One wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousand
seven hundred and eighty, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night
came on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp, dense, and
icy-cold, swept the wet streets, and rattled on the trembling windows.
Signboards, shaken past endurance in their creaking frames, fell crashing on the
pavement; old tottering chimneys reeled and staggered in the blast; and many a
steeple rocked again that night, as though the earth were troubled.
It was not a time for those who could by any means get light and warmth, to
brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort, guests
crowded round the fire, forgot to be political, and told each other with a
secret gladness that the blast grew fiercer every minute. Each humble tavern by
the water-side, had its group of uncouth figures round the hearth, who talked of
vessels foundering at sea, and all hands lost; related many a dismal tale of
shipwreck and drowned men, and hoped that some they knew were safe, and shook
their heads in doubt. In private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze;
listening with timid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures
clad in white standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old
churches and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the dead hour
of the night: until they shuddered at the thought of the dark rooms upstairs,
yet loved to hear the wind moan too, and hoped it would continue bravely. From
time to time these happy indoor people stopped to listen, or one held up his
finger and cried 'Hark!' and then, above the rumbling in the chimney, and the
fast pattering on the glass, was heard a wailing, rushing sound, which shook the
walls as though a giant's hand were on them; then a hoarse roar as if the sea
had risen; then such a whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad; and then, with
a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on, and left a moment's interval of
rest.
Cheerily, though there were none abroad to see it, shone the Maypole light
that evening. Blessings on the red--deep, ruby, glowing red--old curtain of the
window; blending into one rich stream of brightness, fire and candle, meat,
drink, and company, and gleaming like a jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of
doors! Within, what carpet like its crunching sand, what music merry as its
crackling logs, what perfume like its kitchen's dainty breath, what weather
genial as its hearty warmth! Blessings on the old house, how sturdily it stood!
How did the vexed wind chafe and roar about its stalwart roof; how did it pant
and strive with its wide chimneys, which still poured forth from their
hospitable throats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its face; how,
above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous to extinguish that
cheerful glow, which would not be put down and seemed the brighter for the
conflict!
The profusion too, the rich and lavish bounty, of that goodly tavern! It was
not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on its spacious hearth; in the
tiles which paved and compassed it, five hundred flickering fires burnt brightly
also. It was not enough that one red curtain shut the wild night out, and shed
its cheerful influence on the room. In every saucepan lid, and candlestick, and
vessel of copper, brass, or tin that hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy
hangings, flashing and gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering,
let the eye wander where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour.
The old oak wainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in a
deep, dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes of the
drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they smoked.
Mr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five years before, with
his eyes on the eternal boiler; and had sat there since the clock struck eight,
giving no other signs of life than breathing with a loud and constant snore
(though he was wide awake), and from time to time putting his glass to his lips,
or knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filling it anew. It was now half-past
ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil Parkes were his companions, as of old, and for two
mortal hours and a half, none of the company had pronounced one word.
Whether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the same
relative positions, and doing exactly the same things for a great many years,
acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing each other which
serves them in its stead, is a question for philosophy to settle. But certain it
is that old John Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr Cobb, were one and all firmly of
opinion that they were very jolly companions--rather choice spirits than
otherwise; that they looked at each other every now and then as if there were a
perpetual interchange of ideas going on among them; that no man considered
himself or his neighbour by any means silent; and that each of them nodded
occasionally when he caught the eye of another, as if he would say, 'You have
expressed yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and I
quite agree with you.'
The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire so very
soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but as he had perfectly
acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his sleep, and as his
breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep, saving that in the latter
case he sometimes experienced a slight difficulty in respiration (such as a
carpenter meets with when he is planing and comes to a knot), neither of his
companions was aware of the circumstance, until he met with one of these
impediments and was obliged to try again.
'Johnny's dropped off,' said Mr Parkes in a whisper.
'Fast as a top,' said Mr Cobb.
Neither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot-- one of
surpassing obduracy--which bade fair to throw him into convulsions, but which he
got over at last without waking, by an effort quite superhuman.
'He sleeps uncommon hard,' said Mr Cobb.
Mr Parkes, who was possibly a hard-sleeper himself, replied with some
disdain, 'Not a bit on it;' and directed his eyes towards a handbill pasted over
the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a woodcut representing a
youth of tender years running away very fast, with a bundle over his shoulder at
the end of a stick, and--to carry out the idea--a finger-post and a milestone
beside him. Mr Cobb likewise turned his eyes in the same direction, and surveyed
the placard as if that were the first time he had ever beheld it. Now, this was
a document which Mr Willet had himself indited on the disappearance of his son
Joseph, acquainting the nobility and gentry and the public in general with the
circumstances of his having left his home; describing his dress and appearance;
and offering a reward of five pounds to any person or persons who would pack him
up and return him safely to the Maypole at Chigwell, or lodge him in any of his
Majesty's jails until such time as his father should come and claim him. In this
advertisement Mr Willet had obstinately persisted, despite the advice and
entreaties of his friends, in describing his son as a 'young boy;' and
furthermore as being from eighteen inches to a couple of feet shorter than he
really was; two circumstances which perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its
never having been productive of any other effect than the transmission to
Chigwell at various times and at a vast expense, of some five-and-forty runaways
varying from six years old to twelve.
Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes looked mysteriously at this composition, at each other,
and at old John. From the time he had pasted it up with his own hands, Mr Willet
had never by word or sign alluded to the subject, or encouraged any one else to
do so. Nobody had the least notion what his thoughts or opinions were, connected
with it; whether he remembered it or forgot it; whether he had any idea that
such an event had ever taken place. Therefore, even while he slept, no one
ventured to refer to it in his presence; and for such sufficient reasons, these
his chosen friends were silent now.
Mr Willet had got by this time into such a complication of knots, that it was
perfectly clear he must wake or die. He chose the former alternative, and opened
his eyes.
'If he don't come in five minutes,' said John, 'I shall have supper without
him.'
The antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time at eight
o'clock. Messrs Parkes and Cobb being used to this style of conversation,
replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was very late, and they
wondered what had happened to detain him.
'He an't blown away, I suppose,' said Parkes. 'It's enough to carry a man of
his figure off his legs, and easy too. Do you hear it? It blows great guns,
indeed. There'll be many a crash in the Forest to-night, I reckon, and many a
broken branch upon the ground to-morrow.'
'It won't break anything in the Maypole, I take it, sir,' returned old John.
'Let it try. I give it leave--what's that?'
'The wind,' cried Parkes. 'It's howling like a Christian, and has been all
night long.'
'Did you ever, sir,' asked John, after a minute's contemplation, 'hear the
wind say "Maypole"?'
'Why, what man ever did?' said Parkes.
'Nor "ahoy," perhaps?' added John.
'No. Nor that neither.'
'Very good, sir,' said Mr Willet, perfectly unmoved; 'then if that was the
wind just now, and you'll wait a little time without speaking, you'll hear it
say both words very plain.'
Mr Willet was right. After listening for a few moments, they could clearly
hear, above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout repeated; and that with
a shrillness and energy, which denoted that it came from some person in great
distress or terror. They looked at each other, turned pale, and held their
breath. No man stirred.
It was in this emergency that Mr Willet displayed something of that strength
of mind and plenitude of mental resource, which rendered him the admiration of
all his friends and neighbours. After looking at Messrs Parkes and Cobb for some
time in silence, he clapped his two hands to his cheeks, and sent forth a roar
which made the glasses dance and rafters ring--a long-sustained, discordant
bellow, that rolled onward with the wind, and startling every echo, made the
night a hundred times more boisterous--a deep, loud, dismal bray, that sounded
like a human gong. Then, with every vein in his head and face swollen with the
great exertion, and his countenance suffused with a lively purple, he drew a
little nearer to the fire, and turning his back upon it, said with dignity:
'If that's any comfort to anybody, they're welcome to it. If it an't, I'm
sorry for 'em. If either of you two gentlemen likes to go out and see what's the
matter, you can. I'm not curious, myself.'
While he spoke the cry drew nearer and nearer, footsteps passed the window,
the latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently shut again, and
Solomon Daisy, with a lighted lantern in his hand, and the rain streaming from
his disordered dress, dashed into the room.
A more complete picture of terror than the little man presented, it would be
difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his face, his knees
knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power of articulation was quite
gone; and there he stood, panting for breath, gazing on them with such livid
ashy looks, that they were infected with his fear, though ignorant of its
occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed and horror-stricken visage, stared back
again without venturing to question him; until old John Willet, in a fit of
temporary insanity, made a dive at his cravat, and, seizing him by that portion
of his dress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to rattle in
his head.
'Tell us what's the matter, sir,' said John, 'or I'll kill you. Tell us
what's the matter, sir, or in another second I'll have your head under the
biler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a- following of you? What do you
mean? Say something, or I'll be the death of you, I will.'
Mr Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very letter
(Solomon Daisy's eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming manner, and
certain guttural sounds, as of a choking man, to issue from his throat), that
the two bystanders, recovering in some degree, plucked him off his victim by
main force, and placed the little clerk of Chigwell in a chair. Directing a
fearful gaze all round the room, he implored them in a faint voice to give him
some drink; and above all to lock the house-door and close and bar the shutters
of the room, without a moment's loss of time. The latter request did not tend to
reassure his hearers, or to fill them with the most comfortable sensations; they
complied with it, however, with the greatest expedition; and having handed him a
bumper of brandy-and-water, nearly boiling hot, waited to hear what he might
have to tell them.
'Oh, Johnny,' said Solomon, shaking him by the hand. 'Oh, Parkes. Oh, Tommy
Cobb. Why did I leave this house to-night! On the nineteenth of March--of all
nights in the year, on the nineteenth of March!'
They all drew closer to the fire. Parkes, who was nearest to the door,
started and looked over his shoulder. Mr Willet, with great indignation,
inquired what the devil he meant by that--and then said, 'God forgive me,' and
glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer.
'When I left here to-night,' said Solomon Daisy, 'I little thought what day
of the month it was. I have never gone alone into the church after dark on this
day, for seven-and-twenty years. I have heard it said that as we keep our
birthdays when we are alive, so the ghosts of dead people, who are not easy in
their graves, keep the day they died upon.--How the wind roars!'
Nobody spoke. All eyes were fastened on Solomon.
'I might have known,' he said, 'what night it was, by the foul weather.
There's no such night in the whole year round as this is, always. I never sleep
quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March.'
'Go on,' said Tom Cobb, in a low voice. 'Nor I neither.'
Solomon Daisy raised his glass to his lips; put it down upon the floor with
such a trembling hand that the spoon tinkled in it like a little bell; and
continued thus:
'Have I ever said that we are always brought back to this subject in some
strange way, when the nineteenth of this month comes round? Do you suppose it
was by accident, I forgot to wind up the church- clock? I never forgot it at any
other time, though it's such a clumsy thing that it has to be wound up every
day. Why should it escape my memory on this day of all others?
'I made as much haste down there as I could when I went from here, but I had
to go home first for the keys; and the wind and rain being dead against me all
the way, it was pretty well as much as I could do at times to keep my legs. I
got there at last, opened the church-door, and went in. I had not met a soul all
the way, and you may judge whether it was dull or not. Neither of you would bear
me company. If you could have known what was to come, you'd have been in the
right.
'The wind was so strong, that it was as much as I could do to shut the
church-door by putting my whole weight against it; and even as it was, it burst
wide open twice, with such strength that any of you would have sworn, if you had
been leaning against it, as I was, that somebody was pushing on the other side.
However, I got the key turned, went into the belfry, and wound up the
clock--which was very near run down, and would have stood stock-still in half an
hour.
'As I took up my lantern again to leave the church, it came upon me all at
once that this was the nineteenth of March. It came upon me with a kind of
shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon my forehead; at the very same
moment, I heard a voice outside the tower--rising from among the graves.'
Here old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that if Mr
Parkes (who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over his head)
saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr Parkes apologised,
and remarked that he was only listening; to which Mr Willet angrily retorted,
that his listening with that kind of expression in his face was not agreeable,
and that if he couldn't look like other people, he had better put his
pocket-handkerchief over his head. Mr Parkes with great submission pledged
himself to do so, if again required, and John Willet turning to Solomon desired
him to proceed. After waiting until a violent gust of wind and rain, which
seemed to shake even that sturdy house to its foundation, had passed away, the
little man complied:
'Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound which I
mistook for that I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through the arches of
the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard the rain as it came
driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I saw the ropes sway to and
fro. And I heard that voice.'
'What did it say?' asked Tom Cobb.
'I don't know what; I don't know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry, as any
one of us might do, if something dreadful followed us in a dream, and came upon
us unawares; and then it died off: seeming to pass quite round the church.'
'I don't see much in that,' said John, drawing a long breath, and looking
round him like a man who felt relieved.
'Perhaps not,' returned his friend, 'but that's not all.'
'What more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?' asked John, pausing in the
act of wiping his face upon his apron. 'What are you a-going to tell us of
next?'
'What I saw.'
'Saw!' echoed all three, bending forward.
'When I opened the church-door to come out,' said the little man, with an
expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of his
conviction, 'when I opened the church-door to come out, which I did suddenly,
for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind came up, there
crossed me--so close, that by stretching out my finger I could have touched
it--something in the likeness of a man. It was bare-headed to the storm. It
turned its face without stopping, and fixed its eyes on mine. It was a ghost-- a
spirit.'
'Whose?' they all three cried together.
In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his chair, and
waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no further), his answer was
lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be seated close beside him.
'Who!' cried Parkes and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by turns at Solomon Daisy
and at Mr Willet. 'Who was it?'
'Gentlemen,' said Mr Willet after a long pause, 'you needn't ask. The
likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of March.'
A profound silence ensued.
'If you'll take my advice,' said John, 'we had better, one and all, keep this
a secret. Such tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep it to
ourselves for the present time at all events, or we may get into trouble, and
Solomon may lose his place. Whether it was really as he says, or whether it
wasn't, is no matter. Right or wrong, nobody would believe him. As to the
probabilities, I don't myself think,' said Mr Willet, eyeing the corners of the
room in a manner which showed that, like some other philosophers, he was not
quite easy in his theory, 'that a ghost as had been a man of sense in his
lifetime, would be out a-walking in such weather--I only know that I wouldn't,
if I was one.'
But this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three, who
quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very time for
such appearances; and Mr Parkes (who had had a ghost in his family, by the
mother's side) argued the matter with so much ingenuity and force of
illustration, that John was only saved from having to retract his opinion by the
opportune appearance of supper, to which they applied themselves with a dreadful
relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself, by dint of the elevating influences of fire,
lights, brandy, and good company, so far recovered as to handle his knife and
fork in a highly creditable manner, and to display a capacity both of eating and
drinking, such as banished all fear of his having sustained any lasting injury
from his fright.
Supper done, they crowded round the fire again, and, as is common on such
occasions, propounded all manner of leading questions calculated to surround the
story with new horrors and surprises. But Solomon Daisy, notwithstanding these
temptations, adhered so steadily to his original account, and repeated it so
often, with such slight variations, and with such solemn asseverations of its
truth and reality, that his hearers were (with good reason) more astonished than
at first. As he took John Willet's view of the matter in regard to the propriety
of not bruiting the tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again,
in which case it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the
clergyman, it was solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet.
And as most men like to have a secret to tell which may exalt their own
importance, they arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity.
As it was by this time growing late, and was long past their usual hour of
separating, the cronies parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a fresh candle
in his lantern, repaired homewards under the escort of long Phil Parkes and Mr
Cobb, who were rather more nervous than himself. Mr Willet, after seeing them to
the door, returned to collect his thoughts with the assistance of the boiler,
and to listen to the storm of wind and rain, which had not yet abated one jot of
its fury.
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