Johnny Ludlow Third Series Part 57

When, upon looking into his pale, stony face, she saw the late master.

He vanished into air or into the wall, and down fell Mary Standish in a fainting-fit. The parish grew uneasy at all this--and wondered what had been done to Nash, or what he had done, that he could not rest.

One night I was coming, with Tod, across from Mrs. Scott's, who lived beyond Hyde Stockhausem's. We took the field way from Church d.y.k.ely, as being the shortest route, and that led us through the copse at the back of Caromel's Farm. It was a very light night, though not moonlight; and we walked on at a good rate, talking of a frightful sc.r.a.pe Sam Scott had got into, and which he was afraid to tell his mother of. All in a moment, just in the middle of the copse, we came upon a man standing amongst the trees, his face towards us. Tod turned and I turned; and we both saw Nash Caromel. Now, of course, you will laugh. As the Squire did when we got home (in a white heat) and told him: and he called us a couple of poltroons. But, if ever I saw the face of Nash Caromel, I saw it then; and if ever I saw a figure that might be called a shadow, it was his.

"Fine gentlemen, both of you!" scoffed the Squire. "Clear and sensible!

Seen a ghost, have you, and confess to it! Ho, ho! Running through the back copse, you come upon somebody that you must take for an apparition!

Ha, ha! Nice young cowards! I'd write an account of it to the Worcester papers if I were you. A ghost, with glaring eyes and a white face!

Death's head upon a mopstick, lads! I shouldn't have wondered at Johnny; but I do wonder at you, Joe," concluded the Squire, smoothing down.

"I am no more afraid of ghosts than you are, father," quietly answered Joe. "I was not afraid when we saw--what we did see; I can't answer for Johnny. But I do declare, with all my senses (which you are pleased to disparage) about me, that it was the form and face of Nash Caromel, and that 'it' (whatever it might be) seemed to vanish from our sight as we looked."

"Johnny calls it a shadow," mocked the Squire, amiably.

"It looked shadowy," said Tod.

"A tree-trunk, I dare be bound, lads, nothing else," nodded the Squire.

And you might as well have tried to make an impression on a post.

IV.

September came in: which made it a year since Nash died. And on one of its bright days, when the sun was high, and the blue sky cloudless, Church d.y.k.ely had a stir given it in the sight of the mistress of Caromel's Farm. She and her father were in a gig together, driving off on the Worcester road: and it was so very rare a thing to see her abroad now, that folks ran to their windows and doors to stare. Her golden hair, what could be seen of it for her smart blue parasol, shone in the sunlight; but her face looked white and thin through the black c.r.a.pe veil.

"Just like a woman who gets disturbed o' nights," p.r.o.nounced Sam Rimmer, thinking of the ghostly presence that was believed to haunt the house.

Before that day's beautiful sun had gone down to light the inhabitants of the other hemisphere, ill-omened news reached Church d.y.k.ely. An accident had happened to the horse and gig. It was said that both Nave and his daughter were dreadfully injured; one of them nearly killed.

Miss Gwinny, left at home to take care of Caromel's Farm, posted off to the scene of damage.

Holding Caromel's Farm in small respect now, the Squire yet chose to show himself neighbourly; and he rose up from his dinner to go there and inquire particulars. "You may come with me, lads, if you like," said he.

Tod laughed.

"He's afraid of seeing Caromel," whispered he in my ear, as we took down our hats.

And, whether the Squire was afraid of it or not, he did see him. It was a lovely moonlight night, bright and clear as the day had been. Old Grizzel could not tell us much more of the accident than we had heard before; except that it was quite true there had been one, and that Miss Gwinny had gone. And, by the way Grizzel inwardly shook and s.h.i.+vered while she spoke, and turned her eyes to all corners in some desperate fear, one might have thought she had been pitched out of a gig herself.

We had left the door--it was the side-entrance--when the Squire turned back to put some last query to her. Tod and I went on. The path was narrow, the overhanging trees on either side obscured the moonlight, making it dark. Chancing to glance round, I noticed the Squire, at the other end of the path, come soberly after us. Suddenly he seemed to halt, to look sideways at the trees, and then he came on with a bound.

"Boys! Boys!" cried he, in a half-whisper, "come on. There's Caromel yonder."

And to see the pater's face in its steaming consternation, and to watch him rush on to the gate, was better than a play. Seen Caromel! It was not so long since he had mocked at us for saying it.

Through the gate went he, bolt into the arms of some unexpected figure, standing there. We peered at it in the uncertain lights cast by the trees, and made it out to be Dobbs, the blacksmith.

Dobbs, with a big coat on, hiding his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and his leather ap.r.o.n: Dobbs standing as silent as the grave: arms folded, head bent: Dobbs in stockinged feet, without his shoes.

"Dobbs, my good fellow, what on earth do you put yourself in people's way for, standing stock-still like a Chinese image?" gasped the Squire.

"Dobbs--why, you have no boots on."

"Hus.h.!.+" breathed Dobbs, hardly above his breath. "I ask your pardon, Squire. Hush, please! There's something uncanny in this place; some ugly mystery. I mean to find it out if I can, sirs, and this is the third night I've come here on the watch. Hark!"

Sounds, as of a woman's voice weeping and wailing, reached us faintly from somewhere--down beyond the garden trees. The pater looked regularly fl.u.s.tered.

"Listen!" repeated Dobbs, raising his big hand to entreat for silence.

"Yes, Squire; I don't know what the mystery is; but there is something wrong about the place, and I can't sleep o' nights for it. Please hearken, sirs."

The blacksmith was right. Wrong and mystery, such as the world does not often hear of, lay within Caromel's Farm. Curious mystery; wicked wrong.

Leaning our arms on the gate, watching the moonlight flickering on the trees, we listened to Dobbs's whispered revelation. It made the Squire's hair stand on end.

THE LAST OF THE CAROMELS.

I.

When a house is popularly allowed to be haunted, and its inmates grow thin and white and restless, it is not the best place in the world for children: and this was supposed by Church d.y.k.ely to be the reason why Mrs. Nash Caromel the Second had never allowed her child to come home since the death of its father. At first it was said that she would not risk having him lest he should catch the fever Nash had died of: but, when the weeks went on, and the months went on, and years (so far as could be seen) were likely to go on, and still the child was kept away, people put it down to the other disagreeable fact.

Any way, Mrs. Nash Caromel--or Charlotte Nave, as you please--did not have the boy home. Little Dun was kept at his grandfather's, Lawyer Nave; and Miss Harriet Nave took care of him: the other sister, Gwinny, remaining at Caromel's Farm. Towards the close of spring, the spring which followed the death of Nash, when Dun was about two years old, he caught whooping-cough and had it badly. In August he was sent for change of air to a farm called the Rill, on the other side of Persh.o.r.e, Miss Harriet Nave taking the opportunity to go jaunting off elsewhere. The change of air did the child good, and he was growing strong quickly, when one night early in September croup attacked him, and he lay in great danger. News of it was sent to his mother in the morning. It drove her nearly wild with fear, and she set off for the Rill in a gig, her father driving it: as already spoken of. So rare was the sight of her now, for she kept indoors at Caromel's Farm as a snail keeps to its sh.e.l.l, that no wonder Church d.y.k.ely thought it an event, and talked of it all the day.

Mr. Nave and his daughter reached the Rill--which lay across country, somewhere between Persh.o.r.e and Wyre--in the course of the morning, and found little Dun gasping with croup, and inhaling steam from a kettle.

Moore told us there was nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream; but to Charlotte Nave, otherwise Caromel, there was nothing sweet at all except this little Dun. He was the light of her existence; the apple of her eye, to put it poetically. She sat down by the bed-side, her pale face (so pale and thin to what it used to be) bent lovingly upon him, and wiping away the tears by stealth that came into her eyes.

In the afternoon Dun was better; but the doctor would not say he was out of danger.

"If I could but stay here for the night! I can't bear to leave him,"

Charlotte s.n.a.t.c.hed an opportunity to say to her father, when their friends, the farmer and his wife, were momentarily occupied.

"But you can't, you know," returned Lawyer Nave. "You must be home by sunset."

"By sunset? Nay, an hour after that would do."

"No, it will not do. Better be on the safe side."

"It seems _cruel_ that I should have to leave him," she exclaimed, with a sob.

"Nonsense, Charlotte! The child will do as well without you as with you.

You may see for yourself how much better he is. The farm cannot be left to itself at night: remember that. We must start in half-an-hour."

No more was said. Nave went to see about getting ready the gig; Charlotte, all down in the dumps, stayed with the little lad, and let him pull about as he would her golden hair, and drank her tea by his side. Mr. and Mrs. Smith (good hospitable people, who had stood by Charlotte Nave through good report and ill report, believing no ill of her) pressed her to stay all night, promising, however, that every care should be taken of Duncan, if she did not.

"My little darling must be a good child and keep warm in bed, and when mamma comes in the morning he will be nearly well," breathed Charlotte, showering tears and kisses upon him when the last moment had come. And, with that, she tore herself away.

"Such a pity that you should have to go!" said Mrs. Smith, stepping to the door with her. "I think Gwendolen and old Grizzel might have been left for one night: they'd not have run away, nor the house neither.

Come over as soon as you can in the morning, my dear; and see if you can't make arrangements to stay a day or two."

They were starting from the back-door, as being the nearest and handiest; Nave, already in the gig, seemed in a rare hurry to be off.

Mr. Smith helped Charlotte up: and away the lawyer drove, across the fold-yard, one of the farm-boys holding the outer gate open for them.

The sun, getting down in the west, shone right in their eyes.