ENGLISH ELIZA.

A HALLOWEEN STORY.

BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

"What was it that Obed saw?" That question used to be asked by chimney-corners in the great farm-houses of an old New England neighborhood for many years.

For Obed in his boyhood on a certain last night of October, "when the moon was round," had seen a spectacle the account of which filled the minds of many good people with wonder and of simple people with terror. Even the cats and dogs seemed to be uneasy when it was discussed in an awesome tone of voice on old red settles, for such animals seem to share the fears of their masters. "Come, now, Obed is no fool," the work-people used to say.

"What do you suppose it was that he saw? It was proper strange!"

Obed lived in one of the farm neighborhoods near Medfield, a town famous in King Philip's war. The place has a fearful legend of a family who were killed by the Indians, and a very curious story of a farmer who saved his family at the time of the Indian attack by rolling out of the cellar a barrel of cider.

It is a quiet town to-day, not a long ride from Boston. It would delight a tired man or an artist; it is old-fashioned and full of rural beauty, a bit of old New England left over, as it were. Great elms throw their cloudlike shadows over the trim and well-kept roads in summertime. The churches, the homes, the farms all show a historic pride. Here great orchards once bloomed; here the Baltimore orioles still swing in the elms, and the bobolinks topple in the clover meadows. Here the lilacs still bloom by door-yard walls, and the people draw water from the round stone wells of the generations gone.

Obed was a "bound boy," as an apprentice lad was called. He was "bound out," to use another old New England term, to a certain Mr. Miller, who was a farmer and a cobbler. This Mr. Miller was named Brister—Brister Miller—a surname not uncommon in colonial times.

A bound boy was one who was "let out" by his parents or guardian or the "selectmen" to the service of another for a term of years; really, a slave for a limited time. Brister Miller had in his family a bound boy and a bound girl.

The girl's name was Eliza. She had come to Boston from England. Her parents had died, and she had been found a home on Brister Miller's bowery farm. Bound children and boys and girls worked hard in the old times, and had but few privileges. They were sometimes allowed to go to the "General Training," and to share in the husking frolics, and they were always permitted to listen for a time after "early candlelight" to the stories that were told on old red settles in cool weather by the open fires.

As Eliza had come from England she was called "English Eliza." She was a good-hearted, resolute girl. She became a great friend to Obed, whom her warm heart pitied, owing to her own hard and solitary lot.

It was the last day of October. There had been a warm rain, which had kept Obed and English Eliza from the husk heap. The weather had suddenly changed towards evening. A chill had come down from the north, and the family and work-people had gathered after supper around the crackling fire. Mr. Miller sat shelling corn with a cob, and Mrs. Miller began to knit by the tallow candle.

The work-people told stories. These stories were of a strange and exciting kind, and related to the times of the Indian war, or to people with haunted consciences who thought that they had seen ghosts. Young people listened to such tales in terror. English Eliza had never heard these tales before or any narratives like them. She saw that the ghost stories filled Obed with fear, and she pitied him.

On this particular night, after a story had been told that made Obed sit close to an older farm-hand, Mrs. Miller paused in her work, and, lifting her brows, said,

"There, English Eliza, what do you think of such doin's as that?"

Eliza looked at Obed, and his fixed eyes and white face nerved her to make a very honest and resolute answer.

"I don't believe in ghosts, marm."

"Why, Eliza?"

"Honest people never see 'em; if they think they do, they find them out. It is folks with haunted consciences that see such things, marm; folks with something wrong, or touched in mind, marm. I wouldn't be afraid to go right into a grave-yard at midnight. Why should I! I never did any one harm. This is an awful night to some folks in England—those who fear a death fetch and have sins on their souls. But to good people this is the merriest night of all the year, except Christmas, only. It is Halloween, marm."

What was the girl talking about? A "death fetch," and merrymaking and "Halloween."

Mrs. Miller dropped her knitting-work into her lap. The cat, who seemed to feel that there was terror in the air, leaped into the knitting. Mrs. Miller gave the poor scared little animal a slap, and then looking Eliza straight in the face, said,

"'Liza, do you speak true? Remember, 'Liza, that you are a bound girl."

"Never a word in jest, marm. My folks were honest people, marm, and I an honest girl."

"'Liza, what is that awful thing that you told about—that death fetch?"

"On Halloween a person goes into the church and says a prayer, and when he comes out into the church-yard he sees all the people who are going to die during the year. An old sexton did it, and he saw himself, marm. A death fetch is a warning, marm. There is no truth in such stories, marm; my mother taught me never to believe 'em, marm, and she was an honest, Christian woman, marm, and she used to say that a person who always did right had nothing to fear. I would believe my mother's word against the world, marm. She died in peace, marm, and I want to be just like her."

"'Liza, what is Halloween?"

Brister Miller stopped shelling corn. The company on the settle snuggled up close to each other, and the poor cat uttered a faint little "meow," and received another slap from her mistress, which seemed to be comfort.

"Ghost night, marm. The night when good spirits visit their friends, marm. It is All-Hallow eve—the eve of All Saints' day."

"'Liza, remember that you are a bound girl."

"I never forget it, marm."

"Now, tell the truth. What do they do on Halloween?"

"They put apples into deep tubs full of water, and bob for them with their heads, marm; and they puts 'em also on sticks like a wheel, and hangs the wheel from the ceiling, with a burning tallow candle on one side of the wheel, and you catch an apple in your mouth as the wheel turns, marm, or else get smutched with the candle, marm, which is more likely, and then you gets laughed at, marm. And you pare apples, and throw the paring over your right shoulder, and it makes the first letter of the name of the man that you are to marry, marm."

Mrs. Miller lifted her hands.

"And you eat an apple before a looking-glass, holding a candle in your left hand, and the one you are to marry comes and looks over your shoulder into the glass, marm. And they tell you to find fern-seed, and you will become rich, marm. But there ain't any fern-seed to be found, marm. And they do lots of things."

"'Liza, what do the saints have to do with such doin's as these?"

"They like to see young folks enjoy themselves, I expects, marm."

"It is the ghost of the living that seem to come, 'Liza."

"All the more interesting, marm."

"Oh,'Liza! 'Liza! such things bode no good! Mercy! what was that?'"

There came a succession of loud raps on the door.

"I hope that Halloween is not coming here," said Mrs. Miller.

The door suddenly opened with a gust of wind. A tall girl appeared out of breath, and said, "Please, Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Hopgood's very sick. Ma wants to know if you'll let Obed go for the doctor?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Obed, you put the horse into the wagon, and go!"

"Yes," echoed Mr. Miller. "Obed, you go!"

Obed's face was filled with pain and terror. English Eliza saw the expression, and she understood it. Obed stood up, but did not move.

"Why don't you go?" said Mr. Miller, severely.

"It is that night!"

"What?"

"Halloween," he added. "And I'll have to go by the way of the grave-yard."

English Eliza's heart was full. "I'm sorry I said these scary things, marm. Let me go with him, marm. I ain't afraid of anything, marm, and I do not wonder that Obed is afraid after such stories as they tell in this new country, marm."

"Yes, 'Liza, you may go. I can trust you anywhere."

Obed's cords seemed to unloose, and his feet flew. In a few minutes Obed and English Eliza were mounted on the carriage seat, and were soon speeding away towards the doctor's, which was in the centre of the town.

"Now, Obed, you shall keep Halloween. Young people in England sometimes ride on this night by lonely places just to test their courage. Obed, I believe that you have only one fault, and that is what my poor mother would have called superstitious fear. I think it is wrong to tell such stories to children as they have told you in this country. It will unman you."

It was a still cool night. The wind after a changing day had gone down. The moon hung high in the heavens, now and then shadowed by a fragment of a broken cloud. The road was filled with fallen leaves, which deadened the sound of the wheels. The walnut-trees with their falling nuts sent forth a pleasant odor, and there was a cidery smell about the old orchards that here and there lined the way. They emerged at last from a wood, and came into full view of the old country grave-yard on the hill-side, when something really surprising met their view.

Obed dropped the reins, and Eliza caught them. His knees began to shake, and he chattered, "Prophets and apostles!"

The horse trotted on.

"Whoa! What is that?"

"Go long!" said English Eliza, in a firm voice.

"Turn round—quick," said Obed.

"I can't, Obed; the road is too narrow. And I am on an errand of duty to a sick woman, and I will not do it."

"Eliza, it is awful. I shall go mad if you go on. My brain is turning now."

The sight indeed was a wonder. As it appeared from the road under the hill, a white horse arose from the grave-yard on the hill-side, and stood on his hind legs with his forefeet in the air.

"He is pawing the sky," said Obed; "never did any mortal man see a sight like that. He is climbing a shadow. I shall go crazy. Whoa!"

Eliza shook the reins, and said, firmly, "Go along!"

"Eliza, it must be that Halloween. My nerves are all shaken up. I've heard of white horses before. I tell you, stop! We'll get out of the back of the wagon, and run home."

"Never!" said Eliza.

"Well, I am going, anyway." Obed leaped from the wagon, exclaiming, "I'll give the alarm!"

"I am going for the doctor," said Eliza.

Obed flew. It was indeed a fearful tale that he had to tell when he reached the farm-house. We think that there seldom ever was heard a Halloween tale like that.

"It was a white horse, standing in the grave-yard, with his hind feet on the graves and his paws in the sky," said he, "and under him was a shadow like a cloud, and—"

"But where is Eliza?" asked Brister Miller.

"She rode right on after the doctor!"

"And you left her to meet such a sight as that!" said Mr. Miller.

"She would do it; she's onerary. There was no need that both of us should go for the doctor!"

Brister Miller called his hired people together, and they alarmed the neighborhood. At midnight a company of men had gathered before the house, who should go and see what this remarkable story could mean.

"I always thought that the girl was rather strange," said Mrs. Miller. "There may be some witchery or other about this Halloween."

Eliza, brave girl that she was, rode firmly towards the hill-side grave-yard. As she came nearer to it the white horse did not appear to be so large as when she first saw it. It was indeed a horse, a live one; it had its forefeet on the lower limbs of an old apple-tree, which limbs were bent downward toward the ground. It was eating apples off the high branches, reaching its long neck up to pick them.

Horses are very fond of apples, and try in every way to get into orchards when they have gained a taste for the fruit. They have been known to unhead apple barrels, and they will eat apples from the lower limbs of a tree, and reach high for the apple limbs after the fruit on the lower limbs are gone. They like sour apples, and in this way become cider drinkers.

Eliza stopped the wagon. She got out of it, and tied the horse to a tree by the roadside. It was midnight—Halloween. She thought of English merrymakings, of the games with apples, of the curious old stories and songs that she had heard on such nights as this in her girlhood. She hurried past the graves and came to the white horse, and said, "Jack! Jack!" The horse seemed alarmed, let his raised body down to the ground, snorted, and trotted away.

Eliza stood there all alone at that still midnight hour.

The moon rode clear in the heavens now; the woods were still, and around her were graves. Did she believe in spirits? Yes, in her mother's, and as soon as she thought of that she recalled that she had been sent for the doctor, and that it was her duty to hurry on. Her heart would have been light, but for her pity for Obed. He had indeed proved a coward, but he had been wrongly taught and trained.

She rode to the doctor's house, roused the doctor, and brought him back with her to the neighborhood, and left him at poor Mrs. Hopgood's, and then rode home.

She was surprised to see a crowd of men before the door. Obed stood among them. They awaited her coming in intense interest, but in silence.

She got down from the wagon, saying, "Some one will have to carry the doctor back again."

"Who will go?" asked Mr. Miller.

There was no response. No one wanted to meet a white horse with his body on a cloud and "his feet in the sky" on this mysterious night of Halloween.

"I will go," said Eliza, firmly.

"Yes, Eliza, you go," said Mr. Miller. "You are a brave girl."

Eliza mounted the wagon seat.

Obed stepped up to her, and whispered, "Say, Eliza, what was it?"

"I will never tell; remember, now remember once for all, for your sake, Obed, I will never tell. You played me a mean trick, Obed; but other people were to blame for it; you never had any one to teach you like my mother. For your sake, Obed, left, as you are, all alone in the world, I will never say another word. Now I have done my whole duty, Obed, and, although I cannot trust you, I will always be your friend."

Obed turned away.

"What did she say?" asked the people.

"She said that she would never tell what she saw," said Obed.

"I shall keep a close eye on that girl hereafter. There may be witches, and she may be one. This is a very strange night, this Halloween." So said Mrs. Miller.

Obed had received an arrow in his heart. "Although I cannot trust you," the words spoken by Eliza haunted him. He went about a dull, absent-minded young man, and the people attributed his sadness to the sight that he had seen in the midnight ride.

Eliza was always very kind to him. She never spoke to him of the night that he had deserted her but once. It was on the eve before she united with the village church.

"Obed," she said, "I have something on my conscience. I owe it to you to say that what I saw on that Halloween night would never have harmed you or me."

This confession added to his depression of spirits. He had indeed been a coward, and forfeited the trust of the best and truest heart that he had ever known.

The Revolution came. A new flag leaped into the air. Obed had heard the cannon of Bunker Hill, and seen from afar the smoke of the battle as it arose on the afternoon of that fateful day.

There was a call for minute-men. A horseman came riding into Medfield, blowing a horn, and calling upon the farmers to volunteer.

Obed started up at the sound. He knew what was wanted.

He called Eliza out under the great elms.

"English Eliza, I am going. I shall never come back. You will never see me again. I shall never come back. Some one must die in this cause, and who better than I? Coward you think me, but you do not know me. I am not afraid to die. We were thrown upon the world together, and I have thought well of you. Don't you remember how we used to go sassafrasing with each other?"

"Yes, Obed."

"And looking for Indian-pipe when we were not looking for anything?"

"Yes."

"And picking blue gentians in the old cranberry meadows?"

"Yes."

"And listening to the bluebirds when the maples were red; and to the martin birds when the apple-trees were in bloom; and to the red robins, and all?"

"Yes, yes."

"And we used to sing out of the same book on Sundays."

"Yes."

"You remember; I do. Eliza, I want you to make me one promise."

"I always thought well of you, Obed. I would die for you."

"I am going away, and I shall die for the cause. Some day the news will come back to ye that I am dead; that I fell on the field somewhere. I do not know where it will be. Will you forgive me, then, for being a coward on that Halloween night when I was a boy and you was a girl? Promise me that now."

"I forgave you long ago. I believe you to be a brave, true-hearted man, Obed. I think the world of you."

"But you don't know that I am not a coward. You will know. You will forgive all, then?"

"Yes; there is nothing between us now."

"'Yes,' you say. That word is all that I desire in this world. I am now ready to go."

He fell fighting bravely at Monmouth. Then English Eliza for the first time told the story of the midnight ride on Halloween, and what it was that Obed saw, and she added in tears,

"But he was a brave man, Obed was!"