by Ashby, R. C.
“Why, you went to school down in the village!” he said. “I know you quite well. Aren’t you a Redburn?”
“No,” I muttered, slinking away. He looked after me, puzzled.
“I’m certain I know that young fellow,” I heard him say, “but I haven’t seen him for years. Now what is his name?”
“His name’s Ham,” said Mr. Ahrman.
“No, no,” said the mad doctor; “that’s not it . . .”
“If we go a bit higher,” I said, “there’s a Lover’s Leap. Some of the visitors fancy themselves at jumping across it.”
They all decided they wanted to go, and it took their attention off me, for which I was very thankful; not that I minded, but I was the one that had to face Winifred.
So we went up to Lover’s Leap, and Mr. Ahrman and the mad doctor sat down to talk, and Mr. Mertoun and the young lady wandered away by themselves.
Now when I was a boy we used to go up there and play truant from church on a summer Sunday afternoon; and I remembered a little ghyll where we used to hide, a secret sort of place that nobody could find unless they knew it. So I thought now I’d like to have another look at that place, and sure enough there it was, just as we boys had left it, and hidden there I found a wooden ball and some bits of coloured glass and a broken whip. I sat down very snug, and pulled the thick, dead bracken across to hide me, and I was nearly asleep when I heard voices and Mr. Mertoun and the young lady came and sat down on two boulders just at the opening of the ghyll.
“I’m glad now that I didn’t go back to London,” she was saying. “I’m enjoying myself so much, Billy. I’d like to stay here for ever.”
“All the same, Joan,” he said, “it’ll be better fun for us all when we do get back to town, and I’m thinking particularly of Ingram. This place is doing him no good.”
“It’s this ghost business,” she said, and her voice sounded very worried. “I don’t understand it in the least, but he keeps on saying that he won’t go away until the ghost is laid, or discovered, or whatever it is you do to ghosts. That doesn’t look to me a very hopeful outlook! How long are you staying, Billy?”
“I don’t know; it depends on Ahrman. It’s his holiday.”
“Oh, he’s on holiday, is he? Then I don’t suppose you’ll be here for long. Oh, Billy, I don’t think I shall want to stop when you’re gone. I say, couldn’t you do something . . . a stunt . . .”
“What sort of a stunt?”
“Well, I mean, act up some sort of a shemozzle to make Uncle Peter think that this ghost is finished—exploded—what’s the word? Oh, laid. Lay it, Billy, there’s an angel.”
Mr. Mertoun laughed and began to light a pipe, and I sat back and enjoyed myself, because I always like to hear conversations, and I don’t tell all I hear either.
Presently she gave a little laugh, all about nothing so you’d think.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“Oh,” she said, “I was just thinking what a pity it was to disappoint Mr.—Mr. Ham.”
“Mr.—who?” he said.
“The nice guide,” she said, “with the blue eyes. The one that thought you were my sweetheart, Billy.” Her voice went very soft and alluring. I could guess the way she was looking at him.
“Now look here, Joan!” he said, horribly stern. “We had this over last night and I haven’t altered one bit since then. I never meant you to know that I loved you. You wouldn’t have known, but for . . .”
“Yes,” she said, very breathless. “It was my fault. I simply dragged it out of you . . .”
“Well then, my dear, we’re where we were before. You must forget it. In two or three years time you’ll thank me——”
“Why shall I thank you?”
“When you meet—well, somebody else.”
“I don’t want to meet somebody else!”
“Now, Joan! We’ve been over all that.”
She said suddenly, angry and yet hurt: “This is the first time in my life that I’ve been in love, and I think it’s perfectly beastly. I told you I loved you! I do love you. And you won’t believe me. I hate you, Billy, yes I do—no I don’t—yes I do, I do!”
He said: “I know you love me, and I think it’s perfectly adorable of you. You’re the most wonderful girl that ever lived, and I shall say it to the end of my days. But I’ll say again that you’re not for me. I’m playing this hand straight, for your sake, Joan. I’m just twice your age. You don’t understand what that means.”
“I suppose it means that you’ve had heaps of girls before. Well, I don’t mind.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said, “but yes—it’s true. I’m your first, Infant; you’re my twentieth. But none of the others count now. When you’re older you’ll understand.”
“And I suppose you think that I’ve got nineteen more to come before I make my mind up!” she said.
He gave a queer laugh. “Perhaps as many as nineteen; but keep them a little nearer to your own generation.”
There was dead silence for a few minutes, and then she said slowly: “So you won’t marry me, Billy. All right. I shan’t ask you again . . . But I’ll see that some day you ask me, even if I have to wait ten, twenty, thirty years. Because I shan’t change, and I don’t think you will either. And I shan’t give you the chance to forget me; I shall always be hanging around as they say in ‘Bawston.’ I mean it. I’m one of the new-Georgians, and we know what we want and we go right to it. I’ve met a lot of young men in the time I’ve been let loose. I didn’t love any of them, but I love you and you make the rest look like ten cents.”
“Go on,” he said grimly. “This is jolly for me.”
She flamed up. “You’re afraid of me!” she flung at him. “Afraid to pick me up and carry me off. Oh, if you knew how women hated self-sacrificing men! And isn’t it queer how men love to sacrifice themselves when it’s someone else who has to suffer?”
“Shut up, Joan!” he said fiercely.
“I shan’t shut up. I shall never shut up. You’re a selfish beast. I wish I hadn’t got my father’s consent to marry you.”
“Joan! What on earth are you talking about?”
She kept him waiting for a minute, and then she said: “Listen. I fell in love with you weeks and weeks ago, when you were staying at The Broch. That was when you fell in love with me, wasn’t it? And you’ve been writing to me ever since. I waited until I knew that you did love me, and then I wrote to Poppa at ‘Bawston.’ I told him all about you, your war record, everything I could find out about you from people who knew you in London; and then I said to Poppa, ‘I’m in love with this man. Can I marry him if he asks me?’ And I got his answer yesterday morning. I’ll tell you what he said. ‘Dear Joan, thank heaven you’ve chosen a real man and not one of those young asses you used to play about with. Say yes when he asks you. He’s lucky. So are you.’ And on top of that you’ve let me down, Billy.”
There was a long, long silence then; so long that I wondered what had happened, and whether I’d fallen asleep and the pair of them had gone away, so I pushed aside a bit of the bracken and peeped out. They were there. She had her face hidden in her hands and her shoulders were shaking. I thought at first she was laughing, being such a mischief, but in a minute I saw she was crying. And I didn’t know what she had to cry over either—women are queer!—for she’d wanted him all along, and now she’d got him, or as near as doesn’t matter. He had both his arms round her and his face down on her golden hair. Soon she got up, tossed back her hair, and pushed him away.
“I’ll never forgive you, Billy,” she said in a choked kind of voice.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
“No,” she said. “I wanted to ten minutes ago; I don’t want t
o now.”
He jumped up and caught hold of her, hard, by the shoulders.
“We’ll end this here and now,” he said. “You’ll marry me—by heaven you will, whether you want to or not! Turn round, and hold your head up. There’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“Frightened!” she said. “Billy—you beast!”
“You—what?” he said, horribly savage.
“You—darling! You darling!” she cried, and tipped herself right over backwards into his arms.
“Then you will?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” she said, and kissed her hand to him for every yes; and then just when he was beginning to realize it, she broke away and began running down the hill.
“Come on!” she called back. “It’s past two o’clock. They’ll think we’re lost. Come on, Billy!”
He ran after her, and as soon as they were gone I crept out too and went down a quicker way and got back first. It had all been very interesting, and it was one of the things I wasn’t going to tell Winifred.
When we got back in the evening to Palmer’s place a little thing happened that I suppose I might have expected. It was just bad luck. Mr. Ahrman was paying me five shillings, which he did each day I went out with him, when the mad doctor suddenly stared at me and said: “I’ve got you now! Of course, you’re one of the Goff boys that went away to Thorlwick.”
I took no notice, but I felt my face go hot. Mr. Ahrman didn’t seem to have noticed anything; he was turning over his change, looking for another shilling.
When I got back to the farm I realized that though I’d had a very interesting day I hadn’t much to tell Winifred, but as it turned out all she wanted to know about was her letter; had Mr. Mertoun got it?
“Yes,” I said, “he’s got it, and he doesn’t know who sent it. I heard him tell Mr. Ahrman so.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Have they asked you to go out with them again?
“No,” I said.
She frowned. She was disappointed, and so was I.
April 26.
This morning early I went down our fields with a spade to bank up the potatoes and I saw a man sitting under a wall in the sun, smoking his pipe. When I got a bit closer I saw it was Mr. Ahrman.
“Hullo!” he said. “So this is where you live?”
“It’s my uncle’s farm,” I said. “I’m only stopping here to give a hand. You’ve had a long walk over.”
“That was nothing,” he said. “I wanted to have a chat.”
At that I went cold and then hot, wondering if I’d done anything, or rather if he’d found anything out. But I didn’t see how he could have done.
“It’s a fine morning for once,” I said. “The weather here’s very treacherous.”
He looked, the same as I was looking, over the fields and the valley to the hills on the other side. Being country-bred I could see a faint green haze over everything which meant that already the sun was kissing the sods to life, and though the air was too sharp for growing weather it was sweet and strong and made you want to leap stone walls and whistle loud. The river was like a green ribbon coming out of the dead brown fells, and twisting, blowing, and winding its way to the green and purple sea. I knew just how the sea would look on a morning like this, and I could almost feel a boat pulling under me and dancing on the silver-tipped waves.
I stood gazing, lost in a dream, with my elbows propped on the spade; but Mr. Ahrman said: “I want you to help me, Hamleth; I want you to do something for me.” So he’d got hold of my name. I wondered who he’d been talking to.
“I might,” I said.
What he said was, “I want to see a ghost.” I’d been expecting something of the kind.
I looked at him. “There’s plenty hereabouts,” I said. “Ghosts of lords and ladies and soldiers and monks, you can have your pick. But common people like me don’t walk when they’re dead.”
He held out his tobacco pouch. “Fill up,” he said. “You’re a clever young man. I like you.”
“Is that it?” I said.
“Yes, Hamleth. But you weren’t quite clever enough. If you’d been a bit more clever you’d have known how to be a bit more stupid. . . . And now about this ghost.”
“What ghost?” I said with a sort of faraway look.
“I mean the Roman soldier that walks at night and kills Barrs . . . and others. I want to see him. I shan’t be satisfied until I see him. Can you help me, Hamleth?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I haven’t seen him myself.”
“But other people have?”
“Mr. Mertoun saw him,” I said; “and my sister Wi— and some people say that no one sees the Roman soldier and lives, so Mr. Mertoun had better watch out.”
“Did you put the note in his basket?”
“Yes,” I said, “but it was given me.”
“How long have people here been afraid of the Roman?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but when I was a little lad my grandfather told us that when he was a little lad his grandfather used to warn him that if he didn’t behave in church he’d be given to the Roman soldier. That’s a long while ago, a hundred years maybe, and they frighten naughty children with the same tale to-day.”
“I want to see him,” he said eagerly, “armour and all. Supposing I go out on the moor tonight, up by the cliffs—I know his haunts—what are my chances of a view? I’ll take the risk.”
“You won’t see him,” I said.
“What makes you say that?”
“You won’t see him,” I said.
“Now, Hamleth, you’ve got a reason for saying that. You know the ghostly habits!”
“I don’t know about habits,” I said, “but I know you won’t see the Roman, not if you wait until the moon turns blue, and that’s all I’ll say.”
“Hamleth,” he said, suddenly wheedling, “why did you pretend not to recognize the Strickan when I asked you about it?”
“Because I thought it wasn’t any of your business,” I said.
He laughed. “Now whisper the answer softly . . . weren’t you lucky to get Colonel Barr on and off the lighthouse without being caught? And how long are you going to keep him at Thorlwick?”
I thought I should have dropped. My knees went weak, and the sun went spinning all round the sky and everything seemed to turn upside down. I thought, “It’ll be prison; as sure as fate I’m ruined and doomed.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Colonel Barr, he disappeared. The Roman soldier took him out of his bed.”
“That’s one of the things he didn’t do,” said Mr. Ahrman calmly. “Winifred Goff took him out of his bed, helped by her brother Hamleth Goff and her father Ewan Goff, in the dead of the night, and hid him in the lighthouse and afterwards in a cottage at Thorlwick, and a very clever trick too. You’ve got brains, you Goffs.”
“How did you find out?” I muttered, praying that it wasn’t through me.
“Through an alliance,” he said, “of common sense and imagination which is a most valuable part of my mental equipment.”
“We’re ruined,” I groaned.
“Oh no!” he said coolly. “I congratulate you. No one knows but myself, and I shan’t tell. The future disposal of the Colonel will be your funeral, or rather your sister’s, because I imagine she’s the controlling force. I suppose you did it because you were afraid for him?”
I nodded. “Winifred was,” I said. “She thinks a powerful lot of the Colonel. She said if he was left at the house the Roman would surely get him.”
“How long does she intend to keep him at Thorlwick?”
“She says, until the Roman soldier’s quiet in his grave.”
“Oh! Then she believes he can be laid?”
“She believes,” I said, “that he can be bound hand and foot, but it’ll have to be a man the like of which she’s never seen who does it. She had hopes of . . . somebody, once, but he failed her.” I’d nearly mentioned Mr. Mertoun’s name, but I thought better not.
He looked at me then for quite a long time, and he looked down at the earth and then across to the river and the fells. Once he opened his mouth as though he were going to speak, but he caught my eye and looked away again, thinking better of it. Presently he got up, swung his stick, and prepared to go.
“Get on with your spuds,” he said. “A healthy life. And thanks for an illuminating conversation.”
I felt like a gull that’s been driven right up against the glare of the Strickan Light. “That man,” I said to myself, “has read every thought I ever kept hidden in me.” And when I thought of what he might have read, I went so hot that I couldn’t keep my foot on the spade.
After that the thought of Mr. Ahrman had a fascination for me. I couldn’t keep my mind away from him while I was working. I made up my mind not to say a word to Winifred, because after all our secret was safe and she’d only have worried herself and tormented me.
April 28.
After that I couldn’t rest until I’d seen him again. I wanted to know what he was doing with his time. The next morning after I’d met him in the field I got up early and made some excuse to be away all day. Then I walked the eight miles to Palmer’s farm, climbed a wall, and sat down where I could keep my eye on the house and see who came and went. The morning crept by, but I didn’t see Mr. Ahrman or Mr. Mertoun. I was afraid all the time that someone would come along and notice me, so soon after midday I got up and walked over to the village. There it was easy to loiter and while away the time without anyone wondering why you should be doing it. Lily came out to me and asked me a lot of questions, but somehow I wasn’t near so interested in her as I was in waiting for Mr. Ahrman. Women seem to think you ought to be in love with them all the time, instead of on proper occasions when you haven’t anything else on your mind. Somehow a man can’t think of two things at once.