“You are very good. No, thanks. I’ll say goodnight-and all will be well and happy, I hope. Good night.”
And so they parted. And there hung over that quiet scene the cloud of coming battle.
CHAPTER XX.
A GHOST STORY.
WHEN Laura Mildmay ran upstairs, after prayers, to sit a little and talk with Mrs. Jenner; she found that old lady still in her chair, and good Mrs. Jolliffe in the room.
Twenty years have passed since you last saw Mrs. Jolliffe’s tall slim figure. She is now past seventy, and can’t have many milestones more to count on the journey that will bring her to her long home. The hair has grown white as snow, that is parted under her cap, over her shrew’d, but kindly face. But her figure is still straight, and her step light and active.
She has taken of late years to the care of adult invalids, having surrendered to younger hands the little people who inhabit cradles, and crawl on all-fours. Those who remember that goodnatured face among the earliest that emerge from the darkness of nonentity, and who owe to her their first lessons in the accomplishment of walking, and a delighted appreciation of their first babblings and earliest teeth, have “spired up” into tall lads and lasses, now. Ay, by’r lady, and some of them shew streaks of white by this time, in the brown locks, “the bonny gouden” hair, that she was so proud to brush and shew to admiring mothers, who are seen no more on the green of Golden Friars, and whose names are traced now on the flat grey stones in the churchyard.
So time is ripening some, and searing others; and the saddening and tender sunset hour has come; and it is evening with the kind old north-country dame, who nuised pretty Laura Mildmay, who now stepping into the room, smiles so gladly, and throws her arms round the old woman’s neck, and kisses her twice.
“Now, this is so lucky!” said Mrs. Jenner, “you have just come in time to hear a story.”
“Really! That’s delightful.”
“Na, na, od wite it! no story, ouer true for that, I sid it a’ wi my aan eyen. But the bam here, w’ould not like, at these hours, just goin’ to her bed, to hear tell of freets and boggarts.”
“Ghosts? The very thing of all others I should most like to hear of.”
“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Jenner, “if you are not afraid, sit ye down here, with us.”
“She was just going to tell me all about her first engagement to attend a dying old woman,” says Mrs. Jenner, “and of the ghost she saw there. Now, Mrs. Jolliffe, make your tea first and then begin.”
The good woman obeyed, and having prepared a cup of that companionable nectar, she sipped a little, drew her brows slightly together to collect her thoughts, and then looked up with a wondrous solemn face to begin.
Good Mrs. Jenner, and the pretty girl, each gazed with eyes of solemn expectation in the face of the old woman, who seemed to gather awe from the recollections she was summoning.
The old room was a good scene for such a narrative, with the oak-wainscoting, quaint, and clumsy furniture, the heavy beams that crossed its ceiling, and the tall four-post bed, with dark curtains, within which you might imagine what shadows you please.
Mrs. Jolliffe cleared her voice, rolled her eyes slowly round, and began her tale in these words:
MADAM CROWL’S GHOST.
“I’m an aid woman now; and I was but thirteen, my last birthday, the night I came to Applewale House. My aunt was the housekeeper there, and a sort o’ one-horse carriage was down at Lexhoe waitin’ to take me and my box up to Applewale.
“I was a bit frightened by the time I got to Lexhoe, and when I saw the carriage and horse, I wished myself back again with my mother at Hazelden. I was crying when I got into the ‘shay that’s what we used to call it — and old John Mulbery that drove it, and was a goodnatured fellow, bought me a handful of apples at the Golden Lion to cheer me up a bit; and he told me that there was a currant-cake, and tea, and pork-chops, waiting for me, all hot, in my aunt’s room at the great house. It was a fine moonlight night, and I ate the apples, lookin’ out o’ the shay winda.
“It’s a shame for gentlemen to frighten a poor foolish child like I was. I sometimes think it might be tricks. There was two on ‘em on the tap o’ the coach beside me. And they began to question me after nightfall, when the moon rose, where I was going to. Well, I told them it was to wait on Dame Arabella Crowl, of Applewale House, near by Lexhoe.
“‘Ho, then,’ says one of them, ‘you’ll not be long there!’ “And I looked at him as much as to say ‘Why not?’ for I had spoken out when I told them where I was goin’, as if ’twas something clever I hed to say.
“‘Because,’ says he, ‘and don’t you for your life tell no one, only watch her and see — she’s possessed by the devil, and more an half a ghost. Have you got a Bible?’
“‘Yes, sii,’ says I. For my mother put my little Bible in my box, and I knew it was there: and by the same token, though the piint’s too sm?ll for my aid eyes, I have it in my press to this hour.
“As I looked up at him saying ‘Yes, sir,’ I thought I saw’ him winkin’ at his friend; but I could not be sure.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘be sure you put it under your bolster every night, it will keep the aid girl’s claws aff ye.’
“And I got such a fright when he said that, you wouldn’t fancy! And I’d a liked to ask him a lot about the aid lady, but I was too shy, and he and his friend began talkin’ together about their own consams, and dowly enough I got down, as I told ye, at Lexhoe. My heait sank as I drove into the dark avenue. The trees stand very thick and big, as aid as the aid house almost, and four people, with their arms out and fingertips touchin’, barely girds round some of them.
“Well my neck was stretched out o’ the winda, looking for the fiist view o’ the great house; and all at once we pulled up in front of it.
“A great white-and-black house it is, wi’ great black beams across and right up it, and gables lookin’ out, as white as a sheet, to the moon, and the shadows o’ the trees, two or three up and down in front, you could count the leaves on them, and all the little diamond-shaped winda-panes, glimmering on the great hall winda, and great shutters, in the old fashion, hinged on the wall outside, boulted across all the rest o’ the windas in front, for there was but three or four servants, and the old lady in the house, and most o’ t’rooms was locked up.
“My heart was in my mouth when I sid the journey was over, and this the great house afoore me, and I sa near my aunt that I never sid till noo, and Dame Crowl, that I was come to wait upon, and was afeard on already.
“My aunt kissed me in the hall, and brought me to her room. She was tall and thin, wi’ a pale face and black eyes, and long thin hands wi’ black mittins on. She was past fifty, and her word was short; but her word was law. I hev no complaints to make of her; but she was a hard woman, and I think she would hev bin kinder to me if I had bin her sister’s child in place of her brother’s. But all that’s o’ no consequence noo.
“The squire — his name was Mr. Chevenix Crowl, he was Dame Crowl’s grandson — came down there, by way of seeing that the old lady was well treated, about twice or thrice in the year. I sid him but twice all the time I was at Applewale House.
“I can’t say but she was well taken care of, notwithstanding; but that was because my aunt and Meg Wyvern, that was her maid, had a conscience, and did their duty by her.
“Mrs. Wyvern — Meg Wyvern my aunt called her to herself, and Mrs. Wyvern to me-was a fat, jolly lass of fifty, a good height and a good breadth, always goodhumoured and walked slow. She had fine wages, but she was a bit stingy, and kept all her fine clothes under lock and key, and wore, mostly, a twilled chocolate cotton, wi’ red, and yellow, and green sprigs and balls on it, and it lasted wonderful.
“She never gave me nout, not the vally o’ a brass thimble, all the time I was there; but she was goodhumoured, and always laughin’, and she talked no end o’ proas over her tea; and seeing me sa sackless and dowly, she roused me up wi’ her laughin’ a
nd stories; and I think I liked her better than my aunt — children is so taken wi’ a bit o’ fun or a story — though my aunt was very good to me, but a hard woman about some things, and silent always.
“My aunt took me into her bedchamber, that I might rest myself a bit while she was settin’ the tea in her room. But first she patted me on the shouther, and said I was a tall lass o’ my years, and had spired up well, and asked me if I could do plain work and stitchin’; and she looked in my face, and said I was like my father, her brother, that was dead and gone, and she hoped I was a better Christian, and wad na du a’ that lids.
“It was a hard sayin’ the first time I set my foot in her room, I thought.
“When I went into the next room, the housekeeper’s room — very comfortable, yak (oak) all round-there was a fine fire blazin’ away, wi’ coal, and peat, and wood, all in a low together, and tea on the table, and hot cake, and smokin’ meat; and there was Mrs. Wyvern, fat, jolly, and talkin’ away, more in an hour than my aunt would in a year.
“While I was still at my tea my aunt went upstairs to see Madam Crowl.
“‘She’s agone up to see that old Judith Squailes is awake,’ says Mrs. Wyvern. ‘Judith sits with Madam Crowl when me and Mrs. Shutters’ — that was my aunt’s name— ‘is away. She’s a troublesome old lady. Ye’ll hev to be sharp wi’ her, or she’ll be into the fire, or out ‘o t’ winda. She goes on wires, she does, old though she be.’
“‘How old, ma’am?’ says I.
“‘Ninety-three her last birthday, and that’s eight months gone,’ says she; and she laughed. ‘And don’t be askin’ questions about her before your aunt-mind, I tell ye; just take her as you find her, and that’s all.’
“‘And what’s to be my business about her, please, ma’am?’ says I.
“‘About the old lady? Well,’ says she, ‘your aunt Mrs. Shutters, will tell you that; but I suppose you’ll hev to sit in the room with your work, and see she’s at no mischief, and let her amuse herself with her things on the table, and get her her food or drink as she calls for it, and keep her out o’ mischief, and ring the bell hard if she’s troublesome.’
“‘Is she deaf, ma’am?’
“‘No, nor blind,’ says she; ‘as sharp as a needle, but she’s gone quite aupy, and can’t remember nout rightly; and Jack the Giant Killer, or Goody Twoshoes will please her as well as the king’s court, or the affairs of the nation.’
“‘And what did the little girl go away for, ma’am, that went on Friday last? My aunt wrote to my mother she was to go.’ “‘Yes; she’s gone.’
“‘What for?’ says I again.
“‘She didn’t answer Mrs. Shutters, I do suppose,’ says she.
‘I don’t know. Don’t be talkin’; your aunt can’t abide a talkin’ child.’
“‘And please, ma’am, is the old lady well in health?’ says I. “‘It ain’t no harm to ask that,’ says she. ‘She’s torflin a bit lately, but better this week past, and I dare say she’ll last out her hundred years yet. Hish! Here’s your aunt coming down the passage.’
“In comes my aunt, and begins talkin ‘to Mrs. Wyvern, and I, beginnin’ to feel more comfortable and at home like, was walkin’ about the room lookin’ at this thing and at that. There was pretty old china things on the cupboard, and pictures again the wall; and there was a door open in the wainscot, and I sees a queer old leathern jacket, wi’ straps and buckles to it, and sleeves as long as the bedpost hangin’ up inside.
“‘What’s that you’re at, child?’ says my aunt, sharp enough, turning about when I thought she least minded. ‘What’s that in your hand?’
“‘This, ma’am?’ says I, turning about with the leathern jacket. ‘I don’t know what it is, ma’am.’
“Pale as she was, the red came up in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed wi’ anger, and I think only she had half a dozen steps to take, between her and me, she’d a gev me a sizzup. But she did gie me a shake by the shouther, and she plucked the thing out o’ my hand, and says she, ‘While ever you stay here, don’t ye meddle wi’ nout that don’t belong to ye,’ and she hung it up on the pin that was there, and shut the door wi’a bang and locke d it fast.
“Mrs. Wyvern was liftin’ up her hands and laughin’ all this time, quietly, in her chair, rolling herself a bit in it, as she used when she was kinkin’.
“The tears was in my eyes, and she winked at my aunt, and says she, dryin’ her own eyes that was wet wi’ the laughin’, ‘Tut, the child meant no harm — come here to me, child. It’s only a pair o’ crutches for lame ducks, and ask us no questions mind, and we’ll tell ye no lies; and come here and sit down, and drink a mug o’ beer before ye go to your bed.’
“My room, mind ye, was upstairs, next to the old lady’s, and Mrs. Wyvern’s bed was near hers in her room, and I was to be ready at call, if need should be.
“The old lady was in one of her tantrums that night and part of the day before. She used to take fits o’ the sulks. Sometimes she would not let them dress her, and at other times she would not let them take her clothes off. She was a great beauty, they said, in her day. But there was no one about Applewale that remembered her in her prime. And she was dreadful fond o’ dress, and had thick silks, and stiff satins, and velvets, and laces, and all sorts, enough to set up seven shops at the least. All her dresses was oldfashioned and queer, but worth a fortune.
“Well, I went to my bed. I lay for a while awake; for a’ things was new to me; and I think the tea was in my nerves, too, for I wasn’t used to it, except now and then on a holiday, or the like. And I heard Mrs. Wyvern talkin’, and I listened with my hand to my ear; but I could not hear Mrs. Crowl, and I don’t think she said a word.
“There was great care took of her. The people at Applewale knew that when she died they would every one get the sack; and their situations was well paid and easy.
“The doctor come twice a week to see the old lady, and you may be sure they all did as he bid them. One thing was the same every time; they were never to cross or frump her, any way, but to humour and please her in everything.
“So she lay in her clothes all that night, and next day, not a word she said, and I was at my needlework all that day, in my own room, except when I went down to my dinner.
“I would a liked to see the aid lady, and even to hear her speak. But she might as well a’ bin in Lunnon a’ the time for me.
“When I had my dinner my aunt sent me out for a walk for an hour. I was glad when I came back, the trees was so big, and the place so dark and lonesome, and ’twas a cloudy day, and I cried a deal, thinkin’ of home, while I was walkin’ alone there. That evening, the candles bein’ alight, I was sittin’ in my room, and the door was open into Madam Crowl’s chamber, where my aunt was. It was, then, for the first time I heard what I suppose was the aid lady talking.
“It was a queer noise like, I couldn’t well say which, a bird, or a beast, only it had bleatin’ sound in it, and was very small.
“I pricked my ears to hear all I could. But I could not make out one word she said. And my aunt answered:
“‘The evil one can’t hurt no one, ma’am, bout the Lord permits.’
“Then the same queer voice from the bed says something more that I couldn’t make head nor tail on.
“And my aunt med answer again: ‘Let them pull faces, ma’am, and say what they will; if the Lord be for us, who can be against us?’
“I kept listenin’ with my ear turned to the door, holdin’ my breath, but not another word or sound came in from the room. In about twenty minutes, as I was sittin’ by the table, lookin’ at the pictures in the old AEsop’s Fables, I was aware o’ something moving at the door, and lookin’ up I sid my aunt’s face lookin’ in at the door, and her hand raised.
“‘Hish!’ says she, very soft, and comes over to me on tiptoe, and she says in a whisper: ‘Thank God, she’s asleep at last, and don’t ye make no noise till I come back, for I’m goin’ down to take my cup o’ tea, and I’ll
be back i’ noo — me and Mrs. Wyvern, and she’ll be sleepin’ in the room, and you can run down when we come up, and Judith will gie ye yaur supper in my room.’
“And with that away she goes.
“I kep’ looking at the picture-book, as before, listenin’ every noo and then, but there was no sound, not a breath, that I could hear; an’ I began whisperin’ to the pictures and talkin’ to myself to keep my heart up, for I was growin’ feared in that big room.
“And at last up I got, and began walkin’ about the room, lookin’ at this and peepin’ at that, to amuse my mind, ye’ll understand. And at last what sud I do but peeps into Madam Crowl’s bedchamber.
“A grand chamber it was, wi’ a great four-poster, wi’ flowered silk curtains as tall as the ceilin’, and foldin’ down on the floor, and drawn close all round. There was a lookin’-glass, the biggest I ever sid before, and the room was a blaze o’ light.
I counted twenty-two wax candles, all alight. Such was her fancy, and no one dared say her nay.
“I listened at the door, and gaped and wondered all round. When I heard there was not a breath, and did not see so much as a stir in the curtains, I took heart, and walked into the room on tiptoe, and looked round again. Then I takes a keek at myself in the big glass; and at last it came in my head, ‘Why couldn’t I ha’ a keek at the aid lady herself in the bed?’
“Ye’d think me a fule if ye knew half how I longed to see Dame Crowl, and I thought to myself if I didn’t peep now I might wait many a day before I got so gude a chance again.
“Well, my dear, I came to the side o’ the bed, the curtains bein’ close, and my heart a’most failed me. But I took courage, and I slips my finger in between the thick curtains, and then my hand. So I waits a bit, but all was still as death. So, softly, softly draws the curtain, and there, sure enough, I sid before me, stretched out like the painted lady on the tomb-stean in Lexhoe Church, the famous Dame Crowl, of Applewale House. There she was, dressed out. You never sid the like in they days. Satin and silk, and scarlet and green, and gold and pint lace; by Jen! ’twas a sight! A big powdered wig, half as high as herself, was a-top o’ her head, and, wow!-was ever such wrinkles?-and her old baggy throat all powdered white, and her cheeks rouged, and mouse-skin eyebrows, that Mrs. Wyvern used to stick on, and thae she lay proud and stark, wi’ a pair o’ clocked silk hose on, and heels to her shoon as tall as ninepins. Lawks! But her nose was crooked and thin, and half the whites o’ her eyes was open. She used to stand, dressed as she was, gigglin’ and dribblin’ before the lookin’-glass, wi’ a fan in her hand, and a big nosegay in her bodice. Her wrinkled little hands was stretched down by her sides, and such long nails, all cut into points, I never sid in my days. Could it ever a bin the fashion for grit fowk to war their fingernails so?
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 747