Chapter 1
In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at adistance of about twelve miles from London--measuring from the Standardin Cornhill, or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standardused to be in days of yore--a house of public entertainment called theMaypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers ascould neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both oftravellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblemreared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of thosegoodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times,was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrowthat ever English yeoman drew.
The Maypole--by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and notits sign--the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than alazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag chimneys, outof which it seemed as though even smoke could not choose but come inmore than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuousprogress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place wassaid to have been built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and therewas a legend, not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one nightwhile upon a hunting excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled roomwith a deep bay window, but that next morning, while standing on amounting block before the door with one foot in the stirrup, the virginmonarch had then and there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for someneglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom therewere a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always arein every little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition asrather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient hostelryappealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and triumphantlypointed out that there it stood in the same place to that very day, thedoubters never failed to be put down by a large majority, and all truebelievers exulted as in a victory.
Whether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true oruntrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house, perhapsas old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will sometimeshappen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a certain, age.Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its floors were sunkenand uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy withmassive beams. Over the doorway was an ancient porch, quaintly andgrotesquely carved; and here on summer evenings the more favouredcustomers smoked and drank--ay, and sang many a good song too,sometimes--reposing on two grim-looking high-backed settles, which,like the twin dragons of some fairy tale, guarded the entrance to themansion.
In the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their nestsfor many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest autumn wholecolonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the eaves. There were morepigeons about the dreary stable-yard and out-buildings than anybodybut the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling flightsof runts, fantails, tumblers, and pouters, were perhaps not quiteconsistent with the grave and sober character of the building, but themonotonous cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among themall day long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest. With itsoverhanging stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulgingout and projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it werenodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of fancyto detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which itwas built had originally been a deep dark red, but had grown yellow anddiscoloured like an old man's skin; the sturdy timbers had decayed liketeeth; and here and there the ivy, like a warm garment to comfort it inits age, wrapt its green leaves closely round the time-worn walls.
It was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the summer orautumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak andchestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of itslustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of lifein him yet.
The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumnone, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind howled dismallyamong the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneysand driving the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave suchof its frequenters as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniablereason for prolonging their stay, and caused the landlord to prophesythat the night would certainly clear at eleven o'clock precisely,--whichby a remarkable coincidence was the hour at which he always closed hishouse.
The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended wasJohn Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which betokenedprofound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a verystrong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet's ordinaryboast in his more placid moods that if he were slow he was sure; whichassertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid, seeingthat he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withalone of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence--always surethat what he thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thingquite settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, thatanybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and ofnecessity wrong.
Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat noseagainst the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might notbe affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then hewalked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and, composinghimself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might give way to andso acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze, said, looking roundupon his guests:
'It'll clear at eleven o'clock. No sooner and no later. Not before andnot arterwards.'
'How do you make out that?' said a little man in the opposite corner.'The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.'
John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had broughthis mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then madeanswer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly hisbusiness and nobody else's:
'Never you mind about the moon. Don't you trouble yourself about her.You let the moon alone, and I'll let you alone.'
'No offence I hope?' said the little man.
Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughlypenetrated to his brain, and then replying, 'No offence as YET,' applieda light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and then castinga sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffsornamented with tarnished silver lace and large metal buttons, whosat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hatflapped over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand onwhich his forehead rested, looked unsociable enough.
There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some distancefrom the fire also, and whose thoughts--to judge from his foldedarms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before him--wereoccupied with other matters than the topics under discussion orthe persons who discussed them. This was a young man of abouteight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhatslight figure, gracefully and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair,and was accoutred in a riding dress, which together with his large boots(resembling in shape and fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen atthe present day), showed indisputable traces of the bad condition ofthe roads. But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richlyattired, and without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.
Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them down,were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn no doubt asbeing best suited to the inclemency of the weather. There, too, were apair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short riding-cloak. Little ofhis face was visible, except the long dark lashes which concealed hisdowncast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural gracefulnessof demeanour pervaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend even thoseslight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.
Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once,and
then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his silentneighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman had often metbefore. Finding that his look was not returned, or indeed observed bythe person to whom it was addressed, John gradually concentrated thewhole power of his eyes into one focus, and brought it to bear upon theman in the flapped hat, at whom he came to stare in course of time withan intensity so remarkable, that it affected his fireside cronies, whoall, as with one accord, took their pipes from their lips, and staredwith open mouths at the stranger likewise.
The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and thelittle man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was theparish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had littleround black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this little man wore at theknees of his rusty black breeches, and on his rusty black coat, andall down his long flapped waistcoat, little queer buttons like nothingexcept his eyes; but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistenedin the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles,he seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with every one ofthem at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restlessunder such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belongingto short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and longPhil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example of theircompanions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively.
The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this rakingfire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations--mostprobably from the latter cause, for as he changed his position andlooked hastily round, he started to find himself the object of such keenregard, and darted an angry and suspicious glance at the fireside group.It had the effect of immediately diverting all eyes to the chimney,except those of John Willet, who finding himself as it were, caught inthe fact, and not being (as has been already observed) of a very readynature, remained staring at his guest in a particularly awkward anddisconcerted manner.
'Well?' said the stranger.
Well. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. 'I thoughtyou gave an order,' said the landlord, after a pause of two or threeminutes for consideration.
The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a manof sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, andthe naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a darkhandkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and, while itserved the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and almost hid hiseyebrows. If it were intended to conceal or divert attention from a deepgash, now healed into an ugly seam, which when it was first inflictedmust have laid bare his cheekbone, the object was but indifferentlyattained, for it could scarcely fail to be noted at a glance. Hiscomplexion was of a cadaverous hue, and he had a grizzly jagged beardof some three weeks' date. Such was the figure (very meanly and poorlyclad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat downin a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the littleclerk very readily assigned to him.
'A highwayman!' whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.
'Do you suppose highwaymen don't dress handsomer than that?' repliedParkes. 'It's a better business than you think for, Tom, and highwaymendon't need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.'
Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to thehouse by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by thelandlord's son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow of twenty,whom it pleased his father still to consider a little boy, and to treataccordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm them by the blazing fire,the man turned his head towards the company, and after running his eyesharply over them, said in a voice well suited to his appearance:
'What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?'
'Public-house?' said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.
'Public-house, father!' exclaimed Joe, 'where's the public-housewithin a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house--theWarren--naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir, thatstands in its own grounds--?'
'Aye,' said the stranger.
'And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times asbroad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed handsand dwindled away--more's the pity!' pursued the young man.
'Maybe,' was the reply. 'But my question related to the owner. What ithas been I don't care to know, and what it is I can see for myself.'
The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips, andglancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had changed hisattitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in a lower tone:
'The owner's name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and'--againhe glanced in the same direction as before--'and a worthy gentlemantoo--hem!'
Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the significantgesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his questioning.
'I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that crossesthe grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage? Hisdaughter?'
'Why, how should I know, honest man?' replied Joe, contriving in thecourse of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close to hisquestioner and pluck him by the sleeve, 'I didn't see the young lady,you know. Whew! There's the wind again--AND rain--well it IS a night!'
Rough weather indeed!' observed the strange man.
'You're used to it?' said Joe, catching at anything which seemed topromise a diversion of the subject.
'Pretty well,' returned the other. 'About the young lady--has MrHaredale a daughter?'
'No, no,' said the young fellow fretfully, 'he's a singlegentleman--he's--be quiet, can't you, man? Don't you see this talk isnot relished yonder?'
Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to hear it,his tormentor provokingly continued:
'Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be hisdaughter, though he is not married.'
'What do you mean?' said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approachedhim again, 'You'll come in for it presently, I know you will!'
'I mean no harm'--returned the traveller boldly, 'and have said nonethat I know of. I ask a few questions--as any stranger may, and notunnaturally--about the inmates of a remarkable house in a neighbourhoodwhich is new to me, and you are as aghast and disturbed as if I weretalking treason against King George. Perhaps you can tell me why, sir,for (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?'
The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of JoeWillet's discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloakpreparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he could give himno information, the young man beckoned to Joe, and handing him a pieceof money in payment of his reckoning, hurried out attended by youngWillet himself, who taking up a candle followed to light him to thehouse-door.
While Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his threecompanions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deepsilence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge copper boiler that wassuspended over the fire. After some time John Willet slowly shook hishead, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but no man withdrewhis eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn expression of hiscountenance in the slightest degree.
At length Joe returned--very talkative and conciliatory, as though witha strong presentiment that he was going to be found fault with.
'Such a thing as love is!' he said, drawing a chair near the fire, andlooking round for sympathy. 'He has set off to walk to London,--allthe way to London. His nag gone lame in riding out here this blessedafternoon, and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute;and he giving up a good hot supper and our best bed, because MissHaredale has gone to a masquerade up in town, and he has set his heartupon seeing her! I don't think I could persuade myself to do that,beautiful as she is,--but then I'm not in love (at least I don't think Iam) and that's the whole diffe
rence.'
'He is in love then?' said the stranger.
'Rather,' replied Joe. 'He'll never be more in love, and may very easilybe less.'
'Silence, sir!' cried his father.
'What a chap you are, Joe!' said Long Parkes.
'Such a inconsiderate lad!' murmured Tom Cobb.
'Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own father'sface!' exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically.
'What HAVE I done?' reasoned poor Joe.
'Silence, sir!' returned his father, 'what do you mean by talking, whenyou see people that are more than two or three times your age, sittingstill and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?'
'Why that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?' said Joerebelliously.
'The proper time, sir!' retorted his father, 'the proper time's notime.'
'Ah to be sure!' muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two whonodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point.
'The proper time's no time, sir,' repeated John Willet; 'when I wasyour age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and improvedmyself that's what I did.'
'And you'd find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment, Joe,if anybody was to try and tackle him,' said Parkes.
'For the matter o' that, Phil!' observed Mr Willet, blowing a long,thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staringat it abstractedly as it floated away; 'For the matter o' that, Phil,argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with powersof argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of 'em, and has nota right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that he is so gifted; forthat is a turning of his back on Natur, a flouting of her, a slightingof her precious caskets, and a proving of one's self to be a swine thatisn't worth her scattering pearls before.'
The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturallyconcluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and therefore,turning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed:
'You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn't much like to tacklehim in argeyment, I'm thinking, sir.'
'IF,' said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face ofhis interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to apprisehim that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecomingand irreverent haste; 'IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift ofargeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same?Yes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way. You are right, sir. Mytoughness has been proved, sir, in this room many and many a time, as Ithink you know; and if you don't know,' added John, putting his pipe inhis mouth again, 'so much the better, for I an't proud and am not goingto tell you.'
A general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking ofheads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had goodexperience of his powers and needed no further evidence to assure themof his superiority. John smoked with a little more dignity and surveyedthem in silence.
'It's all very fine talking,' muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting inhis chair with divers uneasy gestures. 'But if you mean to tell me thatI'm never to open my lips--'
'Silence, sir!' roared his father. 'No, you never are. When youropinion's wanted, you give it. When you're spoke to, you speak. Whenyour opinion's not wanted and you're not spoke to, don't you give anopinion and don't you speak. The world's undergone a nice alterationsince my time, certainly. My belief is that there an't any boysleft--that there isn't such a thing as a boy--that there's nothing nowbetween a male baby and a man--and that all the boys went out with hisblessed Majesty King George the Second.'
'That's a very true observation, always excepting the young princes,'said the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of church and state inthat company, held himself bound to the nicest loyalty. 'If it's godlyand righteous for boys, being of the ages of boys, to behave themselveslike boys, then the young princes must be boys and cannot be otherwise.'
'Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?' said Mr Willet.
'Certainly I have,' replied the clerk.
'Very good,' said Mr Willet. 'According to the constitution of mermaids,so much of a mermaid as is not a woman must be a fish. According to theconstitution of young princes, so much of a young prince (if anything)as is not actually an angel, must be godly and righteous. Therefore ifit's becoming and godly and righteous in the young princes (as it isat their ages) that they should be boys, they are and must be boys, andcannot by possibility be anything else.'
This elucidation of a knotty point being received with such marks ofapproval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented himselfwith repeating to his son his command of silence, and addressing thestranger, said:
'If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person--of me or any ofthese gentlemen--you'd have had some satisfaction, and wouldn't havewasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale's niece.'
'Is her father alive?' said the man, carelessly.
'No,' rejoined the landlord, 'he is not alive, and he is not dead--'
'Not dead!' cried the other.
'Not dead in a common sort of way,' said the landlord.
The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in anundertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, 'let no mancontradict me, for I won't believe him,' that John Willet was in amazingforce to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.
The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked abruptly,'What do you mean?'
'More than you think for, friend,' returned John Willet. 'Perhapsthere's more meaning in them words than you suspect.'
'Perhaps there is,' said the strange man, gruffly; 'but what the devildo you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man isnot alive, nor yet dead--then, that he's not dead in a common sort ofway--then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tellyou the truth, you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, youmean nothing. What DO you mean, I ask again?'
'That,' returned the landlord, a little brought down from his dignityby the stranger's surliness, 'is a Maypole story, and has been any timethese four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon Daisy's story. Itbelongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon Daisy has ever told itunder this roof, or ever shall--that's more.'
The man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness andimportance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to, and,observing that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a very longwhiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell his storywithout further solicitation, gathered his large coat about him, andshrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom of the spaciouschimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling from under a greatfaggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the time, shot upward with astrong and sudden glare, and illumining his figure for a moment, seemedafterwards to cast it into deeper obscurity than before.
By this flickering light, which made the old room, with its heavytimbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polishedebony--the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling the latchand creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now driving atthe casement as though it would beat it in--by this light, and undercircumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale:
'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother--'
Here he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even JohnWillet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.
'Cobb,' said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to thepost-office keeper; 'what day of the month is this?'
'The nineteenth.'
'Of March,' said the clerk, bending forward, 'the nineteenth of March;that's very strange.'
In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:
'It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey's elder brother, that twenty-twoyears ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said--not thatyou remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can't do that, but because you
have often heard me say so--was then a much larger and better place, anda much more valuable property than it is now. His lady was latelydead, and he was left with one child--the Miss Haredale you have beeninquiring about--who was then scarcely a year old.'
Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so muchcuriosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expectingsome exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter made noremark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was interested in whatwas said. Solomon therefore turned to his old companions, whose noseswere brightly illuminated by the deep red glow from the bowls of theirpipes; assured, by long experience, of their attention, and resolved toshow his sense of such indecent behaviour.
'Mr Haredale,' said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man,'left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and wentup to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place aslonely as this--as I suppose and have always heard say--he suddenlycame back again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with himbesides, that day, only two women servants, and his steward, and agardener.'
Mr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out,and then proceeded--at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by keenenjoyment of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and afterwardswith increasing distinctness:
'--Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and agardener. The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow nextday. It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived at ChigwellRow, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order came to me at halfafter twelve o'clock at night to go and toll the passing-bell.'
There was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficientlyindicative of the strong repugnance any one of them would have felt tohave turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The clerk felt andunderstood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.
'It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up inhis bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to take hisdinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under obligation to goalone, for it was too late to hope to get any other companion. However,I wasn't unprepared for it; as the old gentleman had often made it arequest that the bell should be tolled as soon as possible after thebreath was out of his body, and he had been expected to go for somedays. I put as good a face upon it as I could, and muffling myself up(for it was mortal cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one handand the key of the church in the other.'
At this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled asif he had turned himself to hear more distinctly. Slightly pointing overhis shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows and nodded a silent inquiryto Joe whether this was the case. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand andpeered into the corner, but could make out nothing, and so shook hishead.
'It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining heavily,and very dark--I often think now, darker than I ever saw it before orsince; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all close shut and thefolks in doors, and perhaps there is only one other man who knows howdark it really was. I got into the church, chained the door back so thatit should keep ajar--for, to tell the truth, I didn't like to be shutin there alone--and putting my lantern on the stone seat in the littlecorner where the bell-rope is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.
'I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could notpersuade myself to get up again, and go about my work. I don't know howit was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever heard, eventhose that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and had forgottenlong ago; and they didn't come into my mind one after another, butall crowding at once, like. I recollected one story there was in thevillage, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that verynight for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the groundand sat at the heads of their own graves till morning. This made methink how many people I had known, were buried between the church-doorand the churchyard gate, and what a dreadful thing it would be to haveto pass among them and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves.I had known all the niches and arches in the church from a child; still,I couldn't persuade myself that those were their natural shadows whichI saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly figures hidingamong 'em and peeping out. Thinking on in this way, I began to think ofthe old gentleman who was just dead, and I could have sworn, as I lookedup the dark chancel, that I saw him in his usual place, wrapping hisshroud about him and shivering as if he felt it cold. All this time Isat listening and listening, and hardly dared to breathe. At lengthI started up and took the bell-rope in my hands. At that minute thererang--not that bell, for I had hardly touched the rope--but another!
'I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly. Itwas only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the sound away,but I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it rang no more. I hadheard of corpse candles, and at last I persuaded myself that this mustbe a corpse bell tolling of itself at midnight for the dead. I tolled mybell--how, or how long, I don't know--and ran home to bed as fast as Icould touch the ground.
'I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the storyto my neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of it; I don'tthink anybody believed it real. But, that morning, Mr Reuben Haredalewas found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his hand was a piece of thecord attached to an alarm-bell outside the roof, which hung in his roomand had been cut asunder, no doubt by the murderer, when he seized it.
'That was the bell I heard.
'A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale hadbrought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of money,was gone. The steward and gardener were both missing and both suspectedfor a long time, but they were never found, though hunted far and wide.And far enough they might have looked for poor Mr Rudge the steward,whose body--scarcely to be recognised by his clothes and the watch andring he wore--was found, months afterwards, at the bottom of a piece ofwater in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had beenstabbed with a knife. He was only partly dressed; and people all agreedthat he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there weremany traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before hismaster.
Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and thoughhe has never been heard of from that day to this, he will be, mark mywords. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty years--on thenineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three. On thenineteenth of March in some year--no matter when--I know it, I am sureof it, for we have always, in some strange way or other, been broughtback to the subject on that day ever since--on the nineteenth of Marchin some year, sooner or later, that man will be discovered.'