Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  In a small town like Worcester (small in comparison with great capitals) the inhabitants, rich and poor, mostly know one another, what they are, and where their dwelling is. Old Ferrar lived within a stone’s-throw of the Angel; he was a china painter, employed by the Messrs. Chamberlain. Some one ran for him; and he came; a tidy-looking man in a good coat, with grey whiskers and grey hair. He bowed civilly to the room, and gave his name as Thomas Ferrar.

  As far as anything connected with what took place at Malvern he was in total ignorance, he said. When his son Mark got home on the Tuesday night, he had told him that Captain Sanker’s little boy had fallen down a part of the hill, and that he, Mark, had been one of those who helped to find him. In the afternoon of the same day they heard the little boy had died.

  “Where is your son?” asked the coroner.

  “I am not sure where he is,” replied Thomas Ferrar. “When I and his brother got home from the factory on Wednesday evening, my daughter told me Mark had gone off again. Somebody had given him half-a-crown, I believe. With that in his pocket, he was pretty sure to go off on one of his rovings.”

  “He is in the habit of going off, then?”

  “Yes, sir, he has done it on occasion almost ever since he could run alone. I used to leather him well for it, but it was of no use; it didn’t stop it. It’s his only fault. Barring that, he’s as good and upright a lad as anybody need have. He does not go off for the purpose of doing harm: neither does he get into any.”

  “Where does he go to?”

  “Always to one of two places; to South Crabb, or to his grandfather’s at Pinvin. It’s generally to South Crabb, to see the Batleys, who are cousins of my late wife’s. They’ve boys and girls of Mark’s own age, and he likes to be there.”

  “You conclude, then, that he is at one of these places now?”

  “Sure to be, sir; and I think it’s sure to be South Crabb. He was at Pinvin a fortnight ago; for I walked over on the Sunday morning and took him with me. Mark is of a roving turn; he is always talking of wanting to see the world. I don’t believe he’ll ever settle down to steady work at home.”

  “Well, we want him here, Mr. Ferrar; and must have him too. Could you send after him — and get him here by to-morrow?”

  “I can send his brother after him, if you say it must be. The likelihood is that he will come home of himself to-morrow evening.”

  “Ay, but we must have him here in the afternoon, you see. We want to hear what he can tell us about the deceased. It is thought that he was the last person with him before the fall. And, gentlemen,” added the coroner, turning to the jury, “I will adjourn proceedings to the same hour to-morrow — three o’clock.”

  So the inquest was adjourned accordingly, and the room slowly cleared itself. Very slowly. People stood in groups of threes and fours to talk to each other. This new evidence was startling: and the impression it made was, that one of the Frogs had certainly thrown King down.

  The green handkerchief was mentioned. Coloured silk pocket-handkerchiefs were much patronized by gentlemen then, and the one used by Dr. Teal that day happened to be green. The doctor said he had missed his handkerchief when they were down at the Abbey before tea, but could not tell where he had left it. He found it in the room at St. Ann’s when they got up again, and supposed it had been there all along. So that handkerchief was not much thought of: especially as several of the Frogs had green neckerchiefs on, and might have taken them off, as it was very hot. That a Frog had flung King over, appeared to be, to use the coroner’s words on another part of the subject, as plain as a turnpike. The Sankers, one and all, adopted it as conclusive; Captain Sanker in particular was nearly wild, and said bitter things of the Frogs. Poor King still lay in the same room, and none of them, as before, cared to go by the door.

  It must have been in the middle of the night. Anyway, it looked pitch-dark. I was asleep, and dreaming that we were sorting handkerchiefs: all colours seemed to be there but a green one, and that — the one being looked for — we could not find: when something suddenly woke me. A hand was grasping at my shoulder.

  “Halloa! who’s there?”

  “I say, Johnny, I can’t stop in my bed; I’ve come to yours. If you mind my getting in, I’ll lie across the foot, and get to sleep that way.”

  The voice was Dan’s, and it had no end of horror in it. He was standing by the bed in his night-shirt, shivering. And yet the summer’s night was hot.

  “Get in, if you like, Dan: there’s plenty of room. What’s the matter with your own bed?”

  “King’s there,” he said, in a dreadful whisper, as he crept trembling in.

  “King! Why, what do you mean?”

  “He comes in and lies down in his place just as he used to lie,” shivered Dan. “I asked Toby to sleep with me to-night, and Fred wouldn’t let him. Fred ought to be ashamed; it’s all his ill-nature. He’s bigger than I am, one of the seniors, and he never cares whether he sleeps alone or not.”

  “But, Dan, you should not get these fancies into your head about King. You know it’s not true.”

  “I tell you it is true. King’s there. First of all, he stood at the foot of the bed and looked at me; and then, when I hid my face, I found he had got into it. He’s lying there, just as he used to lie, his face turned to the wall.”

  “To begin with, you couldn’t see him — him, or any one else. It’s too dark.”

  “It’s not dark. My room’s lighter than this; it has a bigger window: and the sky was bright and the stars were out. Anyway, Johnny, it was light enough to see King — and there he was. Do you think I’d tell a lie over it?”

  I can’t say I felt very comfortable myself. It’s not pleasant to be woke up with this kind of thing at the top of a house when somebody’s lying dead underneath. Dan’s voice was enough to give one the shivers, let alone his words. Some stars came out, and I could see the outline of the furniture: or perhaps the stars had been shining all along; only, on first awaking, the eye is not accustomed to the darkness.

  “Try and go to sleep, Dan. You’ll be all right in the morning.”

  To go to sleep seemed, however, to be far enough from Dan’s thoughts. After a bit of uneasy turning and trembling — and I’m sure any one would have said his legs had caught St. Vitus’s dance — he gave sleep up as a bad job, and broke out now and again with all sorts of detached comments. I could only lie and listen.

  Wondered whether he should be seeing King always? — if so, would rather be dead. Wished he had not gone to sleep on that confounded bench outside St. Ann’s Well — might have been at hand near King, and saved him, if he had not. It was that beastly bottled ale that made him. Wished bottled ale had not been invented. Wished he could wring Dance’s neck — or Ferrar’s — or that Wood’arts, whichever of the lot it was that had struck King. Knew it was one of the three. What on earth could have taken the Frogs to Malvern that day? — Wished every Frog ever born was hanged or drowned. Thought it must be Ferrar — else why had the fellow decamped? Thought the whole boiling of Frogs should be driven from the town — how dared they, the insolent charity beggars, have their school near the college school? Wondered what would be done to Ferrar if it was proved against him? Wished it had been Ferrar to fall down in place of King. Wished it had been himself (Dan) rather than King. Poor King! — who was always so gentle — and never gave offence to any of them — and was so happy with his hymns and his fancies, and his poetry! — and had said “Lord Bateman” for them that day when told to say it, and — and ——

  At this thought Dan broke fairly down and sobbed as though his heart were breaking. I felt uncommonly sorry for him; he had been very fond of King; and I was sorry for his superstition. What a mistake it seemed for Mrs. Sanker to have allowed them to grow up in it.

  At three o’clock the next day the inquest met again. The coroner and jury, who seemed to have got thoroughly interested in the case now, kept their time to a minute. There was much stir in the neighbourhood, and the stre
et was full before the Angel Inn. As to Frog Lane, it was said the excitement there had never been equalled. The report that it was one of St. Peter’s boys who had done it, went echoing everywhere; no one thought of doubting it. I did not. Watching Harry Dance’s face when he had given his evidence, I felt sure that every word he said was true. Some one had flung King over: and that some one, there could be no question of it, was one of those common adversaries, the Frogs. If King must have gone to sleep that afternoon, better that Dan, as he had said, or one of the rest of us, had stayed by to protect him!

  Mark Ferrar had turned up. His brother found him at South Crabb. He came to the inquest in his best clothes, those he had worn at Malvern. I noticed then, but I had not remembered it, that he had a grass-green neckerchief on, tied with a large bow and ends. His good-natured, ugly, honest face was redder than ever as he stood to give his evidence. He did not show any of the stammering confusion that Dance had done, but spoke out with modest self-possession.

  His name was Mark Ferrar, aged nearly fourteen (and looking ever so much older), second son of Thomas Ferrar, china painter. He had seen the deceased boy, King Sanker, at Malvern on Tuesday. When he and some more of St. Peter’s boys were coming down the hill they had met King and his party. King spoke to him and told his father, Captain Sanker, that he was the Frog — the college boys called them Frogs — who had picked him up out of the fight on Saturday to save him from being crushed: and Captain Sanker thanked him and gave him half-a-crown to spend in Malvern cakes. Master Johnny Ludlow was with the Sankers, and saw and heard this. Did not buy the Malvern cakes: had meant to, and treat the rest of the boys; but dinner was ready near the foot of the hill when they got down, and forgot it afterwards. After dinner he and a lot more boys went up another of the beacons and down on the Herefordshire side. They got back about four o’clock, and had bread-and-butter and cider for tea. Then he and Harry Dance went up the hill again, taking two ways, to see which would be at St. Ann’s Well first. Couldn’t see Dance when he got up, thought he might be hiding, and went looking about for him. Went along a side-path leading off from St. Ann’s; ’twas sheltered, and thought Dance might be there. Suddenly heard himself called to: looked onwards, and saw the lame boy, King Sanker, there, and some chairs and glasses on a table. Went on, and King asked him to sit down, and began talking to him, saying he had had to say “Lord Bateman” before them all. He, Ferrar, did not know what “Lord Bateman” was, and King said he would say it to him. Began to say it; found it was poetry verses: King had said a good many when he broke off in the middle of one, and told him to go then, for they were coming. Did not know who “they” meant, did not see or hear anybody himself; but went away accordingly. Went looking all about for Dance again; found him by-and-by on a kind of plateau on the other side of St. Ann’s. They went up the hill together, and only got down again when it was time to start for Worcester. He did not go in the first van; there was no room; waited for the second. Saw the other party starting: heard that some one was missing: found it was King; offered to help to look for him. Was going up with the rest past the Unicorn, when some people met them, saying they’d heard groans. Ran on, and found it was King Sanker. He seemed to have fallen right down from the place where he had been sitting in the afternoon, and where he, Ferrar, had left him.

  Such in substance was the evidence he gave. Some of it I could corroborate, and did. I told of King’s asking that Ferrar might go up to him the next day, and of his promising him “Lord Bateman,” which he had got by him, written out.

  But Ferrar was not done with. Important questions had to be asked him yet. Sometimes it was the coroner who put them, sometimes one or other of the jury.

  “Did you see anything at all of the deceased after leaving him as you have described, Mark Ferrar?”

  “No, sir. I never saw him again till night, when we found him lying under a part of the hill.”

  “When you quitted him at his bidding, did you see any boys about, either college boys or St. Peter’s boys?”

  “No, sir, I did not see any; not one. The hills about there seemed as lonely as could be.”

  “Which way did you take when you left him?”

  “I ran straight past St. Ann’s, and got on to the part that divides the Worcestershire beacon from the next. Waiting for Dance, I sat down on the slope, and looked at Worcester for a bit, trying how much of the town I could make out, and how many of the churches, and that. As I was going back toward St. Ann’s I met Dance.”

  “What did Dance say to you?”

  “He said he had been hunting for me, and wanted to know where I had hid myself, and I said I had been hunting for him. We went on up the hill then and met some more of our boys; and we stayed all together till it was time to go down.”

  “Did Dance say that he had heard sounds of quarrelling?”

  “No, sir, never a word.”

  “What communication did Dance make to you on the subject the following morning?”

  “Nothing certain, sir. Dance went home in the first van, and he didn’t hear about King Sanker till the morning. I was saying then how we found him, and that he must have fell straight off from the place above. Dance stopped me, and said was it sure that he fell — was it sure he had not been pushed off? I asked why he said that, but he wouldn’t answer.”

  “Did he refuse to answer?”

  “I kept asking him to tell me, but he just said it was only a fancy that came to him. He had interrupted so eager like, that I thought he must have heard something. Later, I asked Master Johnny Ludlow whether the boy had been pushed off, but he said no. I couldn’t get it out of my head, however.”

  “What clothes did you wear, witness, that day at Malvern?”

  “These here that I’ve got on now, sir.”

  “Did you wear that same green neckerchief?”

  “Yes, sir. My sister Sally bought it new for me to go in.”

  “Did you take it off at Malvern?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No, sir. Some of them took their handkerchers off at dinner, because it was hot, but I didn’t.”

  “Why did you not?”

  For the first time Ferrar hesitated. His face turned scarlet.

  “Come, speak up. The truth, mind.”

  “Sally had told me not to mess my new silk handkercher, for I wasn’t likely to have another of one while; and I thought if I got untying and re-tying of it, I should mess it.” It seemed quite a task to Ferrar to confess this. He feared the boys would laugh at him. But I think no one doubted that it was the true reason.

  “You did not take it off while you were sitting with the deceased?”

  “No, sir. I never took it off all day.”

  “Take it off now.”

  Mark Ferrar looked too surprised to understand the order, and did nothing. The coroner repeated it.

  “Take off this here handkercher, sir? Now?”

  “Yes. The jury wish to see it open.”

  Mark untied the bow and pulled it off, his very freckles showing out red. It was a three-cornered silk neckerchief, as green as grass.

  “Was this like the kerchief you saw being swung about, Harry Dance?” asked the coroner, holding it up, and then letting it drop on the table.

  Harry Dance gazed at it as it lay, and shook his head. “I don’t think it were the one, sir,” he said.

  “Why don’t you think it?”

  “That there looks smaller and brighter, and t’other was bigger and darker. Leastways, I think it were.”

  “Was it more like this?” interrupted Dr. Teal, shaking out his handkerchief from his pocket.

  “I don’t know, sir. It seemed like a big handkerchief, and was about that there colour o’ your’n.”

  Some inquiry was made at this point as to the neckerchiefs worn by the other boys. It turned out that two or three had worn very large ones, something the colour of Dr. Teal’s. So that passed.

  “One word, Harry Dance. Did
you see Ferrar with his handkerchief off that day?”

  “I didn’t notice, sir: I don’t remember. Some of us took ’em off on the hills— ’twas very hot — and never put ’em on again all day.”

  The coroner and jury talked together, and then Harry Dance was told to repeat the evidence he had given the day before. He went over it again: the sounds of quarrelling, and the words in the voice he had supposed to be King’s: “Oh, don’t — don’t! you’ll throw me over.”

  “Had Ferrar his neckerchief on when you met him soon after this?” questioned Captain Chamberlain.

  “I think he had, sir. I think if he had not I should ha’ noticed it. I’m nearly as sure as I can be that it wasn’t off.”

  When Dance was done with, Mark Ferrar was begun upon again.

  “What induced you to go off from your home on Wednesday evening without notice?” asked the coroner.

  “I went to South Crabb, sir.”

  “I don’t ask you where you went, I ask why you went?”

  “I go over there sometimes, sir. I told Sally I was going.”

  “Can’t you understand my question? Why did you go?”

  “Nothing particular made me go, sir. Only that I had got some money; and I was feeling so sorry that the little lame boy was dead, I couldn’t bear to be still.”

  “You have been punished often, Mark Ferrar, for going off on these expeditions?” cried one of the jury.

  “I used to be, sir. Father has leathered me for it at home, and Clerk Jones at school. I can’t do without going out a bit. I wish I was a sailor.”

  “Oh, indeed! Well — is there one of your companions that you can suspect of having harmed this poor little boy — accidentally or otherwise?”

  “No, sir. It is being said that he was pushed over in ill-feeling, or else by accident; but it don’t seem likely.”

  “Did you push him over yourself?”