Weird Women

by Leslie S. Klinger

“TO BE LET, HOUSE AND LAND,”

  Apply at the “White Dragon.”

  “It is a mansion,” I thought, and I walked on slowly, disappointed.

  All of a sudden the road turned a sharp corner and I came in an instant upon the prettiest place I had ever seen or ever desire to see.

  I looked at it over a low laurel hedge growing inside an open paling about four feet high. Beyond the hedge there was a strip of turf, green as emeralds, smooth as a bowling green—then came a sunk fence,II the most picturesque sort of protection the ingenuity of man ever devised; beyond that, a close-cut lawn which sloped down to the sunk fence from a house with projecting gables in the front, the recessed portion of the building having three windows on the first floor. Both gables were covered with creepers, the lawn was girt in by a semi-circular sweep of forest trees, the afternoon sun streamed over the grass and tinted the swaying foliage with a thousand tender lights. Hawthorn bushes, pink and white, mingled with their taller and grander brothers. The chestnuts here were in flower, the copper beech made a delightful contrast of colour, and a birch rose delicate and graceful close beside.

  It was like a fairy scene. I passed my hand across my eyes to assure myself it was all real. Then I thought “if this place be even nearly within my means I will settle here. My wife will grow stronger in this paradise—my boy get more like other lads. Such things as nerves must be unknown where there is not a sight or sound to excite them. Nothing but health, purity, and peace.”

  Thus thinking, I tore myself away in search of the “White Dragon,” the landlord of which small public sent a lad to show me over the farm.

  “As for the rent,” he said, “you will have to speak to Miss Gostock herself—she lives at Chalmont, on the road between here and Whittleby.”

  In every respect the place suited me; it was large enough, but not too large; had been well farmed, and was amply supplied with water—a stream indeed flowing through it; a station was shortly to be opened, at about half-a-mile’s distance; and most of the produce could be disposed of to dealers and tradesmen at Crayshill, a town to which the communication by rail was direct.

  I felt so anxious about the matter, it was quite a disappointment to find Miss Gostock from home. Judging from the look of her house, I did not suppose she could afford to stick out for a long rent, or to let a farm lie idle for any considerable period. The servant who appeared in answer to my summons was a singularly red armed and rough handed Phyllis. There was only a strip of carpeting laid down in the hall, the windows were bare of draperies, and the avenue gate, set a little back from the main road, was such as I should have felt ashamed to put in a farm yard.

  Next morning I betook myself to Chalmont, anxiously wondering as I walked along what the result of my interview would prove.

  When I neared the gate, to which uncomplimentary reference has already been made, I saw standing on the other side a figure, wearing a man’s broad-brimmed straw hat, a man’s coat, and a woman’s skirt.

  I raised my hat in deference to the supposed sex of this stranger. She put up one finger to the brim of hers, and said “Servant, Sir.”

  Not knowing exactly what to do I laid my hand upon the latch of the gate and raised it, but she did not alter her position in the least.

  She only asked—“What do you want?”

  “I want to see Miss Gostock,” was my answer.

  “I am Miss Gostock,” she said; “what is your business with me?”

  I replied meekly that I had come to ask the rent of Nut Bush Farm.

  “Have you viewed it?” she enquired “Yes.” I told her I had been over the place on the previous afternoon.

  “And have you a mind to take it?” she persisted—“for I am not going to trouble myself answering a lot of idle enquiries.”

  So far from my being an idle enquirer, I assured the lady that if we could come to terms about the rent, I should be very glad indeed to take the farm. I said I had been searching the neighbourhood within a circuit of ten miles for some time unsuccessfully, and added, somewhat unguardedly, I suppose, Nut Bush Farm was the only place I had met with which at all met my views.

  Standing in an easy attitude, with one arm resting on the top bar of the gate and one foot crossed over the other, Miss Gostock surveyed me, who had unconsciously taken up a similar position, with an amused smile.

  “You must think me a very honest person, young man,” she remarked.

  I answered that I hoped she was, but I had not thought at all about the matter.

  “Or else,” proceeded this extraordinary lady, “you fancy I am a much greater flatIII than I am.”

  “On the contrary,” was my reply. “If there be one impression stronger than another which our short interview has made upon me it is that you are a wonderfully direct and capable woman of business.”

  She looked at me steadily, and then closed one eye, which performance, done under the canopy of that broad-brimmed straw hat, had the most ludicrous effect imaginable.

  “You won’t catch me napping,” she observed, “but, however, as you seem to mean dealing, come in; I can tell you my terms in two minutes,” and opening the gate—a trouble she would not allow me to take off her hands—she gave me admission.

  Then Miss Gostock took off her hat, and swinging it to and fro began slowly walking up the ascent leading to Chalmont, I beside her.

  “I have quite made up my mind,” she said, “not to let the farm again without a premium; my last tenant treated me abominably—”

  I intimated I was sorry to hear that, and waited for further information.

  “He had the place at a low rent—a very low rent. He should not have got it so cheap but for his covenanting to put so much money in the soil; and well—I’m bound to say he acted fair so far as that—he fulfilled that part of his contract. Nearly two years ago we had a bit of a quarrel about—well it’s no matter what we fell out over—only the upshot of the affair was he gave me due notice to leave at last winter quarter. At that time he owed about a year and a-half’s rent—for he was a man who never could bear parting with money—and like a fool I did not push him for it. What trick do you suppose he served me for my pains?”

  It was simply impossible for me to guess, so I did not try.

  “On the twentieth of December,” went on Miss Gostock, turning her broad face and curly grey head—she wore her hair short like a man—towards me, “he went over to Whittleby, drew five thousand pounds out of the bank, was afterwards met going towards home by a gentleman named Waite, a friend of his. Since then he has never been seen nor heard of.”

  “Bless my soul,” I exclaimed involuntarily.

  “You may be very sure I did not bless his soul,” she snarled out angrily. “The man bolted with the five thousand pounds, having previously sold off all his stock and the bulk of his produce, and when I distrained for my rent, which I did pretty smart, I can tell you, there was scarce enough on the premises to pay the levy.”

  “But what in the world made him bolt?” I asked, quite unconsciously adopting Miss Gostock’s expressive phrase; “as he had so much money, why did he not pay you your rent?’

  “Ah! why, indeed,” mocked Miss Gostock. “Young sir, I am afraid you are a bit of a hum-bug, or you would have suggested at once there was a pretty girl at the bottom of the affair. He left his wife and children, and me—all in the lurch—and went off with a slip of a girl, whom I once took, thinking to train up as a better sort of servant, but was forced to discharge. Oh, the little hussey!”

  “Hussey” is not exactly an elegant word to hear used by a lady, but that employed by Miss Gostock was in one syllable and less refined still. Her Saxon was very nervous, and she was not a bit above helping her meaning out occasionally by an oath that would have delighted Queen Bess, and a vigorous expression which might have won her virgin Majesty’s approval by its coarseness.

  Somehow I did not fancy I wanted to hear anything more about her late tenant and the pretty girl, and consequently ventu
red to inquire how that gentleman’s defalcations bore upon the question of the rent I should have to pay.

  “I’ll tell you directly,” she said, and as we had by this time arrived at the house, she invited me to enter, and led the way into an old-fashioned parlour that must have been furnished about the time chairs and tables were first invented and which did not contain a single feminine belonging—not even a thimble.

  “Sit down,” she commanded, and I sat. “I have quite made up my mind,” she began, “not to let the farm again, unless I get a premium sufficient to insure me against the chances of possible loss. I mean to ask a very low rent and—a premium.”

  “And what amount of premium do you expect?” I inquired, doubtfully.

  “I want—,” and here Miss Gostock named a sum which fairly took my breath away.

  “In that case,” I said as soon as I got it again, “it is useless to prolong this interview; I can only express my regret for having intruded, and wish you good morning,” and rising I was bowing myself out when she stopped me.

  “Don’t be so fast,” she cried, “I only said what I wanted. Now what are you prepared to give?”

  “I can’t be buyer and seller too,” I answered, repeating a phrase the precise meaning of which, it may here be confessed, I have never been able exactly to understand.

  “Nonsense,” exclaimed Miss Gostock—I am really afraid the lady used a stronger term—“if you are anything of a man of business, fit at all to commence farming, you must have an idea on the subject. You shall have the land at a pound an acre, and you will give me for premium—come, how much?”

  By what mental process I instantly jumped to an amount it would be impossible to say, but I did mention one which elicited from Miss Gostock the remark—

  “That won’t do at any price.”

  “Very well then,” I said, “we need not talk any more about the matter.”

  “But what will you give?” asked the lady.

  “I have told you,” was my answer, “and I am not given either to haggling or beating down.”

  “You won’t make a good farmer,” she observed.

  “If a farmer’s time were of any value, which it generally seems as if it were not,” I answered, “he would not waste it in splitting a sixpence.”

  She laughed, and her laugh was not musical.

  “Come now,” she said, “make another bid.”

  “No,” I replied, “I have made one and that is enough. I won’t offer another penny.”

  “Done then,” cried Miss Gostock, “I accept your offer—we’ll just sign a little memorandum of agreement, and the formal deeds can be prepared afterwards. You’ll pay a deposit, I suppose?”

  I was so totally taken aback by her acceptance of my offer I could only stammer out I was willing to do anything that might be usual.

  “It does not matter much whether it is usual or not,” she said, “either pay it or I won’t keep the place for you. I am not going to have my land lying idle and my time taken up for your pleasure.”

  “I have no objection to pay you a deposit,” I answered.

  “That’s right,” she exclaimed, “now if you will just hand me over the writing-desk we can settle the matter, so far as those thieves of lawyers will let us, in five minutes.”

  Like one in a dream I sat and watched Miss Gostock while she wrote. Nothing about the transaction seemed to me real. The farm itself resembled nothing I had ever before seen with my waking eyes, and Miss Gostock appeared to me but as some monstrous figure in a story of giants and hobgoblins. The man’s coat, the woman’s skirt, the hob-nailed shoes, the grisly hair, the old straw hat, the bare, unfurnished room, the bright sunshine outside, all struck me as mere accessories in a play—as nothing which had any hold on the outside every-day world.

  It was drawn—we signed our names. I handed Miss Gostock over a cheque. She locked one document in an iron box let into the wall, and handed me the other, adding, as a rider, a word of caution about “keeping it safe and taking care it was not lost.”

  Then she went to a corner cupboard, and producing a square decanter half full of spirits, set that and two tumblers on the table.

  “You don’t like much water, I suppose,” she said, pouring out a measure which frightened me.

  “I could not touch it, thank you, Miss Gostock,” I exclaimed; “I dare not do so; I should never get back to Whittleby.”

  For answer she only looked at me contemptuously and said, “D—d nonsense.”

  “No nonsense, indeed,” I persisted; “I am not accustomed to anything of that sort.”

  Miss Gostock laughed again, then crossing to the sideboard she returned with a jug of water, a very small portion of the contents of which she mixed with the stronger liquor and raised to her lips.

  “To your good health and prosperity,” she said, and in one instant the fiery potion was swallowed.

  “You’ll mend of all that,” she remarked, as she laid down her glass, and wiped her lips in the simplest manner by passing the back of her hand over them.

  “I hope not, Miss Gostock,” I ventured to observe.

  “Why you look quite shocked,” she said; “did you never see a lady take a mouthful of brandy before?”

  I ventured to hint that I had not, more particularly so early in the morning.

  “Pooh!” she said. “Early in the morning or late at night, where’s the difference? However, there was a time when I—but that was before I had come through so much trouble. Good-bye for the present, and I hope we shall get on well together.”

  I answered I trusted we should, and was half-way to the hall-door, when she called me back.

  “I forgot to ask you if you were married,” she said.

  “Yes, I have been married some years,” I answered.

  “That’s a pity,” she remarked, and dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

  “What on earth would have happened had I not been married,” I considered, as I hurried down the drive. “Surely she never contemplated proposing for me herself? But nothing she could do would surprise me.”

  II

  There were some repairs I had mentioned it would be necessary to have executed before I came to live at Nut Bush Farm, but when I found Miss Gostock intended to do them herself—nay, was doing them all herself—I felt thunderstruck.

  On one memorable occasion I came upon her with a red handkerchief tied round her head, standing at a carpenter’s bench in a stable yard, planing away, under a sun which would have killed anybody but a negro or my landlady.

  She painted the gates, and put sash lines in some of the windows; she took off the locks, oiled, and replaced them; she mowed the lawn, and offered to teach me how to mow; and lastly, she showed me a book where she charged herself and paid herself for every hour’s work done.

  “I’ve made at least twenty pounds out of your place,” she said, triumphantly. “Higgs at Whittleby would not have charged me a half-penny less for the repairs. The trades-men here won’t give me a contract—they say it is just time thrown away, but I know that would have been about his figure. Well, the place is ready for you now, and if you take my advice, you’ll get your grass up as soon as possible. It’s a splendid crop, and if you hire hands enough, not a drop of rain need spoil it. If this weather stands you might cut one day and carry the next.”

  I took her advice, and stacked my hay in magnificent condition. Miss Gostock was good enough to come over and superintend the building of the stack, and threatened to split one man’s head open with the pitchfork, and proposed burying another—she called a “lazy blackguard”—under a pile of hay.

  “I will say this much for Hascot,” she remarked, as we stood together beside the stream; “he was a good farmer; where will you see better or cleaner land?—a pattern I call it—and to lose his whole future for the sake of a girl like Sally Powner; leaving his wife and children on the parish, too!”

  “You don’t mean that?” I said.

  “Indeed I do. They
are all at Crayshill. The authorities did talk of shifting them, but I know nothing about what they have done.”

  I stood appalled. I thought of my own poor wife and the little lad, and wondered if any Sally on the face of the earth could make me desert them.

  “It has given the place a bad sort of name,” remarked Miss Gostock, looking at me sideways: “but of course that does not signify to you.”

  “Oh! of course not,” I agreed.

  “And don’t you be minding any stories; there are always a lot of stories going about places.”

  I said I did not mind stories. I had lived too long in London to pay much attention to them.

  “That’s right,” remarked Miss Gostock, and negativing my offer to see her home she started off to Chalmont.

  It was not half-an-hour after her departure when I happened to be walking slowly round the meadows, from which the newly mown hay had been carted, that I heard the rumour which vexed me—“Nut Bush Farm haunted.” I thought, “I said the whole thing was too good to last.”

  “What, Jack, lost in reverie,” cried my sister, who had come up from Devonshire to keep me company, and help to get the furniture a little to rights, entering at the moment, carrying lights; “supper will be ready in a minute, and you can dream as much as you like after you have had something to eat.” I did not say anything to her about my trouble, which was then indeed no bigger than a man’s hand, but which grew and grew till it attained terrible proportions.

  What was I to do with my wife and child? I never could bring them to a place reputed to be haunted. All in vain I sauntered up and down the Beech Walk night after night; walked through the wood—as a rule selected that route when I went to Whittleby. It did not produce the slightest effect. Not a farm servant but eschewed that path townward; not a girl but preferred spending her Sunday at home rather than venture under the interlacing branches of the beech trees, or through the dark recesses of the wood.

  It was becoming serious—I did not know what to do.

  One wet afternoon Lolly came in draggled, but beaming.

  “I’ve made a new acquaintance, Jack,” she said; “a Mrs. Waite—such a nice creature, but in dreadfully bad health. It came on to rain when I was coming home, and so I took refuge under a great tree at the gate of a most picturesque old house. I had not stood there long before a servant with an umbrella appeared at the porch to ask if I would not please to walk in until the storm abated. I waited there ever so long, and we had such a pleasant talk. She is a most delightful woman, with a melancholy, pathetic sort of expression that has been haunting me ever since. She apologised for not having called—said she was not strong and could not walk so far. They keep no conveyance she can drive. Mr. Waite, who is not at home at present, rides into Whittleby when anything is wanted.