‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’
I came down to breakfast one morning last autumn, and found a letter on the table from my old friend Bessie Maclean.
Bessie and I were girls at school together, and continued our intimacy after we left, until we married and went to different parts of the country. Marriage is a terrible breaker up of old ties; not only by reason of the separation which generally ensues, but because of the new duties it entails. We had both married the men of our hearts, however, and in comfortable circumstances; and so far all was well. But little by little our correspondence, which at first had been so voluminous and detailed, became scanty and irregular.
Bessie had half-a-dozen children to occupy her time and attention; and I—I had my dear husband to fill up the measure of my life, and felt myself a wicked and ungrateful woman if I even wished for more.
But—there is always a ‘but’ in the happiest worldly existence, is there not?—Dick and I had no children; and the disappointment had sometimes caused me to shed bitter tears. In secret though; I had never told my husband one-half I felt upon the subject.
Of course he twitted me with it sometimes in a playful manner, which showed that the fact did not sink very deep into his heart, whatever it did in mine. Yet I had thought occasionally that he looked more thoughtful than usual when children were in the room: and the idea made me thoughtful too. Especially I had noticed it when we paid our first visit to Bessie in her new house; for I must tell you that a few months before my story commences, Tom Maclean had bought a large farm in the vicinity of the town where the gaol stands, of which my husband is the governor. Of course, after so long a separation, Bessie and I were delighted to find we had become near neighbours again; and as soon as ever the Macleans were settled, they invited us both over to Poplar Farm, to stand sponsors to the latest arrival—a little boy whom they called Richard, after my Dick, God bless him! Poplar Farm was ten or twelve miles from Chesterwick, however, so I had not seen my friends more than five or six times since the christening day; and the visits I had paid them had not quite realised the expectations I had formed of meeting Bessie again.
I suppose it was my vile envious nature, or perhaps the quiet life I have led with Dick has made me selfish; but it seemed to me as though all the time my old school-fellow spent with me was devoted, not to our friendship, or reminiscences of our girlish days, but to talking about her children and telling me of their accomplishments or complaints, or consulting me as to their dresses or amusements. Of course I was pleased at first to be introduced to her fine brood of boys and girls; but I could hardly be expected to feel as much interest in them as their mother did, and I was sorely disappointed to find she had lost so much of hers in me. She did not seem to care to hear anything about my husband, or how we loved each other in our happy, peaceful home; nor did she even talk much about Tom, with her affection for whom I could have sympathised better than with any other. But he appeared to be almost forgotten or overlooked in her maternal care for the little ones; and she was more anxious that Lily’s new hat should become her, or Charley’s medicine be swallowed without a fit of obstinacy, than that Mr Maclean should appreciate his dinner, or have his evening hours undisturbed for settling his accounts. I have observed the same thing—oh! scores of times—amongst my married female acquaintances; and the fact has done more to reconcile me to the want of a family than any other.
Not that I believe that the charge of a hundred children could ever make me forget my darling’s wants—but there, this is not a love story, so I must try and keep my Dick’s name out of it as much as possible.
I had received several letters from Bessie during the last month, which had rather surprised me, as she had grown very lazy at correspondence, as I have said before, and naturally, taking up her residence at Poplar Farm had not made her write oftener, excepting when she required the benefit of my experience with regard to the advantages of her new home. Her two last letters, however, had been written in a very unaccountable strain; and if I had not known she was comfortably and happily situated, I should have imagined it was just the reverse.
‘Another letter from Bessie!’ I exclaimed, as I broke the seal. ‘What on earth can she want now? I suppose she has found out somebody sells whiter flour than Watkins, or better tea than Amyott? I almost believe, Dick, she regrets having left Lincolnshire.’
‘I don’t know why she should,’ replied Dick, as he commenced a raid upon the breakfast-table; ‘for, according to Maclean’s account, they lived in a perfect swamp there. But why can’t the woman look after her own flour and tea? Why is she to worry you about everything in this fashion?’
‘Oh! I suppose she thinks, as I have no children, I cannot possibly have anything to do,’ I said, laughing; ‘for I heard her remark, with regard to Mrs Anderson, who is in the same plight as myself, that it must be quite a charity to give her any employment!’
‘Like her impudence,’ growled Dick—(I don’t think Bessie is a favourite with my husband; perhaps I talked too much about her beforehand),—‘I should let her know to the contrary if I were you, Dolly. I believe, with all her fuss and bustle, that you do twice her work in half the time.’
‘Ah! I have only one baby to look after, you see, though he’s a big one,’ I said, as I gave his head a squeeze with my disengaged hand; ‘but goodness me, Dick, this letter is worse than the last even. Bessie seems really in low spirits now. She says that Mr Maclean’s business will take him away from home for a few nights next week, and she wants me to go over and spend them with her in—yes, she actually calls Poplar Farm—“this gloomy ramshackle old place.”’
‘It’s old enough,’ said Dick, ‘and all the better for it; but it’s not “ramshackle.” Better walls and roof were never built than those of Poplar Farm. It stands as steady as the gaol.’
‘But about my going to her, Dick—can you spare me?’
‘Can I spare you!’ repeated my husband in that tone of voice that, after ten years’ marriage, has still the power to make my heart beat faster. ‘Of course I can! I could spare you for good and all, if someone would only be obliging enough to take you off my hands; but there’s no such luck in store for me. Only mind the days don’t stretch themselves into weeks, sweetheart!’
‘Into weeks!’ I replied, indignantly. ‘Have I ever stayed weeks away from you yet, Dick? I’m not even sure that I shall go at all.’
‘Yes! you’d better go, Dolly; Bessie Maclean is selfish and egotistical, and somewhat of a fool; but I daresay she’s nervous at the idea of remaining in that isolated home by herself, particularly as it is all so strange to her. And you don’t know what fear is, old woman!’
‘I wish she could overhear the character you give her,’ I answered, laughingly. But Dick was right. I am not a nervous woman, and if I had been, he would have cured me of it long before. Living in a gaol, and having, of my own free will, constant access to the prisoners, had effectually dispersed any ladylike unreasonable fears I may once have thought womanly and becoming, and made me ashamed of starting at shadows. So, having sent an affirmative answer to my friend’s appeal, I set out for Poplar Farm, when the time came, with as much confidence in my powers of protection as though I had been of the sterner sex.
Dick drove me over in the curricle.
It was a bright November morning: one of those days when the air is crisp and exhilarating without being in the least degree cold; a day on which one feels younger, and more hopeful and capable of good—on which one’s sorrows seem too paltry for consideration, and one’s happiness far more than one deserves. I experienced this sensation in the fullest sense, as I crept as close as I could to my husband’s side, and smuggled one hand beneath his arm.
‘Holloa!’ cried Dick; ‘why, what’s this? Repenting of your promise already, eh? Oh! you spoony woman, I’m ashamed of you!’
I was repenting it, but I did not tell him so. It is good for people who love very much to part sometimes, if only to teach them how great a blessing they possess in each other’s affection.
As we drove up the long-neglected drive of Poplar Farm, I could not help thinking that Bessie was right in considering it gloomy. The sun had disappeared again behind an autumn cloud. The trees had shed most of their leaves, which lay in sodden heaps along the paths, and a chilly wind had commenced to blow. I drew my cloak closer against my shoulders, and told Dick what I thought.
‘Nonsense, Dolly!’ he replied. ‘The place is well enough; and when Maclean has had time to put it in order, will be one of the prettiest farms in the county. I only wish I had the money to buy such another. But naturally it does not look its best when the trees are bare.’
‘Stop!’ I cried, suddenly; ‘there’s the baby. Let me get down and kiss him. That must be the new nurse carrying him, Dick. But what a lugubrious looking young person she is!’
My husband had good-naturedly drawn up by this time, and I had scrambled down to meet my little godson, who was about three months old. But as soon as I had pulled aside the veil that covered his face, I started with surprise.
‘Oh! how he has gone off!’ I exclaimed.
The baby, who had been so fat and dimpled and red-faced last time I saw him, was now drawn and white and thin. The change was apparent so that even Dick could see it from the box-seat.
‘Whew!’ he whistled; ‘why, what’s the matter with the little chap—is he ill?’
‘Oh no! he’s not ill. He is perfectly well. You don’t think he looks ill, madam?’ said the girl who was carrying him, anxiously.
‘I don’t think I ever saw a child so changed in my life,’ I answered, in my blunt fashion. ‘Are you the wet-nurse Mrs Maclean told me she had engaged for him?’
‘Yes, madam,’ she said, in a very low voice.
I raised my eyes, and examined her then for the first time thoroughly; and I could not help observing what a remarkable-looking girl she was. She had the very palest and clearest of complexions—so colourless that it looked like the finest white wax, and her skin was of the texture of satin. Her large, clear, grey eyes, which shone with a limpid light, like agates with water running over them, had a startled look, which might almost have been mistaken for fear, and her delicately cut mouth drooped in the most pathetic manner. To add to the mournfulness of her appearance, her hair was almost completely hidden beneath her cap, and her dress was the deepest widow’s mourning. I made a few indifferent remarks about the child, kissed it, and jumped up to my seat again. The nurse was not the person I felt to whom to speak on the subject of the baby’s appearance. She made a deep reverence as the carriage moved off, and I saw she was a very superior sort of young woman; but of what account was that, where little Dick’s health, and perhaps his life, was concerned?
‘Bessie’s a greater fool than I took her for,’ I exclaimed, indignantly, as we drove on towards the house.
‘What’s in the wind now?’ said Dick.
‘Fancy, choosing a wet-nurse for a baby all crape and bombazine and tears. Why, that girl looks as if she cried night and day. I knew Bessie had been weak enough to be persuaded by the doctor to give up nursing baby herself, but she might have exercised a little discretion in the choice of a substitute. The child is half the size he was last month.’
‘What a lot we know about babies!’ said Dick, in his chaffing way.
‘I should hope I know more than half the mothers I meet,’ I continued, with some warmth. ‘I should be ashamed to be as ignorant as Bessie herself, for instance, though she has had six children,’ I added, with a little droop in my voice.
‘My own Dolly!’ said Dick, fondly; and when he says those words in that voice, I don’t care for anything else in all the wide, wide world. He wouldn’t stay—even to dismount from his box, for we knew Mr Maclean had already left the house, and he thought our chatter would get on better without him, added to which he had duties demanding him at home. So I gave him one long, long kiss, and let him go; and as soon as he was out of sight, turned into the door of Poplar Farm.
Bessie was in the dining-room, where the dinner was already spread, surrounded by her batch of self-willed unruly children. As she came forward to meet me, I saw that she looked tired and worn out, and that her dress was untidy and neglected.
‘It is so good of you to come, Dolly,’ was her greeting, ‘for I am so worried I don’t know what I should have done without you.’
‘I am very glad to be of use, Bessie; but what worries you—the baby?’
‘Dear me! no. It is something quite different. Why should baby worry me? He has his wet-nurse, and she takes him completely off my hands.’
‘He is so pulled down,’ I said unhesitatingly, for I took an interest in my little godson. ‘I met him just now in the drive, and hardly recognised the child. Are you satisfied his nurse does him justice?’
‘Oh, perfectly so. She is a most estimable young woman, so quiet and ladylike in her way of speaking. Did you notice her eyes? such a remarkable colour; and her hands are as white as yours or mine.’
‘But the baby does not appear to be thriving. He can’t inherit her eyes or her hands, you know, and if he could, I don’t see that they would be much use to him. What’s her name? Where did you find her?’
‘She’s a Mrs Graham; and she was recommended to me from the Lying-in Hospital at Chesterwick. I’m sorry you don’t think baby looks well. Perhaps the change has pulled him down a little, though I really can’t see it myself.’
I daresay she did not. Bessie is that sort of woman that never will see anything until it has actually occurred. If her children died, she would make as great a fuss over them—perhaps more—than mothers who have guarded theirs from their infancy upwards; yet she will let them eat improper food, and get damp feet, and remain out in the burning sun without any covering to their heads; and if you remonstrate with her, her invariable excuse is, that they have always done so before and got no harm. As if the fact of a wrong being permitted should make it a right; or because we have fallen from the top of a house once without injury, we may cast ourselves thence headlong each day without impunity.
I really never did think, when Bessie and I were girls together, that she would turn out such a ninny.
‘What has worried you then, since it is not the baby?’ I demanded presently.
‘Hush! I can’t tell you before the children. It’s an awful business, and I wouldn’t have them hear of it for worlds. Will you lay your bonnet aside, and have dinner with us as you are? or I’m afraid it may get cold. Lily—Charley—Tommy, lay down these toys, and come to the table at once. Put Bessie up on her high chair; and somebody go and call Annie. Ah! Dolly, my dear, how well you have kept your figure! What would I not give to be as slim and neat as you are.’
And although, of course, I would not compare one advantage with the other, yet I must say that the pleasures of having a family would possess a great drawback to me, if I were compelled at the same time to become as rotund and untidy in appearance as poor Bessie is at present. And I believe the chief thing Tom Maclean fell in love with was her pretty rounded little figure. Alas! alas!
But I am keeping the early dinner waiting. As soon as it was despatched, with the usual accompaniments of cutting up the children’s meat, wiping their mouths, and preventing their throwing the tumblers at each other’s heads, Mrs Maclean rose and offered to show me to my bedroom. It was next to her own, and communicated with it by a door.
‘This dear old place!’ I exclaimed as I entered it; ‘you are making it very pretty, Bessie. Aren’t you glad that you have come into such a handsome property, instead of having been stuck down in a modern villa, with the plaster on the walls only half-dry?’
But Bessie did not appear to appreciate my congratulations.
‘Dolly,’ she said, as she sunk down into a chair, ‘I would change Poplar Farm for the poorest little villa that was ever built.’
‘My dear girl, what do you mean?’
‘Mean! That the house is haunted, Dolly—’
I confess it; I could not help it: I burst into the loudest and rudest laugh imaginable.
Poplar Farm haunted! What an absurdly unreasonable idea! Why, the last tenants had only just moved out in time to let the Macleans come in, and the house had been freshly papered and painted from basement to attic. There was not a nook nor a corner for a ghost to hide in.
I could not help laughing; and what is worse, I could not stop laughing, until my friend was offended.
‘You may laugh as much as you like,’ she said at last; ‘but I have told you nothing but the truth. Do you mean to say that you consider such a thing impossible?’
‘No! I won’t go as far as that; but I think it is very uncommon, and very unlikely to occur to—to—to—’
Here I was obliged to halt, for the only words I could think of were, ‘to anyone so material as yourself;’ and I couldn’t quite say that. For though I do not deny the possibility of apparitions, I believe that the person who is capable of perceiving them must be composed of more mind than matter, and there is nothing spiritual nor æsthetic about poor Bessie.
‘What is the ghost like, and who has seen it?’ I demanded, as soon as I could command my countenance.
‘Several of the servants and myself,’ replied Bessie; ‘and Tom might have seen it, too, if he were not so lazy. But one night when the noises were close to our door, he refused to rouse himself even to listen to them, and told me to go—Well, dear, I really can’t repeat what he said; but husbands do not always use the politest language when out of temper, you know!’
‘Noises! Then the ghost has been heard as well as seen?’
‘Oh yes! and such mournful noises, too. Such weeping and wailing, enough to break one’s heart. The first time I saw it, Dolly, I thought I should have died of fright.’
‘Tell me all about it.’
‘I had been sitting up late one Saturday night mending the children’s socks for Sunday, and Tom had been in bed for a good two hours. Everybody was in bed but myself, and I thought, as I carried my single candle up the dark staircase, how silent and ghastly everything appeared. As I turned into the corridor, I heard a gasping sound like a stifled sob. At first I could hardly believe my ears; but when it was repeated, my heart seemed to stand still. I was hesitating whether to go back or forward, and trembling in every limb, when it—this dreadful thing—crossed me. It sprung up, I don’t know from where, in the darkness, and just looked at me once and rushed away. I nearly sunk to the ground, as you may well imagine. I had only just time to get inside my own door, when I tumbled right across the bed, and Tom had to get up and pick up the candlestick, and help undress me; and really, by the way he went on about it, you’d have thought it was all my fault.’
‘What was it like? that is the main thing, Bessie.’
‘My dear, you don’t suppose I looked at it more than I was absolutely obliged. I know it was dressed all in white, with snow-white hair hanging over its face, and fearful staring eyes. It’s a perfect wonder to me I stand alive here now.’
‘And it has been seen since then?’
‘Oh, several times, and we hear it every night as regularly as possible about two o’clock in the morning. The cook has seen it—so has the housemaid; and not a servant amongst them would fetch a glass of water from downstairs after ten o’clock, if we were all dying for want of it.’
‘A pleasant state of affairs,’ I ejaculated; ‘and will you take no steps to investigate the mystery, and dissolve the household fears?’
‘What steps could I take?’
‘Sit up for the apparition, and speak to it; and if it won’t answer, take hold of it and see if it is flesh and blood or air.’
‘My dear Dolly, I would rather die.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll wake me up when the sounds begin to-night,’ I answered, ‘for I am curious to hear them.’
But I didn’t tell Bessie that I would be the one to ‘bell the cat;’ for, though I have little fear, I have no foolhardiness; and if her ghost turned out to be a real one, I had no wish to interfere with it.
In the evening, as much with a view of pointing out the baby’s condition to Bessie as for any other reason, I asked her to accompany me to the nursery, and see him put to bed. I found that he slept in a room alone with his wet-nurse, who was engaged in bathing the little creature as we entered. Mrs Graham looked very pretty and delicate as she bent over the bath, attending to the child; but I observed that she never once smiled at nor played with him, as nurses usually do with infants during the process of washing. Little Dick was certainly very attenuated and languid, and even his mother seemed to observe it when pointed out to her. Mrs Graham listened to our conversation with rather an anxious expression on her countenance, and I thought by drawing her out we might gain some clue to the baby’s ill health.
‘Is your own child strong and vigorous?’ I asked her.
‘My own child is dead, madam,’ she replied.
‘It was your first, I presume? You appear very young.’
‘It was my first. I was twenty last birthday.’
She seemed unwilling to be more communicative, and I did not like to enter directly on the subject of her husband’s death. Poor child! she might have loved him as I did Dick. So, as Bessie had sauntered into the general nursery and left us alone together, I ventured to sound her on another matter, which I thought might be having a secret effect upon her.
‘Have you seen anything of this apparition the servants speak of, Mrs Graham?’
‘No, madam,’ she replied, quietly.
‘It is very foolish of people to be frightened of they really don’t know what; but no one seems to have been brave enough to try and find out the reason of the mysterious noises heard at night here. You have heard them, perhaps?’
‘No, madam,’ she said again, without further comment.
‘Would it alarm you to see or hear it?’ I had forced her now to say something in reply.
‘I think not,’ she answered, ‘I think if spirits can come back from the dead, they must do so only in sympathy with those they have left behind; and, if that is possible, and I thought this one came for me, I should only be too thankful to have a glimpse of its face, or to hear the sound of its voice. I think those people who have so much fear of spirits can never have known what it is to lose any one they would lay down their lives to follow wherever it might lead them.’
She spoke in a low, mournful cadence that touched my heart. Poor girl! she was thinking of her husband and her own desolate condition. I felt for and sympathised with her, and before I left the nursery I took her thin hand and pressed it. She looked surprised, but I had only to say, ‘I love my own husband as my life,’ to see the tears run into her eyes, and to know she understood me. Still she was by no means a proper person to perform the part of a mother towards little Dick, and I resolved before I left Poplar Farm to try and persuade Bessie to change her.
The rest of the day passed rather monotonously. I worked at one of Dick’s shirts, and wondered how I ever could have thought Bessie such a charming companion, whilst she alternatively indulged and scolded her very unpleasant young family. At last they were all despatched to bed, and as soon as decency would permit, I yawned and said I should like to follow their example. So we were all packed away by ten o’clock, my last act having been to pay a visit to Mrs Graham’s room, where I had left her fast asleep with my little godson tucked in snugly on her arm. Bessie lay awake for some time talking of the celebrated ghost, but I was too sleepy to be a good listener, and am afraid I dropped off in the midst of her recital. When I waked again, it was by dint of feeling her shake my arm.
‘Dolly! Dolly!’ she was exclaiming, in a low, hurried voice. ‘Listen! there is the sound, and close against the door.’
END OF VOL. I.