by Simon Stern
“Let’s get to bed,” said Aunt Martha, who never could bear anyone to have praise. If she had found it out there would have been hot water and something for a late supper, with chat before bed time. I know; but there was no sign of it then. So we went to bed tired out, and a little thirsty, too.
Next morning we were astir pretty early and in the village, after a short breakfast. Everyone was chattering. Mrs. Mumbles had said something; but, being short of teeth, at the best of times was indistinct, being upset, and no wonder. We made out that a man had called on the previous night—a red-faced man—and made some enquiries. He then must have gone round to the stables and loosed Comet, which he galloped up the avenue and off over the hill. At any rate, the mare, being frightened, went off at speed, and when he had “thrown her out” the man must have left her, and made his way back to the Vicarage in the morning early.
With the assistance of “Susan” he seized and stunned the Vicar. “Susan” had previously locked old Mumbles in the church, and said she was away on a holiday. This put people off. George was after the mare, Mumbles locked up, and the burglar, whom we took for a ghost, packed up all he could find with his friend’s assistance. “Susan” had taken service there as “maid” in order to better carry out the robbery, which yielded a quantity of plunder in silver plate, money, and objects of value, all which “Miss Susan” knew very well where to find, for the Vicar was wealthy.
These particulars came out by degrees; and meantime, while we were discussing the ghost and the robbery, the previous appearances on the same day in former years and their consequences, the men on horseback and on foot were searching roads and paths, sending flying telegrams all over the district, even launching boats when the weather moderated.
We females also tried to find the runaways, and some of us, at low tide, investigated the caverns on the shore, where, in old times, smugglers used to hide themselves and their plunder. And in one of these great recesses the burglars’ plunder was found. Worse than that, the body of the pretty, fair-skinned boy who had played parlour-maid, and deceived even George Syme, was discovered dead. He looked asleep, but was cold and stiff. The traces of seaweed, and bits of drift-wood, beside and around him, showed how he had died. The high spring tide had overwhelmed him in his sleep and suffocated him.
In the cave higher up was a bag—a heavy, small sack, containing most of the plunder. Of the older burglar we found no trace. Whether he had escaped or had been carried off by the sea, no one ever knew, and I don’t think anyone cared. But many of us were sorry for the lad—a pretty, dark haired boy about sixteen, with handsome features. As we saw him first on the beach, with a dress-skirt on over his other clothes, he looked like a pretty sleeping girl. Some women cried, and not a man said a word against him.
The Vicar would have buried him had he been well enough, after the first inquest-enquiry; but some other gentleman did. “Found Drowned,” was the verdict, and the handsome boy was put under ground in a nameless grave. It was very sad indeed, and I’d rather not say any more about it.
Some people came to the conclusion that the Vicar’s ghost was all nonsense, but it isn’t. The ghost appeared long before the robbers made it an excuse for robbing The Vicarage. We think the burglaries were done by the same man who, made bold by impunity, tried a big stroke at last.
What became of him, we can’t tell. Why he left the cave, we can only guess. Perhaps he meant to return, and was prevented by the high tide, or swept away by the waves when trying, or perhaps he fell down the rocks and was washed away. At any rate, we never heard of him again, and don’t want to hear.
Mr. Penlyon recovered, but could give little account of the incidents. Mrs. Mumbles told us how she found a piece of candle in the vestry and walked about the church hoping some one would release her. She called out and beat the door, but we were all too frightened to go near the “ghost,” as we thought her. We had not a very merry Christmas after all these tragic events, but Aunt and I, little Charley and his father (who came down) managed to enjoy ourselves. We left the village (without hearing any more of the Vicar’s Ghost) on New Year’s Eve, and I was not sorry to be home near Cardewe Manor once again.
THE GHOST OF THE HOLLOW FIELD by Mrs. Henry Wood
I have been asked to write a Christmas Story—“something about ghosts.” In compliance, I give one that—so far as the actors and witnesses believed—is a real ghost story; not one born of the imagination.
In the parlour of a commodious dwelling house, in the rural village of Hallow, there sat a lady, one Monday afternoon, mending soiled muslins and laces. It was Mrs. Owen, the mistress of the house, and she seemed in poor health. Suddenly the door opened, and a middle-aged woman, with a sensible though hard-featured face, came in.
“I’ve come to ask a fine thing, mistress, and I don’t know what you’ll say to me. I want holiday to-morrow.”
“Holiday!” repeated Mrs. Owen, in evident surprise. “Why, Mary, to-morrow’s washing-day.”
“Ay, it is; nobody knows it better than me. But here’s sister come over about this wedding of Richard’s. Nothing will do for ’em but I must go to it. She’s talking a lot of nonsense; saying it should be the turning-point in our coolness, and the healer of dissensions, and she won’t go to church unless I go. As to bringing in dissensions,” slightingly added Mary Barber, “she’s thinking of the two boys, not of me.”
“Well, Mary, I suppose you must go.”
“I’d not, though, mistress, but that she seems to make so much of it. I never hardly saw her in such earnest before. It’s very stupid of her. I said, from the first, I’d not go. What do them grand Laws want with me—or Richard either? No, indeed! I never thought they’d get me to it—let alone the wash!”
“But you do wish to go, don’t you, Mary?” returned Mrs. Owen, scarcely understanding.
“Well, you see, now she’s come herself, and making this fuss, I hardly like to hold out. They’d call me more pig-headed than they have done—and that needn’t be. So, mistress, I suppose you must spare me for few hours. I’ll get things forward before I start in the morning, and be back early in the afternoon; I shan’t want to stop with ’em, not I.”
“Very well, Mary; we shall manage, I dare say. Ask Mrs. Pickering to come in and see me before she goes. Perhaps she’ll stay to tea.”
“Not she,” replied Mary; “she’s all cock-a-hoop to got back again. Richard and William are coming home early,” she says.
The four children were gathered round Mrs. Pickering when Mary returned. It was something new to them to have a visitor. The two sisters were much alike—tall, sensible-looking, hard-featured women, with large well-formed foreheads, and honest, steady grey eyes. But Mrs. Pickering looked ill and careworn. She wore a very nice violet silk gown, dark Paisley shawl, and Leghorn bonnet. Mary Barber had been regarding the attire in silent condemnation; except her one best gown, she had nothing but cottons.
“Well, Hester, the mistress says she’ll spare me,” was her announcement. “But as to getting over in time to go to church, I don’t know that I can do it. There’ll be a thousand and one things to do to-morrow morning, and I shall stop and put forward.”
“You might get over in time, if you would, Mary.”
“Perhaps I might, and perhaps I mightn’t,” was the plain answer. “It’s a five-weeks’ wash; and the missus is as poorly as she can be. Look here, Hester—it’s just this: I don’t want to come. I will come, as you make such a clatter over it, and I’ll eat a bit o’ their wedding-cake, and drink a glass o’ wine to their good luck; but as to sitting down to breakfast—or whatever the meal is—with the Laws and their grand company, it’s not to be supposed I’d do it. I know my place better. Neither would the Laws want me to.”
“They said they’d welcome you.”
“I daresay they did!” returned Mary, with a sniff; “but they’d think me a fool if I went, for all that. I shouldn’t mind seeing ’em married, though, and I’ll get over to the church, if
I can. Anyway, I’ll be in time to drink health to ’em before they start on their journey.”
Mrs. Pickering rose. She knew was of no use saying more. She wished good-bye to the children, went to Mrs. Owen’s parlour for a few minutes, absolutely declining refreshment, and then prepared to walk home again. Mary attended her to the door.
“It’s fine to you—coming out in your puce silk on a week-day!” she burst out with, her tongue refusing to keep silence on the offending point any longer.
“I put it on this afternoon because I was expecting Mrs. Law,” was the inoffensive answer. “She sent me word she’d come up to talk over the arrangements; and then I got a message by their surgery boy, saying she was prevented. Don’t it look nice, Mary?” she added, taking bit of the gown in her fingers. “It’s the first time I put it on since it was turned. I kept it on to come here; it seemed so cold to put it off for a cotton; and I’ve been feeling always chill of late.”
“What be you going to wear to-morrow?” demanded Mary Barber.
Mrs. Pickering laughed. “Something desperate smart. I can’t stay to tell you.”
“You’ve got a gown a-purpose for it, I reckon,” continued Mary, detaining her; “what sort is it?”
“A new fawn silk. There! Good-bye; I’ve a power of things to do at home to-night, and the boys are coming home to early tea.”
Mrs. Pickering walked away quickly as she spoke, and Mary Barber ran back to the bare, half furnished place where she had left the children.
“Now, I want to go out just for five minutes,” she said to them, “and if you children will be very good and quiet, and stop in this room, and not make a noise, or run in to tease your mamma, I shall see what I’ve got in my pocket for you when I come back. Who says yes?”
The children all said it—said it with eager tongues—and looked surreptitiously at Mary Barber’s pocket. But they could only see so far as the outside. She shut the door upon them; and just as she was, without putting on a bonnet, ran down the village street until she came to the place popularly known as “Smith’s shop.” It sold everything—meat, grocery, hardware, toys, wearing apparel, and sundries. Mrs. Smith was behind the counter, and Mary imparted her wants—a new ribbon for her bonnet—white, or something as good as white.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Pickering was walking rapidly homewards. Hallow was (and is) situated about three miles from Worcester, and her house was between the two—nearer the city, however, than the village. She and her sister Mary had been the daughters of a small, hard-working farmer, Thomas Barber, who died when they were very young women, leaving nothing behind him except few debts. The household goods were sold to pay them, and the girls had to look out for a living. Hester married John Pickering, Mary went to service. The Pickerings got on in the world. A cottage and a couple of fields and a cow grew into—at least the fields did—many fields, and they into hop gardens. From being a successful hop-grower, John Pickering took an office in Worcester, and became a prosperous hop-merchant. He placed his two sons in it—well-educated youths; and on his death, his eldest son, Richard, then just twenty-one, succeeded him as its master. This was four years ago. Richard was to be married on the morrow to Helena Law, daughter of Law the surgeon; and Mary Barber, as you have heard, considered she should be out of place in the festivities.
And she was right. Over and over again had the Pickerings urged Mary to leave service, as a calling beneath her and them, and to live with themselves. Mary declined.
In the meantime, however, Mrs. Pickering, who understood very little of the world’s social distinctions, and cared less, had latterly had a great trouble upon her beside which few things seemed of weight. For some time past there had been ill-feeling between her two sons: in her heart perhaps she most loved the younger, and, so far she dared, took his part against the elder. Richard was the master, and overbearing; William was four years the younger, and resented his brother’s yoke. Richard was steady, and regular as clock-work; William was rather given to go out of an evening, spending time and money. Trifling sums of money had been missed from the office by Richard, from time to time; he was as sure in his heart that William had helped himself to them as that they had disappeared, but William coolly denied it, and set the accusation to his brother’s prejudice. In point of fact, this was the chief origin of the ill-feeling; but Richard Pickering was considerate, and had kept the petty thefts secret from his mother. She, poor woman, fondly hoped that this marriage of Richard’s would heal all wounds, though not clearly seeing how or in what manner it could bear upon them. In one month William would be of age, and must become his brother’s partner; he would also come into his share of the property left by their father.
Mrs. Pickering went home ruminating on these things, and praying—oh how earnestly!—that there should be peace between the brothers.
The young Pickerings came home as agreed upon: not, alas! in the friendly spirit their mother had been hoping for, but in open quarrelling. They were both fine grown young men, with good features, dark hair, and the honest, sensible gray eyes of their mother; Richard was grave in look; William gay, with the pleasantest smile in the world. Poor Mrs. Pickering! hasty words of wrath were spoken on either side, and for the first time she became acquainted with the losses at the office, and Richard’s belief in his brother’s dishonesty. It appeared that a far heavier loss than any preceding it had been discovered that afternoon.
“Oh, Richard!” she gasped; “you don’t know what you say. He would never do it.”
“He has done it, mother—he must have done it,” was the elder son’s answer. “No one else can get access to my desk, except old Stone. Would you have me suspect him?”
“Old Stone” was a faithful servant, a many years’ clerk and manager, entirely beyond suspicion, and there was no one else in the office. Mrs. Pickering felt a faintness stealing over her, but she had faith in her younger, her bright, her well-beloved son.
“Look here, mother,” said Richard; “we know—at least I do, if you don’t—that his expenditure has been considerably beyond his salary. Whence has he derived the sums of money he has spent—that he does not deny he has spent? If I have kept these things from you, it was to save you pain: Stone has urged me to tell you of it over and over again.”
“Hush Richard! The money came from me.”
William Pickering turned round; he had been carelessly standing at the window, looking out on the setting sun. For once his pleasant smile had given place to scorn.
“I’d not have told him so much, mother; I never have. If he is capable of casting this suspicion on me, why not let him enjoy it. Time and again have I assured him I’ve never touched a sixpence of the money; I’ve told that interfering old Stone so; and I might as well talk to the wind. I could have knocked the old man down this afternoon when he accused me of being a ‘disgrace’ to my dead father.”
It is of no use to pursue the quarrel, neither is there time for it. That Mrs. Pickering, in her love, had privately furnished William with money from time to time was an indisputable fact, and Richard could not disbelieve his mother’s word. But instead of its clearing up the matter, it only (so judged Richard) made it blacker. If he had been robbing the office, he had been, legally, robbing his mother; words grew higher and higher, and the brothers, in their anger, spoke of a separation. This evening, the last of Richard’s residence at home, was the most miserable his mother had spent, and she passed a great part of the night at her bed-side, praying that the matter might cleared up, and the two brothers reconciled.
The morning rose bright and cloudless; it was lovely September weather; and Mary Barber was astir betimes. Washing-day in those days, and in a simple country household, meant washing-day. It most certainly did at Mrs. Owen’s, everybody was expected to work, and did work, the master excepted. Mary put her best shoulder to the wheel that morning, got things forward, and started about ten o’clock. The wedding was fixed for eleven at All Saints’ Church, and Mary calculated that she should get co
mfortably to the church just before the hour, and ensconce herself in an obscure part of it, she meant to do.
She had traversed nearly two-thirds of her way, and was in the last field but one before turning into the road. It was at this moment that she discerned some one seated on the stile at the end of the path that led into the next field. Very much to her surprise, as she advanced nearer she saw it was her sister, Mrs. Pickering.
“Of all the simpletons!—to come and stick herself there to wait for me. And for what she knew I might have took the road way. They be thinking to get me with ’em to church in the carriage, but they won’t. I told her I’d not mix myself up in the grand doings, neither ought I to, and Hester’s common-sense must have gone a wool-gathering to wish it. All! she’s been running herself into that stitch in her side.”
The last remark was caused by her perceiving that Mrs. Pickering, whose left side was this way, had got her hand pressed upon her chest or heart.
And now she obtained a clear view of her sister’s dress. She wore the violet silk gown of the previous afternoon, and a white bonnet and shawl. Mary, on the whole, regarded the attire with disparagement.
“Why, if she’s not got on her puce gown! Whatever’s that for? Where’s the new fawn silk she talked of, I wonder? I’d not go to my eldest son’s wedding in a turned gown; I’d have a new one, be it silk or stuff. That’s just like Hester, she never can bear to put on a new thing; she’d rather——. If I don’t believe the shawl’s one of them beautiful Chaney crapes.”
“I say, Hester,” she called out, as soon as she got near enough for her voice to reach the stile, “what on earth made you come here to meet me?”
Mrs. Pickering made no reply.
“Sure,” thought Mary, “nothing can have fell out to stop the wedding! Richard’s girl wouldn’t run away as that faithless chap of mine did. Something’s wrong, though, I can see, by her staring at me in that stony way, and never opening her mouth to speak. I say, Hester, is anything—— Deuce take them strings again!”