by Simon Stern
But that terror was as nothing to the terror which followed; for day after day, week after week, did that child-sprite haunt Octavius Nottage; as surely as the wagon reached that spot at the margin of the town on its homeward way, so surely did that hideous ghost child climb to its place on the foot-board, and sit there, ghastly and untouchable, until on nearing the village it vanished with its hellish shriek of woe.
Octavius, erst so impudently satisfied with his fate, grew daily more white and miserable, more nervous and short-tempered; his cheeks fell long and thin, his eyes gazed wide and scared at all things; and by-and-bye old wives of the village shook their heads as he passed by and murmured that “Nottage’s boy had been touched by death.”
For weeks did Octavius despairingly cast about in his mind for some other road by which he could escape that dreadful spot, or some time at which the spectre would not appear; but there was no other road to lead him to his home, and all times were the same. He might have told of his trouble, one would argue; but there was some fiendish spell, some strange power which sent the trembling words choking back in his throat as he strove to utter them. For eleven months he fought against that power, and then he seemed to conquer; he conquered inasmuch as he forced himself to go to his companions one by one, and bid them meet him by the churchyard wall on a certain evening, for that he had something of importance to tell them. When it so happened that they obeyed him, with curiosity raised and tempers untrammelled by respect of mood or mania, their force did the rest. They questioned him jovially—brutally it seemed—of his “matter of importance”; they twitted him cheerfully on his lady-like complexion, and inquired of his cosmetics; and at last he told them what he had bidden them there to hear. By that churchyard wall in the dim light of a fading summer’s evening, with a voice low-pitched and tremulous with the import of his words, he told them his ghastly tale. There was a minute of complete silence as the words ceased, and the heart of Octavius thumped riotously inside him with the fresh pangs of suffering which he endured as his terror sounded on his ears in spoken syllables. Then came the voice of Sam Underdown, the village wag, in tone somewhat muffled, but perfectly solemn and sympathetic in inflection.
“Ocky Nottage,” he declared, slowly, “I ’ave ’eard of that there sort of thing before; ’tis commonly called the ‘Jumps.’ ”
Then followed a full-voiced chorus of laughter, and a general scramble from the hedge, and Octavius stood alone in the greyness, with his cheeks throbbing hot at the insult.
From that hour the trouble of Octavius Nottage was bruited about the village with much gusto and little mercy. In the sand-strewn bar parlour of the “Seven Stars,” at the gossips’ corner by the three cross-roads, at the forge, at the bakehouse, at the post-office; in all of these spots was the tale of “Ocky’s ghost” jeered at, while great whole-lunged guffaws went forth at his expense. Even at the laundry, in whose service the poor youth fetched and carried so regularly, Sam Underdown lounged over the window-sill as he passed, and told his humorous tale. There, indeed, it was received with an interest tempered with awe, for the maidens felt more reverence for the unknown than did the men; and they craved more details from the flippant Sam as they bent over their tubs and wrung the snowy linen with their strong red arms. And Sam gave them a sufficiency, elaborated by his own lively imagination, and the maidens shuddered and giggled, turn in, turn out, as they listened, and exclaimed, “Law, now! Sam Underdown, go along with you, talking such stuff,” even as they yearned to delay him in their midst.
But down at the end of the row of maidens in the wash-house stood one before her tub who listened to Sam Underdown’s repetitions and inventions with straining ears, and spoke no word in return. A large, slow-moving girl she was, with a wealth of shining red hair and a serious face; a girl who joined but seldom in the ordinary frivolous gossip of the laundry, and who had acquired the character of being “a bit pious.” Admonition Ellery was her name, and deep down in her heart lay a great simmering love for this youth, at whom they all scoffed in their wicked, careless way.
Up to that day Octavius Nottage and Admonition Ellery had exchanged little more than a few words; for the girl’s tub stood at the far end of the wash-house, and her eyes were wont to be sealed upon her work when Octavius or any other village youth lounged near to gossip; for her nature was charged with an overwhelming bashfulness and a shamed consciousness of her fiery hair. But there had been one day, one showery morning, nearly a year ago, when she had broken through her silence somewhat; she had been standing at the doorway with a bucket in her hand, hesitating to run through the heavy drops to the well; and Octavius, chancing to pass by at the moment, and taking in the situation, held out his hand for the bucket.
“Here, hand it over to me, I’ll fetch the water,” he said in his cheery, off-handed way. So he fetched it, and brought it, and stood for a moment telling of a cow belonging to Farmer Laskey which had fallen over a hurdle; then he jerked a smiling “Good morning” to her, and went on his way, to give many a thought to Farmer Laskey’s cow, but never one to Admonition Ellery; while she went back to her tub again and thought of him all day. That had been the birthday of her love, and for almost a year had it grown and chafed in her heart, this mighty young power, this turbulent offspring of a phlegmatic nature.
“The brutes,” raged Admonition, inwardly, as she listened now to Sam Underdown’s romancing and the comments it provoked, “the lyin’, ignorant brutes,” and her heart grew fiery as her hair; but still she spoke no word, for habits are not lightly broken; but she bided her time, and she bit her lips as she wrung out her tubful of steaming clothes and rinsed them in the cold blueing water; and then Sam Underdown went on his way, and she grew calmer, and thought and thought again of Octavius and his trouble.
So it happened that same afternoon that soon after Octavius had reached the dreadful spot at which his ghastly passenger climbed to its usual seat, and as he stood there beside it on the foot-board with a wild hopelessness filling his heart, he heard a voice calling his name, and turning his head quickly, always expectant of some new horror, saw a girl standing on the pathway waving her hand to him to stop. It was Admonition Ellery in her holiday clothes.
“I thought maybe you’d give me a lift back,” she said, smiling up at him with bashful, deprecating eyes and the blushes flaming in her cheeks. “I’m feelin’ dretful tired somehow.”
Octavius strove to bend his rigid features into an answering smile as he looked down at her. “Course I will,” he answered slowly, his horror still stamped upon his face, “get up here if you don’t mind a poor seat; wagons ain’t built altogether for comfort, be ’em?”
“The seat’s plenty good enough,” she answered, “if you’ve no objection to the company—”
“Ah!” he exclaimed sharply, as she began to climb the shaft and brushed the very shoulders of the terrible child which sat there still gazing intently, with its blazing eyes, into space; then he stopped suddenly, but her yearning heart seemed to divine his pain, for when she reached the narrow seat beside him, she said, falteringly, but with a great sympathy in her voice, “you’m in trouble, I’ve heard tell; terrible trouble—I’m—I’m mortal sorry for ’ee.”
He looked into her face suddenly and longingly, for his own heart ached to give confidence and accept comfort, and his brain grew wilder and less controllable as each day passed; and as he looked he saw great tears welling up in Admonition’s eyes.
“How came you to know of my trouble?’ he asked breathlessly.
“I’m from the laundry,” she said, “and I heard tell of it there to-day.”
“And what do they say of me there? Say I’m a mazed-headed fool, I s’pose; and what story do they tell?”
“They say,” faltered Admonition, “they say as how—as how—you think you see—”
“ ‘Think I see,’ ” he interrupted, “ ‘think,’ do they say, when I see the thing before my eyes this very minute, a horrible, devil-faced brat, sitting there a
t your very feet—taking all the blood from my body day after day; there I see it—” his voice rose to a cry as he pointed to the foot-board, and his eyes blazed with wild fear.
Then did Admonition rise from the narrow seat, and clutching the side of the wagon with one hand, raised the other almost tragically to the sky.
“So do I,” she declared, “so do I. All that you see I see too.”
For moments there was silence, as the boy and girl faced each other, each flushed, each wild-eyed, each trembling with a great earnestness. Then Octavius spoke, pointing to the fearful thing at their feet.
“You see that thing there?” he questioned.
“I see it,” she answered; looking at the spot to which he pointed.
“You see its ghastly face and yellow eyes?”
“A face hideous as a devil, an’ eyes yellow as burning jealousy.”
“You see its dirty rags an’ its white body?”
“Rags fit to breed a plague, and body bloodless as a dead thing.”
“You see how it sits an’ stares, an’ now—how my foot goes through it an’ never touches it?”
“Starin’ like the very congers, an’ no solider than a puff of smoke.”
“Oh, my God!” he cried, pressing his hands, reins and all, over his eyes, “then I b’aint mazed! I b’aint mazed after all.”
“You b’aint mazed no more’n I’m mazed,” she cried, with all her shyness wiped out by her great love, and this her great wickedness.
And then he turned to her and caught her hands. “Tell it all again,” he cried, “tell of what you see.”
And Admonition, the sober, the pious, the bashful, leaned against the ledge of the wagon there as the horse ambled on and the sun went down, and lied to the lad beside her without scruple; and the terrible thing which was in truth invisible to her eyes as the mountains of the moon, sat on in Octavius Nottage’s sight as if it listened to her words.
“But what can I do?” he cried, when the torrent of her falsehoods which had flowed so unfalteringly ceased at last. “I can’t live on like this always. I’d rather be dead than live like this.”
Admonition mused awhile. “Perhaps I can help ’ee,” she remarked, slowly. “My grandmother—well, I know my grandmother knows a whole lot of charms—she’s done wonderful things sometimes—an’ somehow I’ve felt sometimes as if—as if I could do ’em too.”
“I’d give the world, if ’twas mine, to be rid of the devilish thing,” he raved.
Admonition looked at him straightly. “There’s some as don’t want all the world,” she answered, quietly. Then as his eyes questioned her meaning, her blushes came back to her. “I’d like to get down here, please,” she added hastily, and in another moment she was walking quickly on her way.
For almost a month Octavius Nottage had no word with Admonition Ellery. Day after day he haunted the laundry, or strove to waylay her as she went to and from her home, but she always hurried past him with some shy, murmured word of greeting, and that was all. Then as she grew more distant he became more ardent. She was the one human soul in the village who appreciated his tragedy, and he felt that he could not live without her sympathy; and this was what she longed for, for dearly did she love this lad who heretofore had given her no thought. So all through those days she held herself from him, and went gravely and slowly on her way, to all outward eyes, while his heart swelled within him as the belief was forced upon him that she had fooled with him, and yet—and yet when he remembered her face as it had been that afternoon on the wagon he found it hard to doubt her—he longed so earnestly to believe her, and his eyes grew wilder and his face more white with the suspense, and John Nottage and Jane, his wife, bowed their heads in grief, and sighed with the heaviness of premonition, for, to all appearances their boy, their only child, had truly been picked out by the hand of Death. He was dying before their eyes.
The one evening as Octavius strolled languidly along the lanes he met Admonition, and she stopped before him. She gave him no greeting in answer to his words, and he saw that her face was very white.
“There’s a charm—” she began at once without more prelude, “I’ve learnt it all by myself and nobody knows I’ve found it out—but you’d never do it. Her voice sank to a tone of helpless conviction.
Octavius clenched his hands. “I swear I’ll do anything,” he cried. “There’s nothing in my power as I wouldn’t do to be rid of that ugly child-devil. Tell me the charm,” he commanded.
Admonition shook from head to foot as she looked into his face, but she did not blush even now. “An’ I must tell of it?” she asked, slowly.
“Yes, yes, be quick, whatever it is.”
“This is what ’tis, then, and don’t blame me for it when ’tis told.”
“Go on, go on.”
Then she began with hard, even tones, “You must get your horse an’ wagon ready on the night of the full moon, an’ you must go the same way where you always see the spirit, an’—an’—”
“Go on,” urged Octavius again.
Admonition caught her breath as if in pain, but she continued in the same even tones. “An’ your promised wife must be beside you—an’—”
“My promised wife!” exclaimed Octavius.
“——an’—” went on Admonition, heedless of his interruption, “you must hold hands with her when you come to the spot where the spirit appears, an’ you must say—
‘Spirit, I defy thee.
Spirit, I deny thee,
In the name of all that’s holy.’
—an’ the spirit goes for ever.”
Admonition ceased speaking and clutched her throat as if the words had scorched her. Neither spoke, and Octavius looked at Admonition, and Admonition looked steadily upon the ground.
“But I haven’t got a promised wife,” he protested, slowly.
Then Admonition raised her eyes to his, and a great hot blush spread over her face and neck till for very shame she raised her hands to hide it and turned to lean forward against a gate for support.
“Admonition! Admonition” he cried, the whole world seeming to open and lighten before him. Then he made a stride to her again and pulled the shaking hands from her blazing face in the wildness of his mood, “what do ’ee mean? Oh, Admonition, will ’ee, will ’ee for my sake!”
And Admonition consented.
On the night that the moon was at its full, Octavius Nottage took his horse and his wagon, and his promised wife, and drove towards the town. Not a word did they two utter, not a sound did they hear, for the wild throbbing of their own hearts deafened them. Then when they had reached the outlying streets of the town Octavius Nottage turned his horse’s head towards the village again. In his heart there surged a wild hope of release from his terrible burden; but in the heart of the girl beside him there was nothing but a sickening terror; she knew that she was but juggling with the superstitions which lay so strong within them both, for the sake of her selfish love, she knew that this solemn charm was but of her own manufacture, that by this night’s work she must either stand or fall; and for the first time the full sense of her lying crept coldly over her; she realised the sin of it all, but she could only stand there numb and passive, unable to do aught but go through with that which she had undertaken.
As they neared the direful spot the face of Octavius became as a model of ghastly death, and his eyes held in them a feverishness akin to madness; while the great full-faced moon, placid as ever, looked coldly down to witness his defeat or victory, and Admonition still leaned against the side of the wagon, her hands limp with a chilled faintness which had fallen upon her, realising that those daily, routine prayers of hers had been but so much mockery, and waiting for her fate.
“Quick, quick; your hands!” whispered Octavius hoarsely; but she had no power to stretch them to him. The wagon had almost reached the spot, but she made no move to fulfil her share of the rite. So he clutched her damp, chilly fingers, unconscious of their lifelessness, and gasped w
ith a voice almost soundless by reason of the extremity of his excitement.
“Spirit, I defy thee,
Spirit, I deny thee
In the name of all that’s holy.”
There was a shock, a crash, a confusion of dancing lights, and the boy and girl were hurled from their insecure foothold, the white road leaped to meet the moonlit sky, a roar as of raging oceans filled the air, and for some moments it seemed as if these two defiers had sailed from the petty waters of Life over the great bar to Eternity.
“Is anyone injured?” asked a kindly voice.
There came a faint groan from Admonition in answer.
“There’s a girl here,” panted Octavius, as he raised himself slowly and painfully from the ground, “come round to this side.”
So the stranger went to him, and together they raised Admonition from the ground, and then she lay awhile in Octavius’s arms.
“Something frightened the horses; some child or something,” said the stranger, “it ran across the road suddenly, and sent my animal swerving into yours. If you will hold the girl I will go now and see what damage is done.”
After a few moments Admonition opened her eyes. “I’m all right,” she murmured unsteadily. “I’m quite well. I can stand and walk if you’ll let me go,” and she raised herself and stood trembling upon her feet.