"Original Sketches for the Season" (continued 4)

“Here, draw round close,” cried my father; “throw on another log or two, and Uncle Joe will spin you a yarn.”

The fire was replenished, and as the many-hued flames leaped and danced, and the sparks flew up the chimney, every face was lit up with the golden glow. The wind roared round the house, and sung in the chimney, but the red curtains were closely-drawn, the table was well spread with those creature comforts so oft seen at the genial season, and closing tightly in—chair against chair—we all watched for the next opening of Uncle Joe’s oracular lips. And we had not long to wait; for, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he began to point with the stem, describe circles, and flourish it oratorically, as he once more exclaimed—

“’Taint cold; not a bit! How should you like to spend Christmas up close aside the North Pole?”

No one answering with anything further than a shiver, the old tar went on:—

“I can’t spin yarns, I can’t, for I allus gets things in a tangle and can’t find the ends again, but I’ll tell you about going up after Sir John Franklin.”

“Hear, hear!” said my father, and Uncle Joe tasted his grog, and then winked very solemnly at my father, as much as to say “That’s it exact.”

“Little more rum?” hinted my father. Uncle Joe winked with his other eye and shook his head and went on:—

“You see, ours was a strong-built ship, fitted out on purpose for the North seas, and what we had to do was to go right up as far nor’ard as we could get, and leave depots of preserved meats, and spirits, and blankets, and pemmican, and all sorts of necessaries, at different places where it was likely that the party might reach; and to mark these spots we had to build up cairns of stones, so that they might be seen. Well, we’d got as far as our captain thought it prudent to go, for we were back’ard in the year, in consequence of the ice having been very late before it broke up that year, and hindering us a good deal; and now that we had landed all as was necessary, and built up the last cairn, the captain says to the officers, he says, ‘We’ll go back now, or we shall be shut in for the winter.’

“’Twasn’t so late in the autumn, and no doubt you were having nice warm weather, but things began looking precious winterly round about us. Great icebergs were floating about, and fogs would hang round them. Snowstorms would come on, with snow with such sharp edges that it would seem a’most to cut your ears off. The shrouds and clews and sheets would be all stiff and covered with ice, while, as to the sails, they were like so much board, and it got to be tough work up aloft.

“‘Cold this here,’ I says to a shipmet. ‘Pooh,’ he says, ‘this ain’t nothing yet.’ Nor more it warn’t nothing at all; and there we were going along as well as we could, with double lookouts, and plenty of need for them to use their eyes, for we might have been crash on to an iceberg ten times over. Captain used to shake his head and look serious, and enough to make him, with all his responsibility, and all of us looking up to him to take care of us; and last of all we seemed to be right in the thick of it, with the ice-pack all around, and ice and snow, ice and snow everywhere, and us just gently sailing along a narrow open channel of blue water, sometimes going east, sometimes west, just as it happened. Sometimes a little more wind would spring up, and the pack opened a bit, and made fresh channels, so that we got on; then the wind would drop, and the loose ice close round us, so that we hardly moved, and at last one morning when I turns out, we were froze in.

“But not hard stuck, you know; for we soon had that ice broken, and got hauling along by fixing ice-anchors, and then pulling at the cable; but our captain only did it by way of duty, and trying to the very last to get free; for his orders were not to winter up there if he could help it. But there we were next morning tighter in than ever, with the ship creaking and groaning at the pressure upon her ribs, and the ice tightening her up more and more, till at last if she weren’t lifted right up ever so many foot, and hung over all on one side, so as we had cables and anchors out into the ice to make sure as she didn’t capsize. But there was no capsize in her; and there she sat, all on the careen, just as if she was mounting a big wave; and so she was, only it was solid.

“Days went by, and the sun got lower and lower, and the weather colder and colder. Sometimes we’d see flocks of birds going south, then a herd or two of deer, and once or twice we saw a bear, but they fought very shy of us; and, last of all, the captain seeing that we must make the best of our winter quarters, set us to work unbending sails, striking masts, and lowering spars on deck, and then the stuff was had up, and the deck regularly roofed in, so as to make a snug house of the ship. Stoves were rigged, snow hauled up round the hull, steps made up to the side, and one way or another all looked so jolly, that I began to reckon on spending my Christmas out in the polar regions. Then, too, extra clothes were sarved out, and gloves, and masks, and fur caps; and one way and another we got to make such stuffed mummies of ourselves, that a rare lot of joking went on.

“‘Wait a bit,’ says my mate, ‘it’ll be colder yet;’ and so it was, colder and colder, till I couldn’t have believed it possible that it could be a bit worse. But it could, though; for, before the winter was over, there’s been times when if a man went outside the vessel the cold would have cut him down dead almost in a moment, and he not able to help himself. Why, as I told you, down on the main-deck, the breath used to turn into a reg’lar fall of snow, and everything would freeze hard in spite of the roaring fires we kept up; and only think of it, just at this time it was always dark, for the sun had gone lower and lower, till at last he had not risen at all, and it was one long, dreary night, with every star seeming to shoot bright icy arrows at you to cut you down.

“The captain used to do all he could to cheer us up, and keep the horrors off; for you know they will come out there when you’re all in the dark and half froze, and wondering whether you’ll see home any more. Sometimes it would be exercise, sometimes a bit of a play, or skylarking. Then one officer or another would read, and we’d have have some music or yarn-spinning, and altogether we were very sociable; and so matters went on till it got to be Christmas-day.”

In whose honour Uncle Joe treated himself to a hearty libation from his steaming tumbler.

”—Christmas-day,” said my uncle, “and proceedings were made for a grand spread, in honour of the old day and them as we’d left behind us.

“Well, the officers made themselves very sociable, and the grog went round. Some chaps danced, others smoked, and one way and another things went on jolly; but though the little stoves roared till they got red-hot, yet there was a regular fog down between decks, while the captain said that it was about the coldest day we had had yet.

“Towards night it seemed to come on awful all at once, and first one and then another chap began shivering and twisting up his shoulders, and then I saw the captain, who was down, give a sharp look round, and then slip up on deck, where I heard him shout out.

“A dozen of us scrambled up on the covered-in deck, feeling cut in two with the icy wind that came down, and then we found as the door out of the bulwarks, and fitted in at the side, had been left open by some one—a door you know that just about this time used to mostly have a man aside it, and when our chaps went to the little ice-observatory it used to be banged to after ’em directly; while if it had been left open but one night, I daresay some on us wouldn’t have woke up any more.

“‘Who’s gone out?’ cries the captain, and then the men begins looking from one to the other, but no one answered.

“‘Where’s Joe Perry,’ shouts out some one in front of me. ‘It’s Joe Perry as is gone.’

“‘You’re a—something,’ I was going to say, but I was that vexed I didn’t say it; but, forgetting all about the officers, I gives my gentleman such a cuff on the ear, as sent him staggering; when instead of being angry, I saw the Cap bite his lip, and no end of chaps began sniggering.

“‘But where’s Bill Barker,’ I says, looking round, for I remembered seeing Bill go up the companion ladder about ten minutes before.

“‘Pass the word for William Barker,’ says the captain, and they passed it, but there was no answer, and then we knew that Bill must have slipped out against orders, thinking he wouldn’t be missed, while the chaps were keeping up Christmas, and forgetting that we should feel the cold from the door he was obliged to leave open, so as to get in again.

“‘Foolish fellow,’ cried the captain, stamping about the deck. ‘Volunteers there, who’ll fetch him in? These five will do,’ he says, and in a few minutes the first luff with five men, were all ready in their fur coats and boots, and masks over their faces, or I oughter say, our faces, for I was one of ’em. And yet you say it’s cold here now. Pooh! Why, we were no sooner outside in that bright starlight, with the northern lights hanging ahead of us, much like a rainbow, than it was as if your breath was taken away, and the wind cutting right through and through you, stiffening your joints, tingling powerfully in your nose, and seeming to make you numbed and stupid.

“‘Double,’ shouts the luff, and keeping our eyes about us, we began to trot along the snowy path towards the little observatory. But he wasn’t there. Then we ran a little one way, then another, and all keeping together as well as we could for the rough ice we were going over. But there was nothing to be seen anywhere on that side of the ship, so we trotted round to the other side, always keeping a sharp look out for our poor mate, and hoping after all that he would be all right; but going by my own feelings, I could not help feeling sure that if he had come out without the same things on as we had, it would go hard with him.

“‘Here look!’ some one shouted in a thick muffly voice, but we were all looking now towards where a couple of bears were coming slowly towards us, while quite plain between us lay on the white snow, the body of poor Bill Barker.

“‘Back to the ship,’ shouted the first luff, and we were soon once more a-top of the steps and inside, but you needn’t think we were going to leave our shipmet in that way, for the next minute saw us going back at the double, but this time well armed.

“As soon as we were within shot, the first luff kneels down, and taking aim, fired his double rifle right and left at the two great brutes that stood growling over poor Bill Barker.

“‘Stand firm, men,’ he says, then ‘prepare to charge.’ And then we five stood with our guns and bayonets ready for the brutes as began to come down upon us, while the luff got behind us, and began to load. You see he wouldn’t let us fire on account of poor Bill, and I s’pose he had more trust in his own gun than in ours, for he kept on fumbling away in the cold till he was loaded, which was when the brutes were only about a dozen yards off, when he drops on one knee aside me, and taking a good long aim fired when one brute was only five or six yards off—both barrels right into him, and rolled him over and over, just as he would have done a rabbit. But the next moment it was helter-skelter, and hooraying, for t’other bear was down on us with a rush, taking no more notice of our bayonets than if they had been so many toothpicks, and downing two of our chaps like nine-pins.

“‘Be firm, men,’ shouts the luff, and we three ran at the great brute that stood growling over our two mates, and I don’t know about what t’others did, but at one and the same moment, I drove the bayonet up to the gun muzzle right in the bear’s flank, and fired as well. Then it seemed that the gun was wrenched out of my hand, and I saw the great brute rear up above me, fetch me a pat with one of its paws, when I caught a glimpse of the luff and heard the sharp ring of his rifle again, and then I seemed to be smothered, for the great beast fell right upon me.

“I don’t know how long it was before they got help from the ship, and the great brute dragged off me; but I know that the next thing I remember is being carried into the ship through the doorway, and hearing some one say, that Bill Barker was frozen stiff and cold. But I soon came to, and excepting the bruises, there was nothing worse the matter than a broken rib, which I soon got the better of. But poor Bill was dead and frozen hard when they got him aboard, with his gun tight fixed in his hand, so that they could not get it away for some time; for though the poor chap knew all the orders well enough about going out without proper preparations, like many more of us, he couldn’t believe as the frost would have such power—power enough to cut him down before he’d walked a couple hundred yards, for it was something awful that night, though the little brawny chaps that live in those parts, seem to bear it very well.

“Freeze! why this is nothing: them two bears were masses of ice next morning when they hauled ’em on board, while everything we cut, had to be thawed first before the stove-fires. But then we had plenty of provisions, and I don’t think I once saw the grog get down so low, as in this here glass of mine—here present.”

My father took the hint, and replenished the old sailor’s glass.

Chapter Seventeen.

Asher’s Last Hour.

“Now, once for all,” said Asher Skurge, “if I don’t get my bit o’ rent by to-morrow at four o’clock, out you goes, bag and baggage, Christmas-eve or no Christmas-eve. If you can’t afford to pay rent, you’d best go in the house, and let them pay as will.” And Asher girded up his loins, and left Widow Bond and her children in their bare cottage, to moan over their bitter fate.

And then came Christmas-eve and four o’clock, and no money; and, what was better, no Asher Skurge to turn out Widow Bond, “bag and baggage,” not a very difficult task, for there was not much of it. The cottage was well-furnished before Frank Bond’s ship was lost at sea, and the widow had to live by needlework, which, in her case, meant starving, although she found two or three friends in the village who were very sorry for her, or at all events said they were, which answered the same purpose.

However, four o’clock grew near—came—passed—and no Asher. It was not very dark, for there was snow—bright, glittering snow upon the ground; but it gradually grew darker and darker, and with the deepening gloom. Mrs Bond’s spirits rose, for she felt that, leaving heart out of the question, old Skurge, the parish clerk, dare not turn her out that night on account of his own character. Five o’clock came, and then six, and still no Asher; and Widow Bond reasonably thought that something must be keeping him.

Mrs Bond was right—something was keeping the clerk, and that something was the prettiest, yellow-haired, violet-eyed maiden that ever turned out not to be a dreadful heroine given to breaking up, and then pounding, the whole of the ten commandments in a way that would have staggered Moses himself. No; Amy Frith, the rector’s daughter, was not a wicked heroine, and now that she was busy giving the finishing touches to the altar-screen, and pricking her little fingers with holly till they bled, she would not let the old man go because young Harry Thornton, her father’s pupil, was there. And Amy knew that so sure as old Skurge took himself off, the young man would begin making love, which, though it may be crowned in a church, ought not to be made in the same place.

The young man fumed and fretted; and the old man coughed and groaned and told of his rheumatics; but it was of no use; the maiden pitied them both, and would have set them at liberty on her own terms, but remained inexorable in other respects till the clock chimed half-past six, when the candles were extinguished, the dim old church left to its repose, and the late occupants took their departure to the rectory, and the long low cottage fifty yards from the church gates.

“No; it couldn’t be done at any price—turn the woman out on such a night; the whole place would be up in arms; but he would go and see if there was any money for him;” and so Asher Skurge partook of his frugal tea by his very frugal fire, a fire which seemed to make him colder, for it was so small that the wintry winds, which came pelting in at keyhole and cranny, all hooted, and teased, and laughed at it, and rushed, and danced, and flitted round, so that they made a terrible commotion all about Asher’s chair, and gave him far more cause to complain of rheumatics than he had before.

So Asher buttoned himself up, body and soul too; he buttoned his soul up so tight that there was not space for the smallest, tiniest shade of a glance or a ray of good feeling to peep out; and then he sallied forth out into the night-wind, with his nose as sharp and blue as if it had been made of steel; and, as he hurried along, it split the frosty wind right up, like the prow of a boat does water, and the sharp wind was thus split into two sharper winds, which went screeching behind him, to cut up the last remains of anything left growing.

He was a keen man was Asher; as keen a man as ever said “Amen” after a prayer and didn’t mean it. Ill-natured folks said he only seemed in his element on Commination-day, when, after all the Curseds, he rolled out the Amens with the greatest of gusto, and as if he really did mean it, while the rector would quite shiver—but then the wind generally is easterly at commination time, in the cold spring. He used to boast that he had neither chick nor child, did Asher; and here again people would say it was a blessing, for one Skurge was enough in a village; and that it was a further blessing that his was a slow race. He was a cold-blooded old rascal; but for all that he was warm, inasmuch as he had well feathered his nest, and might by this time have been churchwarden; but he preferred being clerk, to the very great disgust of Parson Frith, who would gladly have been rid of him long enough before.

It did seem too bad to go worrying a poor widow for rent on a Christmas-eve; but nothing was too bad for Asher, who soon made the poor woman’s heart leap, and then sink with despair.

Old Skurge was soon back in his own room, and the wind at last blew so very cold that he indulged in the extravagance of an extra shovel of coals, and a small chump of wood, and then he drew his pipe from the corner and began to smoke, filling the bowl out of a small white gallipot containing a mixture, half tobacco, half herbs, which he found most economical; for it did not merely spin out the tobacco, but no dropper-in ever cared about having a pipe of “Skurge’s particular,” as it was named in the village.

Then, after smoking a bit, Asher seemed moved to proceed to further extravagance, in consequence of its being Christmas-eve; so he laid down his pipe, rubbed his ear, and then plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a small key. The small key opened a small cupboard, wherein hung upon nails some half-dozen larger keys, one of which was taken down and used to open a larger cupboard, from which Asher Skurge brought forth a well-corked and tied-down bottle.

A cunning, inhospitable old rascal, bringing out his hidden treasures to bib on a winter’s night alone. What was it in the old black bottle? Curaçoa, maraschino, cherry brandy, genuine hollands, potent rum, cognac? Hush! was it smuggled-up remains, or an odd bottle of sacramental wine? No, it was none of these; but it poured forth clear, bright, and amber-hued, with a creaming foam on the top; and—“blob;” what was that? a swollen raisin, and the grains that slipped to the bottom were rice.

Then what could the liquid be? The old man sipped it and tried to look gratified, and sipped again, and took a long breath, and said “ha!” as he set down the glass, and proceeded to fish out the raisin and bits of rice, which he threw on the fire, and disgusted it to that extent that it spat and sputtered; after which he let the glass stand again for a long time before he attempted another taste, for the liquid was very small, very sour beer, six months in bottle. Another year, perhaps, might have improved its quality; but one thing was certain, and that was, that it could be no worse.

But Asher Skurge was not going to show that he did not appreciate the sour beverage, for he considered himself quite bacchanalian; and, after one loud gust of wind, he poked his fire so recklessly that the poor thing turned faint, and nearly became extinct, but was at length tickled and coaxed into burning.

“Nine of ’em,” said Asher, as the old Dutch clock in the corner gave warning of its intention to strike shortly; a chirping, jarring sound, as much as to say “stand clear or you’ll be hit;” and just then the clerk stopped short, put down his pipe again, and rubbed the side of his nose uneasily; got up and looked closer at the clock; went to the window and moved the blind to get a peep out, and then came back to the fire and sat rubbing his hands.

“Never knew such a thing before in my life,” said Asher. “Never once forgot it before. And just at a time, too, when I’m comfortable. All that confounded woman’s fault for not paying her rent. Running after her when I’d my own business to attend to.” In fact, the old clerk had been so put out of his regular course that night, what with church decorations and hunting up Widow Bond, that he had quite forgotten to wind up the clock, the old church time-keeper that he had never let run down once for twenty years.

It was a rough job though upon such a night, just as he was so comfortable, and enjoying his beer and tobacco in so jovial a manner. He looked in his almanac to make sure this was the right evening, and that he had not worked his ideas into a knot; but, no; his ideas were all straight and in good order, and this was the night for winding up.

Couldn’t he leave it till the morning?

Couldn’t he forget all about it?

Couldn’t he wait half an hour?

Couldn’t he—couldn’t he?—No; he couldn’t; for habits that have been grown into, can’t be cast off in a moment. They may be shabby, and they may be bad habits; they may hang in rags about the wearer, but for all that it takes some time to get rid of them; and if Asher Skurge had not wound up the clock upon this particular night, he would have been unable to sleep in his bed, he would have had the weights upon his chest, the lines hanging round his neck, and the pendulum vibrating within an inch of his nose, while the hands pointed at him, and called attention to his neglect.

No; once a week had Asher Skurge wound up that clock; and, “will he, nill he,” it seemed he must go this night and perform his old duty. But he did wait more than half an hour, and then how he did snap, and snarl, and worry the air—the cold air of the room. He might have been taken for a wiry terrier showing his teeth with impotent rage while worried by the attacks of a flea legion; but there was nothing for it, and he got up and tied his comforter three times round his neck; brought the horn lanthorn out of the cupboard, and then tried to illumine the scrap of candle at the bottom. But there was no illumination in that candle. To begin with, it was only a fag-end—one where the cotton did not reach the end of the grease, and to make matters worse, it had been extinguished in that popular manner—snuffing out with wet fingers. Consequently the candle end spit, spat, and sputtered; sent off little fatty scintillations, and then went out. Lit again, it went through the same process, and upon repeating this twice, Asher grew wroth, seized the offending morsel, and dashed it into the fire, where it flared up and seemed to rejoice in the warmth, whilst its indignant owner wiped his fingers in his scant hair, and then lit a fresh piece, closed the lanthorn, and opened the door for a start.

Talk about Will-o’-the-Wisps and hobgoblins, why Asher looked quite the equal of any ugly monstrosity of the imagination, as he went crunching and grumbling along the snowy path on his way to the belfry-door. The wind was colder than ever, while in spite of the howling din, it was bright and clear overhead, and the stars seemed not merely to twinkle, but quiver and dance.

Asher’s journey was but a short one, and mostly along the narrow side path which led amongst the tombstones and wooden tablets; but he cared no more for tombstones, and night walks in churchyards, than he did for walks in the meadows; so on he went, “crunch, crunch,” on the frozen snow, never pausing to admire the beautiful old church in its Christmas mantle, but growling and grumbling, and if it had been any other man we might have said swearing, till he reached the door in the tower and fumbled in the big key.

“Scraun-n-n-n-tch” went the old wards as the rusty key turned in the rusty lock; and “Crea-ee-ee-ak” went the great door upon its old hinges; and then setting down his lanthorn, Asher tried to shut the door again to keep out the bitter wind. But the door would not shut, but seemed as if something was pushing it back against him; and it was not until after two or three vigorous thrusts, that the old man stopped to scratch his head, and took up his lanthorn and examined the hinges; when, sure enough, there was something which prevented the door closing, for there was a great bone stuck in the crack, and it was so squeezed and jammed in that it took a great deal of getting out. But when it was got out, Asher threw it savagely away, for he minded not a bone or two when there was quite a heap in the corner behind him; so he threw it savagely away, and gave the door a bang which made the old tower jar, and the light in his lanthorn quiver, while just then there was a rattling noise, and something round came rolling up to him and stopped up against his feet so that the old man gave quite a start.

“Bah!” exclaimed Asher directly after, for he made no more account of a skull than the grave-digger in Hamlet. “Bah?” he exclaimed; and he gave the skull a fierce kick to send it back to the heap from whence it had rolled. But just then Asher gave a leap—a most nimble one, too, for so old a man; for the skull seemed to have seized him by the foot, and stuck tightly to his heavy boot, which he had driven through the thin bone, and half buried in the internal cavity.

“Why, what the—?” What Asher would have said remains unknown, for he stopped short just as a mighty rush of wind smote the door, howled through the bottom of the tower, and nearly extinguished the horn-protected candle. The old man did not say any more, but kicked and kicked at the skull till it was loosened, when it flew off, and up against the stone wall with a sharp crack, and then down upon the floor; while Asher seized his lanthorn, and, troubled with an unusual feeling of trepidation, began to ascend the ricketty old oak ladder which led up to the floor where the bell-ringers had been that night pulling a few changes out of the five bells.

Asher Skurge crossed the floor, threading his way amongst the ropes, and then began to mount the next ladder; for there was no spiral staircase here. Up the ricketty, loose rounds, and then rising like a stage ghost through a trap-door, the clerk stood at length in the second floor amongst the ropes, which passed through to the bells above; and here, shut up in a gigantic cupboard, was the great clock whose announcements of the flight of time floated over vale and lea.

As the clerk drew near, all at once there began a whizzing, whirring noise, which drowned the “tic-tac; tic-tac” of the pendulum; and then loud and clear—too loud and too clear—sounded the great bell-hammer within, announcing that it was eleven o’clock.

“Ah!” growled Asher, as soon as the clock had struck; “nice time for my job!” and then he pulled out another key, and prepared to open the great clock cupboard.

“Hallo?” said Asher, “what now?” and he started back a step, for there was a tiny head and shoulders poked out of the keyhole, and two bright, glittering little eyes seemed to gaze at the clerk for a moment, and then popped in again.

Asher Skurge felt himself to be too old a bird to be caught with that sort of chaff—he only believed in four spirits, did Asher; and, after gin, rum, brandy, and whisky had been named, the speaker would have got to the end of Asher’s spiritual tether. So he put down his lanthorn and the key beside it; rubbed his eyes, lifted his hat, and scratched his head; and then began to warm himself by beating his hands against his breast.

“Gammon!” muttered Asher, taking up lanthorn and key, and going towards the cupboard again. “Gammon!” he exclaimed aloud, and was about to put the key in the hole, when out popped the tiny head again, and remained looking at the astonished clerk, who stopped short and opened his mouth widely.

“It’s the strong ale,” said Asher; and he made a poke at the keyhole with the key, when “bang, crash;” the door flew open and struck him in the face, knocked him down and his lanthorn out; and of course, you’ll say, “there he lay in the dark!”

Not a bit of it. There lay Asher Skurge, certainly; but not in the dark; for shining out from the middle of the clock was a bright, glowing light, which filled the place, and made the bell-ropes shine as if made of gold. There was the great clock with all its works; but high and low, everywhere, it was covered with tiny figures similar to the one which gazed out of the keyhole, and all busily at work: there were dozens clinging to the pendulum and swinging backwards and forwards upon the great bob, while a score at each side gave it a push every time it swung within reach; dozens more were sliding down the long shaft to reach those upon the bob; while the weights seemed quite alive with the busy little fellows toiling and straining to push them down. Astride of the spindles; climbing up the cogs as though they were steps; clinging in, out, and about every wheel; and all, as it were, bent upon the same object—forcing on the clock—hurry and bustle—bustle and hurry—up and down—down and up—climbing, crawling, and leaping in the golden light were the tiny figures pushing on the wheels.

Asher Skurge sat up with his hair lifting on his head, but a staunch and obstinate man was he, and he wouldn’t believe it a bit, and told himself in learned language it was a delusion; but for all that, he was very uncomfortable, and felt about for the old horn spectacles he had left in the room at home.

“I don’t care; it’s all gammon!” exclaimed the clerk; “and if I was to say, ‘crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord, deliver us,’ they’d all vanish.”

“No, they wouldn’t, Asher!” said a small voice close at his ear.

“Eh?” said Asher, starting.

“No, they wouldn’t, Asher,” said the voice again; “not till they’ve kept the clock going till your time’s up. You wanted it to run down, but we didn’t.”

Asher stared about him, and then saw that the tiny figure which first gazed at him from the keyhole was now squatted, nursing its knees, upon his lanthorn, and gazing fixedly at him.

“They wouldn’t vanish, Asher,” said the tiny figure; “and here they come.”

As it finished speaking, the little spirits came trooping towards Asher, and dragged out of his pocket a small key, which opened a padlock, and loosened a chain, and set at liberty the key of the great timepiece; for Asher was determined that no other hands should touch his clock, as he called it; but now he saw a couple of score of little figures seize the key, fit it in the hole, and then toil at it till they turned it round and round, and wound up first one and then the other weight.

“How much longer?” cried the little spirit upon the lanthorn.

“One hour,” cried all the other spirits in chorus; and the two words seemed to ring in Asher’s ears, and then go buzzing round the place, and even up and amongst the bells, so that there was a sort of dumb pealing echo of the words.

“‘One hour,’” cried Asher, at length; “what’s ‘one hour’?”

“One hour more for you,” said the little spirit, staring unwinkingly, with its little diamond eyes fixed upon Asher, while its mite of a chin rested upon its little bare knees.

“What do you mean,” said Asher, fiercely, “with your one more hour?” and then he tried to get up, but could not, for he found that a number of the little figures had busily tied him with the bell-ropes; and there he was fast, hand and foot.

“What do I mean?” said the little figure; “lie still, and I’ll tell you, Asher. I mean that your time’s nearly up, and that you have now only fifty-six minutes left.”

“It must be the strong ale,” muttered Asher, turning hot all over, after vainly trying to loosen his bands. “It must be the strong ale; but I think, perhaps, I’ll let Mrs Bond stay another week.”

“Ha! ha! ha! she’s all right. You see you didn’t make a will, Asher.”

“How do you know?” cried the old man, now growing quite alarmed. “Who says I didn’t make a will?”

“I do,” said the little figure. “But don’t waste time, man. Only fifty minutes; and time’s precious.”

“But who are you?” cried Asher, excitedly.

“Me?” said the little thing. “Oh, I’m only a second, like those climbing about the clock; and I’m the last one in your hour. There’s one beat off by the pendulum every moment. Don’t you see fresh ones keep going down?”

“No!” growled Asher, savagely, “I don’t.” But he did though, for all that, though he would not own to it. There they were, clinging to the great round ball of the pendulum, and one dropping off at every beat, while fresh ones kept gliding down the long shaft into their places. What became of the others he could not tell, for, as they fell off, they seemed to dissolve in the glow which lit up the old clock’s works.

It was of no use to struggle, for the efforts only made the ropes cut into his wrists and legs; and if it had not been that the rope which went round his neck was the part covered with worsted to save the ringers’ hands, it seemed to him that he would have been strangled. He was horribly frightened, but he would not own to it, and, in spite of the fierce cold, he felt wet with perspiration.

“How slow the time goes,” said the little figure. “I want to be off. You’re about ready, I suppose.”

“No I’m not,” cried Asher furiously, “I’ve no end to do.”

“Turn out Widow Bond for one thing,” said the figure with a mocking leer. “Never mind about that. Only forty-five more minutes now.”

“What a horrible dream,” cried Asher in agony.

“’Tisn’t a dream,” said the little figure. “You pinch your leg and try now, or stop, I will,” and in a moment the tiny fellow leaped down and nipped the clerk’s leg so vigorously that he shrieked with pain.

“Don’t feel like a dream, does it?” said the spirit.

“Don’t think it does,” said Asher, “at least I never dreamed so loud before that I know of.”

“No, I shouldn’t think you did, but you won’t dream any more,” said the little spirit.

“You don’t mean that?” said Asher in a pitiful voice.

“I shouldn’t have said it if I had not,” said the spirit. “Do you suppose we speak falsely?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” groaned Asher. “But, I say, let me go this time.”

“Thirty-five minutes,” said the little spirit; “only thirty-five minutes more, and then my work’s done, and yours too.”

Asher groaned again, and then gave a furious struggle, which only tightened the ropes and made one of the bells above give a sonorous clang, which sounded like a knell to the groaning clerk.

“How are you going to do it?” he cried at last.

“Going to do what?” said the spirit.

“Going to—to—to—make an end of me?” said Asher.

“Oh!” said the spirit, “I shan’t have anything to do with it. Some of those to come will do that; I shall be gone. I suppose they’ll only put your head under the big hammer which strikes the hour, and it will do all that, so that people will say it was an accident. Only twenty-five minutes now.”

Asher turned as white as the parson’s surplice, and his teeth chattered as he groaned out:—

“Oh! what for? what for?”

“Why, you see, you are no good,” said the spirit, “and only in the way, so some one else may just as well be in your place. What do you know of love, or friendship, or affection, or anything genial? Why you’re cold enough to chill the whole parish. Only a quarter of an hour now.”

Ten minutes after the little spirit told the trembling man that he had but five minutes more, and four of these were wasted in unavailing struggles and prayers for release, when all at once Asher felt himself seized by hundreds of tiny hands. The cords were tightened till their pressure was agonising; and then he seemed to be floated up into the great open floor where the bells hung in the massive oaken framework, and though he could not see it, he knew well enough where the tenor bell was, and also how the great iron clock hammer was fixed, which would crush his skull like an egg-shell.

Asher struggled and tried to scream, but he felt himself impelled towards the bell, and directly after his cheek was resting upon the cold metal on one side, while the great hammer barely touched his temple on the other, and he knew when it was raised that it would come down with a fierce crash, and he shuddered as he thought of the splashed bell, and the blood, and brains, and hair clinging to the hammer.

“And they’ll say it was an accident,” muttered Asher to himself, quoting the spirit’s remark. “They’ll never give me credit for doing it myself. I’m the wrong sort.” And then the thoughts of a life seemed crowded into that last minute, and he shuddered to see what a little good he had done. Always money and self, and now what was it worth? He had pinched and punished all around him for the sake of heaping up riches, and now above all would come in those words—

“Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.”

Thoughts crowded through the wretched man’s brain thick and fast. He seemed living his life through in these few remaining seconds, while above all there was the reproaching face of the poor widow whom he would have cast out that night homeless and friendless upon the bitter world. He could not explain it to himself, but it seemed that this face kept him down where he was more than anything else. There was no anger upon it, nothing but bitter sorrowful reproach, and though he would have closed his eyes he could not hide from his gaze that sad countenance. But now came the horror of death, for he seemed to see the little spirits glide down the pendulum far beneath him, rest for a moment upon the bob, and then as one was beaten off, up rose the hammer, and he felt its cold touch leave his temple. Up—up—higher—higher—and now it was about to come down and would dash out his brains. It was coming, and all was over, and for that second the agony he suffered was intense. Then down it came, after seeming to be poised in the air for an awful space of time, and at last came the fearful stroke.

“Clang,” and his brain rocked and reeled as the blow fell upon the sonorous metal close by his forehead. The piercing tones rang through him, but before he could collect his thoughts—“Clang” went the hammer again again, and yet his heart did not revive, for he felt that it would be the last stroke which would crush him.

“Clang—clang—clang—clang” came the solemn tones of the great bell; solemn, although they seemed to split his head with the noise, and now he had counted eleven, and the last blow was about to fall. The hammer was rising—slowly rising—and in less than a moment he felt that the blow would come. He could not struggle, though he was being impelled nearer and nearer. He could not cry. He could not move; and at last, after an agonising suspense, during which the widow’s imploring, reproachful face was pressing closer and closer, down came the great hammer for the twelfth stroke—

“Crash!”

“The clock stopped; and the bells won’t ring,” said a cheery voice; “and on a Christmas-morning, too. Let me try.”

Asher Skurge heard the voice, and directly after he shrieked out with pain, for he felt something cutting into his leg, and this caused him to open his eyes, and to see that his lanthorn lay close beside him; that he was regularly wrapped, tied, and tangled with the bell-ropes, while the clock cupboard lay open before him—the clock at a standstill—probably from the cold; while, as for himself, he was quite at a lie-still, and there had been some one dragging at one of the ropes so as almost to cut his leg in two.

Directly after the head of young Harry Thornton appeared above the trap-door, and then at his call came the sexton; but more help was needed before Asher Skurge could be got down the ladders and across the churchyard to his cottage, where, what with rheumatics and lumbago, the old man is not so fond of winter night walks as of old.

But though Asher would as soon of thought of turning himself out as Widow Bond, he did not have her long for a tenant, for her husband’s ship was not lost; and after three years’ absence, Frank Bond came back safe and sound, but so weatherbeaten as hardly to be recognised.

But Asher Skurge was ever after an altered man, for it seemed to him that he had taken out a new lease of his life, and in spite of neighbourly sneers, he set heartily to work to repair his soul’s tenement. You can see where it has been patched; and even now it is far from perfect, but there are much worse men in the world than Asher Skurge, even if he does believe in spirits, and you might have a worse man for a landlord than the obstinate old clerk, who so highly offended the new vicar because he would not go and wind up the clock after dark.

Chapter Eighteen.

Munday’s Ghost.

“Shoot the lot, Sir, if I had the chance. I would, O by Jove; that is, if I had dust shot in the gun—a set of rogues, rascals, scamps, tramps, vagabonds, and robbers. Don’t tell me about pheasants and partridges and hares being wild birds—there don’t laugh; of course, I know a hare isn’t a bird—why, they’re nothing of the sort, and if it wasn’t for preserving, there wouldn’t be one left in a few years. Try a little more of that bread sauce. Fine pair of tender young cocks, ain’t they? Well, sir, they cost me seven-and-sixpence a bird at the very least, and I suppose I could buy them at seven-and-sixpence a brace at the outside. Game preserving’s dear work, sir; but there, don’t think I want to spoil your dinner. I aint reckoning up the cost of your mouthfuls, but fighting upon principle. How should you like me to come into your yard, or field, or garden, and shoot or suffocate or wire your turkeys or peafowl?”

“But, my dear, sir,” I said, “I don’t keep turkeys or peafowl.”

“Or cocks or hens, or pigeons, or ducks,” continued my uncle, not noticing my remark.

“But we don’t keep anything of the kind in London, my dear sir; the tiles and leads are the unpreserved grounds of the sparrows.”

“Don’t be a fool, Dick,” said my uncle, pettishly. “You know well enough what I mean. And I maintain, sir,” he continued, growing very red-faced and protuberant, as to his eyes, “that every poacher is a down-right robber, and if I were a magistrate I—”

“Wouldn’t shoot them; would you, sir?” said Jenny, roguishly.

“Hold your tongue, you puss,” said my uncle, shaking his fist playfully at the bright, saucy-eyed maiden; “you’re as bad as Dick.”

Oh, how ardently I wished she was in one particular point of view.

My uncle continued. “Ever since I’ve been in the place, the scoundrels have gone on thin—thin—thin—till it’s enough to make one give up in despair. But I won’t; hang me if I do! I won’t be beaten by the hypocritical canting dogs. Now, look here; one hound whines out that he did it for hunger, but it won’t do, that’s a tale; while ’fore George, sir, if a man really was driven to that pitch, I’d give him the worth of a dozen of my birds sooner than have them stolen.”

Well, really, one could not help condoling with the old gentleman, for he was generous and open-handed to an extent that made me wonder sometimes how my portion would fare, and whether the noble old fellow might not break faith through inability to perform his promises. Ever since he had settled in Hareby, and worked hard to get his estate into condition, the poaching fraternity seemed to have made a dead set at him, leading his two keepers a sad life, for one of them had passed two months in hospital through an encounter; while one fellow, who was always suspected of being at the head of the gang, generally contrived to elude capture, being “as cunning as Lucifer, sir,” as my uncle said.

I was down at Hareby to spend Christmas, as had been my custom for years, and on going out the day after my arrival—

“You see, sir,” said Browsem, the keeper; “there’s no knowing where to take him. I’ve tried all I knows, and ’pon my sivvy, sir, I don’t know where to hev him. It warn’t him as give me that dressing down, but it were some of his set, for he keeps in the back grun’, and finds the powder and shot, and gets rid o’ the birds. War-hawk to him if I do get hold on him, though—”

“But do you watch well?” I said.

“Watch, sir? I’ve watched my hyes outer my head a’most, and then he’s dodged me. Hyes aint no good to him. Why, I don’t believe a chap fitted up with telescopes would get round him. The guv’nor swears and goes on at me and Bill, but what’s the good o’ that when you’re arter a fellow as would slip outer his skin, if you hed holt on him? Now, I’ll jest tell you how he served me last week. I gets a simple-looking chap, a stranger to these parts, but a regular deep one, to come over and keep his hye on this here Mr Ruddle. So he hangs about the public, and drinks with first one, and then with another, so that they thinks him a chap outer work, and lars of all he gets friendly with Ruddle, and from one thing to another, gets on talking about fezzans and ’ares.

“‘Ah,’ says my chap, ‘there’s some fine spinneys down our way. Go out of a night there, and get a sackful of birds when you likes.’

“‘Nothin’ to what there is here,’ says another.

“‘Why,’ says my chap, ‘we’ve one chap as is the best hand at a bit o’ night work as ever I did see. You should see him set a sneer or ingle, he’d captivate any mortial thing. Say he wants a few rabbuds, he’d a’most whistle ’em outer their holes. Fezzans ’ll run their heads into his ingles like winkin’. While, as fur ’ares, he never sets wires for them.’

“‘Why not,’ says one on ’em.

“‘Oh,’ says my chap, ‘he goes and picks ’em up outer the fields, just as he likes.’

“‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughs lots on ’em there; all but Ruddle, and he didn’t.

“‘What d’yer think o’ that, ole man,’ says one.

“‘Nothin’ at all,’ says Ruddle. ‘Do it mysen,’ for you see he was a bit on, and ready to talk, while mostlings he was as close as a hegg.

“‘Bet you a gallon on it,’ says my chap.

“‘Done,’ says Ruddle, and they settles as my chap and Buddie should have a walk nex’ day, Sunday, and settle it.

“Nex’ day then these two goes out together, and just ketching sight on ’em, I knowed something was up, but in course I didn’t know my chap, and my chap didn’t know me, and I sits at home smoking a pipe, for I says to myself, I says: Browsem, I says, there’s suthin’ up, an’ if you can only put salt on that ’ere Ruddle’s tail, you’ll soon clear the village. You see, I on’y wanted to bring one home to him, and that would have done, for he’d on’y got off two or three times before by the skin of his teeth, and while three or four of his tools was kicking their heels in gaol, my gentleman was feathering his nest all right.

“So my chap and Ruddle goes along werry sociable, only every now and then my chap ketches him a cocking one of his old gimlet eyes round at him, while he looked as knowing and deep as an old dog-fox. By and by they gets to a field, and old Ruddle tells my chap to stop by the hedge, and he did, while Ruddle goes looking about a bit slowly and quietly, and last of all he mounts up on a gate and stands with his hand over his hyes. Last of all he walks quietly right out into the middle of the pasture and stoops down, picks up a hare, and holds it kicking and struggling by the ears, when he hugs it up on his arm strokin’ on it like you’d see a little girl with a kitten.

“My chap feels ready to burst himself with delight to see how old Ruddle had fallen into the trap. First-rate it was, you know—taking a hare in open daylight, and in sight of a witness. So he scuffles up to him, looking as innocent all the time as a babby, and he says to him, he says—

“‘My, what a fine un! I never thought as there was another one in England could ha’ done that ’ere. You air a deep ’un,’ he says, trying hard not to grin. ‘But aintcher going to kill it?’

“A nasty foxy warming, not he though, for when my chap says, says he, ‘Aintcher going to kill it?’

“‘What,’ he says, ‘kill the pooty creetur! Oh, no; poor soft pussy, I wouldn’t hurt it; let it go, poor thing.’

“When if he didn’t put it down and let it dart off like a shot, while my chap stood dumbfounded, and staring with his mouth half open, till Ruddle tipped him a wink, and went off and left him. No, sir, there ain’t no taking that chap nohow, and they do say it was his hand that fired the shot as killed Squire Todd’s keeper in Bunkin’s Spinney.”

Three nights after Christmas was mild and open, and I was watching a busy little set of fingers prepare the tea, while my uncle was napping in his easy-chair, with a yellow silk handkerchief spread over his face. I had been whispering very earnestly, while all my impressive words had been treated as if airy nothings; and more than once I had been most decidedly snubbed. I was at last sitting with a very lachrymose countenance, looking appealingly at the stern little tyrant, who would keep looking so bewilderingly pretty by trying to frown with a beautiful little white brow that would not wrinkle, when the parlour-maid came up and announced Browsem.

“No, sir,” muttered my uncle; “I’ll put a stop—stop—” the rest was inaudible.

“The keeper waits to see you, uncle dear,” whispered his late sister’s child, in her soft kittenish way.

“Keeper, sir; yes, sir, I’ll give him—Bless my heart, Jenny,” exclaimed the old gentleman starting up, dragging off his handkerchief and bringing the hair down over his forehead; “bless my heart, Jenny, why I was almost asleep.”

“Here’s Browsem, uncle,” I said.

“Show him up; show him up,” cried my uncle, who would not have accorded more attention to an ambassador than he did to his keeper—that gentleman being prime minister to his pleasures.

Browsem was shown up—a process which did not become the keeper at all, for he came in delicately as to pace, not appearance, and held his red cotton handkerchief in his hand, as if in doubt whether to employ it in dabbing his damp brow, or to spread upon the carpet for fear that his boots might soil the brightness.

“Now Browsem,” cried the old gentleman, as the keeper was pulling his forelock to Miss Jenny, thereby making the poor fellow start and stammer. “Now Browsem, whom have you caught?”

“Caught, sir? No one, sir, only the cat, sir. Ponto run her down, but she skretched one of his eyes a’most out.”

“Cat; what cat?” said my uncle, leaning forward, with a hand upon each arm of the chair.

“Why, you see, sir,” said Browsem, confidentially, “there’s a dodge in it;” and then the man turned round and winked at me.

“Confound you; go on,” cried my uncle in a most exasperated tone of voice, when Browsem backed against Jenny’s little marqueterie work-table, and, oversetting it, sent bobbins, tapes, reels, wools, silks, and, crochet and tatting apparatus into irremediable chaos.

“There, never mind that trash,” shouted the old man; “speak up at once.”

“Well, sir,” said Browsem, “they’ve been a-dodgin’ of me.”

“Well?” cried my uncle.

“Tied a lanthorn to a cat’s neck, and sent her out in the open, to make belief as it were a dog driving the partridges.”

“Well?”

“And we’ve been a-hunting it for long enew, and Ponto ketched her at last.”

“Well?”

“And this was only to get us outer the way, for I heard a gun down Bunkin’s Spinney.”

“Well?” shouted my uncle.

“And I’ve come to know what’s right to be done.”

“Done,” roared my uncle; “why run down to the Spinney, or there won’t be a pheasant left. Here, my stick—my pistols—Here, Dick—Confound—Scoundrels. Look sharp.” And then he hobbled out of the room after the keeper, when warm with the excitement of perhaps having a brush with the poachers, I was following, but a voice detained me on the threshold.

“Richard,” whispered Jenny; and there was something in the earnest eyes and frightened look that drew me back in an instant. “Richard, you won’t go—those men—danger—Oh! Richard, pray! There, don’t. What would your uncle say?”

I didn’t know, neither did I pause to think, for that newly-awakened earnestness whispered such sweet hopes that, darting back, I was for the instant forgetful of all propriety, till some one stood blushing before me, arranging those bright little curls so lately resting upon my arm.

“But you won’t go?” pleaded Jenny. “For my sake Richard?”

“Di-i-i-i-i-ck,” roared my uncle, and, wresting myself from the silken chains, I darted down into the hall.

“Here lay hold of that stick, my lad,” cried my uncle, flourishing a large bludgeon, while Browsem grinning and showing his teeth, was quietly twisting the leathern thong of a short stout staff round his wrist.

“All right my darling,” said the old man, turning to the pale-faced Jenny, who had come quietly downstairs to where we stood. “Don’t be alarmed, we shall take care of one another, and march half a dozen poaching—here, come along, or me shall miss the scoundrels.”

Browsem led the way at a half-trot, and grasping my arm, the old gentleman followed as fast as his sometimes gouty leg would allow him. We were soon out of the grounds, and, clambering a gate, made our way towards the wood, where the keeper had heard the gun.

“Confound them,” growled my uncle, “that’s where that poor fellow was shot ten years ago.”

“Bang—bang.”

“There they are, sir,” growled the keeper, halting to let us get up alongside; and now I started, for in the dusk behind me, and apparently dodging my heels, was a tall figure.

“It’s only Todds, sir,” growled the keeper, and Todds his helper growled in response.

“That is right.”

“Amost wonder as they came here, sir,” whispered Browsem. “Never knowed ’em do it afore, ’cause they’re feared o’ Munday’s Ghost.”

“Munday’s Ghost?” I said.

“Yes, sir; pore chap as were shot. They do say as he walks still, but there’s a sight o’ pheasants here.”

It was one of those dark heavy nights late in winter, when the last oak-leaves have fallen, and every step you take through the thickly strewn glades rustles loudly. The wind just sighed by us as we pressed on along a path through a plantation, and then once or twice I fancied I heard guns to the right, far off behind the house. But I forgot them the next moment, for my heart beat, and the excitement increased, for just on in front came two loud and distinct reports.

“They’re at it,” growled my uncle, forgetting his gout, and loosing my arm. “Now Browsem, you and Todds go round, and we’ll come forward, only mind when I whistle, it’s for help.”

The next moment I was going to speak to the keeper, but I started, for he was gone, and on looking behind I found Todds had also vanished, quiet as a snake, for my uncle and I stood alone.

“You’ll stick to me, Dick?” whispered the old gentleman.

“Conditions,” I said in the same voice.

“What? the white feather,” growled the old gentleman.

“No, no,” I said, “but if I enlist now on your side, will you join me in a siege afterwards?”

“Siege? what the deuce? Why don’t you speak plain, sir?”

“Well,” I said, “I mean about—about—a certain young lady at the Priory, you know.”

“Confound your thick head, sir. Why, if you had had an ounce of brains, you could have seen what I meant, and—”

“Bang, bang!” from the wood.

“Forward,” shouted my uncle, and crossing a small open field, we entered the Spinney.

Now, if I were to say that I was brave, the assertion would be a fib, for I possess but few of the qualifications for making a good soldier; but all the same, as we pushed our way in that night amongst the thick hazel stubs, I felt a sort of tingly sensation in my arm, which made me grasp my weapon more tightly, and feel as if I wished there was something to hit.

“Keep your eyes well open, Dick,” whispered my uncle, “and if you come across a tall thin squinting rascal with his nose on one side, mind, that’s Ruddle’s. Fell him to the ground in an instant, sir. No mercy: capture him as you love me, and if you do take the scoundrel, you shall have another cool thousand down on your wedding morning.”

“And if I don’t?” I whispered.

“Hold your tongue, you dog, and don’t talk nonsense.”

On we went in silence as to our tongues, but with the leaves rustling and sticks cracking as we pushed on. Now I could hear my uncle ejaculating; then he’d stumble and mutter, while once I had to haul him out of a small hole half full of water.

“Confound it!” growled the old gentleman; “but I’ll pay some one for all this. Open out a bit to the right, Dick.”

I separated from the main body, and on we still pressed, rustling and crackling along, while now and again I could make out the well-defined forms of pheasants roosting amidst the low branches of the trees. All at once I heard my uncle stop short, for about a hundred yards to my right there came again a sharp “bang, bang” of two guns.

“Push on, my boy,” whispered the old gentleman, closing up; and then, as fast as we could for the dense undergrowth, we made our way in the direction of the sounds. “They’re out strong, my boy, but we’re four determined men with right on our side, and a prize to win; eh, you dog?”

“Oof!” I involuntarily exclaimed, for just then my uncle gave me a poke in the ribs with his stick—very facetiously, no doubt; but it hurt.

We were now in the thickest part of the wood; and, after going a little farther, I felt my shoulder clutched, and “Here they come,” was whispered in my ear. “Seize one man, Dick, and hold on to him like a bull-dog.”

Just then I could hear in front the sharp crackling and rustling made by bodies being forced through the underwood; and, grasping my staff and pressing eagerly forward, I waited with beating heart for the coming of the enemy.

I did not have to wait long, for the next moment I was face to face with Browsem.

“Lord, sir! I thought it had been one on ’em,” he exclaimed, and then a whispered consultation having been held, we opened out about twenty yards apart, and went straight away in the direction we supposed the poachers to have taken.

On, slowly and painfully, with the twigs flying back and lashing our faces, roots trying to trip us up, and the night growing darker and darker. Right and left I could hear my uncle and Browsem, while right off beyond the old gentleman, Mr Todds, the reticent, was making his way. Every eye was strained and every ear attent to catch the slightest sound; but for quite ten minutes we crept on until right in our rear came the sharp, loud report of a gun; and then, after the interval of a few moments, another louder and apparently nearer.

“Back again!” cried my uncle; and then, casting off all caution, we all pushed forward eagerly, closing in as we went, till we were only separated by a few bushes, so that I could hear the hard breathing on either side. Hard work blundering and stumbling along; but the will was good, and at last we all drew up again in a small opening, panting, hot, and regularly breathed.

“Hist!” whispered my uncle, and we all listened eagerly; but, with the exception of a wild, strange cry some distance off, all was silent.

“What’s that?” I whispered to Browsem.

“Only a howl, sir,” he whispered again. “Blessed rum start this, ain’t it?”

“Bang, bang!” again a hundred yards off.

“Come on!” roared my uncle furiously, “there won’t be a bird left in the place;” and away we dashed again, but only to pull up once more, regularly puzzled.

“’Tain’t no good, sir,” whispered Browsem. “We might go on like this all night, and ketch no one.”

“Why?” I said, mopping my brow.

“That ’ere, sir, as I said was a howl, must ha’ been Munday’s Ghost, and them ’ere shots as we keeps hearing’s the ones as killed the poor fellow, and that’s why the poachers never comes to this bit.”

“Browsem,” puffed my uncle.

“Yes, sir,” said Browsem.

“You’re a fool, Browsem,” puffed my uncle.

“Thanky, sir,” said Browsem.

“What do you mean by that, sir?” cried my uncle, fiercely.

“Nothing, sir,” said the keeper, mildly.

“For two pins, sir,” cried my uncle, fiercely, “I’d discharge you, sir. D’yer hear? discharge you, sir, for talking such foolery. Ghosts—posts! pooh! bah! puff! stuff! yah! Forward.”

Mr Todds, who was at my elbow, murmured his approval of his superior’s language, but gave a superstitious shiver at the same moment. And then once more we opened out, and tramped through the wood, till regularly beaten out; and, without having heard another shot or seen a single enemy, we reluctantly retraced our steps to the Priory.

The next morning, at breakfast, the parlour-maid again announced Browsem—for my uncle abjures men-servants in the house—and the keeper, looking puzzled and long-faced, appeared at the door.

“Now, then,” sputtered my uncle, “have you caught them?”

“They cleared Sandy Plants last night, sir,” growled the man.

“Who? what?” cried my uncle, upsetting his coffee.

“Some on ’em—Ruddles’s, I s’pose,” said Browsem. “Don’t b’leeve there’s a tail left out’er scores,” said the man.

“There, go down and wait, and I’ll come directly after breakfast.”

But to all intents and purposes my uncle had finished his breakfast, for nothing more would he touch, while his face grew purple with rage. Gout—everything—was forgotten for the time; and half an hour after, Browsem was pointing out the signs of the havoc made on the preceding night in the fir-plantation. Here and there lay feathers, spots of blood, gun-wads; and many a trunk was scarred and flayed with shot. In one place, where the trees were largest, the poachers seemed to have been burning sulphur beneath the boughs, while twice over we came upon wounded pheasants, and one dead—hung high up in the stubbly branches, where it had caught.

My uncle looked furious, and then turning in the direction of the scene of the last night’s adventures, he strode off, and we followed in silence.

On reaching the wood, we very soon found, from the trampled underwood and broken twigs, traces of our chase; but the birds seemed plentiful, and no feathers or blood-stains were to be found.

“They didn’t get many here, at all events,” muttered my uncle.

Both Browsem and Todds shook their heads at me, and looked ghosts.

“Strange thing, though,” muttered my uncle. “What do you think of it, Browsem?”

The keeper screwed up his face, and said nothing.

“Confound you for a donkey!” ejaculated the irascible old gentleman. “What Tom-fool rubbish you men do believe. Hullo! though, here’s a wad;” and he stooped and picked up a wadding evidently cut out of an old beaver hat. “That don’t look ghostly, at all events; does it, booby?”

Browsem only screwed up his phiz a little tighter.

“Why, tut, tut, tut! Come here, Dick!” shouted the old gentleman, excitedly. “We’ve been done, my lad; and they’ve cleared out the plantation while we were racing up and down here.”

I followed the old gentleman to one of the openings where we had stopped together the night before, when Todds, who was close behind, suddenly gave a grunt, and stooping down, picked up a half-empty horn powder-flask.

“That’s Ruddles’s, I’d swear,” growled Browsem.

“Of course,” said my uncle. “And now, look here, Dick,” he cried, pointing to the half-burnt gun-wads lying about near a large pollard oak. “There, shin up, and look down inside this tree.”

With very little difficulty, I wonderingly climbed up some fifteen feet, by means of the low branches, which came off clayey on my hands, as though some one had mounted by that same means lately, and then I found that I could look down right through the hollow trunk, which was lighted by a hole here and there.

“That’ll do; come down,” cried my uncle. “If I’d only thought of it last night, we could have boxed the rascal up—a vagabond! keeping us racing up and down the wood, while he sat snugly in his hole, blazing away directly we were a few yards off.”

I was certainly very close to Jenny that afternoon when my uncle, whom we thought to be napping in his study, rushed into the room.

“Hurrah, Dick! Tompkins has peached, and they sent fifty pheasants up in Ruddles’s cart this morning; but the old rascal’s locked up, and—hum! That sort of thing looks pretty,” he continued, for we were certainly taken somewhat by surprise. “But, you dog,” he roared, as Jenny darted from the room, “you did not catch the scoundrel.”

However, after that morning’s take, even if a hundred pheasants had been sent in the cart, my uncle would have been plastic as clay, while, an hour afterwards, he exclaimed:

“Why, Dick, I’d almost forgotten my gout.”

Chapter Nineteen.

The Spirits of the Bells.

Heart-sore and spirit-weary, Life blank, and future dreary, Mournfully I gazed upon my fire’s golden glow, Pondering on idle errors, Writhing under conscience terrors, Gloomily I murmured, with my spirits faint and low. I had drained the golden measure, Sipped the sweets of so-called pleasure, Seeing in the future but a time for newer joy; Now I found their luscious cloying, Ev’ry hope and peace destroying, Golden visions, brightest fancies - bitter, base alloy. Riches, comfort spoke then vainly, To a brain thus tinged insanely, Wildly throbbing, aching, teeming, Fancy-filled with hideous dreaming, Speaking of an aimless life, a life without a goal: While as if to chide my murmur, Came a voice which cried, “Be firmer, Would’st be like the beasts that perish? Think thou of thy soul.” Starting from my chair and trembling, Vainly to my heart dissembling, ’Twas an idle fancy that had seemed to strike my ear; Still the words came stealing round me, Horror in its chains had bound me; Dripping from my aching brow, were beads of deepest fear. Hurrying to my moonlit casement, Throwing up the sash, Highest roof to lowest basement Seemed to brightly flash, Glitt’ring white, with Winter’s dressing; While each crystal was caressing Purest rays that glanced around it from the moon’s pale light. Nature slept in sweetest beauty, Gleaming stars spoke hope and duty: Calmer grew my aching brow, beneath the heavenly sight. Christmas-Eve! the Christian’s morrow Soon would dawn on joy and sorrow, Spreading cheer and holy pleasure brightly through the land; Whilst I, lonely, stricken-hearted, Under bitter mem’ries smarted, Standing like an outcast, or as one the world had banned. Sadly to my chair returning, By my fire still brightly burning, Battling with the purer rays that through the window gleamed; Like two spirits floating o’er me, Vividly rays played before me, Each to wrap me in its light that on my forehead streamed. The glowing fire with warm embracing Told of earthly, sinful racing: Warmth and pleasure in its looks, but in its touch sharp pain; While the moonbeams, paler, purer, Spoke of pleasures, sweeter, surer, Oft rejected by Earth’s sons for joys that bear a stain. Suddenly with dread I shivered, As the air around me quivered, Laden with the burden of a mighty spirit-tone, Rolling through the midnight stilly, Borne upon the night-wind chilly, Rushing through my chamber, where I sat in dread alone. “Soul!” it cried, in power pealing, “Soul!” the cry was through me stealing, Vibrating through each fibre with a wonder-breeding might. “Soul!” the voice was deeply roaring; “Soul!” rang back from roof and flooring, Booming thro’ the silence of the piercing winter night. Now came crashing, wildly dashing, Waves of sound in power splashing, Ringing, swinging, tearing, scaring, Shrieking out in words unsparing, “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” Roaring through my chamber portal, Borne thro’ window, borne thro’ ceiling Ever to my sense revealing, Still the bells these words were pealing, “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” Till my room seemed filled with bells that rang the self-same strain; While, above the brazen roaring, Mightily the first tone pouring, Boomed out “Soul!” in mighty pow’r, and linked in with the chain. Then an unseen presence o’er me Leant, and from my chamber tore me: Out upon the night-wind I was swept among the sounds, Whirling on amid the pealing, Warning to the city dealing Of the coming morrow, in reverberating rounds. Still they cried, as from doom’s portal, “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” Shrieking all around me as I floated with the wind, Ever borne away and crying, Every bell-tone swiftly flying O’er the silent city, to its slumber now consigned. Hurried round each airy tower, Writhing with the unseen power Vainly, for a spirit-chain each struggling limb would bind; Doomed to hear those words repelling, Ever on my senses knelling, Still - a booming hurricane - we wrestled with the wind. Sweeping o’er the sluggish river, Where dark piles the waves dissever, ’Neath the bridges, by the shipping, Sluice-gates, with the waters dripping, By the rustling, moaning rushes, Where the tribute-water gushes; Forced to gaze on ghastly faces, Where the dread one left his traces, Faces of the suicide, the murdered floated on, Whose blue, leaden lips, unclosing, Shrieked out words, my brain that froze in, Crying I had stayed my help in hours long passed and gone. “Hopeless, hopeless!” ever crying, “Hopeless we are round you dying, Asking vainly for the aid withheld in selfish grasp; Hopeless, from the crime that’s breeding, Ever to new horrors leading, Horrors, growing, flow’ring, seeding, Soon to spread a poison round more deadly than the asp.” Still an unseen presence bound me; Still the bells were shrieking round me, “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” Rising, falling, ever calling, Thought and mem’ry, soul appalling, Borne away and louder crying, In the distance softly dying; Here in gentle murmurs sighing, Then again far higher flying, Swiftly o’er the houses hieing; While around these fear-begetters Bound me in their brazen fetters. On I sped with brain on fire, ’Mid the bell-tones, higher, higher, List’ning to their words upbraiding, Each with dread my soul new lading. Now away, the mighty chorus Swept around a church before us, In whose yard were paupers lying. From their graves I heard them crying, Joining in the words upbraiding, Loudly piercing, softly fading: “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” “Cease your murmurs, cease your sorrow, From our fate a lesson borrow: Never heeded, lost to pity, Dying round you through the city. Leave us to our peaceful sleeping, Freed from hunger, care, and weeping.” O’er and o’er the hillocks grassy, Now away o’er buildings massy: Ever cries, as from doom’s portal, “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” Thro’ the wards where pain was shrieking, Where disease was vengeance wreaking, Still the sounds were hurrying, crying, As in emulation trying; Many a fev’rish slumber breaking; O’er the lips that knew no slaking. All were crying, help imploring; While the bells from roof to flooring, Still, as from the first beginning, Still the self-same burden dinning, Spite of all my writhing, tearing, Onward still my spirit bearing Far away in booming sallies, Rushing thro’ the crowded alleys, Where grim Want his wings was quiv’ring O’er the pinched forms, half clad, shiv’ring; Where disease and death were hov’ring; Where deep sorrow earth was cov’ring. Away, again, where life was failing; Away, again, by orphans wailing; Thro’ the prison bars now darting, Where the fettered wretch lay smarting, Wakened from his sleep, and starting, He too shrieked in bitter parting Curses on my aid withholden, In the glorious hours golden, Wasted, thrown away in madness— Hours that might deep sorrow, sadness. Misery, have chased from numbers,— Chased the want the earth that cumbers. Away, away, and faster speeding, Away, the tones seemed round me pleading Lessons to my madness reading, From the scenes I’d lived unheeding. Still the unseen fetters bound me; Still the burden floated round me: “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” But the words came softer, lower, Calmer still, and sweeter, slower, Till they murmured off in silence on the wintry air; Save returning, booming, rolling, Came that one vast warning, tolling “Soul!” as when at first it called me, sitting in my chair. Now again from earth rebounding, Quick and fast, the bells were sounding, And I sprang from out my seat, with wild and startled look. ’Twas the blest Redeemer’s morning!— Sunshine brightly Earth adorning,— And the Christmas jocund peal my brightened casement shook. Hope has risen clearer, purer, O’er my life-course firmer, surer, Since that eve, when gloomily I pondered on my life; When I heard, as from doom’s portal, “Soul of sorrow! murm’ring mortal!” Booming on my aching brain, with murmurs thickly rife.

Chapter Twenty.

A Rogue and a Vagabond.

“You must fetch the doctor,” says Dick, as I stood over him looking at his poor worn face, all drawed with pain and hollow-looking, although he’d got his paint on and the band and spangles were round his head, though his black hair was all rough with him a-tossing about.

There was the bit of candle flaring away and guttering down, the wind flapping the canvas backwards and forwards and coming in fierce through the holes, while the rain was dripping from the top because the canvas hadn’t got well soaked and tight, and I couldn’t help thinking about what a miserable place it was for a sick man. There was the drum a-going and the clarinet squeaking, while another of the company was rattling away at a pair o’ pot-lid cymbals; the grease-pots were flaring in front of the stage, and them all a dancing and one thing and another over and over again, while Balchin’s voice, husky and bad with his cold, could be heard telling people to walk up for the last time that night; but they wouldn’t, for it was wet and miserable and spiritless as could be.

Poor Dick had been out ever so long in his tights and fleshings doing his summersets and bits o’ posturing, till his thin things were wet through, when he comes in at last to me, where I was nursing little Totty, hard at work to keep her quiet, and he says with a bit of a groan—

“I’m knocked over, lass. It’s like a knife in my chest,” and I could hear his breath rattling hard, as he looked that ill I couldn’t keep the tears back. You see he’d been bad for days and taking medicine for his cough; but then what good was that with us, going from place to place in wet weather and him obliged to take his turn with the rest, and we always sleeping under the canvas. Why, he ought to have been in a house and with a doctor to him, though he wouldn’t hear of it when I talked about it.

“Can’t afford it, Sally,” he’d say, and then, poor fellow, he’d sit up in bed and cough till he’d fall back worn out, when as soon as he was laid down, back came the cough again worse than ever, and I’ve lain quiet and still, crying because I couldn’t help him. Don’t know anything more sad and wearying than to hear some one cough—cough—cough the whole long night through, with it resting a little when sitting up, and then coming on again worse and worse as soon as you lie down.

And that’s how it was with poor Dick, but he had a heart like a lion and would never give up. All the others used to lodge about at the public-houses, ’cept Balchin, who lived in the van, but Dick said he liked being under the canvas best, for you were like in your own place, and there was no noise and bother with the landlords, besides sleeping in all sorts of dirty places after other people, so we always kept to the corner of the tent and under the stage, making use of a bit of charcoal fire in a stand.

And Dick wouldn’t have the doctor till that night, when he says at last, “you must fetch him.” I’d been watching him lying there hardly able to breathe, and sometimes, when his eyes were nearly shut, you could only see the whites, while his hands tore like at the covering, he seemed in such pain.

Just then in came Balchin, looking very cross and out of humour, for there was the ground to pay for, and he’d taken next to nothing that night.

“What did you sneak off like that for, Dick Parker?” he says, and then Dick started up, but he fell back with a bit of a groan, when Balchin grumbled out something, and turned round and went off.

“Could you mind little Totty?” I says to Dick, for I didn’t like to take the child out in the wet.

He didn’t speak, but made a place aside him for the little thing, and the next minute the poor little mite had nestled up close to him, and I turned to put on my shawl, when who should lift up the canvas and come in but Balchin, with a steaming hot glass of whisky and water in his hand?

“Here we are, my boy,” he says, in his rough cheery way, that he could put on when he liked. “Now is the sun of summer turned to glorious winter, so away with discontent and a merry Christmas and a happy noo year to you, my boy. You’re a bit outer sorts you are, and so was I just now, but I’m what you’re going to be directly, so tip some of this up.”

But Dick only shook his head and smiled, and then whispering him to please stop till I got back, I slipped out to fetch the doctor.

It isn’t hard to find the doctor’s place in a town, and I was soon there standing, ring, ring, ring, while the rain, now half sleet and snow, began to come down so, that I shivered again. But I hardly thought about it, for my mind was all upon poor Dick, for a terrible thought had come into my head, and that was, that my poor boy was going to leave me. Everything now seemed to tell me of it: the cold howling wind seemed to shriek as it tore away through the long street, the clock at the big church seemed to be tolling instead of striking twelve, while the very air seemed alive with terrible whispers of something dreadful going to happen.

At last a window upstairs was opened, and I asked if the doctor was at home.

“Who wants him?” said a voice.

“I want him to come to my poor husband, for he’s—” I couldn’t finish the word for a sob that seemed to choke me.

“Where do you live?” said the same voice.

“At the show in the market-place,” I said, feeling all the while half ashamed.

“You’d better go to Mr Smith, he’s the parish doctor,” said the voice, and then the window was shut. And I stood half blind with the tears that would come, as I dragged my shawl closer round me, and stood shivering and wondering which way to turn so as to find the parish doctor. The wind was sweeping and howling along; the snow came in heavy squalls which whitened me in a few moments, while the cold seemed to chill one’s very marrow; but I hardly thought of it, for I was all the time seeing poor Dick lying in our miserable bit of a bed by the light of the flaring candle, while above the howling of the wind I seemed to be hearing his low hacking cough.

Oh! it was pitiful, pitiful, standing out there on that bitter night, close to Christmas-time, when people’s hearts are said to be more charitably disposed; but now, though bright lights shone in windows here and there, I was alone, alone, in the bitter storm, without a soul to direct me or teach me where to go for a doctor. I hurried to the end of the street—then back along the other side, up one street and down another, eagerly looking for a lighted lamp over a door, or for some one to tell me; but not a soul was to be seen, and every public-house was shut.

On I went again, growing almost frantic, for the howling wind seemed to form itself into cries—wild, appealing cries to me for help for my boy, who lay suffering in our wretched wandering home; and at last I ran up to a door and rang the bell, but no one answered. Then I heard the muffled sound of wheels, and stood listening. Yes, they were coming nearer and nearer—they were in the street, and I ran into the road to try and stay the driver, as I shrieked for help, for I was most mad with anxiety; but there was the sharp stinging cut of a whip across my cheek, and half-blinded and smarting, I started back, and the next minute the round of the wheels had died away.

“Oh, oh, oh!” I moaned piteously, wringing my hands; what shall I do, what shall I do? But the next moment my heart leaped, for by the light of one of the street lamps I saw a man approaching and hurried up to him.

“Sir, sir,” I cried; “the doctor—the—” But an oath and a rude push, which sent me staggering off the pavement to fall in the mud and snow of the road, was my answer, and then, as half bewildered I slowly got up, I heard a harsh laugh and the man began whistling.

I could not sob now, but felt as if something was clutching at my heart and tearing it, but again I hurried along half blind with the heavy snow, and now once more I saw a man in front, but dimly seen through the heavy fall.

“Help, help,” I cried hoarsely, with my hands clasped together.

“Eh! what?” he said.

“Oh, sir, a doctor, for God’s sake—for pity’s sake—my poor boy!”

“Who, who?” he said, taking hold of my arm.

“My poor husband,” I said, “he’s dying.”

The next moment he was walking beside me, as I thought to show me where the doctor lived, and it was nearer the market-place where the show stood.

“Come in here,” he said, opening a door with a key, when feeling trembling and suspicious, I hung back, but the light falling upon my new companion, showed me a pleasant faced old man, and I followed him into a surgery, where he put something into a bottle, and five minutes after we were standing in the booth where Balchin and his wife and a couple more of the company were standing about the bed where poor Dick lay, breathing so heavily that it was pitiful to hear him, and me not daring to wake him for fear of his cough.

“God bless my soul,” muttered the doctor I had so fortunately met; “what a place and what a night! Can’t you move him to a house?”

“No,” said Dick, suddenly sitting up. “I’ll die here. This is good enough for a rogue and a vagabond of a strolling player. But doctor,” he said, with his eyes almost blazing, “can you cure my complaint?”

“Well, well! we’ll see,” said the doctor, laying his hand upon poor Dick’s chest.

“No, no; not there, sir,” said Dick. “It’s here—here—in my heart, and it’s sore about that poor girl and this little one: that’s my complaint, not this cough. What are they to do? Where are they to go? Who’s to keep them when I’m gone? Not that I’ve done much for them, poor things.”

“Dick, Dick,” I said, reproachfully.

“My girl!” he says, so softly and tenderly and with such a look, that I was down next moment upon my knees beside him, when he threw one arm round my neck and rested his head again my cheek so loving, so tender, while his other arm was round the little one now fast asleep.

And there we all stayed for a bit; no one speaking, for the doctor stood with his head bent down and his hat off, while the light of the candle shone amongst his silver-looking hair. Two or three times over I saw Balchin and his wife and the others look hard at him, and once Balchin touched him on the sleeve, but he stood still looking on, while poor Dick lay there with his head upon my shoulder, and me, not crying but confused and struck down, and dazed like with sorrow.

At last every one seemed so still and quiet, that I looked up wondering to see the doctor hold up his hand to the others to be silent, when, whispering to me that he would be back in a few minutes, he hurried away. And still no one moved for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when through being half blind now with the tears that began to come, I could not see the doctor come back; and this time he had something in his hand which he made as though he would give to Dick, but he shrunk back next moment shaking his head, gave the glass to Balchin to hold, and then as Mrs Balchin began sobbing loudly, the doctor knelt down beside the bed and said some words in a low tone at first, but getting more earnest and loud as he went on and then he was silent, and Dick seemed to give a deep drawn sigh.

Then I waited to hear the next sigh, for all was still and quiet; Balchin and his wife stood with their heads bent down, and Mrs Balchin had left off sobbing; the others stood about, one here and one there, and the good doctor was still upon his knees, and I couldn’t help thinking how calm and easy poor Dick’s laboured breathing had become, when all at once little Totty began to say some prattling words in her sleep, and then as if some bright little dream was hers she began to laugh out loud in her little merry way, and nestled closer to her father.

All at once I started, for a horrible thought came into my mind, and turning my face I looked as well as I could at poor Dick’s eyes. The light was very dim and I could only see that they were half open, while there was a quiet happy smile upon his lip. Then I eagerly held the back of my hand to his mouth to feel his breath, but there was nothing. I felt his heart—it was still. I whispered to him—

“Dick! Dick! speak to me,” and I fancied there was just another faint sigh, but no answer—no reply—for with his arms round all he loved and who loved him on this earth, he had gone from us—gone without me fancying for a moment it was so near. And then again for a moment I could not believe it, but looked first at the doctor, and then at first one and then another, till they all turned their heads away, when with a bitter cry I clasped him to me, for I knew poor Dick was dead.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Spirit of the Past.

Of course they were—the good old times, or, as Macaulay has it, “the brave days of old.” Things are not now as they used to be; and mind, O reader, these are not my words, but those of a patriarch. Things are not as they used to be; the theatres even have not the casts now that they had fifty years since; those were the fine old coaching times, when team after team started from the old Post-office in style. There were beaux and bucks, and men of spirit then—men who could dress, and spent their money as it should be spent. Gambling, duelling, and such spirited affairs were common, and really, there can be no doubt of it, times are altered.