by Ellen Wood
“Yes, it will,” said Bywater. “Pierce senior shall be the ghost: he tops us all by a head.”
“Hurst is as tall as Pierce senior.”
“That he is not,” interrupted Pierce senior, who was considerably mollified at the honour being awarded to him. “Hurst is not much above the tips of my ears. Besides, Hurst is fat; and you never saw a fat ghost yet.”
“Have you seen many ghosts, Pierce?” mocked Bywater.
“A few; in pictures. Wretched old scarecrows they always are, with a cadaverous face and lantern jaws.”
“That’s the reason you’ll do so well, Pierce,” said Bywater. “You are as thin as a French herring, you know, with a yard and a half of throat.”
Pierce received the doubtful compliment flatteringly, absorbed in the fine vista of mischief opening before him. “How shall I get myself up, Bywater?” asked he, complaisantly. “With horns and a tail?”
“Horns and a tail be bothered!” returned Hurst. “It must be like a real ghost, all white and ghastly.”
“Of course it must,” acquiesced Bywater.
“I know a boy in our village that they served out like that,” interposed Bill Simms, who was a country lad, and boarded in Helstonleigh. “They got a great big turnip, and scooped it out and made it into a man’s face, and put a light inside, and stuck it on a post where he had to pass at night. He was so frightened that he died.”
“Cram!” ejaculated Tod Yorke.
“He did, though,” repeated Simms. “They knew him before for an awful little coward, and they did it to have some fun out of him. He didn’t say anything at the time; didn’t scream, or anything of that sort; but after he got home he was taken ill, and the next day he died. My father was one of the jury on the inquest. He was a little chap with no father or mother — a plough-boy.”
“The best thing, if you want to make a ghost,” said Tod Yorke, “is to get a tin plate full of salt and gin, and set it alight, and wrap yourself round with a sheet, and hold the plate so that the flame lights up your face. You never saw anything so ghastly. Scooped-out turnips are all bosh!”
“I could bring a sheet off my bed,” said Bywater. “Thrown over my arm, they’d think at home I was bringing out my surplice. And if—”
A wheezing and coughing and clanking of keys interrupted the proceedings. It was Mr. Ketch, coming to lock up the cloisters. As the boys had no wish to be fastened in, themselves, they gathered up their books, and waited in silence till the porter was close upon them. Then, with a sudden war-whoop, they sprang past him, very nearly startling the old man out of his senses, and calling forth from him a shower of hard words.
The above conversation, puerile and school-boyish as it may seem, was destined to lead to results all too important; otherwise it would not have been related here. You very likely may have discovered, ere this, that this story of the Helstonleigh College boys is not merely a work of imagination, but taken from facts of real life. Had you been in the cloisters that night with the boys — and you might have been — and heard Master William Simms, who was the son of a wealthy farmer, tell the tale of a boy’s being frightened to death, you would have known it to be a true one, if you possessed any knowledge of the annals of the neighbourhood. In like manner, the project they were getting up to frighten Charles Channing, and Charles’s unfortunate propensity to be frightened, are strictly true.
Master Tod Yorke’s account of what had imbued his mind with this fear, was a tolerably correct one. Charley was somewhat troublesome and fractious as a young child, and the wicked nurse girl who attended upon him would dress up frightful figures to terrify him into quietness. She might not have been able to accomplish this without detection, but that Mrs. Channing was at that time debarred from the active superintendence of her household. When Charley was about two years old she fell into ill health, and for eighteen months was almost entirely confined to her room. Judith was much engaged with her mistress and with household matters, and the baby, as Charley was still called, was chiefly left to the mercies of the nurse. Not content with frightening him practically, she instilled into his young imagination the most pernicious stories of ghosts, dreams, and similar absurdities. But, foolish as we know them to be, they are not the less horrible to a child’s vivid imagination. At two, or three, or four years old, it is eagerly opening to impressions; and things, solemnly related by a mother or a nurse, become impressed upon it almost as with gospel truth. Let the fears once be excited in this terrible way, and not a whole lifetime can finally eradicate the evil. I would rather a nurse broke one of my children’s limbs, than thus poison its fair young mind.
In process of time the girl’s work was discovered — discovered by Judith. But the mischief was done. You may wonder that Mrs. Channing should not have been the first to discover it; or that it could have escaped her notice at all, for she had the child with her often for his early religious instruction; but, one of the worst phases of this state of things is, the shrinking tenacity with which the victim buries the fears within his own breast. He dare not tell his parents; he is taught not; and taught by fear. It may not have been your misfortune to meet with a case of this sort; I hope you never will. Mrs. Channing would observe that the child would often shudder, as with terror, and cling to her in an unaccountable manner; but, having no suspicion of the evil, she attributed it to a sensitive, timid temperament. “What is it, my little Charley?” she would say. But Charley would only bury his face the closer, and keep silence. When Martha — that was the girl’s name: not the same Martha who was now living at Lady Augusta’s — came for him, he would go with her willingly, cordially. It was not her he feared. On the contrary, he was attached to her; she had taught him to be so; and he looked upon her as a protector from those awful ghosts and goblins.
Well, the thing was in time discovered, but the mischief, I say, was done. It could not be eradicated. Charles Channing’s judgment and good sense told him that all those bygone terrors were only tricks of that wretched Martha’s: but, overcome the fear, he could not. All consideration was shown to him; he was never scolded for it, never ridiculed; his brothers and sisters observed to him entire silence upon the subject — even Annabel; and Mr. and Mrs. Channing had done reasoning lovingly with him now. It is not argument that will avail in a case like this. In the broad light of day, Charley could be very brave; would laugh at such tales with the best of them; but when night came, and he was left alone — if he ever was left alone — then all the old terror rose up again, and his frame would shake, and he would throw himself on the bed or on the floor, and hide his face; afraid of the darkness, and of what he might see in it. He was as utterly unable to prevent or subdue this fear, as he was to prevent his breathing. He knew it, in the sunny morning light, to be a foolish fear, utterly without reason: but, in the lonely night, there it came again, and he could not combat it.
Thus, it is easy to understand that the very worst subject for a ghost trick to be played upon, was Charley Channing. It was, however, going to be done. The defect — for it really is a defect — had never transpired to the College school, who would not have spared their ridicule, or spared Charley. Reared, in that point, under happier auspices, they could have given nothing but utter ridicule to the fear. Chattering Annabel, in her thoughtless communications to Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had not bargained for their reaching the ears of Tod; and Tod, when the report did reach his ears, remembered to have heard the tale before; until then it had escaped his memory.
Charley had got into hot water with some of the boys. Bywater had been owing him a grudge for weeks, on account of Charley’s persistent silence touching what he had seen the day the surplice was inked; and now there arose another grudge on Bywater’s score, and also on that of others. There is not space to enter into the particulars of the affair; it is sufficient to say that some underhand work, touching cribs, came to the knowledge of one of the under-masters — and came to him through Charley Channing.
Not that Charley went, open-
mouthed, and told; there was nothing of that disreputable character — which the school held in especial dislike — the sneak, about Charles Channing. Charley would have bitten his tongue out first. By an unfortunate accident Charles was pinned by the master, and questioned; and he had no resource but to speak out. In honour, in truth, he could not do otherwise; but, the consequence was — punishment to the boys; and they turned against him. Schoolboys are not famous for being swayed by the rules of strict justice; and they forgot to remember that in Charles Channing’s place they would (at any rate, most of them) have felt bound to do the same. They visited the accident upon him, and were determined — as you have heard them express it in their own phrase — to “serve him out.”
Leaving this decision to fructify, let us turn to Constance. Lady Augusta Yorke — good-hearted in the main, liberal natured, swayed by every impulse as the wind — had been particularly kind to Constance and Annabel Channing during the absence of their mother. Evening after evening she would insist upon their spending at her house, Hamish — one of Lady Augusta’s lasting favourites, probably from his good looks — being pressed into the visit with them by my lady. Hamish was nothing loth. He had given up indiscriminate evening visiting; and, since the coolness which had arisen in the manner of Mr. Huntley, Hamish did not choose to go much to Mr. Huntley’s, where he had been a pretty constant visitor before; and he found his evenings hang somewhat heavily on his hands. Thus Constance saw a good deal of the Earl of Carrick; or, it may be more to the purpose to say, the earl saw a good deal of her.
For the earl grew to like her very much indeed. He grew to think that if she would only consent to become his wife, he should be the happiest man in ould Ireland; and one day, impulsive in his actions as was ever Lady Augusta, he told Constance so, in that lady’s presence.
Constance — much as we may regret to hear it of her — behaved in by no means a dignified manner. She laughed over it. When brought to understand, which took some little time, that she was actually paid that high compliment, she laughed in the earl’s face. He was as old as her father; and Constance had certainly regarded him much more in the light of a father than a husband.
“I do beg your pardon, Lord Carrick,” she said, apologetically “but I think you must be laughing at me.”
“Laughing at ye!” said the earl. “It’s not I that would do that. I’d like ye to be Countess of Carrick to-morrow, me dear, if you can only get over me fifty years and me grey hair. Here’s me sister — she knows that I’d like to have ye. It’s you that are laughing at me, Miss Constance; at me ould locks.”
“No, indeed, indeed it is not that,” said Constance, while Lady Augusta sat with an impassive countenance. “I don’t know why I laughed. It so took me by surprise; that was why, I think. Please do not say any more about it, Lord Carrick.”
“Ye could not like me as well as ye like William Yorke? Is that it, child?”
Constance grew crimson. Like him as she liked William Yorke!
“Ye’re the nicest girl I have seen since Kathleen Blake,” resumed the straightforward, simple earl. “She promised to have me; she said she liked me grey hair better than brown, and me fifty years better than thirty, but, while I was putting the place a bit in order for her, she went and married a young Englishman. Did ye ever see him, Augusta?” — turning to his sister. “He is a baronet. He came somewhere from these parts.”
Lady Augusta intimated stiffly that she had not the honour of the baronet’s acquaintance. She thought her brother was making a simpleton of himself, and had a great mind to tell him so.
“And since Kathleen Blake went over to the enemy, I have not seen anybody that I’d care to look twice at, till I came here and saw you, Miss Constance,” resumed the earl. “And if ye can only get to overlook the natural impediments on me side, and not mind me being poor, I’d be delighted, me dear, if ye’d say the word.”
“You are very kind, very generous, Lord Carrick,” said Constance, with an impulse of feeling; “but I can only beg you never to ask me such a thing again.”
“Ah! well, child, I see ye’re in earnest,” good-naturedly responded the earl, as he gave it up. “I was afraid ye’d only laugh at me. I knew I was too old.”
And that was the beginning and the ending of Lord Carrick’s wooing. Scarcely worth recording, you will think. But there was a reason for doing so.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. — THE DECISION.
The important sixth of October — important to the Helstonleigh College boys — did not rise very genially. On the contrary, it rose rather sloppily. A soaking rain was steadily descending, and the streets presented a continuous scene of puddles. The boys dashed through it without umbrellas (I never saw one of them carry an umbrella in my life, and don’t believe the phenomenon ever was seen), their clean surplices on their arms; on their way to attend ten-o’clock morning prayers in the cathedral. The day was a holiday from school, but not from morning service.
The college bell was beginning to ring out as they entered the schoolroom. Standing in the senior’s place, and calling over the roll, was Tom Channing, the acting senior for a few brief hours. Since Gaunt’s departure, the previous day, Tom Channing had been head of the school; it lay in the custom of the school for him so to be. Would his place be confirmed? or would he lose it? Tom looked flurried with suspense. It was not so much being appointed senior that he thought of, as the disgrace, the humiliation that would be his portion, were he deposed from it. He knew that he deserved the position; that it was his by right; he stood first on the rolls, and he had done nothing whatever to forfeit it. He was the school’s best scholar; and — if he was not always a perfect model for conduct — there was this much to be said in his favour, that none of them could boast of being better.
The opinion of the school had been veering round for the last few days in favour of Tom. I do not mean that he, personally, was in better odour with it — not at all, the snow-ball, touching Arthur, had gathered strength in rolling — but in favour of his chances of the seniorship. Not a breath of intimation had the head-master given; except that, one day, in complaining to Gaunt of the neglect of a point of discipline in the school, which point was entirely under the control of the senior boy, he had turned to Tom, and said, “Remember, Channing, it must be observed for the future.”
Tom’s heart leaped within him as he heard it, and the boys looked inquiringly at the master. But the master’s head was then buried in the deep drawer of his desk, hunting for a lost paper. Unless he had spoken it in forgetfulness — which was not improbable — there could be no doubt that he looked upon Tom as Gaunt’s successor. The school so interpreted it, and chose to become, amongst themselves, sullenly rebellious. As to Tom, who was nearly as sanguine in temperament as Hamish, his hopes and his spirits went up to fever heat. —
One of the last to tear through the street, splashing his jacket, and splashing his surplice, was Harry Huntley. He, like all the rest, took care to be in time that morning. There would have been no necessity for his racing, however, had he not lingered at home, talking. He was running down from his room, whither he had gone again after breakfast, to give the finishing brush to his hair (I can tell you that some of those college gentlemen were dandies), when Mr. Huntley’s voice was heard, calling him into the breakfast-room.
“Harry,” said he, “I don’t think that I need enjoin you not to suffer your manner to show triumph towards Tom Channing, should you be promoted over him to-day.”
“I shan’t be, papa. Channing will have the seniorship.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, from something Pye let drop. We look upon it that Channing is as good as senior.”
Mr. Huntley remembered the tenor of the private conversation the master had held with him, and believed his son would find himself mistaken, and that he, Harry, would be made senior. That it would be Gerald Yorke, Mr. Huntley did not believe. “At any rate, Harry, take heed to what I say,” he resumed. “Be very considerate and court
eous towards your friend Channing, if you should obtain it. Do not let me have to blush for my son’s ill feeling.”
There was a tone in Mr. Huntley’s voice which, to Harry’s ears, seemed to intimate that he did not speak without reason. “Papa, it would not be fair for me to go up over Channing,” he impulsively said.
“No. Comparing your merits together, Channing is the better man of the two.”
Harry laughed. “He is not worse, at all events. Why are you saying this, papa?”
“Because I fancy that you are more likely to be successful than Tom Channing. I wish I may be mistaken. I would rather he had it; for, personally, he had done nothing to forfeit it.”
“If Harry could accept the seniorship and displace Tom Channing, I would not care to call him my brother again,” interrupted Ellen Huntley, with a flashing eye.
“It is not that, Ellen; you girls don’t understand things,” retorted Harry. “If Pye displaces Tom from the scholarship, he does not do it to exalt me; he does it because he won’t have him at any price. Were I to turn round like a chivalrous Knight Templar and say I’d not take it, out of regard to my friend Tom, where would be the good? Yorke would get hoisted over me, and I should be laughed at for a duffer. But I’ll do as you like, papa,” he added, turning to Mr. Huntley. “If you wish me not to take the honour, I’ll resign it in favour of Yorke. I never expected it to be mine, so it will be no disappointment; I always thought we should have Channing.”
“Your refusing it would do no good to Channing,” said Mr. Huntley. “And I should have grumbled at you, Harry, had you suffered Yorke to slip over your head. Every one in his own right. All I repeat to you, my boy, is, behave as you ought to Tom Channing. Possibly I may pay the college school a visit this morning.”
Harry opened his eyes to their utmost width.
“You, papa! Whatever for?”
“That is my business,” laughed Mr. Huntley. “It wants only twenty minutes to ten, Harry.”