Buried Alive.—The Landlord's Story.
"Bravo, Oldstone! A very capital story!" cried several members at once. "It is a pity our host isn't here to have heard it."
"I heard a good part of it, though, gentlemen," said a voice from a dark corner of the room (for the lights had been extinguished, though it was still murky without).
"What, are you there, Jack?" cried Mr. Crucible. "We none of us saw you."
"Well, sir," said the landlord, "finding that I was not wanted outside as I thought, I ventured to enter the room quietly, so as not to disturb the story."
"Well done, Jack," said Hardcase, "and so you heard all, eh? Well, what do you think of it?"
"Pretty nearly all, I guess, sir," replied the landlord, "and a curious one it is, too, and no mistake. But talk of being buried alive, I could tell you a queer adventure that happened to myself, if you gentlemen would care to hear it."
"Only be too glad, Jack," said Oldstone. "Out with it; there is nothing like a good story to beguile the time in weather like this."
Our host, thus encouraged, drew his chair close to the fire, and his example was immediately followed by his guests. Then, refilling his yard of clay and lighting it in the fire, he gave one or two preliminary whiffs, and commenced his story thus:—
Well, gentlemen, when I was a youngster, that is to say, a lad of nineteen, I fell deeply in love with my Molly, who, though I say it, was the finest lass in the village and for miles round it. For all the world like my Helen, at her age, bless her dear heart! She was the daughter of a rich miller—his only child. Well, it had been a long attachment, for Molly and I were play-mates when we was little, but when I grew to be about nineteen, and my father began to see that I was head over ears in love with Molly, he forbade me to see any more of her, because he and old Sykes—leastways, Molly's father, the miller—wasn't friends, d'ye see.
Nevertheless, Molly and I used to get a peep at each other on the sly like, and often took long walks together when no one was near.
Well, old Sykes also objected to me keeping company with his daughter, and sometimes suspecting what was up, used to lie in wait for us, and catch us in the lane as we was coming home from our walk. Then he'd give us both a "blowing up," for old Sykes wasn't partickler nice in his language, and Molly was locked up in her room while he went to complain of me to my father. This sort of thing occurred more than once, and Sykes, not knowing how to put a stop to it in any other way, sent his daughter on a visit to an aunt of hers some distance off.
I didn't know nothing of this for some time, and still went hovering round the house, expecting to see Molly at the window. Now, there happened to be at that time an epidemic running through the village, as proved fatal to many, carrying off both the young and the old, and when my father saw how pulled down I was in health and spirits, which was all along of my not having seen Molly for many a week, he took it into his head that I had caught the epidemic, and sent for a doctor. The doctor came, felt my pulse, and looked at my tongue, and pronounced me very bad, but said that he did not see the usual signs of the epidemic.
He ordered me, however, to be put to bed, and prescribed me some physic. Instead of doing me any good, it only made me worse, for the doctor was ignorant of the true cause of my low spirits. I was forced to keep in bed, and could do nothing night or day but think of Molly. My father, seeing me rapidly grow worse, but still ignorant of the cause—though he knew that I had been very much cut up about Molly—began to take on so—I being his only son—that the doctor was afraid that he would have to take to his bed. Once, shortly after Molly's disappearance, he told me that she had caught the epidemic and had died.
He hoped by this tale to bring me to my senses, and that I should soon forget her, and begin courting some other girl, but it had a very different effect upon me, and I rapidly sunk from worse to worse. When the doctor called again, he found me in a dangerous state, and he came to the conclusion that it must be the epidemic after all. Whether I really had caught the epidemic in addition to my love-sickness I can't tell. All I know is that I felt so bad that I didn't expect to live, and even the doctor said it was all over with me.
My death was expected daily, and when one morning the doctor came and found me stiff and cold, he gave out to my parents that I was dead. I was no more dead than I am at the present moment. It is true that I could not budge an inch, and I have no doubt that I looked thoroughly dead, but my mind was as clear and as sharp as possible.
"Poor young man," I heard the doctor say. "So hale and strong, too. Who'd have thought it?"
"Oh, my poor son! my poor son!" wept my father. "You whom I thought to rear to be the prop of my old age, now you are torn from me for ever."
"Calm yourself, sir," said the doctor, "else you will make yourself ill."
"How can I calm myself?" cried my father, in agony. "Was he not my only son? and I—I—fool, wretch, that I was—I killed him!"
"You killed him!" cried the doctor. "How? Surely you rave, sir."
"Yes," persisted my father; "the poor boy was in love with a maid whose father is my enemy. I objected to his marrying her, as did also the girl's father, who wishing to save his daughter from my son sent her away to live at the house of an aunt in the village of H—— in ——shire. As my son knew nothing of this, I told him, thinking to make him forget her, that the maid was dead, but the poor boy took on so dreadful about it, that it has been his death, and I—yes I am his murderer!" and I thought his sobs would choke him.
"It was very wrong and foolish of you," said the doctor, "to tell him so, when you saw him so weak and ailing, yet you did it with a good intent, and I do not see that you can justly accuse yourself of being his murderer."
"Yes, yes," sobbed my father, bitterly, "I have killed him—my son, my only son!"
Now I had discovered a secret. Molly was not dead, but living at her aunt's. I knew her address; if I could but be restored to life, I might see her once again. I longed to be able to call out: "Father, I am not dead—comfort yourself," but my tongue refused utterance. I tried to move my limbs, and did all that was in my power to show signs of life, but I still lay powerless—paralysed, for I was in a trance. Oh! the agony I suffered! How long would it last? Should I be really nailed up in a coffin and buried alive? Oh, horror!
Some of my friends the neighbours were called in to see me and mourned over my corpse.
"Poor Jack!" one of them said; "if lads of his kidney are not proof against the epidemic, who may hope to escape?"
The next day an undertaker was sent for to measure me for my coffin.
"Where will all this end?" thought I. "Shall I awake before the coffin is made?"
This was my only hope; but if not, all was lost. Once nailed down, nailed down for ever. The thought was agony.
Here I was, struck down in the flower of my youth, to all appearances dead, yet with my mind keenly alive to all that was going on around me. Oh, that I could become insensible! I knew not how long this dreadful trance would last; all I knew was that if it lasted more than a day or two longer it would be all up with me. I was laid out in state, and all that day and the next friends poured in to gaze upon my corpse.
As the time grew nearer for my funeral the more despairing I got. At length the coffin arrived. I shuddered. Had my last moment actually come? What could I do? Nothing.
"Oh, Heaven!" I cried within myself, "for what fell crime am I doomed to bear this agony of soul?"
Two undertakers now lifted me from my bed, one of them seizing me by the shoulders, the other by the feet, and I felt myself placed within a leaden coffin supported upon trestles. I did my utmost now to make one last desperate effort to rouse myself out of my trance, but in vain.
"Oh, if they should nail me up!" I thought.
Then I was left alone all day, and remember a great bustle and whispering going on in the house. All were talking of my funeral. At length the fatal hour arrived! The undertakers entered my room again. Good Heavens! they were actually going to solder me down. The next instant the leaden lid was down upon me, and I was soon tightly secured. Then commenced the knocking in of the nails of the outer coffin. How painfully distinct was the sound of the hammer! I remember counting each nail as it was driven in. At length the task was completed, and I only awaited the hearse to carry me to my last home.
Then there was more bustle, the meeting of friends, etc., when after waiting a little longer, I heard the footsteps of the bearers. I felt myself lifted upon the shoulders of the men and carried downstairs. A crowd had evidently collected round the door, for I heard the muffled sound of voices gossipping, but could not distinguish what they said. Only the tolling of the church bell jarred upon my ears. Then the procession began. How slowly it moved along!
"Oh! if I could even now awake!" thought I, "it might not be too late. If I could make sufficient movement with my limbs to overturn the coffin, or even had strength to call out, I should even now be saved."
But all in vain—rigid, motionless as ever, in spite of my earnest prayers to be restored to life. I felt myself borne leisurely on—whither? Oh, horror! to the cold and narrow grave—to the abode of the dead. My last hope died within me when I felt the procession stop, and I knew that it was already arrived at the cemetery. I remember hearing faintly the tones of the parson's voice as he read the ceremony for the burial of the dead. The coffin was now lowered into the grave, and I heard with awful distinctness the words "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," followed by the rattling of the three handfuls of earth upon my coffin lid. My last hope was now gone. In another moment I should be covered up with mould and left alone to die miserably.
"Oh!" groaned I, in spirit, "it is all over with me!" as I heard the mould tumbling heavily upon me.
I knew that the grave was now covered up, for the voices of my friends were quite inaudible, and all was silent.
What a terrible feeling of isolation was mine! Cut off completely from the rest of the world by some feet of earth, alive, yet supposed to be dead, deserted by friends and doomed at length to awaken only to suffer a death of all deaths most horrible! Had I still believed Molly to be dead, it would have been some consolation to me to die; nay, how gladly would I have welcomed death that I might meet her in a better land. But, alas, I knew that Molly still lived, and after death I should be further away from her than ever. This thought was agony to me. One thing, however, somewhat consoled me, though it was but poor consolation.
"We must all die," I thought.
Molly must die, too. It might be years before she left this earth, still I should see her again sooner or later. But then came another, thought which, do all I could, I was unable to banish from my mind. In the meantime Molly might marry someone else, and rear up a large family of children, and what could I be to her then if I ever chanced to meet her in the other world? If ever human soul knew agony, mine knew it then. I longed for no eternity without Molly, and I remember praying that my spirit might be utterly annihilated and become as insensible as the clay that I was about to leave behind me. It was a dreadful and an impious prayer, but when during life, one dear idol has monopolised the heart and there reigns supreme, even the fear of eternal damnation is insufficient to drive it from its throne.
"Oh, that I could die quickly and be at rest for ever!"
Then I prayed fervently a long, heartfelt, earnest prayer, after which I felt more calm, more resigned to my fate. I had no hopes of being rescued and being brought back to life—that hope had quite left me. I now only wished for a speedy and peaceful death. Many weary hours I lay on my back within my narrow prison—rigid—immovable—a living soul amongst the dead. The silence that reigned around was intense, almost inconceivable to those accustomed to the busy world without.
I missed the rustling of the leaves, the chirping of the birds, the distant lowing of cattle, the hum of human voices, every sound of life; all was still, for it was the silence of the grave. The only sound at all audible, and that was so indistinct and muffled from the pile of earth that covered me that, had my sense of hearing not been excited to an abnormal pitch, I should not have heard it, and that was the sound of the church clock as it struck the hour. I had been buried in the morning at about ten o'clock, and I remember counting the hours until ten o'clock at night. Every hour appeared to me a century, until, exhausted with the agony of mind I had endured, I fell asleep and dreamed of Molly. I thought that I was by her side walking under the trees in a part of the country that I had never seen before.
There was a house at some distance, which she said belonged to her aunt. I was telling her all about how I came to be buried alive, and she was listening to me and looking up in my face with tearful eyes, for she had heard that I was dead. I also dreamed that I saw a serpent moving in the grass at her feet. I sprang up and beat it severely with my cane. At first it attempted to defend itself, but at length it escaped from me severely bruised.
The dream then changed from one subject to another, but Molly was by my side throughout. It was exceedingly vivid, and I doubted not at the time but that I was by her side in reality.
I know not how long I had been asleep when I heard a confused noise while still in a dreaming state, and I awoke to find myself once more in my coffin.
"Oh, why was not this dream allowed to last?" I groaned to myself, and tried to fall asleep again, hoping to take up the thread of my dream at the point that I had lost it, but in vain, for now I heard the same noise in reality over my head. It was the sound of men's voices. Who could they be? Was I still dreaming? No!
They were the resurrectionists, or the "body-snatchers," as we generally call them. They had come to rob my body in order to sell it to some doctor. How my heart beat for joy!
"I shall be saved! I shall be saved!" said I to myself.
"O merciful God!" I prayed in spirit, "who scornest not to make the meanest of thy creatures thine instruments, I thank Thee for having heard my prayers and delivered me from this fearful death. I am unworthy of all thy mercies, O God! Perform thy miracles on men more worthy."
The body-snatchers had now shovelled all the earth away that covered me, and they began to lift the coffin out of the grave. Had it been my friend's coffin instead of my own, I should have stigmatised the men who attempted to disinter his body as thieves, robbers, a set of midnight marauders; but in the present instance I blessed them as my deliverers, as my brothers. My heart yearned towards them, for my hopes began to revive.
It would be discovered that I was not dead, at least, I hoped so, and when my trance should pass off I should be able to find some way of seeing Molly again. The next moment the outer coffin was wrenched open; then they proceeded to force the leaden one. This was soon done, and I now felt the chill night air. To lift me out, thrust me headfirst into a sack, and shovel the earth into the grave again, was the work of a moment, and I now felt myself laid across the shoulder of one of the men, and carried off.
"Where was I bound for?" I asked myself.
The men began talking together, so I resolved to listen—to learn, if possible, what they were going to do with me.
"A fine corpse, Bill," said one body-snatcher to the other.
"Aye, my word," replied Bill, "but what a weight he be!"
"Ah! I dare say; these youngsters are so full of blood and muscle," said the other.
"Tell you what it is, Tom," said my bearer, "you must lend me a hand or I shall never bring him safely to the doctor's to-night. Here, just take him on your shoulders a bit!"
I then felt myself transferred from the shoulders of Bill to those of Tom.
"Begad! you're right," said the latter. "He be a load, surely."
"Well," said Bill, "the doctor has got the full worth of his money, and no mistake. For less than ten guineas I wouldn't have undertaken the task on such a night as this. Hark! how the wind howls. My teeth chatter in spite of myself. Poor Jack! Many's the good draught of malt he has drawn for me in his father's tap-room!"
"Peace, you fool!" cried Tom; "don't talk so loud, or the thing will get wind in the village, and we shall get torn to pieces. Hush! there is someone behind the hedge."
Then they walked on in silence for some time, and on the way I was once more hoisted on to the shoulders of Bill.
"Oh, you beggar, what a weight you be!" said Bill, addressing me. "Well, we're paid for it, so I suppose I must carry you," and off we trudged again.
"This is the way to Dr. Slasher's house," said Tom. "I see a light in the windows; he is awaiting us."
"Well," said Bill, "we've been pretty punctual. It is not much past twelve o'clock. Here we are at last."
The two men stopped, and one threw some earth against the doctor's window. The next moment I heard footsteps within, and the door was opened noiselessly.
"Hush!" said the doctor's voice.
The two men entered the house, when I was taken out of my sack and deposited upon a table in the doctor's study. It was the same doctor who had attended me during my illness.
"Fine specimen, sir," said Bill, "and tough work enough we've had to get him, neither; the ground's as hard as a brick-bat."
"Ah!" said the doctor, abstractedly, feeling me all over.
"Yes, sir," said the other; "and how heavy he be too!"
"Humph!" said the doctor.
"It is a bitter cold night," said Bill. "The wind howled among the trees while we was at work enough to make one's blood curdle."
"Ha!" said the doctor; "I know what that means. A glass of grog wouldn't be unacceptable, unless I mistake."
"Well, sir, you've just guessed about right," said Bill. "A glass of grog now and then, just to keep out the cold is a very fine thing, as you, being a doctor, sir, I've no doubt are well aware."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the doctor. "I perceive you understand the theory of the circulation of the blood. Well, as you have done your work well, I'll just put the kettle on the hob, and you shall have a good stiff glass apiece."
"That's the sort of thing, eh, Tom? The doctor is a real gentleman, and no mistake."
Tom acquiesced, and soon the doctor produced a tall bottle of brandy, and more than half filling two tumblers, and popping a couple of lumps of sugar into each glass, he lifted the kettle from the hob and filled them up to the brim. Then, stirring up the sugar at the bottom with the handle of his dissecting knife, he handed a glass to each of his creatures across my body.
"Here's luck, sir," said one of them, nodding.
"I looks towards you, sir," said the other, sipping his grog.
"Thanks, my man, thanks," said the doctor.
"A——h!" gasped Bill, after a deep draught, and smacking his lips, "this is something like a glass of grog. I feel myself again. I'd as lief set out again after another subject to-night as not."
"Well, mate," said Tom, draining his glass, "I guess we'd better toddle."
The doctor then counted out twenty guineas, and gave the men ten apiece.
"Thank ye kindly, sir," said they, "and when again you be in want of our services, your honour knows where to find us. Good-night, sir."
"Good-night," responded the doctor, as he showed them out and closed the door.
I was left alone for a moment, but when he returned he might begin dissecting me at once, and that would be horrible, for I was still in my trance. I hoped he would defer operations until the morrow. In the meantime I hoped to come to. Then I heard the doctor's footsteps in the passage, and here he was again. Would he really cut me up before I could call out or defend myself? Good Heavens! What was he about now? He had tucked up his shirt sleeves and seized his dissecting-knife!
All was lost. My hopes had been raised only to be dashed to the ground. My last hour had come. Already I felt the point of the murderous instrument against my chest. Rip!—an incision had been made!
"Hullo!" cried the doctor, dropping his dissecting-knife. "What is this? Why the man's not dead!"
The fact was, I was gradually recovering, and my blood had already begun to flow. The intense mental agony I had endured had caused a cold sweat to break out on my forehead. The incision luckily was not very deep, but I bear the mark of the wound to this day.
The doctor staunched the blood with his handkerchief, muttering to himself, "And have I been obliged to pay twenty guineas for a living subject? Humph! I've a good mind to cut him up all the same, no one would be any the wiser for it."
I began to fear lest he might do so in real earnest; however, he bound up my wound and carried me into his own bedroom, where he placed me on a mattress on the ground. He wiped the perspiration from my forehead and felt my pulse.
"He'll come round," he muttered to himself; "already he shows signs of life. I would not for the world, though, that this got known in the village. I should lose all my practice, and yet I don't know how to keep the matter quiet, it must ooze out."
Life was rapidly returning. I began to open and shut my eyes and to breathe, though with some difficulty. By degrees, however, I managed to breathe more freely.
"Ah, ha!" said the doctor, noticing the rapid change, "getting all right, now—eh?"
I remained in the same state for about an hour more, when the doctor began undressing and preparing to turn in for the night. In another moment he was between the sheets and snoring loudly. Soon after I fell asleep myself.
The following morning on awaking, I felt almost myself again. I could move my limbs and sit up in bed, though I still felt very weak.
"Well, how are we now?" asked the doctor, seeing that I moved with comparative ease. "A nice trick you've played me. Do you know that you have done me out of twenty guineas—by coming to life again—eh? I hoped to have cut you all up by this time—and I might have done so, too, easily enough at the time, but I suppose if I were to try it on now you'd halloa."
Then he began to ask me all sorts of questions, to which I answered feebly. In reply to a question of his as to whether I felt hungry, I nodded my head, and the doctor went to prepare me a cup of broth. When he returned and I had partaken of it, new strength came back to me, and I was able to relate to him all my sufferings while he listened attentively. Well, day after day I improved in health under the doctor's care, till I at length completely recovered. One morning after I was up and dressed, and breakfasting with the doctor (N.B.—Nobody, not even the doctor's servant, knew anything about either the removal of my body from the grave or of my coming to life again, for the doctor took good care to keep me locked up for a time in his bedchamber.) Well, breakfasting one morning with the doctor, I noticed that he looked rather thoughtful and confused.
"Now, I'll tell you what your thoughts are, doctor," said I, "and you see if I haven't guessed right."
"Well," said he, somewhat surlily.
"You are afraid that the affair about digging up my body may get known, and will damage your reputation, and you do not know how to keep it secret. Is it not so?" I asked.
"Well, sir," said he, "you've just guessed about right, but what is to be done?"
"Listen to me," said I. "I have a plan."
"Indeed!" said he, opening his eyes.
"Yes, a plan to kill two birds with one stone," I said. "It is to your interest that this affair should not be known—eh? Well, it is to my interest, too. All will go well if you do as I propose."
"What is that?" asked he, with eagerness.
"First you must lend me a complete disguise, consisting of one of your old wigs, a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, and one of your suits of clothes. Secondly, you must lend me a certain sum of money to keep me for, say, a fortnight. I'll pay you back in due time, when my plan has succeeded. You needn't be afraid. You can trust Jack Hearty—eh?"
"Yes, certainly," said he, with some hesitation. "But how? I don't understand."
"Never mind that," said I; "you will know all in good time."
"Well, Jack," said he, "I know you for a sharp fellow and an honest—so I will trust you. I don't know what your scheme is; but if it fail, and the worst comes to the worst, why I can but be exposed, and there is an end of it."
"Well said, doctor," said I; "now let us commence to put the scheme into practice."
He then took from his wardrobe rather a threadbare suit of black clothes, which I immediately donned. Then I tried on an old powdered wig with a pigtail and a pair of lace ruffles, next a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles with glasses as big as a crown piece. I next corked my eyebrows, slightly stained the tip of my nose with red and made a few false wrinkles in my forehead. The doctor placed a gold-headed cane in my hand and a large signet ring on my forefinger. I then took a book under my arm, and at parting the doctor gave me a purse of gold to put in my pocket, and off I started. The doctor laughed immoderately at my successful disguise, and I heard him say as I was leaving the house, "I don't know what he means to be up to, but some devilry, I'll lay a farthing."
Well, gentlemen, the next thing I did was to walk straight off to catch the stage, which would pass by the village of H——, where Molly was staying with her aunt. I remember I had to run for it, and pretty hard, too, but I caught it up. Tearing along as fast as my legs could carry me, I passed by a group of villagers, some of my friends amongst them, and I heard the following remarks:
"Here comes the doctor, running for his life!"—"Go it doctor, you'll catch it up!"—"My eyes, don't he run!—who'd have thought the old boy had so much life in him?"
"It ain't the doctor, though; it's another man. I don't know him, Jim, do you? I wonder how long he has been in the village. I never see him before."
As I was stepping into the coach I heard a voice behind me say, "I thought it was Dr. Slasher, Bill, didn't you?"
"Yes, at first," said another; "he's like him—leastways the clothes is."
"By the way," said the first, "I wonder when the doctor will be ready for another subject. I suppose poor Jack's cut up long since."
"Hush! you fool," said the other.
By this time I had taken my seat in the coach, and looking in the direction of the voices, I recognised my friends of the other night, Tom and Bill. Off we then started. The coach was full of men I knew as well as my own father, most of them my customers. I appeared absorbed in my book, so as not to get entangled in conversation with anyone, for fear that my voice might betray me.
Two men, who appeared to be strangers to each other, began entering into conversation.
"Dreadful business this epidemic, sir," said the younger of the two to the elder.
"Yes, it is indeed," replied the elder; "the young fare the same as the old, they say, but I am a stranger in the place."
"Oh, indeed, sir," said the first speaker; and then added, "Yes, sir—that's true enough—the young die as soon as the old. Hardly a week ago died young Jack Hearty, son of old Hearty, as keeps the Headless Lady—a lad of nineteen, and as hale a young fellow as ever you'd find in a day's march. He was taken suddenly ill, and died in a very few days.
"Poor young fellow! who'd have thought that he would have gone along with the rest? He was an only son, too, and they say his father is devilish down in the mouth about it."
"Dear me! dreadful, to be sure," replied the elder.
The conversation then changed to various topics, and became general, the only one not joining in it being myself. I still pored over my book, appearing not to take an interest in anything that was being said, although my ears were open to catch every word.
"Who's that cove?" I heard one say to his neighbour.
"Oi doan't knaw, Oi'm sure," replied the one addressed, being a lusty farmer. "Oi never see'd un in these parts afore—looks loike a doctor."
"Why don't he speak?" said the other. "He won't talk to no one."
"Maybe un's too proud," said the former.
"I'd like to kick the surly devil," said his companion.
"What'll you bet Oi doan't make un speak?" said the countryman.
"Bet you a halfpenny you don't get a word out of him," said the first speaker.
"Done," said the farmer, and turning suddenly upon me, accosted me thus:—
"Oi zay, governor, you bes a doctor, b'aint ye?"
I drew myself up with an air of dignity, and said with a frown, and in a feigned voice: "Did you address me, sir?"
"Ees," said the bumpkin, unawed by my assumption of dignity; "and Oi axes ye if ye b'aint a doctor."
"Well, sir," I said; "and if I am!"
"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed coarsely. "Oi knowed ye was. Oi thought Oi knowed the breed. Vell, you doctors has made a pretty harvest of late, Oi reckon," said the farmer, bluntly.
"How so, sir," I asked. "I do not understand you."
"Vhy, vith the patients as has died in this here hepidemic," said he. "They must have brought grist to your mill, if Oi'm not mistook."
"What epidemic?" I asked, feigning surprise. "I am a stranger in these parts, and know nothing of the epidemic."
"Vhy, ye doan't mane to zay that ye never heard of th' epidemic as all th' vorld is a talking of," said he.
"All the world!" I cried, in astonishment. "All your little village, I suppose you mean—no, I am entirely ignorant of this malady."
"Vell then, doctor," said the boor, "if ye'd only set up in our village, there's a snug little business going on for the loikes of you."
"Humph!" I grunted, not deigning to make other reply.
"Yes, indeed, sir," said a man in the opposite corner of the coach, joining in the conversation, but more respectfully than my friend the farmer. "I assure you that a doctor's services are very much needed in these parts. They say the malady is spreading."
The last speaker was a man I knew as well as I know my own face in a looking-glass, and whom I had served to innumerable pints of our home-brewed ale—a crony of mine, in fact, yet he failed to see through my disguise.
"Dear me!" said I. "I hope it will be nothing very serious. I regret not being able to make myself useful, as I have several important cases to attend to a long distance off."
"Oh, it has been very bad indeed, sir, hereabouts," said the same man. "Most cases have been fatal. The death that has been most talked of in the village is that of poor Jack Hearty, a lad of nineteen, as strong and as good looking a young fellow as any in the village. He was took bad, as it might be, yesterday, and struck down to-day in the very flower of his youth."
"You don't say so?" said I.
"Yes, sir," he resumed; "and I'll be bound to say you wouldn't find a finer young fellow in all England."
"Really!" said I, inwardly feeling flattered.
"Ah!" said another, with a sly wink. "I think I could tell you what hastened Jack's death as much as anything."
"What was that?" I asked.
"There was a young woman in the case, they say," said the man, whom I also knew intimately.
"Well, sir," said I, with a well-feigned innocence; "and this young woman——?"
"Well, I believe he died pining for her, and folks say as how it was the hepidemic."
"Ah!" I said with a sigh. "That is an epidemic we all catch some time or other, but most folks get over it, I fancy."
"Well, yes," said the man; "most folks, as you say, do, but poor Jack was very hard hit indeed, sir. I happen to know the young woman, too—as fine a wench as you'll meet with in the whole kingdom."
"Ah! indeed," I said. "They would have been well matched then, had they married?"
"They would indeed, sir," was the reply. "They'd have made a pair as you wouldn't meet every day. Well, well," he sighed; "he's gone now, poor fellow, so the wench must look out for someone else."
"Did the girl take it much to heart, think you?" said I.
"Aye, I'll warrant she did, sir," said he, "though I can't say for certain, seeing as how her father sent her away from home to get her out of Jack's way. But she'll have heard all about it by this time. Poor girl! I am sorry for her. She'll have to wait a long time before she finds another like Jack."
"Perhaps she may never marry," I suggested; "that is if she really loved him."
"Can't say I'm sure, sir. You see the maid is quite young yet, and has got lots of admirers; what with one and what with another, she may in time forget Jack and take to someone else," said my friend.
"You have heard no rumours as yet, I suppose, of her showing any partiality towards anyone," I demanded, timidly.
"No, sir, I can't say that exactly, but then it is so shortly after Jack's death, that it isn't likely she would just yet. Still there's a young fellow, the son of a squire, as is very sweet upon her, and is always following of her about. If she could manage to catch him, she'd do well, but the young gent's father don't approve of it, and is like to cut him off to a shilling if he marries her. Folks say that the young squire is a bit of a scamp, and don't mean marriage. It'll be a pity if the maid goes wrong, for she is a good girl, and no mistake."
Now this was gall and wormwood to me. I knew that that rascal young Rashly had been hovering about Molly's house for some time. He had often crossed me in my walks with Molly, and we hated each other like poison, but I also knew that Molly couldn't bear the sight of him, for she was really and truly in love with me, yet the very mention of his name coupled with hers made my blood boil. Mastering my emotion, however, I asked with as much apparent indifference as possible, "And this young gentleman, where is he now?"
"Oh, up to his larks, I'll warrant," said the man, with a laugh. "The girl's father has sent her away to live with her aunt, to get her out of Jack's way, as he is not friends with Jack's father, and I guess out of the way of the young squire, too; but young Rashly has been absent now some time from the village, and I'll be bound he has found her out by this time. Now that poor Jack's dead he'll have the way all clear before him."
"The devil take him," I muttered to myself. I was bursting with rage, and to conceal my emotion, I affected to stare out of the window at some object, while my heart beat underneath my borrowed waistcoat, and must have been audible but for the coach wheels. I appeared again absorbed in my book while the rest of the passengers discoursed upon general topics.
"Give us the halfpenny," I heard my bluff fellow-traveller say to his friend; "it's been fairly von." His friend's hand was buried for an instant, and the coin was transferred from his to the farmer's breeches pocket.
"That's zum business, onyrate," said the countryman, receiving the payment of the bet with a chuckle.
The stage then rolled on for some distance further, till some passenger called out:
"There is H——, any passenger for H——?"
"Yes, sir," said I; "I am for H——."
The stage stopped, and with trembling hands and beating heart I squeezed past the other passengers.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said I, as I walked off.
The stage was set in motion again. There was no other passenger but myself for the village of H——, so I strolled off with light step to the nearest inn.
Having refreshed myself with a light luncheon, I strolled about the country a bit until I came across—you may be surprised, gentlemen—but I actually came across the very same house with the very identical country round about it, including the wood, that appeared in my dream. I certainly was startled.
"Yonder, then, is the house of Molly's aunt," I thought, and I walked towards it, thinking all the while how I should introduce myself.
Before I reached the house, however, two figures in the distance under the trees of the wood attracted my gaze. I looked again. One of the figures, I was sure, could be no other than Molly herself, and the other I was equally certain was young Rashly.
I hastened my steps, but by a route so as not to come directly in front of them, for I wished to overhear their conversation. Having made a roundabout cut, I concealed myself behind some brushwood, where I could both see them distinctly, and hear all they said without being seen by them.
"Come, Molly," I heard young Rashly say, "enough of this. What is the good of making yourself miserable about young Hearty? He's dead now, poor fellow—he was a great friend of mine, but now that he is gone and can never come back to you, try to forget him. I wish to console you and to raise your spirits. Now, my dear girl, do try and forget him."
"Oh, never, never!" sobbed Molly, "I never can forget him. I shall never be able to love anyone else. Poor fellow! He died out of love for me, I know he did. Oh, Jack, Jack, I never can forget you—never, never!" and she sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Now, Molly, this is nothing but obstinacy; you can't call him back, however you may mourn for him. Just look at the position I offer you. I shall be able to make you more comfortable than Jack would have been able to make you. Is it nothing to be made a lady of? Don't be a fool, girl, and throw such a chance away. Hundreds in your place would jump at it."
"How can I accept such terms from a man I do not love?" cried Molly. "Would I not be one of the basest of women to persuade you that I loved you just to become your wife, when my heart is another's?"
"How can your heart be another's when Jack is no more?" asked he.
"Yes, yes; in death my heart shall still be his," Molly cried.
"Come, now, you're talking like a mad girl. Just listen to reason a bit. I will settle a good round sum a year upon you to keep you as a lady in a nice little cottage with a garden, where I shall always be able to come to pay you a visit in secret, when my father is out of the way."
"Then you never from the first intended to marry me," interrupted Molly, "you only—only—wanted to——"
"Why, actually marry you, no; I never intended that. That would be impossible, but——"
"Exactly; I understand you," answered Molly, proudly, "but I scorn your base proposals. If you were to lay the wealth of the universe at my feet, I would never barter my good name. So this is what you have been trying at all this time, to make me your minion.
"When first you visited me, you gave me to understand that your intentions were honourable, and though I loved you not, and never could, yet I respected you and felt compassion for you and tried to think of you as a friend. Now I neither pity nor respect you, but despise you. Go, sir, and never dare to speak to me again!"
"What a trump of a girl!" I muttered to myself.
"Molly! Molly!" cried Rashly, starting backward in amazement, "are you mad?"
"I should be mad to accept your proposals," replied Molly, calmly, but firmly. "Go, sir—all friendship between us is at an end."
"My dear Molly," began Rashly, "I beg of you, I entreat you to calm yourself—to take a more reasonable view of the matter. Come, let me persuade you, dear," said he, advancing and attempting to put his arm round her waist, but he was instantly repulsed.
He essayed again.
"Dare to touch me once more, sir, and I'll scream—I'll rouse the neighbourhood and expose you."
"Hush, hush!" said Rashly, nothing daunted, "be reasonable, there's a good girl, I'll do you no harm," and he ventured to touch her again.
"Back, sir, I say!" and she lifted up her voice to scream, but instantly his hand was on her mouth.
I could endure it no longer, but bursting from my hiding-place, and grasping firmly my gold-headed cane, I sprang to the spot.
"Who are you, sir?" I cried, boiling with rage, "that dare offer to insult my niece? Begone! or it will be the worse for you."
Both started, and Rashly turned livid and trembled.
"I thank you, sir," said Molly, "for interfering."
Then thrusting Rashly aside, I cried; "Molly! I am your uncle, do you not know me?" trying to disguise my voice all the while, which was rather a difficult matter, boiling with passion as I was then.
"I do not know you, sir, though I believe your intentions to be good," said Molly.
Then seizing Molly by the hand, I whispered in her ear; "Silence!—not a word—I am Jack risen from the grave."
A piercing shriek, and Molly fell fainting against a tree.
"Who are you, you vagabond?" cried Rashly, now for the first time recovering from his surprise. "She does not know you. What have you been saying to the poor girl to frighten her so? You are an impostor, sir. Be off and mind your own business!"
"Impostor! eh?—vagabond, eh? I'll show you who is a vagabond, you scoundrel!" said I, and lifting my cane, I laid it about him with all my might and main like a cavalryman cutting down his foe.
Rashly at first attempted to defend himself, and flew at me like a tiger; he tried to snatch the cane from my hand, but I hit him so severely across the knuckles that I made him howl out in spite of himself. I cut him right and left over head, shoulders, arms and legs, hacking and slashing with the force of an infuriated madman, accompanying each blow with such epithets as "scoundrel," "blackguard," till he burst out in a piteous cry and took refuge in flight. He never troubled Molly again.
The doctor's gold-headed cane had been broken with the force of the blows I had dealt my rival, for which afterwards I had to pay, but to return to Molly. She gradually recovered her senses, and gazed at me wonderingly and full of fear.
"Be calm, Molly," I said in my natural voice, "it is I—Jack, risen from the grave, but still in the flesh and no spirit." Then taking off my spectacles and wig, I said, "Molly, do you not recognise these eyes and these locks, in spite of the rest of my disguise?"
She still looked fearful and distrustingly at me, but at length convinced that it was myself—and no one else—by my voice, she flew to my arms crying, "Oh, Jack, Jack!—is it really you?"
Of course, she wanted an instant explanation of my resurrection, which I by degrees gave; and having given it, I began to unfold to her my plan, thus.
"Molly," I said, "what I have told you and am about to tell you now must remain a secret between ourselves, otherwise my plan will fail. Well then, in the first place you must get me acquainted with your aunt, and give out that I am an elderly gentleman you have known some time, and that you have met me quite unexpectedly here. You must invite me to call at the house. I shall adopt the name of Dr. Crow. You must feign illness and send for me. Thus we shall be able to see a good deal of each other. I will also persuade your aunt that she is ill, so that we shall see still more of each other. I'll worm myself into her good graces and after about a fortnight or so, I shall ask your aunt's consent to our marriage. I shall tell her that I am a doctor in good practice, and shall be able to keep you well, and when I once get the right side of her, I doubt not that I shall obtain her consent. She will then write to your father, who will hardly say anything against a match so advantageous, although our ages may be apparently unequal.
"It is not likely that he will trouble himself to come down here to have a look at me, as he is at present laid up with the gout. He will in all probability write his consent. That once obtained, I shall make all necessary preparations for the marriage, and as for obtaining my father's consent—leave that to me."
"Oh, but, Jack! if your plan should fail—if your disguise should be seen through," began Molly.
"Leave all to me," said I. "So far I have been successful, for I have not been recognised yet. Fortune seems on my side. You must aid me in every possible way to carry out my plan."
"I will, Jack!" said she.
"Well, then," said I, "you must go home now to your aunt, and say you have met an old friend of yours quite by chance here—a certain Dr. Crow. Say also that I should like to call and make her acquaintance. Meet me again to-morrow in the wood, and invite me to the house. In time, I've no doubt, all will go well."
Molly promised to follow my instructions, and we parted.
It was then late in the afternoon, so I returned to my inn. There I found a snug little parlour, with a bookcase, so I beguiled the time as well as I could by reading until the clock struck the dinner hour. After a comfortable meal, I smoked a pipe of tobacco, strolled about the streets a little in the twilight, and turned into bed.
Next morning, after breakfast, I strolled out again into the wood. I walked about for an hour, perhaps, without meeting anyone, casting anxious glances all the while towards the house where Molly lived.
At length she made her appearance; not alone this time, but with another female. This must be the aunt, I thought—so much the better. Feeling the necessity of an excuse for hovering about so near the house, I feigned to be gathering wild flowers.
"Oh, aunt!" I heard Molly say as she came up, "here is Dr. Crow, the gentleman that I spoke to you about yesterday."
"Ah, Miss Sykes!" said I, lifting my hat in the most polite manner, "I hope I see you well this morning."
Molly gave me her hand, and introduced me to her aunt, who curtseyed and smiled.
I said that I had come down here for a change of air, and that I was amusing myself with botanising.
"Oh, indeed!" said the aunt. "So that is your hobby, is it, Dr. Crow—well, and a very delightful one, too. I am very fond of flowers myself, and only wish I knew more about them. I do envy you scientific men. You always seem so happy and contented."
"Well, madam," said I, "there is nothing like having a hobby in life. It fills up many a weary hour and makes us forget the din and the bustle of the busy world around us. For my part, when I have no patients to attend to, I am always occupied in some way or other."
"Dear me," said the aunt. "How very delightful!"
We walked on together, conversing agreeably as we went, and afterwards I was invited into the house. Need I say that I praised to the utmost the good taste of everything I saw there, her paperhangings, her worsted work, her crochet, etc. I was then shown some specimens of ferns and wild flowers that she had dried in a book, and she begged of me to write their classical names under them.
This was indeed a trial, as I had never learnt a single word of Latin, but it would not do to back out, so I exerted all my ingenuity to invent some crackjaw names. Among the rest I remember inscribing the words "Rodus sidus," "Stenchius obnoxious," and "Herbus unnonus." These names delighted Molly's aunt immensely, who believed she was already a Latin scholar. I found my way so well into the aunt's good graces that I was invited to call whenever I liked, and frequently asked to dinner.
As I did not like to call every day, for fear it should look bad, either Molly or Molly's aunt managed to feel unwell on the days that I did not call, and they found it necessary to send for me, so it came to much the same thing, as I saw Molly every day. Molly's aunt was one of that class of females who are always imagining that something or other is the matter with them. I soon saw, therefore, that to get thoroughly into her good graces, I must humour her in her whims.
Accordingly, I made out that she had this, that, or the other—indeed, I forget what it was exactly that I said ailed her—and promised to bring her some physic. This quite won her heart, so I at once set about making some liquorice water, endeavouring to disguise the taste of the liquorice as much as possible by adding salt, pepper, a little soap, some tobacco, and other nauseous ingredients. I wonder the mess didn't poison her, but so far from causing ill-effects, she informed me that it had really done her good.
Whether the good it had done her only lay in her imagination or whether the strange compound really did possess a medicinal property I cannot tell (I can hardly think the latter), but certain it was, she did seem better. I believe the real fact of the matter to be this. Molly's aunt was the daughter of a well-to-do retired butcher, and like many of her class, had over-indulged in high feeding, and consequently was always suffering from overloaded stomach. The mess that I gave her made her sick, and that, in reality, and not merely in imagination, effected a cure.
I then put her on a lower diet, recommended her plenty of walking exercise, and in a very short time there was a complete change in her constitution. She no longer felt dyspeptic and desponding, suffered no longer from nervous headaches, in fact, in her own words, she "felt quite a girl again." All the effect of my wonderful medicine. This, of course, was a feather in my cap, and she looked up to me more than ever.
A week and then a fortnight passed away, and I now thought it high time to break to the aunt my love affair with her niece, and ask her consent to our union. So I called upon her one morning and requested to speak with her alone. She received me in the back parlour, and begged me to take a seat. I did so, and began thus:—
"Ahem! Madam, I wished to talk to you upon a matter of some delicacy."
"Good gracious, doctor! What can have happened?" she exclaimed, observing a look of unwonted gravity in my face.
"Oh, nothing, nothing," I said; "at least, nothing of any great importance. Hear me. I am a physician of a certain age and in very good practice." I paused.
"Well, Dr. Crow," said the aunt.
"And I am still a bachelor," I continued.
"Well, sir," said she, wriggling about in her seat and looking coy, as if she guessed I meditated a proposal, and took the compliment to herself.
"Well, madam," said I, impatient to get through this painful duty, "to cut a long story short, I am in love with your charming niece."
"Oh! doctor," she exclaimed.
The "Oh!" was jerked out with a spasm truly painful, and her countenance fell visibly.
"I dare say you were not prepared for such a surprise, but I have known Miss Sykes now a long time, and I never saw anyone who could suit me better as a wife. Miss Sykes and I have talked the matter over together, and she only awaits her aunt's consent. Thank you, thank you, madam," said I seizing her hand, "I knew you would give it," before giving her an opportunity either to consent or refuse.
"Molly!" I cried, "come and thank your kind aunt for having given her consent to our happy union."
Molly entered, blushing and giggling.
"Come, Molly," said I, "come and thank aunt, for now we shall be as happy as two birds in a nest. I'll go and see about the licence, and we'll get married as soon as ever we can."
I laughed and appeared very merry, repeatedly seizing the aunt by the hand and patting her on the shoulder before she had time to get a word out.
"Stay, sir," said she, at length, "I can do nothing without the consent of my niece's father."
"Oh, that will be easily obtained, I am quite sure," said I, hopefully. "We will at once write a note, and all will be settled."
I brought her her desk, opened it, took out pen, ink, and paper, and placing a chair for her, induced her to write.
"Yes," I said, looking over her shoulder as she wrote, "that will do—not too cold. Say I am in a position to make his daughter comfortable, and that you think it is a very desirable match—yes, that's the sort of thing. Give it to me, I'll take it to the post." So saying, I snatched up the epistle, bounded from the house, and returned shortly, as happy as if everything were already settled.
In due time came a reply from old Sykes, to the purport that, though he would have chosen a younger man for his daughter, yet on the whole, considering that I had a pretty good business as a doctor, and could keep her well, he saw no reason why he should withhold his consent. Furthermore, he begged the aunt that if his daughter were to be married to hasten the marriage as much as possible, as young Rashly had been missing for some time, and folks said that he was down at H—— after her.
"Bravo! old Sykes," said I to myself, "Fortune seems to favour me indeed."
The next step that I intended to take was to obtain the consent of my father. Accordingly, I took leave of Molly for a time, stating that I had to absent myself on business, and promising a speedy return. I entered the stage and arrived at our village, where I put up at my father's inn. It was towards evening when I arrived.
"Landlord!" I cried, disguising my voice, "I wish to dine in half-an-hour."
"Yes, sir," said my father, coming towards me, bowing, and rubbing his hands.
"Have you got a good bed?" asked I, "for I wish to sleep here to-night."
"Yes, sir, capital beds, sir," said my father, "both clean and well aired."
"Very well, then, make me up one," said I, pompously.
"It shall be done, sir," said my father, obsequiously.
I occupied myself with reading until dinner-time. At length the dinner came up.
"A pint of your best port, landlord," I cried, magnificently.
My father returned with the port, crusted and cob-webbed, from the cellar, and I began my dinner. Having finished, I filled my pipe, and whilst my father cleared the table, I deigned to enter into conversation with him.
I began by asking him the number of inhabitants in the village, and then brought him out upon the subject of the epidemic.
"Ah! sir," said my father, deeply moved, "it carried off my only son some three weeks ago, and a finer lad you wouldn't see in all England. I hoped that he would have been the prop of my old age, but he was carried off, sir, along with the rest—struck down in the very spring of his youth, as you may say. Only nineteen was my poor boy when he was taken from me," and my father's eyes moistened as he spoke.
"Only nineteen!" I exclaimed. "Was he not strong?"
"Strong, sir! I believe you—strong as a lion," said my father.
"Dear me!" I said, "it is very strange that his youth and strength did not resist the malady."
"So everyone said, sir," replied my father, "but—but he had been ailing for some time before."
"What was his complaint before he caught this disease?" I asked.
"Ah! sir, that's just the point," answered my father. "I sadly fear that it was an epidemic of a more dangerous sort."
"How so?" asked I. "What do you mean?"
"Well, sir, my real opinion is now that the young man was too strongly attached to a maid whom he couldn't marry, and that undermined his health. Then came the epidemic, which he had not sufficient strength to shake off."
"Ah!" said I, "and why could he not marry her? Was the maid unrelenting?"
"Not that, exactly, sir. Indeed, I believe she was as much in love with him, but——"
"But what?"
"Well, the fact of the matter is, sir, the girl's father and I ain't friends, and neither of us was willing to give our consent. The girl was sent off by her father to live at her aunt's, just to get her out of my son's way. I knew all about this, but I wasn't going to tell the young man, lest he should take it into his head to run after her, so, thinking to blunt his passion, I invented the story of her death, saying that she had been carried off by the epidemic, hoping that after a time, finding she was no more, that he would cease to think of her. But instead of that, he grew worse and worse, and I attribute his death to the lie I told about his sweetheart's decease."
"You did very wrong," said I, "not to give your consent."
"Well, but, sir, if I had given mine, the girl's father would not have given his," replied my father.
"If you had been the first to make up the quarrel, I have no doubt that he would have given his consent," said I.
My father seemed stung with this reproach, and took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.
"Ah, my poor son! my poor son!" sobbed my father. "What wouldn't I give to have him back again?"
"Would you give your consent to his marriage with the girl he loved if he could come to life again?" I asked.
"Ay, sir, that would I, only too gladly," replied my father, "but what's the use of talking now that he has gone from me for ever?"
"You speak like a man without faith," said I. "Have you no belief in an after life? Have you no hope of meeting him in Heaven?"
"That is the only hope I have left, sir," said my father, "but in the meantime——"
"Ah!" said I, "you cannot make up your mind to be consoled for his loss for the few short years that you have to remain upon earth."
"Well, sir, it's very hard to bear," said my father.
"Have you ever prayed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," said he, "I say my prayers regularly."
"But do you say them earnestly?" said I. "Do you believe that if you ask a thing that you will receive what you ask for? For instance, if you were to pray for your son to be restored to life, do you believe that he really would be restored to life?"
My father stared in surprise.
"Well, to tell you the truth, sir, no," he said; "for we all know that when a man has been buried three weeks that he rarely returns. Even Lazarus was but four days under the earth. In fact, the thought of praying for his return after his spirit had once been yielded up never occurred to me. When David was bereaved of his child by Uriah's wife, he humbled himself whilst the child was yet alive with sackcloth and ashes, but when he heard that the child was dead, he rose and ate bread. What instance is there on record of one returning to life after being buried three weeks?"
"Pray, nevertheless," said I; "the mercy of God is boundless. Who knows but that——"
"Oh, sir, sir," said my father, shaking his head, "you but mock me; it cannot be."
"It is impious of you to say it cannot be. Nothing is impossible with God," said I.
My father smiled faintly. I saw that he regarded me as a kind of well meaning madman, and after lighting my candle, he showed me the way to my room and shut me in for the night.
My room was some few doors off from my father's. I undressed and went to bed. I had not been in bed more than an hour when I heard my father's footsteps on the stairs. He, too, was going to bed. There was no other guest in the inn then, and all was quiet.
I allowed my father a quarter of an hour to get into bed. Then I opened my chamber door, and listened to hear if he was praying, for he always prayed aloud. I was satisfied that he was praying; what the precise words were I could not quite distinguish, but I fancied I heard my name mentioned once or twice. I returned to my chamber and closed the door. I allowed my father another hour to go to sleep. When the time had expired, I stepped on tip-toe across the passage and turned the handle of his bedroom door noiselessly. I peeped in. All was silent, or rather he was snoring loudly. Leaving the door ajar, I went back cautiously to my chamber to fetch the candle, and then softly and noiselessly I entered the room where my father lay asleep. I had provided myself with a pinch of salt, which I sprinkled in the flame, so as to give a look of ghostly pallor to my face. Then, tapping my father lightly on the shoulder, he started up in bed.
"Good heavens!" he cried, with every hair erect on his head—
"Jack! is it you?"
He spoke huskily, and his teeth chattered.
"Hush!" said I, in a sepulchral voice; "listen to me. Because you have prayed fervently, I have risen from my grave to comfort you. Grieve not for me, father, for I am happy. I have returned to thank you for having given your consent to my marriage. Molly is now mine in spirit, and I shall henceforth rest peacefully in my tomb. Farewell."
I strode towards the door, with long, silent, majestic strides, and closed it carefully after me, leaving my father staring after me into space and speechless with terror.
I was a very young man then, and a reckless devil-may-care sort of fellow, otherwise I should not have attempted such a dangerous practical joke. The consequences might have been fatal; as it was, my father's nerves were terribly shaken, and I spoilt all his night's rest. When he brought up my breakfast the next morning in the parlour he looked pale and haggard.
"What is the matter, good man?" said I, patronisingly, in my usual feigned voice.
"Oh, sir!" said my father, excitedly, "I saw him last night!"
"Saw him!" I exclaimed. "Saw whom?"
"My son, Jack, sir. Oh, who would have believed it?"
"What! and has he returned to life, or was it his spirit?"
"Yes, sir, his ghost," said my father, with a look of awe, and then he began relating to me the whole particulars of his son's spiritual apparition.
"Then you followed my advice, and have been praying?"
"That I did, sir, with all my heart and soul," said my father.
"You told me last evening," said I, "that if your son should come to life again you would give your consent to his marriage. If you really repent having withheld your consent during his lifetime let me see that your repentance is true by writing me the following words and affixing your signature."
"What words, sir, must I write?" he asked.
"Write," said I, "'If my son is restored to me I will give my consent to his marriage, with the girl of his choice,' that is what you have to write."
"But—but—" began my father.
"Write what I tell you, and affix your signature," said I, gruffly.
"As you like, sir," said he, complying with my request. I blotted the sheet of paper, and placed it in my pocket.
"Now, sir," said I to my father, "I have a secret to tell you. Do not faint, but be prepared for a shock."
My father looked at me in astonishment.
"Your son lives," said I.
"What do I hear?—my son—my son lives?" he exclaimed, staggering backwards. Then recovering somewhat his composure, he asked, "But how? I myself saw him laid in the ground; besides, I tell you I saw his ghost last night."
"That was nothing but a distempered dream brought on by our conversation before you retired to rest," said I. "I tell you your son lives—he is in my care. Listen; but what I am about to tell you, you must keep to yourself, otherwise it will damage my reputation. Hearing that your son had been buried, I, being a doctor and in want of a subject for dissection, employed resurrectioners or body-snatchers to procure me your son's body. They stole it from his grave and brought it to my house. When I began to dissect I found that he was not yet dead. He has been at my house ever since, still very weak from his recent illness. He has related to me his love affair, and knows of the deception that you practised upon him. He begged me to procure for him his father's consent to his marriage, otherwise, he said he might die in real earnest."
"Oh, doctor, doctor!" cried my father, "can it be true? Oh, say that you are not jesting with me. Do not trifle with the feelings of a poor man!"
"I never trifle," I replied, with dignity.
"Then it is true, doctor, really true! O God be praised," and he clasped his hands convulsively, whilst the tears ran down his cheeks.
Suddenly his ecstasy abated, and he grew serious.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Oh, but, doctor, if—if after all what I saw last night were not a dream—if whilst during your absence from home, my son really has died, and appeared to me last night to let me know. What proof have you that the vision of my son last night was a dream?" he asked.
"What proof?" I exclaimed. "This proof," I cried, throwing off my disguise and speaking in my own natural voice again. "Behold me, father, risen from the dead!"
My father's surprise, consternation and joy was beyond all description.
"What!" he cried, "and are you really Jack risen from the grave? Come, let me touch you to be sure you are no ghost.
"Ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, hysterically. "What! Jack, my boy, I see it all. Ha! ha! ha! ha!" and he wept upon my shoulder till I thought he'd go off in a fit.
"Hush! father," I cried, "and calm yourself. My resurrection must be a secret between us two, for motives of policy. Do you understand?"
"Why a secret?" he asked.
"Never mind now; that is part of my plan. If you tell a single soul you'll spoil all, and I am a ruined man," I said.
"I understand nothing of all this, Jack," said my father, "but you may count upon my secrecy; but I say, Jack, how long must I keep the secret, for I am burning to tell everyone in the village?"
"For Heaven's sake, hold your tongue," said I, "until I give you permission to let it out, or I am ruined for life."
"Well, well, Jack, mum's the word," said my father.
I then resumed my disguise and prepared to leave the inn.
"Why, what the devil are you going to be up to now?"
"Mum's the word," said I. "You shall know all when I return. Good-bye, father," and off I started.
I busied myself a good deal about getting everything in order for the wedding, and returned to H——, where without further bother I was married at the village church.
Fearful that if I threw off my disguise before the wedding that something or other, I could not tell what or from what quarter, would mar all and prevent the marriage just at the last moment, after having been so successful up to this time, this feeling, or presentiment of harm, vague as it was, induced me to keep on my disguise all through the ceremony, but when it came to signing my name in the register, I signed my real name—"John Hearty."
This created some sensation.
The aunt wanted me to explain myself. However, we hurried back to the aunt's house, where we at once threw off my disguise, explained all, and craved pardon for the deception I had practised upon her.
At first the aunt seemed a little cold. She was hurt at the deception being carried on so long.
There was no necessity for such tricks, she said, if she had been told all at the beginning; nothing would have been known to anyone else.
"Do you think I would trust a woman's tongue?" I said. "Come, now, aunt," I said, "though I am not a doctor, I did you quite as much good as a court physician could have done you. Yes, although the medicine was only liquorice water mixed up with other harmless filth."
"In that, too, I've been imposed upon, then," murmured the aunt.
"Nevertheless, I cured you," retorted I; "you yourself admitted it, and what is more, I took no fee."
Soon, however, Molly's aunt recovered her good humour, and all passed off with a hearty laugh.
The only difficulty now was to reconcile ourselves with Molly's father. The comedy was nearly at an end. I donned my disguise once more, and we started off together after the wedding breakfast to our native village, and driving up to old Sykes' house, we knocked at the door.
We entered, and I introduced myself as his son-in-law. He received us well, and wished us both health and prosperity. I did not know exactly how to break the ice, so I reflected a moment.
"Mr. Sykes," said I, still in my feigned voice, "I shall expect you this evening to dine with me at six o'clock at the 'Headless Lady.' Come, I will take no refusal. If we are to be friends together, I shall expect you, if not——"
He began to make an excuse about his gouty leg, saying that he never left the house.
"Oh, nonsense," said I, "that is just the reason you never get well. Going out now and then will do you good. I am a doctor, you know, and I advise you for your good. If you do not like to walk, make use of our coach."
He still hesitated, and at length said, "Well, the fact is, I never go to that house. The landlord and I are not friends. We have had some differences together of long standing, and——"
"Nonsense," said I, "that is no excuse at all. All men have differences now and then, but we must learn to forget and forgive."
"No," said Sykes; "he was very much in the wrong."
"Well, I've no doubt that he thinks you are in the wrong," said I. "Dine with me this evening there, and I'll undertake to make matters straight for you both. Hearty is a good and honest man, and is one of my best friends. I have known him these nineteen years. If you refuse to come, it will be an offence to me, mind that."
After a time I succeeded in softening him down a little, till I at length drew from him a reluctant consent, and, according to his word, he appeared that evening at our inn.
A grand dinner was prepared, before partaking of which I succeeded in joining the hands of the two bitter enemies.
Seeing that the hour had arrived for the divulging of the secret I explained all in a few words, threw off my disguise and craved his blessing.
Old Sykes was a crusty sort of a cove, and I expected that there would have been a scare, but we had got him into a good humour previously, and he was so much amused, in spite of himself, at the whole scheme that he wrung my hand heartily and laughed much over my odd adventures.
Dinner passed off gaily, and I secretly put the doctor in possession of his old clothes again. I paid him the money I owed him, and for ever kept secret the name of the doctor who had brought me to life again so cleverly.
"Why, Jack," said Mr. Oldstone, at the conclusion of our host's recital, "you can tell a story like the best of us."
"Ay, that he can indeed," chimed in Mr. Crucible and Mr. Hardcase.
"There is a great deal of poetry in Jack's story," remarked Mr. Parnassus.
Mr. Blackdeed said that it ought to be adapted to the stage.
"And was it ever discovered who unearthed you, Jack?" inquired Dr. Bleedem, who had a fellow feeling for the Dr. Slasher of Jack's narrative, as he could imagine what his own feelings would have been had he fallen a victim to the infuriated villagers.
"No, sir," replied our host, "I never let out the truth, although I was pestered with questions all day long by every one in the village. At length, however, an old doctor in these parts died from the epidemic, and after his death, I gave out to the villagers that he was the man who had dug me up."
"Ah!" said Dr. Bleedem, "there was no harm in that."
"And the two body-snatchers, did you ever see them again?" asked Professor Cyanite.
"Ha! ha!" laughed our host, "and that was a joke, surely. One evening, shortly after my resurrection, leastways before everyone knew that I had come to life again, I was strolling through the cemetery alone where I had been buried, and sitting down upon my own grave, I began meditating upon my miraculous escape from death, when who should pass by but my two friends, Tom and Bill. I looked up as they passed. You should have seen how they took to their heels. My eyes! I shall never forget it."
"That was a rare joke, indeed," said our artist, "and that other young fellow, young Rashly, did you see any more of him?"
"Ay, sir," replied our host, "and that was another good joke. The Sunday after our marriage I appeared in the village church with Molly. How the people did stare, to be sure! I recognised young Rashly in the Squire's pew with his father. He could not see me, as I was behind a pillar, and he had not yet heard of my coming to life again. Seeing that he was without a hymn book, I stepped out suddenly from my pew, and crossing the aisle, offered him mine. I never shall forget his face. He turned as pale as a ghost, and was obliged to support himself against the back of the pew. He was nigh fainting, and his father was obliged to lead him out of church."
"Your resurrection must have made quite a sensation in the village then," said McGuilp.
"My word, it did, sir, and no mistake," answered the landlord. "Everybody in the village and for miles round it wanted to shake me by the hand and welcome me back to life. People used to come from long distances to hear me recount my adventures, till I grew quite sick of it, and shut myself up and wouldn't see nobody."
"Ay, ay, tedious work I've no doubt, telling the same story over and over again to every new comer," said Mr. Oldstone. "But tell us, Jack, did young Rashly ever discover who it was that gave him the thrashing?"
"Yes, sir, that, too, came out in time," said our host, "and devilish sheepish he looked, so they said, when he heard it was his old rival in disguise. He would have liked to have had me up about it before the assizes, but he didn't like the idea of exposing himself, and so the matter dropped. After a time, however, finding that all the boys in the village laughed at him whenever he walked abroad, he went to London, and I have never heard anything more of him."
At this moment someone knocked at the door.
"Come in!" called out several voices at once.
The door opened ajar, and the head of our hostess timidly appeared at the aperture.
"Beg pardon, gentlemen," said that worthy dame, "but could Helen be spared a little just to help me a bit?"
"Oh! how very annoying!" cried our artist, "just as the weather is clearing up and I was making up my mind for a long sitting."
"I am afraid I can't do without her, sir, just now," said our hostess, "but if you wouldn't mind waiting an hour or so, she will be at liberty."
"An hour without Helen!" exclaimed several members at once. "Oh, impossible! and then to be snatched from us again so soon!"
"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. McGuilp, and you, too, Dame Hearty," said Mr. Oldstone, "you are to blame, both of you. Such conduct can't be suffered to go unpunished; therefore, in the name of the club I condemn you both to contribute to the common entertainment by telling a story, each of you, when next called upon."
"Hear, hear!" cried several voices.
"Yes, a story from Dame Hearty, and a still longer one from Mr. McGuilp for having robbed us of Helen—a most just sentence!"
"Oh, gentlemen!" said our hostess modestly. "You wouldn't care to hear any of my stories; besides, I've forgotten them all long ago."
"Come now, Dame Hearty, there is no backing out," said Mr. Oldstone. "A sentence is a sentence."
"Well, sir, if it must be so, I'll try and think of one whenever the gentlemen of this respectable club choose to command my services. Come, Helen!" And our hostess led away her fair daughter by the hand amidst the groans of her ardent admirers.
"Now, Mr. McGuilp," said Mr. Oldstone as the door closed after Helen and her mother, "we have a full hour before us. I call upon you to fill up that period to the satisfaction of the club."
"Yes, yes!" shouted a chorus of voices; "out with it; no mercy on him. Let justice be done."
"Well, gentlemen, if you will allow me a moment to compose myself, I'll endeavour to satisfy you," said our artist. Then resting his head on his hand as if to call up from the depths of his memory some long-forgotten tale or legend, he said, "Gentlemen, I recollect a story in our family, handed down to me from some remote ancestor. I used to be frightened with it in my childhood. It is long ago now since I heard it related, but I will endeavour to give it you as perfectly as possible after the lapse of so many years."
"Well, we're all attention," said one of the members.
Then our artist, after stretching himself, folded his arms and commenced the following tale—
