Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 19 – Anonymous · Library Across
Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 19Part 1 · Uncle Jacob'S Gift (part 6)
18
Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 19
Part 1 · Uncle Jacob'S Gift (part 6)
AnonymousEnglish
"Sam, miss?" questioned the housekeeper timidly. All her nerve seemed to have departed from her since the report of that shot had rung through the house, and there was Timothy Smith's face staring up at her. Usually a stout-hearted woman, all her courage had deserted her now.
"Yes," said Patty gravely, "I think we shall have to take Sam into our confidence, unless I go myself. Perhaps, Mrs. Tucker, I had better go myself. Sam is only a boy, and he might be tempted to tell the story to everybody he met, and if the thieves themselves get wind of what has happened we shall have small chance of ever catching them. Would you be afraid if I rode off at once?"
Without any false pride the young girl saw how much depended on her, and saw too the blanched faces of the two women as they looked in turn at each other at the thought of their sole protector vanishing.
But it was only for a minute. Mrs. Tucker shook off with a courageous firmness the last remnant of nervousness that possessed her.
"Go, and the Lord go with you, Miss Patty," she said.
As she rode along through the quiet country lanes smelling sweet of the honeysuckle in the hedge and the wild dog-rose bursting into bloom, Patty's thoughts travelled fast and furiously, every whit as fast as Black Bess's hasty steps. Should she draw bridle at the village? No. She made up her mind quickly at that. In all probability the would-be thieves had made the village inn their headquarters for that day and night, and the pedlar--the man she wished most to avoid--would be the very person she would encounter. The village was small. Only one policeman patrolled the narrow-street, and that only occasionally, and how quickly would the news fly from mouth to mouth that a would-be robbery had been detected in time to save Colonel Bingham's valuable silver!
No, the pedlar would not be allowed to escape in that way if she could help it. Every step of the five miles to the town of Frampton would she ride, and draw help from there.
As she neared the village she walked her horse at a quiet pace, albeit her brain was throbbing, and her nerves all in a quiver to go faster. She nodded smilingly to the familiar faces as she met them in the street, although she felt very far from smiling, and everywhere she seemed to see the face of Timothy Smith. Then her heart gave a bound as she saw, leaning against the wicket-gate of the village inn, three men--two with the most villainous faces she had ever seen, and the third bore the face of the man that Fanny had described as the pedlar. She was not mistaken, then, when she thought they would make this their headquarters.
She drew bridle as she neared the inn. Her quick brain saw the necessity of it, if but to explain her presence there.
"Will you be so good as to ask the landlady to come out to me?" she asked, with a gracious smile--the smile that the villagers always said was "Miss Patty's own."
The pedlar lifted his cap with the same air that Fanny had so accurately described, and himself undertook to go upon the mission.
"Bless you, Miss Patty," exclaimed the buxom landlady as she came out, curtseying and smiling, followed in a leisurely manner by the pedlar, "where be you a-ridin' that Black Bess be so hot and foam-like about the mouth?"
Patty stooped forward and patted her horse's neck, fully aware that three pairs of ears at the wicket-gate were being strained to catch her answer.
"It is too bad of me to ride her so fast, Mrs. Clark. The fact of the matter is I ought to be at Miss Price's this moment for tennis and tea, but I am late, and have been trying to make up for lost time. However, I must not breathe Black Bess too much, must I, or else I shall not be allowed to ride her again?" and Patty smiled her bewitching smile, which always captivated the heart of the landlady of the Roaring Lion.
An order for supplies for the servants' cellar, given in a firm voice, justified her appearance in the village and satisfied the eager listeners as to the object of her visit, after which, with a nod and a smile, Patty rode onwards.
Not till she was out of sight and hearing of the village did she urge Black Bess to the top of her bent, and they flew onwards like the wind.
Thud, thud, thud went the horse's hoofs, keeping time to the beating of Patty's heart as she recalled again and again the villainous faces leaning over the wicket-gate.
Even Black Bess seemed to realise the importance of her mission and it was not long before Patty's heart grew lighter as she caught sight not very far off of the spire of Trinity Church, and the turreted roof of the Town Hall of Frampton. Reaching the town she drew rein at Major Price's house, where, with bated breath, her story was received by the major and his two grown-up sons. A message was sent to the police station, and in a short while two burly sergeants of police presented themselves, to whom Patty repeated her tale.
Arrangements were soon made. A surgeon was sent for and engaged to drive over with the police.
"They rascals won't break in till darkness falls, miss," said one of the men. "But we'll start at once in a trap. Better be too early than too late."
The Prices would not hear of Patty riding Black Bess back. They themselves would drive her home in the high dog-cart, and Black Bess would be left behind to forget her fatigue in Major Price's comfortable stables.
Of course they didn't go the way that Patty had come. It would never have done to go through the village and meet those same ruffians, who would have understood the position in the twinkling of an eye. Instead, they took a roundabout way, which, although it took an extra half hour, brought them through the wood on the other side of Colonel Bingham's house.
"It is lonely--too lonely a place," muttered Major Price, as the two conveyances swung round to the front of the house.
"But it's lovely, and we love it," answered Patty softly.
Then the door was opened cautiously by Sam, and behind him were the huddled figures of Mrs. Tucker, cook, and Fanny. What a sigh of relief ran through the assembly when the burly forms of the two policeman made their appearance in the hall! And tears of real thankfulness sprang to poor Fanny's eyes, whose red rims told their own tale.
Poor Patty's heart beat painfully as she conducted the six men to the breakfast-room where the wounded coachman lay. She stood with averted face and eyes as they bent over him, twining and re-twining her fingers with nervous terror as she thought that it was her hand that had perhaps killed him.
"Ah! this tells something," exclaimed one of the officers in uniform, detaching as he spoke a small whistle fastened round the neck of the man who lay all unconscious of that official attention. "This was to give the alarm when all in the house were asleep. We shall use this when the time comes to attract the men here."
Beyond the discovery of the whistle, and a revolver, nothing more of importance was found, and all caught themselves wishing for the time for action to arrive.
The surgeon dressed the man's wounds and declared him to be in no immediate danger, after which they carried him upstairs to a remote room, where it would be quite impossible for him to give any warning to his confederates, even if he should have the strength.
The hour came at last when poor Patty felt worn out with suspense and fearful anxiety; came, when Mrs. Tucker and her two maids were strung up to an almost hysterical pitch of excitement; came, when Sam was beginning to look absolutely hollow-eyed with watching every movement of the police with admiring yet fearful glances.
It was twelve o'clock. The grandfather's clock on the stairs had struck the hour in company with several silvery chimes about the house, making music when all else was still as death.
Up to that time the sky had been dark and lowering, causing darkness to reign supreme, till the full moon, suddenly emerging from the heavy flying clouds, lighted up the house and its surroundings with its refulgent beams. Then suddenly throughout the silent night there rang forth a low, soft, piercing whistle. Only once it sounded, and then dead silence fell again. The wounded man started in his bed, but he could not raise his hand, and the whistle was gone.
The eyes of the women watchers looked at each other with faces weary and worn with anxiety and fear.
Then another sound broke the stillness. Another whistle--an answering call to the one that had rung forth before! It had the effect of startling every one in the house, for it came from under the very window of the room in which they were gathered.
With an upraised finger, cautioning silence, the sergeant stepped to the window and raised it softly.
"Hist!" he said in a thrilling whisper, without showing himself, "the lib'ry winder."
He softly closed the casement again, having discerned in that brief moment the moonlit shadows of three men lying athwart the lawn.
In stockinged feet the five men slid noiselessly into the library where the Venetians had been so lowered as to prevent the silvery moonrays from penetrating into the room. Placing the three gentlemen in convenient places should their assistance be needed, one of the men in uniform pushed aside the French window which he had previously unfastened to be in readiness.
"Hist! softly there," he growled; "the swag is ours."
With a barely concealed grunt of satisfaction the window was pushed farther open, and the forms of three men made their way into the room.
With lightning-like celerity the arms of the first man were pinioned, and when the others turned to fly they found their egress cut off by the three Prices, who stood pointing menacing revolvers at them.
"The game's up!" growled the sham pedlar. "Who blabbed?"
"Not Timothy Smith," said the elder sergeant lightly, as he adroitly fastened the handcuffs on his man.
"What's come of him?"
"He's in bed, as all decent people ought to be at this time o'night," and the sergeant laughed at his own wit.
The police carried their men off in triumph in the trap, and the wiry little pony, rejoiced to find his head turned homewards, trotted on right merrily, requiring neither whip nor word to urge him on to express speed, in total ignorance of the vindictive feelings that animated the breasts of three at least of the men seated behind him.
Major Price and his two sons remained till the morning, for Patty had broken down when all was over, and then a telegram summoned Colonel Bingham to return.
"I am not exactly surprised," he said at length, when he had heard the story; "something like this was bound to occur one day or other, and I cannot be too thankful that nothing has happened to injure my dear brave girl, or any of the household. Patty, I have felt so convinced of something dreadful happening during one of my unavoidable absences from home that I have made arrangements with an old friend of mine in town to lease this place to him for three years."
"And when does he come?" asked Patty breathlessly.
"Next month. He is going to make it a fishing- and shooting-box, and have bachelor friends to stay with him. So, my dear, we all clear out in a month's time."
Patty gave a long-drawn sigh. Her father did not know whether it was one of pleasure or regret.
"We can come back if we like after the three years," he whispered.
"I am glad we are going just now," she whispered back. "That pedlar's eyes haunt me, and they are all desperate men."
These words were sufficient to make Colonel Bingham hurry on his arrangements, so that before three weeks were over he and his whole household were on their way to their new home.
As they got out of the train Colonel Bingham turned to Patty. "You and I will drive to Lady Glendower's, where we shall stay the night."
"Oh, dad, darling dad, don't take me there. Aunt Glendower won't like a hoyden to visit her."
"She will like to welcome a brave girl," answered her father quietly.
But as Patty still shrank away from the thought he added:
"I have told her all that has happened, and she herself wrote asking me to bring you, and I promised I would."
Rose met her with soft, clinging kisses, and then Lady Glendower folded her in an embrace such as Patty had not thought her capable of giving.
"I am proud of my brave niece," she whispered. "Patty, go upstairs with Rose, and get Celine to measure you for your ball-dress. I am going to give another ball next month, and you are to be the heroine."
Under skilful treatment Timothy Smith recovered his usual health, though the injury to his hand and knee made him a cripple for the rest of his life. The trial was another terrible experience for Patty, and Fanny thought she would have died when she saw the prisoners stand forward in the dock to receive sentence. "Five years' penal servitude," said the judge, and Patty sometimes shudders to think that the five years are nearly up.
THE UNBIDDEN GUEST.
BY F. B. FORESTER.
"No, sir," the old keeper said reflectively. "I don't know no ghost stories; none as you'd care to hear, that is. But I could tell you of something that happened in these parts once, and it was as strange a thing as any ghost story I ever heard tell on."
I had spent the morning on the moor, grouse shooting, and mid-day had brought me for an hour's welcome rest to the lonely cottage, where the old superannuated keeper, father to the stalwart velvet-jacketed Hercules who had acted as my guide throughout the forenoon, lived from year's end to year's end with his son and half-a-dozen dogs for company. The level beams of the glowing August sun bathed in a golden glow the miles of purple moorland lying round us; air and scenery were good to breathe and to look on; and now, as the three of us sat on a turf seat outside the cottage door enjoying the soft sleepy inaction of the afternoon, a question of mine concerning the folk-lore of the district, after which, hardened materialist though I called myself, I was conscious of a secret hankering, had drawn the foregoing remark from the patriarchal lips.
"Let's hear it, by all means," said I, lighting my pipe and settling myself preparatory to listening. A slight grunt, resembling a stifled laugh, came from Ben the keeper.
"You'll have to mind, sir," he put in, a twinkle in his eye. "Dad believes what he's agoing to tell you, every word of it. It's gospel truth to him."
"Ay, that I do," responded the old man warmly. "And why shouldn't I? Didn't I see it with my own eyes? And seein's believin', ain't it?"
"You arouse my curiosity," I said. "Let us have the story by all means, and if it is a personal experience, so much the better."
"Well, sir," began the old man, evidently gratified by these signs of interest, and casting a triumphant glance at his son, "what I've got to tell you don't belong to this time of day, of course. When I says I was a little chap of six years old or thereabouts, and that I'll be eighty-five come Michaelmas, you'll understand that it must have been a tidy sight of years ago.
"Father, he was keeper on these moors here, same as his son's been after him, and as his son"--with a glance of fatherly pride at the stalwart young fellow beside him--"is now, and will be for many years to come, please God. Him and mother and me, the three of us, lived together in just such another cottage as this one, across t'other side of the moor, out Farnington way. The railway runs past there now, over the very place the cottage stood on, I believe; but no one so much as dreamt o' railways, time I talk on. Not a road was near, and all around there was nothin' but the moors stretching away for miles, all purple ling and heather, with not a living soul nearer than Wharton, and that was a good twelve miles away. It was pretty lonely for mother, o' course, during the day; but she was a brave woman, and when dad come home at night, never a word would she let on to tell him how right down scared she got at times and how mortally sick she felt of hearing the sound of her own voice.
"'Been pretty quiet for you, Polly?' dad would say at night sometimes, when the three of us would be sitting round the fire, with the flame dancing and shining on the wall and making black shadows in all the corners.
"'Ye-es, so, so,' mother would answer, kind of grudging like, and then she'd start telling him what she'd been about all day, or something as I'd said or done, so as to turn his attention, you see, sir. And as a woman can gen'rally lead a man off on whatever trail she likes to get his nose on dad would never think no more about it; and as for mother and me being that lonely, when he and the dogs were all away, why, I don't suppose the thought of it ever entered his head. So, what with her never complaining, and that, dad grew easier in his mind, and once or twice, when he'd be away at the Castle late in the afternoon, he'd even stay there overnight.
"Well, sir, one day when dad comes home to get his dinner he tells mother as how there's a lot of gentlemen come down from London for the shooting, and as he'd got orders to be on hand bright and early next morning,--the meaning of that being that he'd have to spend the night at the Castle. Mother didn't say much; 'twasn't her way to carry on when she knew a thing couldn't be helped, and dad went on talking.
"'To-morrow's quarter-day, Polly, and you've got our rent all right for the agent when he comes. Put this along wi' it, lass, it's Tom Regan's, and he's asked me to hand it over for him and save the miles of walking.'
"I don't know what come to mother, whether something warned her, or what, but she give a sort of jump as dad spoke.
"'Oh, Jim,' says she, all in a twitter, 'you're never going to leave all that money here, and you away, and the child and me all alone. Can't you--can't you leave one of the dogs?'
"Dad stared at her. 'No,' he says, 'I can't, more's the pity. They're all wanted to-morrow, and I've sent them on to the Castle. Why, Polly, lass, what's come to you? I've never known you take on like this before.'
"Then mother, seeing how troubled and uneasy he looked, plucked up heart and told him, trying to laugh, never to mind her--she had only been feeling a bit low, and it made her timid like. But dad didn't laugh in answer, only said very grave that if he'd ha' known she felt that way, he'd have took good care she wasn't ever left alone overnight. This should be the last time, he'd see to that, and anyhow he'd take the rent money with him and wouldn't leave it to trouble her. Then he kissed her, and kissed me, and went off, striding away over the moors towards Farnington--the sunset way I called it, 'cause the sun set over there; and I can see him big and tall like Ben here, moving away among the heather till we lost him at the dip of the moor. And I mind how, just before we saw no more of him, he pulled up and looked back, as if mother's words stuck to him, somehow, and he couldn't get them out of his mind.
"Mother seemed queer and anxious all that afternoon. Long before dusk she called me in from playing in the bit of garden in front of the door, and shut and barred it closely, not so much as letting me stand outside to watch the sunset, as I always liked to do. It was getting dark already, the shadows had begun to fall black and gloomy all round the cottage, and the fire was sending queer dancing gleams flickering up the wall, when I hears a queer, scratching, whining noise at the door.
"Mother was putting out the tea-cups, and she didn't hear it at first. But I, sitting in front of the fire, heard it well enough, and I tumbled off my stool and ran to the door to get it open, for I thought I knew what it was. But mother had pulled the bar across at the top and I couldn't stir it.
"'There's something at the door that wants to come in,' I says, pulling at it.
"'There ain't nothing of the sort,' says mother shortly, and goes on putting out the tea. 'Let the door alone.'
"'Yes, there is,' I says. 'It's a dog. It's Nip, or Juno,' meaning the brace of pointers that dad had usually in the kennels outside.
"Then mother, thinking that perhaps dad had found that one of the dogs could be spared after all, and had told it to go home, went to the door and opened it. I had been right and wrong too, for on the doorstep there was a large black dog.
"My word! but he was a beautiful creature, sir, the finest dog I ever set eyes on. Like a setter in the make of him, but no setter that ever I saw could match him for size or looks. His coat was jet-black, as glossy as the skin of a thoroughbred, with just one streak of white showing down the breast, and his eyes--well, they were the very humanest, sir, that ever I see looking out of a dog's face.
"Now mother, although she had expected to find a dog outside, hadn't dreamt of anything except one of ourn, and she made like to shut the door on him. But the creature was too quick for her. He had pushed his head through before she knew it, and she scarcely saw how, or even felt the door press against her when he had slipped past and was in the room.
"Mother was used to dogs, and hadn't no fear of them, but she didn't altogether like strange ones, you see, sir, me being such a child and all; and her first thought was to put the creature out. So she pulled the door wide open and pointed to it, stamping her foot and saying, 'Be off! Go-home.'
"It was all very well to say that, but the dog wouldn't go. Not a step would he budge, but only stood there, wagging his tail and looking at her with them beautiful eyes of his, as were the biggest and beautifullest and softest I ever see in dog before or since. She took up a stick then, but his eyes were that imploring that she hadn't the heart to use it; and at last, for the odd kind of uneasiness that had hung about her ever since dad had gone was on her still, and the dog was a dog and meant protection whatever else it might be, she shut the door, barred it across, and said to me that we would let it stop.
"I was delighted, of course, and wanted to make friends at once; but the queer thing was that the dog wouldn't let me touch him. He ran round under the table and lay down in a corner of the room, looking at me with his big soft eyes and wagging his tail, but never coming no nearer. Mother put down some water, and he lapped a little, but he only sniffed at a bone she threw him and didn't touch it.
"It was quite dark by this time, and mother lit a candle and set it on the table to see to have tea by. Afterwards she took her knitting and sat down by the fire, and I leaned against her, nodding and half asleep. The dog lay in the corner farthest from us, between the fireplace and the wall; and I'd forgotten altogether about him, when mother looks up sudden. 'Bless me,' says she, 'how bright the fire do catch the wall to-night. I haven't dropped a spark over there, surely!' And up she gets and crosses over to t'other side to where the firelight was dancing and flickering on the cottage wall.
"Now, sir, whether it was no more than just the light catching them, mind you, I can't say. I only know that as mother come to the corner where that dog was a-lying, and he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes were a-shining with a queer lamping sort of light, that seemed to make the place bright all round him. But it wasn't till afterwards that she thought of it, for at that moment there came a sudden sharp knock at the door.
"My eye! how mother jumped; and I see her face turn white. For in that lonely out-of-the-way place we never looked for visitors after dark, nor in the day time, many of 'em; and the sound of this knock now give her quite a turn. Presently there come a faint voice from outside, asking for a crust of bread.
"Mother didn't stir for a moment, for the notion of unbarring the door went against her. The knock come a second time.
"'For pity's sake--for the sake of the child,' the voice said again, pleading like.
"Now, mother was terrible soft-hearted, sir, wherever children were concerned, and the mention of a child went straight home to her heart. I see her glance at me, and I knowed the thought passing through her mind, as after a moment's pause she got up, stepped across the room and unbarred the door. On the step outside stood a woman with a baby in her arms.
"Her voice had sounded faint-like, but there was nothing in the fainting line about her when she had got inside, for she come inside quick enough the moment mother had unbarred the door. She looked like a gipsy, for her face was dark and swarthy, and the shawl round her head hid a'most all but the wild gleam of her eyes; and all the time she kep' on rock, rocking that child in her arms until I reckon she must have rocked all the crying out of it, for never a word come from its lips. She sat down where mother pointed, and took the food she was given, but she offered nothing to the child. It was asleep, she said, when mother wanted to look at it.
"Yes, she was a gipsy, and on the tramp across the moor she had missed her way in the fog; for there was a heavy fog coming up. 'How far was it to Farnington? Twelve miles? She'd be thankful to sit and rest by the fire a bit, then, if mother would let her.' And without waiting for yes or no, she turned round and put the child out of her arms down on the settle at her back. Then she swung round again and sat staring with her black eyes at the fire. I was sat on my stool opposite, and, child-like, I never so much as took my eyes off her, wondering at her gaunt make, the big feet in the clumsy men's boots that showed beneath her skirts, and the lean powerful hands lying in her lap. Seems she didn't altogether like me watching her, for after a bit she turns on me and asks:
"'What are you staring at, you brat?'
"'Nothin',' says I.
"'Then if you wants to look at nothin',' says she with a short laugh, 'you can go and stare at the kiddy there, not at me.' And she jerked her head towards the settle, where the baby was a-lying.
"'Ah, poor little thing,' says mother, getting up, 'it don't seem natural for it to lie there that quiet. I'll bring it to the fire and warm it a drop o' milk.'
"She bent down over the baby and was just about to take it in her arms, when she give a scream that startled me off my stool, and stood up, her face as white as death. For it was nothing but a shawl or two rolled round something stiff and heavy as was lying on the settle, and no child at all.
"I was a-looking at mother, and I had no eyes for the woman until I see mother's face change and an awful look of fear come over it. And when I turned to see what she was staring at with them wild eyes, the woman had flung off her shawl and the wrap she wore round her head, and was stood up with a horrid, mocking smile on his face. For it was no woman, sir, as you'll have guessed, but a man.
"'Well, mistress,' he says, coming forward a pace or two, 'I didn't mean to let the cat out of the bag so soon; but what's done's done. There's a little trifle of rent-money put by for the agent, as I've taken a fancy to; and that's what's brought me here. If you hand it over quietly, so much the better for you; if not.... I'm not one to stick at trifles; I've come for that money, and have it I will.'
"'I have not got it,' mother said, plucking up what heart she could, and speaking through her white and trembling lips.
"'That don't go down with me,' said the fellow with an oath. 'I didn't sleep under the lee of Tom Regan's hayrick for nothin' last night, and I heard every word that was spoken between him and your Jim. You'd better tell me where you've got it stowed, or you'll be sorry for it. You're a woman, mind you, and alone.'
"Mother's lips went whiter than ever, but she said never a word. I had begun to cry.
"'Hold your row, you snivelling brat,' the fellow said with a curse. 'Come, mistress, you'd best not try my patience too long.'
"Now, mother was a brave woman, as I've said, and I don't believe, if the money had been left in her charge, as she'd have given it up tamely and without so much as a word. But of course, as things were, she could do no more than say, over and over again, as she hadn't got it. Then the brute began to threaten her, with threats that made her blood run cold; for she was only a woman, sir, and alone, except for me, a child as could do nothing in the way of help. With a last horrid threat on his lips the fellow turned towards the settle--there was a pistol hid in the clothes of the sham baby we found out afterwards--when he was stopped by something as come soft and noiseless out of the corner beyond and got right in his way. I see what it was after a minute. Between him and the settle where the pistol was lying there was standing that dog.
"The creature had showed neither sight nor sound of itself since the woman had come in, and we'd forgotten about it altogether, mother and me. There it stood now, though, still as a stone, but all on the watch, the lips drawn back from the sharp white teeth, and its eyes fixed, with a savage gleam in them, on the fellow's face. I was nothing but a child, and no thought of anything beyond had come to me then; but I tell you, sir, child as I was, I couldn't help feeling that the grin on the creature's face had something more than dog-like in it; and for nights to come I couldn't get the thought of it out of my head.
"Our visitor looked a bit took aback when he saw the creature, for most of his sort are terrible feared of a dog. But 'twas only for a moment, and then he laughed right out.
"'He's an ugly customer, but he won't help you much, mistress,' he said with a sneer. 'I've something here as'll settle him fast enough.' With that he stretched out his hand towards the bundle on the settle.
"The hand never reached it, sir. You know the choking, worrying snarl a dog gives before he springs to grip his enemy by the throat, the growl that means a movement--and death! That sound stopped the scoundrel, and kept him, unable to stir hand or foot, with the dog in front of him, never moving, never uttering a sound beyond that low threatening growl, but watching, only watching. He might have been armed with a dozen weapons, and it would have been all the same. Those sharp, bared fangs would have met in his throat before he could have gripped the pistol within a foot of his hand; and he knew it, and the knowledge kept him there still as a stone, with the dog never taking its watching, burning eyes from his face.
"'I'm done,' he owned at last, when minutes that seemed like hours had gone by. 'I'm done this time, mistress, thanks to the dog-fiend you've got here. I tell you I'd not have stopped at murder when I come in; but that kid of yours could best me now. Make the devil brute take his eyes off me, and let me go.'
"All trembling like a leaf, mother got to the door and drew back the bar. The fellow crossed the kitchen and slunk out, and the dog went with him. It followed him with its nose close at his knee as he crossed the threshold, and the two of them went like that, out into the fog and over the lonely moorland into the night. We never saw nor heard of the dog again.
"There were gipsies in the neighbourhood, crossing the moor out Wharton way, and when the story got about folk told us as 'twas known they had some strange-looking dogs with them, and said that this one must have belonged to the lot. But mother, she never believed in nothin' of the sort, and to the day of her death she would have it as the creature had been sent to guard her and me from the danger that was to come to us that night. She held that it was something more than a dog, sir; and you see there was one thing about it uncommon strange. When dad come back that next morning, our two pointers, Nip and Juno, followed him into the cottage. But the moment they got inside a sort of turn came over them, and they rushed out all queer and scared; while as for the water mother had set down for the black dog to drink, there was no getting them to put their lips to it. Not thirsty, sir? Well, sir, seeing as there warn't no water within six mile or so, and they'd come ten miles that morning over the moor, you'll excuse me saying you don't know much about dogs if you reckon they warn't thirsty!
"Coincidence you say, sir? Well, I dunno the meaning of that--maybe it's a word you gentles gives to the things you can't explain. But I've told you the story just as it happened, and I'd swear it's true, anyhow. If a gentleman like you can't see daylight in it, t'ain't for the likes of me to try; but I sticks to it that, say what folks will, the thing was uncommon strange.... Not tried the west side, haven't you, sir? Bless your heart, Ben, what be you a-thinking of? The birds are as thick as blackberries down by the Grey Rock and Deadman's Hollow."
"That's a gruesome name," I said, rising and lifting my gun, while Ben coupled up the brace of dogs. I noticed a glance exchanged between father and son as the younger man lifted his head.
"Yes, sir," responded the former quietly; "the morning after that night I've been telling you of, the body of a man was found down there, and that's how the hollow got its name. Mother, she knew him again the moment she set eyes on the dead face, for all he'd got quit of the woman's clothes; and there warn't no mark nor wound on him, to show how he'd come by his death. Oh, yes, sir; I ain't saying as the fog warn't thick that night, nor as how it wouldn't have been easy enough for him to ha' missed his footing in the dark; though to be sure there were folks as would have it 'twarn't that as killed him.... Good-day to you, sir, and thank you kindly. Ben here'll see to your having good sport."
It was vexing to find so much gross superstition still extant in this last decade of the nineteenth century, certainly. Yet for all that, and though the notion of a spook dog was something too much for the materialistic mind to swallow, there is no use denying that, as I stood an hour later in Deadman's Hollow, with the recollection of the weird story I had just heard fresh in my memory, I was conscious of a cold shiver, which all the strength of the August sunshine, bathing the moorland in a glow of gold, was quite unable to lessen or to drive away.
THE WRECK OF THE MAY QUEEN.
BY ALICE F. JACKSON.
There was something in the air. Something ominous. A whisper of which we heard only the rustle, as it were--nothing of the words; but when one is on the bosom of the deep--hundreds of miles from land--in the middle of the Pacific Ocean--ominous whispers are, to say the least of it, a trifle disconcerting.
"What is it?" whispered Sylvia.
"I don't know," I said.
"Anything wrong with the ship?"
But I could only shrug my shoulders.
Sylvia said, "Let us ask Dr. Atherton."
So we did. But Dr. Atherton only smiled.
"There was something behind that smile of his," said Sylvia, suspiciously. "As if we were babies, either of us," she added, severely.
Yes, there was something suspicious in that smile. And Dr. Atherton hadn't looked at us full in the face while he talked. Besides, there was a sort of lurking pity in his voice; and--yes, I'm sure his lip had twitched a little nervously.
"Why should he be nervous if there is nothing the matter with the ship?"
"And why should he look as if he felt sorry for us?"
"Let's ask the captain," I said.
"Just leave the ship in my keeping, young ladies," said the captain, when we asked him. "Go back to your fancy-work and your books."
The May Queen was not a regular passenger ship. Sylvia, and I, and Dr. Atherton were the only passengers. She was laden with wool--a cargo boat; but Sylvia and I were accommodated with such a pretty cabin!
We had left Sydney in the captain's charge. Father wanted us to have a year's schooling in England; and we were coming to Devonshire to live with Aunt Sabina, and get a little polishing at a finishing school.
Of course we had chummed up with Dr. Atherton, though we had never met him before. One's obliged to be friendly with every one on board, you know; and then he was the only one there was to be friendly with. He was acting as the ship's surgeon for the voyage home. He was going to practise in England. He was, perhaps, twenty-five--not more than twenty-six, at any rate, and on the strength of that he began to constitute himself a sort of second guardian over us.
We didn't object. He was very nice. And, indeed, he made the time pass very pleasantly for us.
Sylvia was sixteen, and I was fifteen; and the grey-haired captain was the kindest chaperon.
For the first fortnight we had the most delightful weather; and then it began to blow a horrid gale. The May Queen pitched frightfully, and "took in," as the sailors said, "a deal of water."
For three days the storm raged violently. We thought the ship would never weather it. I don't know what we should have done without Dr. Atherton. And then quite suddenly the wind died away, and there came a heavenly calm.
The sea was like a mill-pond. It was beautiful! Sylvia and I began to breathe again, when, all at once, we felt that ominous something in the air.
"Thud! thud! thud!" All day long we heard that curious sound--and at dead of night too, if we happened to be awake. "Thud! thud! thud!" unceasingly.
The sailors, too, forgot their jocular sayings, and seemed too busy now to notice us. Some looked flurried, some looked sullen; but all looked anxious, we thought. And they were working, working, always working away at the bottom of the ship. And always that "thud! thud! thud!"
And then we learned by accident what the matter was.
"Five feet of water in the well!" It was the captain's voice.
And Dr. Atherton's murmured something that we did not catch.
We were in the cabin, and the door was just ajar. They thought we girls were up on deck, I suppose. Sylvia flung out her hand and pressed me on the arm; and then she put her finger on her lip.
"All hands are at the pumps," the captain said. "Their exertions are counteracting the leak. The water in the well is neither more nor less. I've just been sounding it again."
"Can't the leak be stopped?" asked Dr. Atherton.
"Yes, if we could find it. We've been creeping about her ribs all the better part of the morning, but we cannot discover the leak."
"And the water's still coming in?"
"Still coming in. They're working like galley-slaves to keep it under, but we make no headway at all. I greatly fear that some of her seams have opened during the gale."
"And that means----"
"That means the water is coming in through numerous apertures," said the captain grimly.
"Is the May Queen in danger, captain?" asked Dr. Atherton in a steady voice.
There was a pause. We could hear our own hearts beat. And then:
"I would to Heaven that those girls were not on board!"
"But we are!" It was Sylvia's voice. With a bound she had flung open the door, and stood confronting the astonished pair. "We are here. And as we are here, Captain Maitland, oh! don't, don't keep us in the dark!"
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the doctor.
And the captain said in his severest tones:
"Young lady, you've been eavesdropping, I see. Let me tell you that's a thing I won't allow."
"Oh! Captain Maitland, is the ship in danger?" I cried.
But the captain only glared at me. He looked excessively annoyed.
Then Sylvia ran up and put her hand upon his arm.
"We could not help hearing," she said. "If the ship is in danger really, it is better for us to know. Please, don't be vexed with us; but we'd rather be told the truth. We--we----"
"Are not babies," I put in, with my heart going pit-a-pat.
"Nor cowards," added Sylvia, with a lip that trembled a little.
It made the captain cough.
"The--the May Queen has sprung a leak?" she said.
"You heard me say so, I suppose."
"And the ship is in danger, Captain Maitland?"
"Can you trust me, young lady?" was his answer.
Sylvia put her hand in his.
"You know we trust you," she said.
He caught it in a hearty grasp; and gave me an encouraging smile.
"Thank you for that, my child. The May Queen's got five feet of water in her well, because she got damaged in that gale. So far we're managing to pump the water out as fast as the water comes in. D'you follow me?"
"Yes," fluttered to her lips.
"So far, so good. Don't worry. Try not to trouble your heads about this thing at all. Just say to yourselves, 'The captain's at the helm.' All that can be done is being done, young ladies. And," pointing upwards, "the other CAPTAIN'S aloft."
He was gone. In a dazed way I heard Dr. Atherton saying something to Sylvia. And a few minutes after that he, too, had disappeared. "Gone," Sylvia said in an awe-struck whisper, "to work in his turn at the pumps."
No need to wonder now at that unceasing "Thud! thud!" The noise of it not only sounded in our ears, it struck us like blows on our hearts.
We crept up on deck. We could breathe there. We could see. Oh! how awful was the thought of going down, down--drowning in the cabin below!
Air, and light, and God's sky was above. And we prayed to the CAPTAIN aloft.
The sea was so calm that danger, after having weathered that fearful gale, seemed almost impossible to us. The blue water reflected the blue heaven above; and when the setting sun cast a rosy light over the sky, the sea caught the reflection as well.
It was beautiful.
"It doesn't seem so dangerous now, Sylvia," I whispered, "as it felt during the gale."
"No," came through her colourless lips.
"There's not a ripple on the sea," I said; "and if they keep on pumping the water out, we'll--we'll get to land in time."
"Yes," she said, and held my hand a little tighter. After a while, "I wonder if we're very far from land."
"Nine hundred miles, I think I heard Mr. Wheeler say." She shuddered.
Mr. Wheeler was the first mate.
I looked across the wild waste of water, and shuddered too. So calm--so endless!
The men were working like galley-slaves down below, pumping turn and turn about, watch and watch. We saw the relieved gang come up bathed in perspiration. They were labouring for their lives, we knew.
Now and again some sailor, passing by, would say:
"Keep a good heart, little leddies," and look over his shoulder with a cheerful smile.
It made us cheer up too.
We heard one say they were pumping one hundred tons of water every hour out of the ship. It sounded appalling.
In a little while a light breeze began to blow. "From the south-west," somebody said it was.
And then we heard the captain give an order about "making all sail" in the ship.
Every man that could be spared from the pumps set about it directly; and soon great sails flew up flapping in the breeze, and the May Queen went flying before the wind.
By-and-by Dr. Atherton came, and ordered us down to the saloon, and made us each drink a glass of wine. And then Mr. Wheeler joined us; and we sat down to supper just as we had done many a happy evening before--only that the captain didn't come to the table as usual, but had his supper carried away to him.
We learned that the captain had altered the ship's course, and "put the May Queen right before the wind," and that he was "steering for the nearest land."
It comforted us.
"We have gained a little on the leak," the first mate said. "Three inches!"
"Only three inches!" we cried.
"Three inches is a great victory," Mr. Wheeler replied. "I think it's the turn of the tide."
"Thank God!" muttered Dr. Atherton.
We lay down in our narrow berths still comforted, and slept like tops all night. I'm not sure that the doctor hadn't given us something to make us sleep when he gave us a drink, as he innocently said, "to settle and soothe our nerves."
"Thud! thud! thud!" The ominous sound was in my ears the moment I opened my eyes, and all the terror of the preceding day came crowding into my mind.
"Sara, are you awake?"
"Yes, Sylvia."
"Did you sleep?"
"Like a top."
"So did I."
Yes, we had slept, and while we slept the sailors had worked all night. And all night long, like some poor haunted thing, the May Queen had glided on.
"Mr. Wheeler, has the water lessened in the well?"
"Good-morning, Miss Redding," was his reply.
His face was pale. Great beads of perspiration were rolling down his cheeks. He began to mop them with a damp handkerchief.
At that moment Dr. Atherton came on the scene. "Good-morning, young ladies," he said.
Such a slovenly-looking doctor! And we used to think him such a sprucely-got-up man. There was no collar round his neck, and his hair hung in damp strings on his forehead. And he had no coat on, not a waistcoat either, nor did he look a bit abashed.
"Sleep well?" he said.
Mr. Wheeler seized the opportunity to slink away.
"You haven't slept!" we cried.
He didn't reply. His haggard face, the red rims round his tired eyes were answer enough.
"You've been up all night?" said Sylvia calmly.
I burst into a whimpering wail.
"No, don't, Miss Sara," urged the doctor soothingly.
Sylvia said, "Has more water come into the ship?"
"The water has gained on us a trifle," he said reluctantly.
"But Mr. Wheeler said we'd gained three inches yesterday."
"Go back into your cabin," he said. "Some breakfast will be sent to you there directly. We--we are not fit to breakfast with ladies this morning," he added.
"Oh! not to the cabin. Please let us go on deck."
"The captain's orders were the cabin," he said. "Hush, hush! Don't cry any more, Miss Sara," patting my shoulder, "there's a good girl. It would worry the captain dreadfully to hear you. His chief anxiety is having you on board. You wouldn't make his anxiety greater, would you now? See, Miss Sylvia, I rely on you. Take her to the cabin, and eat your breakfast there. After breakfast," he added soothingly, "I daresay you will be allowed to go on deck."
We went back. We sat huddled together. We held each other's hands. Sylvia didn't cry. Her face was white. Her eyes were shining. "Don't, Sara," she kept on saying, "crying can do no good."
Breakfast came. Neither of us ate much. How callously we sent the greater part of it away! Afterwards we remembered it. At present we could think of nothing but the leaking ship.
And "Thud! thud! thud!" It was like the heart of the May Queen, beating, beating! How long would it take to burst?
After breakfast we were allowed to go on deck. Oh! how the brilliant sunshine seemed to mock us there! And such a sea! Blue, beautiful, peaceful, smiling! A vast mill-pond. And water, water everywhere!
Sea and sky! Nothing but sea and sky! And not a little, littlest speck of Mother Earth!
"Mr. Wheeler, are we nearer land?"
"A little nearer, Miss Sylvia."
"How much nearer?"
"She's run two hundred and fifty miles," he said.
"Two hundred and fifty miles! And yesterday we were nearly a thousand miles from land!"
"Yes, Miss Sara."
I could have screamed. It was sheer despair that kept me silent--perhaps a little shame. Sylvia stood beside him with her hands clenched tight.
"Isn't there any likelihood of some ship passing by?"
"Every likelihood," he said.
At that moment the relieved gang came up. They were changed. Not the brave hopeful men we had seen yesterday. They were disheartened. Indeed, we read despair in many faces.
One big burly fellow lighted a pipe. He gave a puff or two. "No use pumping this darned ship," he said. "She's doomed."
And as if to corroborate this awful fact a voice sang out:
"Seven feet o' water in the hold!"
This announcement seemed to demoralise the sailors. One burst out crying. Another cursed and swore. Others ran in a flurried way about the ship. For ten minutes or so all was confusion. And then a stentorian voice rose above the din.
"All hands to the boats!" It was the captain's. And immediately every man came scrambling from the pumps, and I felt my hand taken in an iron grasp.
"We're going to abandon the ship. We're going to take to the boats. Come down to your cabin and gather all you value. Be quick about it," said the doctor, "there isn't much time to spare. They're going to provision the boats before they lower them, so you can pack up all you want."
He spoke roughly. He pushed me along in front of him. I was so dumfounded that I could not resent it. Down in the cabin he looked at me. His stern eye dared me to faint.
I heard Sylvia say, "Can we take that little box?"
And I heard him answer, "Yes."
He was gone. I saw Sylvia, through a mist, pushing things into the box. And the doctor was back again.
A fiery something was in my mouth, and trickling down my throat. I tasted brandy.
"That's better," said the doctor, patting my back. "Make haste and help your sister. Yes, Miss Sylvia, shove it all in." And then he began to drag the blankets from our berths.
"The leddies ready? Leddies fust!" And down tumbled a sailor for the trunk.
Up the companion-ladder for the last time, the doctor prodding me in the back with his load of blankets. Sylvia, with a white face, carrying a little hand-bag. And the captain coming to meet us in the doorway.
"This one first." And I was picked up in his arms as if I'd been a baby. "Ready, Wheeler?" And I was lowered into the first mate's arms, and placed on a seat in the cutter.
The next thing I knew was that Sylvia was by my side; and that the doctor was tucking a blanket about our knees. After that four or five sailors jumped into the boat, and the captain shouted in a frantic hurry:
"Shove her off!"
The cutter fell astern. The long-boat then came forward, and all the rest of the sailors crowded in. The captain was left the last.
"Hurry up, sir!" shouted Mr. Wheeler. But the captain had disappeared. He had run down to his cabin for some papers.
"She's full of water!" cried one of the sailors in the long boat. And as he spoke the May Queen stopped dead, and shook.
With a yell one of the men cut the rope that held the long-boat to the ship, and shoved off like lightning from the sinking vessel.
Only in time.
The next moment the May Queen pitched gently forward. Her bows went under water.
"Captain!" shrieked the sailors in a deafening chorus.
Then her stern settled down. The sea parted in a great gulf. The waves rolled over her upper deck. And with her sails all spread the May Queen went down into the abyss.
A hoarse cry burst from every throat; and the boats danced on the bubbling, foaming water. The sailors stood up all ready to save him, crying to each other that he'd come to the surface soon. But he never did.
They rowed all round and round the spot, but not a vestige of the captain did we see.
"Sucked under--by Heaven!" cried the first mate in a tone of horror.
