such an extent that she could scarcely
be persuaded to put her nose out at the back-door after dusk (except on
her evening out, when her sweetheart came to fetch her), which was
distinctly inconvenient if a pail of water were wanted during the
evening, or she happened to have left the coal-box standing in the yard.
The Abbey boasted the reputation of maintaining what Peggy called 'a
real, live, genuine ghost,' though none of the family had ever caught a
glimpse of it, it seeming to prefer to manifest itself to Joe and to
chance visitors from the village who came up to the house on dark
evenings. The washerwoman's little girl had heard footsteps behind her
on the drive and a distinct clanking as of chains, while old Betty
Carson swore on her Bible oath that she had seen something white moving
about among the ruins, which groaned as in the expression of the keenest
mental anguish; and when Mr. Vaughan suggested it might prove nothing
worse than a young bullock with indigestion, she had dismissed the idea
as almost profane.
Beyond the fact that a lady in white was supposed to haunt both the
ruins and the oak-wood, weeping and wringing her hands in orthodox
ghostly fashion, the children had not been able to learn much of the
story, for there were so many and divergent accounts of it, all told
with uncertainty as to names and dates, and in that very oracular--not
to say muddled--style sometimes indulged in by rustic historians. But
one wet afternoon, finding David alone in the harness-room, where the
old man had lighted a fire to make some wonderful decoction of foxgloves
wherewith to doctor a cow with a strained leg, they seated themselves on
a sack of potatoes in front of the cheerful blaze, and with the aid of a
little judicious flattery and coaxing managed to cajole him into a true
and circumstantial account of the family ghost.
Although he was somewhat crusty to begin with, old David, like all who
have the gift of narrative, enjoyed telling a story, and he soon warmed
to his work.
'It were my father as told me,' he began, 'and he had it from his
father, and his'n afore him, for it be a powerful long time ago, it be.
Ay, time do pass by quick, for sure!'
'When did it happen?' asked Peggy, hastily, hoping to nip in the bud one
of the old fellow's, rambling divergences from the point.
'In the reign of King Henry the Sixth, so they say. Ay, it were Henry,
for it were the same name, I mind me, as the old Squire.'
'Reigned 1422 to 1461, married Margaret of Anjou,' put in Bobby, who
liked to air his knowledge.
'I don't know who he married; it weren't nothing to do with marryin'. It
were fightin' first in those days, though I suppose they married, too,
like other folk, when they found time.'
'Who were fighting?' inquired Bobby.
'Why, it was the Wars of the Roses, of course,' answered Peggy
crushingly.
'Nay, it weren't no wars of roses, I can tell you. It was real bloody
battles they fought then, with swords and pikes and spears and the like;
for there was two Kings, both with a notion of reignin', and when Kings
falls out, it's their subjects has to do the fightin' for them, I takes
it.'
'Henry VI. and Edward IV.,' put in Peggy. 'Please go on, David.'
'There was Vaughans at the Abbey then, just as there is Vaughans at the
Abbey now,' continued the old man, staring meditatively into his
foxglove brew, as though he could see a mental picture in the pot. 'And
him as had it then was Sir Richard Vaughan, the one as lies under the
cracked old monument in the corner at church.'
'With the dragon and the crooked arrows on it,' nodded the children.
'Well, this Sir Richard Vaughan, he favoured King Henry of Lancaster,
and went out to fight for him with forty gentlemen and yeomen at his
back, to say naught of lesser folk. They met Duke Edward of York, him as
afterwards became King, at Mortimer's Cross, which ain't so far from
here, neither, for I went once myself when I were a lad with my aunt's
cousin, who drove a good horse and gig. Let me see: how many years will
it be agone?'
'Oh, David, never mind! _Do_ go on with the story! What happened at the
battle?'
'He were killed, for sure, were Sir Richard, and his head took by they
Yorkists, and kicked about like a football afore they nailed it up over
Hereford gate. You'd ne'er find his skull if you looked inside the old
monument--naught but the rest of his bones.'
'How awful! Then is it _his_ ghost?'
'Oh no, Bobby! It is the White _Lady_, you know!'
David took advantage of these interruptions to lift his pot from the
fire and examine its contents, but finding them not yet to his liking,
put it on again, and continued:
'It weren't enough for they Yorkists to get Sir Richard's head; they
wanted his lands along of it, and they marched across country (a set of
blood-thirsty ruffians they was) and laid siege to the Abbey. Dame
Eleanor, a widow new-made, as you might say, couldn't hold it above two
days, for the pick of the men had all gone with her husband, and the
best part of _they_ lay stretched out stiff at Mortimer's Cross. So she
lets them in at last, sore agin her will, and gives up the keys to Lord
Grey of Wigmore. You'd a' thought that would a' satisfied them, but they
wanted more.'
'What did they want?' said Peggy, for David seemed disposed to rest from
his labours and attend to his cookery.
'Sir Richard had left a son behind him, a young lad of nine or ten or
thereabouts, and he were the heir. It were him as Lord Grey wanted--told
a fine tale as how he'd take him up to London, and get him put as page
to the great Earl of Warwick, which were as good as makin' his fortune.'
'Did he go?'
'Nay, his mother were no fool, neither, and she knowed full well she'd
ne'er see him again, no more than you'd see a duck if you gave it in
charge of the fox. She'd sent him away safe out of the Abbey by that
passage to the cave, most like, where you very near lost your lives last
summer, and she weren't going to let on where he were, not to no one.'
'Did she tell? Did he get off safe? What happened?'
'Let me tell my tale in my own way,' said David testily. 'They was
brutes in those days, and had no respect for God or man, let alone
woman. So they clapped a thumbscrew on Dame Eleanor, to sharpen her
wits.'
'Oh, poor thing! She didn't tell, did she?' cried the children, who
could not forbear comments.
'Tell! Not she, though her thumb was crushed to a jelly. And when they
see'd it weren't no manner of use, they let her go. But that Lord Grey
of Wigmore was a disciple of Old Nick himself, and what does he do but
catch hold of Dame Eleanor's daughter, which weren't more' an a little
maid like Miss Peggy there, and put the screw on her thumb, thinkin' it
would loosen her mother's tongue to hear her shriek. There's things that
women can bear up to a certain pass, but touch their young uns, and
they'll let you know. At the first cry as was raised by that child Dame
Eleanor went clean off her head, and, breakin' away from them as held
her, she seized up a dagger and stabbed herself through the breast, with
a awful shout of laughter, shuttin' her lips for ever from them as would
wrest the secret from her.'
'And what became of the poor little boy and girl?'
'Lord Grey felt a bit 'shamed, like, when he see'd what were done, and
he sent the girl home to his wife, who brought her up kind. And the boy
had been took away by that time to them as was his friends. He grew up
to manhood and learned to fight, like everyone else in they times, and
then King Henry came to his own again, and he got back the Abbey.'
'But King Henry didn't stay long on the throne, did he? I thought the
history-book said that "King Edward landed at Ravenspur and fought the
Battle of Barnet." We learnt it in our dates last Monday.'
'I know naught of books. It's what my father told me, and his father
afore him. There have been a many Kings since then, I reckon, but the
Vaughans have held the Abbey in spite of 'em.'
'But, David, you haven't told us about the ghost yet, and that's the
most important part of all.'
'The ghost! Oh, that be Dame Eleanor, for sure. They say she walks round
the ruins of the Abbey and across to the oak-wood. Whiles she goes away,
and no one sees her for long enough, and whiles she comes back; and they
do say,' said David, lowering his voice, 'that if there's a death in the
family, or any evil hangin' over the Vaughans, that she be there
shriekin' and wringin' her hands to give warnin' of what be to come.'
The children were beginning to feel quite delightfully creepy, and would
have liked a further continuation of the spirit portion of the story;
but David's decoction being now ready, his thoughts were with his
invalid in the cow-house, and nothing could bring them back to Dame
Eleanor's wraith. So, in spite of all entreaties for more, he departed,
bearing his steaming can with him, and declaring that one good cow was
worth all the ghosts and ghostesses in the kingdom, 'for you might do
some good to _she_, but as to _they_, they was naught but hearsay, after
all.'
After this, Peggy and Bobby were determined to try and obtain a sight of
their ancestress, and with much screwing up of their courage stole out
one evening, and crept fearfully round the ruins, clutching each other's
hands very tightly, and jumping at every sound. There was a fitful moon,
and it was just light enough to see the outlines of the old walls and
the pieces of broken stair and column, with very dark places between,
where the shadows fell. It was an ideal spot for a ghost. It really
seemed as if these old relics of bygone days _must_ be haunted, so
strong were the cords which bound them to the past. A cloud had come
over the moon, and as they groped their way round the corner of what had
been the refectory, Peggy caught Bobby's arm.
'Listen!' she said in a thrilling whisper.
The children clung together tighter than ever and held their breath, for
there certainly was the most extraordinary noise to be heard--a kind of
mixture between groaning and sighing, with a rattling sound as of
dragging chains. It seemed coming in their direction, too, and they
shrank into a niche in the wall, with their hair almost standing on end.
Something gleamed white in the faint moonlight, and a terrific sound
suddenly boomed in their ears. Frightened almost out of their wits, the
children shrieked and ran, but stopped before they had gone twenty
yards, for the noise had developed into a very decided 'Hee-haw!' and
the moon, bursting through the clouds, revealed the long nose and
twirling ears of the tinker's broken-winded old donkey, who, dragging a
clog on his leg, was giving vent to his feelings in his own peculiar
fashion, his master having turned him into the ruins for a stolen feed
during the night, no doubt with the intention of fetching him in the
morning before anyone was up and about. It was such bathos after the
overwrought state of their feelings that they sat down and laughed till
the tears ran down their cheeks, treasuring the joke to tell to Archie
when he should be well enough to receive visitors, and holding it up as
a model to relieve Nancy's fears.
But seeing how easy it was to imagine a ghost out of really every-day
materials, the children plotted mischief next Saturday, and determined
to give Joe a fright. About half a mile from the house lay the oak-wood,
which was also the supposed scene of Dame Eleanor's walk. Through this
wood ran a road, which was the shortest way to Middlehead, a little
market-town in the opposite direction to Warford. Knowing that Joe had
gone for a holiday, with some other lads from the village, to a fair
which was being held that day at Middlehead, they decided to construct a
ghost and fix it up in the wood, to alarm him and his companions as they
returned. They kept their secret to themselves, and retired to the barn
to fashion a figure of Dame Eleanor according to their own notions of
what a phantom should be. Taking a large turnip, they scooped out the
inside till there was nothing left but a hollow shell, cutting holes in
it for eyes, nose, and mouth, and fixing a candle inside, so that when
the light shone through it should resemble a horrible, grinning face. At
dusk they stole away with the rest of their materials to the oak-wood,
and set to work. The spot chosen was a grassy corner, where a gate
across the road formed an angle with the wall which bounded the wood
upon one side. It was a specially dark and shady place, for the tall
trees shut out the sky, and even in the daytime it looked gloomy and
still. They first planted a stout broomstick in the ground, and fixed
the turnip head firmly upon the top of it; two branches of trees tied on
like cross-bars made a pair of shoulders and arms, and when covered with
a sheet stolen from the linen-cupboard, it appeared as if the white
figure were stretching out its imploring hands in a vain appeal for
mercy. When Peggy lighted the candle inside the effect was so terrific
that the conspirators felt quite eerie themselves, and with a last look
to see that all was steady, and the candle not likely to fall over, they
left Dame Eleanor in her corner, and fled home over the fields with a
rather guilty feeling, wondering what would happen.
To do Peggy justice, I do not think she would have tried to play such a
trick on poor Joe if she had imagined he were returning alone; but
knowing he would have the company of several of his friends to support
him, she thought he might rather enjoy the joke than otherwise.
The dusk soon fell, and Peggy sat by the fire in the Rose Parlour
reading 'Ivanhoe' in much warmth and content. Lilian was playing
snatches of her favourite Chopin, but somehow the music did not go well
to-night, for the musician's heart was not in her fingers.
'What's the matter, Lilian?' asked Peggy, tearing herself away from
Friar Tuck and the Black Knight to realize that her sister had got up
for the fifth time from the piano to peep out through the window into
the dark beyond.
'I wish Father would come home, that's all. I always feel so uneasy when
he goes to Middlewood'--pacing restlessly round the room, and looking
again at the clock.
'Why?'
'Because he drives home through the oak-wood, and it's really so
dangerous. There's no fence on the side next to the river, and Prince is
so frisky, if he were to shy there by the wall nothing could save them
from going straight down the bank. I've often begged Father to have it
railed in, but he only laughs at me. Why, Peggy, where are you going?'
For without a word of explanation Peggy had flung down her book and fled
from the room. Hatless, and in her thin house-shoes, she rushed out of
the house, and tore over the fields as fast as her shaking legs could
carry her. In her plan to give Joe a fright, she had never thought of
Father, who returned by the same road; and now that horrible white
object was stationed just in the very danger-spot where a plunging horse
might mean a matter of almost certain death, for the wall of the
five-acre field abutted the road on one side, and on the other there was
only a narrow patch of grass between the steep bank which shelved down
sheer into the river, while the closed gate stopped any chance of a dash
forward. Peggy's heart was beating like a sledge-hammer as she flew
through the wood. Already she heard a distant rumbling of wheels, and
putting on a last desperate spurt, she reached the gate. She could never
afterwards tell exactly what happened at that moment, except that the
gig-lamps flashed suddenly in her eyes, 'Whoa, my lad!' shouted Father's
voice, and Prince's rearing, kicking form loomed large before her as he
backed persistently towards the bank. It took Peggy just one instant to
open the gate, and catching up her ghost to hurl the whole wretched
thing over the wall, and in another she had seized the horse by the
rein, and, soothing him with her well-known voice, dragged him forward
with all the strength of her wiry little arms. She was barely in time,
for already one wheel was over the edge, but, the object of his fear
being removed, Prince allowed himself to be cajoled into the road again,
where he stood, panting and trembling in every limb.
'Why, my little Peggy!' cried Father, leaning down to see where the
lamp-light flashed on the face of his rescuer.
But the strain was too much for Peggy, and she plumped down on the dead
leaves by the roadside in such a tempest of tears that Father had to
climb out of the gig and pick her up to comfort her; but as he could not
get a word of sense, he popped her in the vacant place by his side and
drove on, while she clung to his arm, still shaking with sobs, till they
reached the Abbey, where he helped her down, such a miserable little
tear-stained picture of woe, gulping out the confession of her escapade,
that he had not the heart to scold her, though he had a word of warning
to say afterwards upon the danger of such heedless practical jokes.
Dame Eleanor's remains were fished out of the corner of the five-acre
field on Monday morning by Joe himself, who kicked her turnip head as
ruthlessly as the Yorkists had used her husband's at Mortimer's Cross,
and brought back the broomstick to the stable and the sheet to Nancy's
wash-tub. In all the valour of daylight he assured the children that 'it
wouldn't have scared _he_, not it. He'd made a many o' they turnip
lanterns in his time, and knowed 'em too well to be took in so easy.'
But his faith in the genuine phantom remained unshaken all the same, and
I do not think he would have ventured alone into the ruins after dark
for the amount of his weekly wages, and money meant a good deal to poor
hard-working Joe.