by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER VII.
THE LOCKS' GHOST.
There was general curiosity in Davy's Bend with reference to the newoccupant of The Locks, and when the people had exhausted themselves indenouncing their own town more than _it_ deserved, and in praising Ben'sCity more than it deserved, they began on Allan Dorris, and made him thesubject of their gossip.
Whoever was bold enough to invent new theories with reference to him,and express them, was sure of a welcome at any of the houses where thespeculation concerning his previous history went on from day to day;and, this becoming generally known, there was no lack of fresh materialfor idle tongues. Whenever he walked into the town, he knew that thestores turned out their crowds to look at him, and that in passing theresidences which were occupied, the windows were filled with curiouseyes. But although there were a hundred theories with reference to him,it was only positively known that he one day appeared at his gate, twomonths after his arrival, and tacked up a little sign on which wasinscribed in gold letters:
DR. DORRIS.
This curiosity of the people brought Dr. Dorris a great deal ofbusiness, for many of them were willing to pay for the privilege ofseeing him, and he applied himself to practice with such energy that hewas soon in general demand. As the people knew more of him, theircuriosity became admiration; and many of them defended him fromimaginary charges as warmly as did Mrs. Wedge, for there was everyreason that the people should admire him, except that he had located atDavy's Bend.
That he was skilful and experienced as a physician became apparent atonce, and it was therefore generally believed that he was only theretemporarily; for certainly no one who was really capable would consentto remain long in Davy's Bend.
His heart was not in his work; this was a part of the gossip concerninghim, though it is difficult to imagine how the idea originated; for heappeared to be pleased when he was called out at night, as though thecompanionship of even those in distress suited him better than thesolitude of his own house; but though he was always trying to becheerful, he could not disguise the fact that his mind was busy withmatters outside of his work. Perhaps this was the excuse of the peoplefor saying that his heart was not in his work, and the charge may havebeen true. While busy, he gave whatever was in hand careful andintelligent attention, but as soon as he was idle again, he forgot hissurroundings, and permitted his mind to wander--nobody knew where. Whenaddressed, he good-naturedly remembered that he was in Davy's Bend, andat the service of its people, and did whatever was expected of him withso much gentleness and ability that he won all hearts. This was hisbrief history during the summer following his arrival, except as shallbe related hereafter.
The sun, which had been struggling for mastery over the mist and thefog, had triumphed after a fashion, and the pleasanter weather, and hisbusiness, served to make him more cheerful than he had been; and had hecared to think about such matters, the conviction would no doubt haveforced itself upon his mind that he was doing well, and that he hadevery reason to feel contented, though he was not.
Still there were times when he was lonely in spite of his rather busylife, and nights when he sent for Mrs. Wedge and Betty to keep himcompany; for there were strange sounds through his house, when thesummer air was still and oppressive, and the doors and windows rattledin the most unaccountable manner.
Thus it came about that they were with him one night long after theirusual time to retire, Dorris being particularly nervous and restless,and having asked them to come up to his room rather late in the evening.
Mrs. Wedge had told him of Annie Benton a dozen times already, but shemade it a baker's dozen, and told him again of her simple history; ofher popularity in the town, though the people all seemed to be shy ofher, and of her gruff father, who, in Mrs. Wedge's opinion, would resentthe appearance of a lover in the most alarming manner. Mrs. Wedgethought she observed that Dorris was fond of this subject, and kept ontalking about it; for he was paying close attention as he lounged in hiseasy chair. Dorris laughed in such a way at the accounts of ThompsonBenton's jealousy of his daughter that Mrs. Wedge believed that heregarded him as he might regard a growling mastiff, which growled andsnapped at whoever approached, knowing it was in bad taste and notexpected of him.
Mrs. Wedge was sure her employer was not afraid of old Thompson,--or ofany one else, for that matter,--so she added this declaration to thegreat number she was constantly making in his defence, and repeated itto herself whenever he was in her mind.
She was pleased with the circumstance that he admired Annie Benton, andthough she said a great deal in her praise, it was no more than thetruth, for she was a girl worthy of admiration and respect. But thesubject was exhausted at last, and when she got up to go out, Dorrisroused himself from one of his reveries, and asked her to tell him thehistory of The Locks, as a last resort to induce her to keep himcompany.
The worthy woman seated herself again, smoothed down the folds of herapron, and began by saying,--
"Betty, open the door leading into the hall."
The child did as she was directed, and, coming back, brought up a lowchair, and rested her head on her grandmother's knee.
"Listen," Mrs. Wedge said again.
They were all perfectly quiet, and a timid step could be distinctlyheard on the stair; it came up to the landing, and, after hesitating amoment, seemed to pass into the room into which no one was to look. Thelittle girl shivered, and was lifted into her grandmother's lap, whereshe hid away in the folds of her dress.
Dorris was familiar with this step on the stair, for he had heard itfrequently, and at night the thought had often occurred to him that someone was in the house, going quietly from one room to another. A greatmany times he had taken the light, and looked into every place from thecellar to the attic, but he found nothing, and discovered nothing,except that when in the attic he heard the strange, muffled, and ghostlynoises in the rooms he had just left.
"It is not a ghost to frighten you," Mrs. Wedge said, looking at heremployer, "but the spirit of an unhappy woman come back from the grave.Whenever the house is quiet, the step can always be heard on the stair,but I have never regarded it with horror, though I have been familiarwith it for a great many years. I rather regard it as a visit from anold friend; and before you came I often sat alone in this room afterdark, listening to the footsteps.
"Jerome Dudley, who built The Locks, was a young man of greatintelligence, energy, and capacity; but his wife was lacking in thesequalities. Perhaps I had better say that he thought so, for I neverexpress an opinion of my own on the subject, since they were both myfriends. I may say with propriety, however, that they were unsuited toeach other, and that both knew and admitted it, and accepted theirmarriage as the blight of their lives. Differently situated, she wouldhave been a useful woman; but she was worse than of no use to JeromeDudley, as he was contemptible in many ways towards her in spite of hiscapacity for being a splendid man under different circumstances.
"The world is full of such marriages, I have been told; so I hadsympathy for them both, and was as useful to them as I could be. When Icame here as housekeeper, I knew at once that they were living a life ofmisery, for they occupied different rooms, and were never togetherexcept at six o'clock dinner.
"Mr. Dudley always went to his business in the morning before his wifewas stirring, and did not return again until evening; and, afterdespatching his dinner, he either went back to his work, or into his ownroom, from which he did not emerge until morning. He was not a gloomyman, but he was dissatisfied with his wife, and felt that she was adrawback rather than a help to him.
"The management of the house was turned over to me completely, and when Ipresided at the table in the morning, he was always good-natured andrespectful, (though he was always out of humor when his wife was in thesame room with him) and frequently told me of his successes, and he hada great many, for he was a money-making man; but I am sure he neverspoke of them to his wife. His household affairs he discussed only withme, and the fact that I rema
ined in his service until I entered yoursshould be taken as evidence that I gave satisfaction."
Dorris bowed respectfully to Mrs. Wedge in assent, and she proceeded,--
"Mrs. Dudley spent her time in her own room in an indolent way that wascommon to her, doing nothing except to look after her little girl, whowas never strong. The child was four years old when I came, and thefather lavished all his affection upon it. He had the reputation ofbeing a hard, exacting man in his business, and gave but few hisconfidence, which I think was largely due to his unsatisfactory home;and I have heard him say that but two creatures in all the world seemedto understand him--the child, and myself. It was a part of my duty tocarry the child to its father's room every night before putting it tobed; and though I usually found him at a desk surrounded with businesspapers, he always had time to kiss its pretty lips if asleep, or rompwith it if awake.
"While the mother cheerfully turned over the household affairs to meentirely, she was jealous of the child, and constantly worried andfretted with reference to it. The father believed that his daughter wasnot well cared for, in spite of the mother's great affection, for shehumored it to its disadvantage; and I have sometimes thought that thechild was sick a great deal more than was necessary. From being shut upin a close room too much, it was tender and delicate, and when the doorwas open, it always went romping into the hall until brought back again,which resulted in a cold and a spell of sickness. This annoyed Mr.Dudley, and from remarks he occasionally made to me I knew he believedthat if the little girl should die, the mother would be to blame.
"'It would be better if she had no mother,' he was in the habit ofsaying. When children are properly managed, they become a comfort; butif a foolish sentiment is indulged in, the affections of the parents areneedlessly lacerated, and they become a burden. I say this with charity,and I have become convinced of it during my long life. Little Dudley wasmanaged by the mother with so much mistaken affection that she wasalways a care and a burden. Instead of going to bed at night, andsleeping peacefully until morning, as children should, she was alwayswakeful, fretful, and ill, and Mr. Dudley's rest was disturbed so muchthat I thought he had some excuse for his bad humor; for nothing is socertain as that all this was unnecessary. The child was under norestraint, and was constantly doing that which was not good for her, andthough her mother protested, she did nothing else.
"Because the father complained of being disturbed at all hours of thenight, the mother accused him of heartlessness and of a lack ofaffection, but he explained this to me by saying that he only protestedbecause his child was not cared for as it should be; because that whichwas intended as a blessing became an irksome responsibility, and becausehe was in constant dread for its life.
"Whether the mother was to blame or not will perhaps never be known; butit is certain that the child died after a lingering illness, and thefather was in a pitiful state from rage and grief. He did not speak tohis wife during the illness, or after the death, which she must haveaccepted as an accusation that she was somehow responsible; for she soontook to her bed, and never left it alive except to wearily climb thestairs at twelve o'clock every night, to visit the child's desertedroom,--the room next to this, and into which no one is permitted tolook. Her bed was on the lower floor, in the room back of the parlor,and every night at twelve o'clock, which was the hour the child died,she wrapped the coverings about her, and went slowly up the stairs,clinging to the railing with pitiful weakness with one hand, andcarrying the lamp with the other.
"I frequently tried to prevent her doing this; but she always begged sopiteously that I could not resist the appeal. She imagined, poor soul,that she heard the child calling her, and she always asked me not toaccompany her.
"One night she was gone such a long time that at last I followed, andfound her dead, kneeling beside her child's empty crib, and the lightout. Mr. Dudley was very much frightened and distressed; and I think thecircumstance hastened his departure from Davy's Bend, which occurred afew weeks later. He has never been in the house since.
"It is said that once a year--on the third of May--at exactly twelveo'clock at night, a light appears in the lower room, which soon goesout, and appears in the hall. A great many people have told me that theyhave seen the light, and that it grows dimmer in the lower hall, andbrighter in the upper, until it disappears in the room where the emptycrib still stands, precisely as if it were carried by some one climbingthe stair. It soon disappears from the upper room, and is seen no moreuntil another year rolls round. I have never seen the light, but I haveoften heard the step. Sometimes it is silent for months together, butusually I hear it whenever I am in the main house at night. Just beforethere is a death in the town, or the occurrence of any serious accident,it goes up and down with unvarying persistency; but there is a long restafter the death or the accident foretold has occurred."
When Mrs. Wedge had ceased talking, there was perfect silence in theroom again, and the footsteps were heard descending the stair.Occasionally there was a painful pause, but they soon went on again, andwere heard no more.
"Poor Helen," Mrs. Wedge said, wiping her eyes, "how reluctantly sheleaves the little crib."
Mrs. Wedge soon followed the ghost of poor Helen down the stair,carrying Betty in her arms; and as Dorris stood on the landing lightingthem down, he thought, as they passed into the shadow in the lower hall,that poor Helen had found her child, and was leaving the house forever,content to remain in her grave at last.