{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11610/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11610","id":"gutenberg_11610","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11610","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Ghost stories"],"text":"MADAM CROWL'S GHOST and THE DEAD SEXTON\n\n\nBy\n\nJoseph Sheridan LeFanu\n\n\n\nBoth stories were originally published in 1871.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nMadam Crowl's Ghost\n\nThe Dead Sexton\n\n\n\n\nMADAM CROWL'S GHOST\n\n\nTwenty years have passed since you last saw Mrs. Jolliffe's tall slim\nfigure. She is now past seventy, and can't have many mile-stones more\nto count on the journey that will bring her to her long home. The hair\nhas grown white as snow, that is parted under her cap, over her\nshrewd, but kindly face. But her figure is still straight, and her\nstep light and active.\n\nShe has taken of late years to the care of adult invalids, having\nsurrendered to younger hands the little people who inhabit cradles,\nand crawl on all-fours. Those who remember that good-natured face\namong the earliest that emerge from the darkness of non-entity, and\nwho owe to their first lessons in the accomplishment of walking, and a\ndelighted appreciation of their first babblings and earliest teeth,\nhave \"spired up\" into tall lads and lasses, now. Some of them shew\nstreaks of white by this time, in brown locks, \"the bonny gouden\"\nhair, that she was so proud to brush and shew to admiring mothers, who\nare seen no more on the green of Golden Friars, and whose names are\ntraced now on the flat grey stones in the church-yard.\n\nSo the time is ripening some, and searing others; and the saddening\nand tender sunset hour has come; and it is evening with the kind old\nnorth-country dame, who nursed pretty Laura Mildmay, who now stepping\ninto the room, smiles so gladly, and throws her arms round the old\nwoman's neck, and kisses her twice.\n\n\"Now, this is so lucky!\" said Mrs. Jenner, \"you have just come in time\nto hear a story.\"\n\n\"Really! That's delightful.\"\n\n\"Na, na, od wite it! no story, ouer true for that, I sid it a wi my\naan eyen. But the barn here, would not like, at these hours, just\ngoin' to her bed, to hear tell of freets and boggarts.\"\n\n\"Ghosts? The very thing of all others I should most likely to hear\nof.\"\n\n\"Well, dear,\" said Mrs. Jenner, \"if you are not afraid, sit ye down\nhere, with us.\"\n\n\"She was just going to tell me all about her first engagement to\nattend a dying old woman,\" says Mrs. Jenner, \"and of the ghost she saw\nthere. Now, Mrs. Jolliffe, make your tea first, and then begin.\"\n\nThe good woman obeyed, and having prepared a cup of that companionable\nnectar, she sipped a little, drew her brows slightly together to\ncollect her thoughts, and then looked up with a wondrous solemn face\nto begin.\n\nGood Mrs. Jenner, and the pretty girl, each gazed with eyes of solemn\nexpectation in the face of the old woman, who seemed to gather awe\nfrom the recollections she was summoning.\n\nThe old room was a good scene for such a narrative, with the\noak-wainscoting, quaint, and clumsy furniture, the heavy beams that\ncrossed its ceiling, and the tall four-post bed, with dark curtains,\nwithin which you might imagine what shadows you please.\n\nMrs. Jolliffe cleared her voice, rolled her eyes slowly round, and\nbegan her tale in these words:--\n\nMADAM CROWL'S GHOST\n\n\"I'm an ald woman now, and I was but thirteen, my last birthday, the\nnight I came to Applewale House. My aunt was the housekeeper there,\nand a sort o' one-horse carriage was down at Lexhoe waitin' to take me\nand my box up to Applewale.\n\n\"I was a bit frightened by the time I got to Lexhoe, and when I saw\nthe carriage and horse, I wished myself back again with my mother at\nHazelden. I was crying when I got into the 'shay'--that's what we used\nto call it--and old John Mulbery that drove it, and was a good-natured\nfellow, bought me a handful of apples at the Golden Lion to cheer me\nup a bit; and he told me that there was a currant-cake, and tea, and\npork-chops, waiting for me, all hot, in my aunt's room at the great\nhouse. It was a fine moonlight night, and I eat the apples, lookin'\nout o' the shay winda.\n\n\"It's a shame for gentlemen to frighten a poor foolish child like I\nwas. I sometimes think it might be tricks. There was two on 'em on the\ntap o' the coach beside me. And they began to question me after\nnightfall, when the moon rose, where I was going to. Well, I told them\nit was to wait on Dame Arabella Crowl, of Applewale House, near by\nLexhoe.\n\n\"'Ho, then,' says one of them, 'you'll not be long there!'\n\n\"And I looked at him as much as to say 'Why not?' for I had spoken out\nwhen I told them where I was goin', as if 'twas something clever I hed\nto say.\n\n\"'Because,' says he, 'and don't you for your life tell no one, only\nwatch her and see--she's possessed by the devil, and more an half a\nghost. Have you got a Bible?'\n\n\"'Yes, sir,' says I. For my mother put my little Bible in my box, and\nI knew it was there: and by the same token, though the print's too\nsmall for my ald eyes, I have it in my press to this hour.\n\n\"As I looked up at him saying 'Yes, sir,' I thought I saw him winkin'\nat his friend; but I could not be sure.\n\n\"'Well,' says he, 'be sure you put it under your bolster every night,\nit will keep the ald girl's claws aff ye.'\n\n\"And I got such a fright when he said that, you wouldn't fancy! And\nI'd a liked to ask him a lot about the ald lady, but I was too shy,\nand he and his friend began talkin' together about their own consarns,\nand dowly enough I got down, as I told ye, at Lexhoe. My heart sank as\nI drove into the dark avenue. The trees stand very thick and big, as\nald as the ald house almost, and four people, with their arms out and\nfinger-tips touchin', barely girds round some of them.\n\n\"Well my neck was stretched out o' the winda, looking for the first\nview o' the great house; and all at once we pulled up in front of it.\n\n\"A great white-and-black house it is, wi' great black beams across and\nright up it, and gables lookin' out, as white as a sheet, to the moon,\nand the shadows o' the trees, two or three up and down in front, you\ncould count the leaves on them, and all the little diamond-shaped\nwinda-panes, glimmering on the great hall winda, and great shutters,\nin the old fashion, hinged on the wall outside, boulted across all the\nrest o' the windas in front, for there was but three or four servants,\nand the old lady in the house, and most o' t' rooms was locked up.\n\n\"My heart was in my mouth when I sid the journey was over, and this\nthe great house afoore me, and I sa near my aunt that I never sid till\nnoo, and Dame Crowl, that I was come to wait upon, and was afeard on\nalready.\n\n\"My aunt kissed me in the hall, and brought me to her room. She was\ntall and thin, wi' a pale face and black eyes, and long thin hands wi'\nblack mittins on. She was past fifty, and her word was short; but her\nword was law. I hev no complaints to make of her; but she was a hard\nwoman, and I think she would hev bin kinder to me if I had bin her\nsister's child in place of her brother's. But all that's o' no\nconsequence noo.\n\n\"The squire--his name was Mr. Chevenix Crowl, he was Dame Crowl's\ngrandson--came down there, by way of seeing that the old lady was well\ntreated, about twice or thrice in the year. I sid him but twice all\nthe time I was at Applewale House.\n\n\"I can't say but she was well taken care of, notwithstanding; but that\nwas because my aunt and Meg Wyvern, that was her maid, had a\nconscience, and did their duty by her.\n\n\"Mrs. Wyvern--Meg Wyvern my aunt called her to herself, and Mrs.\nWyvern to me--was a fat, jolly lass of fifty, a good height and a good\nbreadth, always good-humoured and walked slow. She had fine wages, but\nshe was a bit stingy, and kept all her fine clothes under lock and\nkey, and wore, mostly, a twilled chocolate cotton, wi' red, and\nyellow, and green sprigs and balls on it, and it lasted wonderful.\n\n\"She never gave me nout, not the vally o' a brass thimble, all the\ntime I was there; but she was good-humoured, and always laughin', and\nshe talked no end o' proas over her tea; and, seeing me sa sackless\nand dowly, she roused me up wi' her laughin' and stories; and I think\nI liked her better than my aunt--children is so taken wi' a bit o' fun\nor a story--though my aunt was very good to me, but a hard woman about\nsome things, and silent always.\n\n\"My aunt took me into her bed-chamber, that I might rest myself a bit\nwhile she was settin' the tea in her room. But first, she patted me on\nthe shouther, and said I was a tall lass o' my years, and had spired\nup well, and asked me if I could do plain work and stitchin'; and she\nlooked in my face, and said I was like my father, her brother, that\nwas dead and gone, and she hoped I was a better Christian, and wad na\ndu a' that lids (would not do anything of that sort).\n\n\"It was a hard sayin' the first time I set foot in her room, I\nthought.\n\n\"When I went into the next room, the housekeeper's room--very\ncomfortable, yak (oak) all round--there was a fine fire blazin' away,\nwi' coal, and peat, and wood, all in a low together, and tea on the\ntable, and hot cake, and smokin' meat; and there was Mrs. Wyvern, fat,\njolly, and talkin' away, more in an hour than my aunt would in a year.\n\n\"While I was still at my tea my aunt went up-stairs to see Madam\nCrowl.\n\n\"'She's agone up to see that old Judith Squailes is awake,' says Mrs.\nWyvern. 'Judith sits with Madam Crowl when me and Mrs. Shutters'--that\nwas my aunt's name--'is away. She's a troublesome old lady. Ye'll hev\nto be sharp wi' her, or she'll be into the fire, or out o' t' winda.\nShe goes on wires, she does, old though she be.'\n\n\"'How old, ma'am?' says I.\n\n\"'Ninety-three her last birthday, and that's eight months gone,' says\nshe; and she laughed. 'And don't be askin' questions about her before\nyour aunt--mind, I tell ye; just take her as you find her, and that's\nall.'\n\n\"'And what's to be my business about her, please, ma'am?' says I.\n\n\"'About the old lady? Well,' says she, 'your aunt, Mrs. Shutters, will\ntell you that; but I suppose you'll hev to sit in the room with your\nwork, and see she's at no mischief, and let her amuse herself with her\nthings on the table, and get her her food or drink as she calls for\nit, and keep her out o' mischief, and ring the bell hard if she's\ntroublesome.'\n\n\"'Is she deaf, ma'am?'\n\n\"'No, nor blind,' says she; 'as sharp as a needle, but she's gone\nquite aupy, and can't remember nout rightly; and Jack the Giant\nKiller, or Goody Twoshoes will please her as well as the king's court,\nor the affairs of the nation.'\n\n\"'And what did the little girl go away for, ma'am, that went on Friday\nlast? My aunt wrote to my mother she was to go.'\n\n\"'Yes; she's gone.'\n\n\"'What for?' says I again.\n\n\"'She didn't answer Mrs. Shutters, I do suppose,' says she. 'I don't\nknow. Don't be talkin'; your aunt can't abide a talkin' child.'\n\n\"'And please, ma'am, is the old lady well in health?' says I.\n\n\"'It ain't no harm to ask that,' says she. 'She's torflin a bit\nlately, but better this week past, and I dare say she'll last out her\nhundred years yet. Hish! Here's your aunt coming down the passage.'\n\n\"In comes my aunt, and begins talkin' to Mrs. Wyvern, and I, beginnin'\nto feel more comfortable and at home like, was walkin' about the room\nlookin' at this thing and at that. There was pretty old china things\non the cupboard, and pictures again the wall; and there was a door\nopen in the wainscot, and I sees a queer old leathern jacket, wi'\nstraps and buckles to it, and sleeves as long as the bed-post hangin'\nup inside.\n\n\"'What's that you're at, child?' says my aunt, sharp enough, turning\nabout when I thought she least minded. 'What's that in your hand?'\n\n\"'This, ma'am?' says I, turning about with the leathern jacket. 'I\ndon't know what it is, ma'am.'\n\n\"Pale as she was, the red came up in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed\nwi' anger, and I think only she had half a dozen steps to take,\nbetween her and me, she'd a gev me a sizzup. But she did gie me a\nshake by the shouther, and she plucked the thing out o' my hand, and\nsays she, 'While ever you stay here, don't ye meddle wi' nout that\ndon't belong to ye', and she hung it up on the pin that was there, and\nshut the door wi' a bang and locked it fast.\n\n\"Mrs. Wyvern was liftin' up her hands and laughin' all this time,\nquietly, in her chair, rolling herself a bit in it, as she used when\nshe was kinkin'.\n\n\"The tears was in my eyes, and she winked at my aunt, and says she,\ndryin' her own eyes that was wet wi' the laughin', 'Tut, the child\nmeant no harm--come here to me, child. It's only a pair o' crutches\nfor lame ducks, and ask us no questions mind, and we'll tell ye no\nlies; and come here and sit down, and drink a mug o' beer before ye go\nto your bed.'\n\n\"My room, mind ye, was upstairs, next to the old lady's, and Mrs.\nWyvern's bed was near hers in her room, and I was to be ready at call,\nif need should be.\n\n\"The old lady was in one of her tantrums that night and part of the\nday before. She used to take fits o' the sulks. Sometimes she would\nnot let them dress her, and at other times she would not let them take\nher clothes off. She was a great beauty, they said, in her day. But\nthere was no one about Applewale that remembered her in her prime. And\nshe was dreadful fond o' dress, and had thick silks, and stiff satins,\nand velvets, and laces, and all sorts, enough to set up seven shops at\nthe least. All her dresses was old-fashioned and queer, but worth a\nfortune.\n\n\"Well, I went to my bed. I lay for a while awake; for a' things was\nnew to me; and I think the tea was in my nerves, too, for I wasn't\nused to it, except now and then on a holiday, or the like. And I heard\nMrs. Wyvern talkin', and I listened with my hand to my ear; but I\ncould not hear Mrs. Crowl, and I don't think she said a word.\n\n\"There was great care took of her. The people at Applewale knew that\nwhen she died they would every one get the sack; and their situations\nwas well paid and easy.\n\n\"The doctor came twice a week to see the old lady, and you may be sure\nthey all did as he bid them. One thing was the same every time; they\nwere never to cross or frump her, any way, but to humour and please\nher in everything.\n\n\"So she lay in her clothes all that night, and next day, not a word\nshe said, and I was at my needlework all that day, in my own room,\nexcept when I went down to my dinner.\n\n\"I would a liked to see the ald lady, and even to hear her speak. But\nshe might as well a' bin in Lunnon a' the time for me.\n\n\"When I had my dinner my aunt sent me out for a walk for an hour. I\nwas glad when I came back, the trees was so big, and the place so dark\nand lonesome, and 'twas a cloudy day, and I cried a deal, thinkin' of\nhome, while I was walkin' alone there. That evening, the candles bein'\nalight, I was sittin' in my room, and the door was open into Madam\nCrowl's chamber, where my aunt was. It was, then, for the first time I\nheard what I suppose was the ald lady talking.\n\n\"It was a queer noise like, I couldn't well say which, a bird, or a\nbeast, only it had a bleatin' sound in it, and was very small.\n\n\"I pricked my ears to hear all I could. But I could not make out one\nword she said. And my aunt answered:\n\n\"'The evil one can't hurt no one, ma'am, bout the Lord permits.'\n\n\"Then the same queer voice from the bed says something more that I\ncouldn't make head nor tail on.\n\n\"And my aunt med answer again: 'Let them pull faces, ma'am, and say\nwhat they will; if the Lord be for us, who can be against us?'\n\n\"I kept listenin' with my ear turned to the door, holdin' my breath,\nbut not another word or sound came in from the room. In about twenty\nminutes, as I was sittin' by the table, lookin' at the pictures in the\nold Aesop's Fables, I was aware o' something moving at the door, and\nlookin' up I sid my aunt's face lookin' in at the door, and her hand\nraised.\n\n\"'Hish!' says she, very soft, and comes over to me on tiptoe, and she\nsays in a whisper: 'Thank God, she's asleep at last, and don't ye make\nno noise till I come back, for I'm goin' down to take my cup o' tea,\nand I'll be back i' noo--me and Mrs. Wyvern, and she'll be sleepin' in\nthe room, and you can run down when we come up, and Judith will gie ye\nyaur supper in my room.'\n\n\"And with that she goes.\n\n\"I kep' looking at the picture-book, as before, listenin' every noo\nand then, but there was no sound, not a breath, that I could hear; an'\nI began whisperin' to the pictures and talkin' to myself to keep my\nheart up, for I was growin' feared in that big room.\n\n\"And at last up I got, and began walkin' about the room, lookin' at\nthis and peepin' at that, to amuse my mind, ye'll understand. And at\nlast what sud I do but peeps into Madam Crowl's bedchamber.\n\n\"A grand chamber it was, wi' a great four-poster, wi' flowered silk\ncurtains as tall as the ceilin', and foldin' down on the floor, and\ndrawn close all round. There was a lookin'-glass, the biggest I ever\nsid before, and the room was a blaze o' light. I counted twenty-two\nwax candles, all alight. Such was her fancy, and no one dared say her\nnay.\n\n\"I listened at the door, and gaped and wondered all round. When I\nheard there was not a breath, and did not see so much as a stir in the\ncurtains, I took heart, and walked into the room on tiptoe, and looked\nround again. Then I takes a keek at myself in the big glass; and at\nlast it came in my head, 'Why couldn't I ha' a keek at the ald lady\nherself in the bed?\n\n\"Ye'd think me a fule if ye knew half how I longed to see Dame Crowl,\nand I thought to myself if I didn't peep now I might wait many a day\nbefore I got so gude a chance again.\n\n\"Well, my dear, I came to the side o' the bed, the curtains bein'\nclose, and my heart a'most failed me. But I took courage, and I slips\nmy finger in between the thick curtains, and then my hand. So I waits\na bit, but all was still as death. So, softly, softly I draws the\ncurtain, and there, sure enough, I sid before me, stretched out like\nthe painted lady on the tomb-stean in Lexhoe Church, the famous Dame\nCrowl, of Applewale House. There she was, dressed out. You never sid\nthe like in they days. Satin and silk, and scarlet and green, and gold\nand pint lace; by Jen! 'twas a sight! A big powdered wig, half as high\nas herself, was a-top o' her head, and, wow!--was ever such\nwrinkles?--and her old baggy throat all powdered white, and her cheeks\nrouged, and mouse-skin eyebrows, that Mrs. Wyvern used to stick on, and\nthere she lay proud and stark, wi' a pair o' clocked silk hose on, and\nheels to her shoon as tall as nine-pins. Lawk! But her nose was\ncrooked and thin, and half the whites o' her eyes was open. She used\nto stand, dressed as she was, gigglin' and dribblin' before the\nlookin'-glass, wi' a fan in her hand and a big nosegay in her bodice.\nHer wrinkled little hands was stretched down by her sides, and such\nlong nails, all cut into points, I never sid in my days. Could it even\na bin the fashion for grit fowk to wear their fingernails so?\n\n\"Well, I think ye'd a-bin frightened yourself if ye'd a sid such a\nsight. I couldn't let go the curtain, nor move an inch, nor take my\neyes off her; my very heart stood still. And in an instant she opens\nher eyes and up she sits, and spins herself round, and down wi' her,\nwi' a clack on her two tall heels on the floor, facin' me, ogglin' in\nmy face wi' her two great glassy eyes, and a wicked simper wi' her\nwrinkled lips, and lang fause teeth.\n\n\"Well, a corpse is a natural thing; but this was the dreadfullest\nsight I ever sid. She had her fingers straight out pointin' at me, and\nher back was crooked, round again wi' age. Says she:\n\n\"'Ye little limb! what for did ye say I killed the boy? I'll tickle ye\ntill ye're stiff!'\n\n\"If I'd a thought an instant, I'd a turned about and run. But I\ncouldn't take my eyes off her, and I backed from her as soon as I\ncould; and she came clatterin' after like a thing on wires, with her\nfingers pointing to my throat, and she makin' all the time a sound\nwith her tongue like zizz-zizz-zizz.\n\n\"I kept backin' and backin' as quick as I could, and her fingers was\nonly a few inches away from my throat, and I felt I'd lose my wits if\nshe touched me.\n\n\"I went back this way, right into the corner, and I gev a yellock,\nye'd think saul and body was partin', and that minute my aunt, from\nthe door, calls out wi' a blare, and the ald lady turns round on her,\nand I turns about, and ran through my room, and down the stairs, as\nhard as my legs could carry me.\n\n\"I cried hearty, I can tell you, when I got down to the housekeeper's\nroom. Mrs. Wyvern laughed a deal when I told her what happened. But\nshe changed her key when she heard the ald lady's words.\n\n\"'Say them again,' says she.\n\n\"So I told her.\n\n\"'Ye little limb! What for did ye say I killed the boy? I'll tickle ye\ntill ye're stiff.'\n\n\"'And did ye say she killed a boy?' says she.\n\n\"'Not I, ma'am,' says I.\n\n\"Judith was always up with me, after that, when the two elder women was\naway from her. I would a jumped out at winda, rather than stay alone\nin the same room wi' her.\n\n\"It was about a week after, as well as I can remember, Mrs. Wyvern,\none day when me and her was alone, told me a thing about Madam Crowl\nthat I did not know before.\n\n\"She being young and a great beauty, full seventy year before, had\nmarried Squire Crowl, of Applewale. But he was a widower, and had a\nson about nine years old.\n\n\"There never was tale or tidings of this boy after one mornin'. No one\ncould say where he went to. He was allowed too much liberty, and used\nto be off in the morning, one day, to the keeper's cottage and\nbreakfast wi' him, and away to the warren, and not home, mayhap, till\nevening; and another time down to the lake, and bathe there, and spend\nthe day fishin' there, or paddlin' about in the boat. Well, no one\ncould say what was gone wi' him; only this, that his hat was found by\nthe lake, under a haathorn that grows thar to this day, and 'twas\nthought he was drowned bathin'. And the squire's son, by his second\nmarriage, with this Madam Crowl that lived sa dreadful lang, came in\nfar the estates. It was his son, the ald lady's grandson, Squire\nChevenix Crowl, that owned the estates at the time I came to\nApplewale.\n\n\"There was a deal o' talk lang before my aunt's time about it; and\n'twas said the step-mother knew more than she was like to let out. And\nshe managed her husband, the ald squire, wi' her white-heft and\nflatteries. And as the boy was never seen more, in course of time the\nthing died out of fowks' minds.\n\n\"I'm goin' to tell ye noo about what I sid wi' my own een.\n\n\"I was not there six months, and it was winter time, when the ald lady\ntook her last sickness.\n\n\"The doctor was afeard she might a took a fit o' madness, as she did\nfifteen years befoore, and was buckled up, many a time, in a\nstrait-waistcoat, which was the very leathern jerkin I sid in the\ncloset, off my aunt's room.\n\n\"Well, she didn't. She pined, and windered, and went off, torflin',\ntorflin', quiet enough, till a day or two before her flittin', and\nthen she took to rabblin', and sometimes skirlin' in the bed, ye'd\nthink a robber had a knife to her throat, and she used to work out o'\nthe bed, and not being strong enough, then, to walk or stand, she'd\nfall on the flure, wi' her ald wizened hands stretched before her\nface, and skirlin' still for mercy.\n\n\"Ye may guess I didn't go into the room, and I used to be shiverin' in\nmy bed wi' fear, at her skirlin' and scrafflin' on the flure, and\nblarin' out words that id make your skin turn blue.\n\n\"My aunt, and Mrs. Wyvern, and Judith Squailes, and a woman from\nLexhoe, was always about her. At last she took fits, and they wore her\nout.\n\n\"T' sir was there, and prayed for her; but she was past praying with.\nI suppose it was right, but none could think there was much good in\nit, and sa at lang last she made her flittin', and a' was over, and\nold Dame Crowl was shrouded and coffined, and Squire Chevenix was\nwrote for. But he was away in France, and the delay was sa lang, that\nt' sir and doctor both agreed it would not du to keep her langer out\no' her place, and no one cared but just them two, and my aunt and the\nrest o' us, from Applewale, to go to the buryin'. So the old lady of\nApplewale was laid in the vault under Lexhoe Church; and we lived up\nat the great house till such time as the squire should come to tell\nhis will about us, and pay off such as he chose to discharge.\n\n\"I was put into another room, two doors away from what was Dame\nCrowl's chamber, after her death, and this thing happened the night\nbefore Squire Chevenix came to Applewale.\n\n\"The room I was in now was a large square chamber, covered wi' yak\npannels, but unfurnished except for my bed, which had no curtains to\nit, and a chair and a table, or so, that looked nothing at all in such\na big room. And the big looking-glass, that the old lady used to keek\ninto and admire herself from head to heel, now that there was na mair\no' that wark, was put out of the way, and stood against the wall in my\nroom, for there was shiftin' o' many things in her chamber ye may\nsuppose, when she came to be coffined.\n\n\"The news had come that day that the squire was to be down next\nmorning at Applewale; and not sorry was I, for I thought I was sure to\nbe sent home again to my mother. And right glad was I, and I was\nthinkin' of a' at hame, and my sister Janet, and the kitten and the\npymag, and Trimmer the tike, and all the rest, and I got sa fidgetty,\nI couldn't sleep, and the clock struck twelve, and me wide awake, and\nthe room as dark as pick. My back was turned to the door, and my eyes\ntoward the wall opposite.\n\n\"Well, it could na be a full quarter past twelve, when I sees a\nlightin' on the wall befoore me, as if something took fire behind, and\nthe shadas o' the bed, and the chair, and my gown, that was hangin'\nfrom the wall, was dancin' up and down on the ceilin' beams and the\nyak pannels; and I turns my head ower my shouther quick, thinkin'\nsomething must a gone a' fire.\n\n\"And what sud I see, by Jen! but the likeness o' the ald beldame,\nbedizened out in her satins and velvets, on her dead body, simperin',\nwi' her eyes as wide as saucers, and her face like the fiend himself.\n'Twas a red light that rose about her in a fuffin low, as if her dress\nround her feet was blazin'. She was drivin' on right for me, wi' her\nald shrivelled hands crooked as if she was goin' to claw me. I could\nnot stir, but she passed me straight by, wi' a blast o' cald air, and\nI sid her, at the wall, in the alcove as my aunt used to call it,\nwhich was a recess where the state bed used to stand in ald times wi'\na door open wide, and her hands gropin' in at somethin' was there. I\nnever sid that door befoore. And she turned round to me, like a thing\non a pivot, flyrin', and all at once the room was dark, and I standin'\nat the far side o' the bed; I don't know how I got there, and I found\nmy tongue at last, and if I did na blare a yellock, rennin' down the\ngallery and almost pulled Mrs. Wyvern's door off t' hooks, and\nfrighted her half out o' wits.\n\n\"Ye may guess I did na sleep that night; and wi' the first light, down\nwi' me to my aunt, as fast as my two legs cud carry me.\n\n\"Well my aunt did na frump or flite me, as I thought she would, but\nshe held me by the hand, and looked hard in my face all the time. And\nshe telt me not to be feared; and says she:\n\n\"'Hed the appearance a key in its hand?'\n\n\"'Yes,' says I, bringin' it to mind, 'a big key in a queer brass\nhandle.'\n\n\"'Stop a bit,' says she, lettin' go ma hand, and openin' the\ncupboard-door. 'Was it like this?' says she, takin' one out in her\nfingers, and showing it to me, with a dark look in my face.\n\n\"'That was it,' says I, quick enough.\n\n\"'Are ye sure?' she says, turnin' it round.\n\n\"'Sart,' says I, and I felt like I was gain' to faint when I sid it.\n\n\"'Well, that will do, child,' says she, saftly thinkin', and she\nlocked it up again.\n\n\"'The squire himself will be here today, before twelve o'clock, and ye\nmust tell him all about it,' says she, thinkin', 'and I suppose I'll\nbe leavin' soon, and so the best thing for the present is, that ye\nshould go home this afternoon, and I'll look out another place for you\nwhen I can.'\n\n\"Fain was I, ye may guess, at that word.\n\n\"My aunt packed up my things for me, and the three pounds that was due\nto me, to bring home, and Squire Crowl himself came down to Applewale\nthat day, a handsome man, about thirty years ald. It was the second\ntime I sid him. But this was the first time he spoke to me.\n\n\"My aunt talked wi' him in the housekeeper's room, and I don't know\nwhat they said. I was a bit feared on the squire, he bein' a great\ngentleman down in Lexhoe, and I darn't go near till I was called. And\nsays he, smilin':\n\n\"'What's a' this ye a sen, child? it mun be a dream, for ye know\nthere's na sic a thing as a bo or a freet in a' the world. But\nwhatever it was, ma little maid, sit ye down and tell all about it\nfrom first to last.'\n\n\"Well, so soon as I made an end, he thought a bit, and says he to my\naunt:\n\n\"'I mind the place well. In old Sir Olivur's time lame Wyndel told me\nthere was a door in that recess, to the left, where the lassie dreamed\nshe saw my grandmother open it. He was past eighty when he told me\nthat, and I but a boy. It's twenty year sen. The plate and jewels used\nto be kept there, long ago, before the iron closet was made in the\narras chamber, and he told me the key had a brass handle, and this ye\nsay was found in the bottom o' the kist where she kept her old fans.\nNow, would not it be a queer thing if we found some spoons or diamonds\nforgot there? Ye mun come up wi' us, lassie, and point to the very\nspot.'\n\n\"Loth was I, and my heart in my mouth, and fast I held by my aunt's\nhand as I stept into that awsome room, and showed them both how she\ncame and passed me by, and the spot where she stood, and where the\ndoor seemed to open.\n\n\"There was an ald empty press against the wall then, and shoving it\naside, sure enough there was the tracing of a door in the wainscot,\nand a keyhole stopped with wood, and planed across as smooth as the\nrest, and the joining of the door all stopped wi' putty the colour o'\nyak, and, but for the hinges that showed a bit when the press was\nshoved aside, ye would not consayt there was a door there at all.\n\n\"'Ha!' says he, wi' a queer smile, 'this looks like it.'\n\n\"It took some minutes wi' a small chisel and hammer to pick the bit o'\nwood out o' the keyhole. The key fitted, sure enough, and, wi' a\nstrang twist and a lang skreak, the boult went back and he pulled the\ndoor open.\n\n\"There was another door inside, stranger than the first, but the lacks\nwas gone, and it opened easy. Inside was a narrow floor and walls and\nvault o' brick; we could not see what was in it, for 'twas dark as\npick.\n\n\"When my aunt had lighted the candle, the squire held it up and stept\nin.\n\n\"My aunt stood on tiptoe tryin' to look over his shouther, and I did\nna see nout.\n\n\"'Ha! ha!' says the squire, steppin' backward. 'What's that? Gi' ma\nthe poker--quick!' says he to my aunt. And as she went to the hearth I\npeeps beside his arm, and I sid squat down in the far corner a monkey\nor a flayin' on the chest, or else the maist shrivelled up, wizzened\nald wife that ever was sen on yearth.\n\n\"'By Jen!' says my aunt, as puttin' the poker in his hand, she keeked\nby his shouther, and sid the ill-favoured thing, 'hae a care, sir,\nwhat ye're doin'. Back wi' ye, and shut to the door!'\n\n\"But in place o' that he steps in saftly, wi' the poker pointed like a\nswoord, and he gies it a poke, and down it a' tumbles together, head\nand a', in a heap o' bayans and dust, little meyar an' a hatful.\n\n\"'Twas the bayans o' a child; a' the rest went to dust at a touch.\nThey said nout for a while, but he turns round the skull, as it lay on\nthe floor.\n\n\"Young as I was, I consayted I knew well enough what they was thinkin'\non.\n\n\"'A dead cat!' says he, pushin' back and blowin' out the can'le, and\nshuttin' to the door. 'We'll come back, you and me, Mrs. Shutters, and\nlook on the shelves by-and-bye. I've other matters first to speak to\nye about; and this little girl's goin' hame, ye say. She has her\nwages, and I mun mak' her a present,' says he, pattin' my shouther wi'\nhis hand.\n\n\"And he did gimma a goud pound and I went aff to Lexhoe about an hour\nafter, and sa hame by the stage-coach, and fain was I to be at hame\nagain; and I never sid Dame Crowl o' Applewale, God be thanked, either\nin appearance or in dream, at-efter. But when I was grown to be a\nwoman, my aunt spent a day and night wi' me at Littleham, and she telt\nme there was no doubt it was the poor little boy that was missing sa\nlang sen, that was shut up to die thar in the dark by that wicked\nbeldame, whar his skirls, or his prayers, or his thumpin' cud na be\nheard, and his hat was left by the water's edge, whoever did it, to\nmak' belief he was drowned. The clothes, at the first touch, a' ran\ninto a snuff o' dust in the cell whar the bayans was found. But there\nwas a handful o' jet buttons, and a knife with a green heft, together\nwi' a couple o' pennies the poor little fella had in his pocket, I\nsuppose, when he was decoyed in thar, and sid his last o' the light.\nAnd there was, amang the squire's papers, a copy o' the notice that\nwas prented after he was lost, when the ald squire thought he might 'a\nrun away, or bin took by gipsies, and it said he had a green-hefted\nknife wi' him, and that his buttons were o' cut jet. Sa that is a' I\nhev to say consarnin' ald Dame Crowl, o' Applewale House.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEAD SEXTON\n\n\nThe sunsets were red, the nights were long, and the weather pleasantly\nfrosty; and Christmas, the glorious herald of the New Year, was at\nhand, when an event--still recounted by winter firesides, with a\nhorror made delightful by the mellowing influence of years--occurred\nin the beautiful little town of Golden Friars, and signalized, as the\nscene of its catastrophe, the old inn known throughout a wide region\nof the Northumbrian counties as the George and Dragon.\n\nToby Crooke, the sexton, was lying dead in the old coach-house in the\ninn yard. The body had been discovered, only half an hour before this\nstory begins, under strange circumstances, and in a place where it\nmight have lain the better part of a week undisturbed; and a dreadful\nsuspicion astounded the village of Golden Friars.\n\nA wintry sunset was glaring through a gorge of the western mountains,\nturning into fire the twigs of the leafless elms, and all the tiny\nblades of grass on the green by which the quaint little town is\nsurrounded. It is built of light, grey stone, with steep gables and\nslender chimneys rising with airy lightness from the level sward by\nthe margin of the beautiful lake, and backed by the grand amphitheatre\nof the fells at the other side, whose snowy peaks show faintly against\nthe sky, tinged with the vaporous red of the western light. As you\ndescend towards the margin of the lake, and see Golden Friars, its\ntaper chimneys and slender gables, its curious old inn and gorgeous\nsign, and over all the graceful tower and spire of the ancient church,\nat this hour or by moonlight, in the solemn grandeur and stillness of\nthe natural scenery that surrounds it, it stands before you like a\nfairy town.\n\nToby Crooke, the lank sexton, now fifty or upwards, had passed an hour\nor two with some village cronies, over a solemn pot of purl, in the\nkitchen of that cosy hostelry, the night before. He generally turned\nin there at about seven o'clock, and heard the news. This contented\nhim: for he talked little, and looked always surly.\n\nMany things are now raked up and talked over about him.\n\nIn early youth, he had been a bit of a scamp. He broke his indentures,\nand ran away from his master, the tanner of Bryemere; he had got into\nfifty bad scrapes and out again; and, just as the little world of\nGolden Friars had come to the conclusion that it would be well for all\nparties--except, perhaps, himself--and a happy riddance for his\nafflicted mother, if he were sunk, with a gross of quart pots about\nhis neck, in the bottom of the lake in which the grey gables, the\nelms, and the towering fells of Golden Friars are mirrored, he\nsuddenly returned, a reformed man at the ripe age of forty.\n\nFor twelve years he had disappeared, and no one knew what had become\nof him. Then, suddenly, as I say, he reappeared at Golden Friars--a\nvery black and silent man, sedate and orderly. His mother was dead and\nburied; but the \"prodigal son\" was received good-naturedly. The good\nvicar, Doctor Jenner, reported to his wife:\n\n\"His hard heart has been softened, dear Dolly. I saw him dry his eyes,\npoor fellow, at the sermon yesterday.\"\n\n\"I don't wonder, Hugh darling. I know the part--'There is joy in\nHeaven.' I am sure it was--wasn't it? It was quite beautiful. I almost\ncried myself.\"\n\nThe Vicar laughed gently, and stooped over her chair and kissed her,\nand patted her cheek fondly.\n\n\"You think too well of your old man's sermons,\" he said. \"I preach,\nyou see, Dolly, very much to the _poor_. If _they_ understand me, I am\npretty sure everyone else must; and I think that my simple style goes\nmore home to both feelings and conscience--\"\n\n\"You ought to have told me of his crying before. You _are_ so\neloquent,\" exclaimed Dolly Jenner. \"No one preaches like my man. I\nhave never heard such sermons.\"\n\nNot many, we may be sure; for the good lady had not heard more than\nsix from any other divine for the last twenty years.\n\nThe personages of Golden Friars talked Toby Crooke over on his return.\nDoctor Lincote said:\n\n\"He must have led a hard life; he had _dried in_ so, and got a good\ndeal of hard muscle; and he rather fancied he had been soldiering--he\nstood like a soldier; and the mark over his right eye looked like a\ngunshot.\"\n\nPeople might wonder how he could have survived a gunshot over the eye;\nbut was not Lincote a doctor--and an army doctor to boot--when he was\nyoung; and who, in Golden Friars, could dispute with him on points of\nsurgery? And I believe the truth is, that this mark had been really\nmade by a pistol bullet.\n\nMr. Jarlcot, the attorney, would \"go bail\" he had picked up some sense\nin his travels; and honest Turnbull, the host of the George and\nDragon, said heartily:\n\n\"We must look out something for him to put his hand to. _Now's_ the\ntime to make a man of him.\"\n\nThe end of it was that he became, among other things, the sexton of\nGolden Friars.\n\nHe was a punctual sexton. He meddled with no other person's business;\nbut he was a silent man, and by no means popular. He was reserved in\ncompany; and he used to walk alone by the shore of the lake, while\nother fellows played at fives or skittles; and when he visited the\nkitchen of the George, he had his liquor to himself, and in the midst\nof the general talk was a saturnine listener. There was something\nsinister in this man's face; and when things went wrong with him, he\ncould look dangerous enough.\n\nThere were whispered stories in Golden Friars about Toby Crooke.\nNobody could say how they got there. Nothing is more mysterious than\nthe spread of rumour. It is like a vial poured on the air. It travels,\nlike an epidemic, on the sightless currents of the atmosphere, or by\nthe laws of a telluric influence equally intangible. These stories\ntreated, though darkly, of the long period of his absence from his\nnative village; but they took no well-defined shape, and no one could\nrefer them to any authentic source.\n\nThe Vicar's charity was of the kind that thinketh no evil; and in such\ncases he always insisted on proof. Crooke was, of course, undisturbed\nin his office.\n\nOn the evening before the tragedy came to light--trifles are always\nremembered after the catastrophe--a boy, returning along the margin of\nthe mere, passed him by seated on a prostrate trunk of a tree, under\nthe \"bield\" of a rock, counting silver money. His lean body and limbs\nwere bent together, his knees were up to his chin, and his long\nfingers were telling the coins over hurriedly in the hollow of his\nother hand. He glanced at the boy, as the old English saying is, like\n\"the devil looking over Lincoln.\" But a black and sour look from Mr.\nCrooke, who never had a smile for a child nor a greeting for a\nwayfarer, was nothing strange.\n\nToby Crooke lived in the grey stone house, cold and narrow, that\nstands near the church porch, with the window of its staircase looking\nout into the churchyard, where so much of his labour, for many a day,\nhad been expended. The greater part of this house was untenanted.\n\nThe old woman who was in charge of it slept in a settle-bed, among\nbroken stools, old sacks, rotten chests and other rattle-traps, in the\nsmall room at the rear of the house, floored with tiles.\n\nAt what time of the night she could not tell, she awoke, and saw a\nman, with his hat on, in her room. He had a candle in his hand, which\nhe shaded with his coat from her eye; his back was towards her, and he\nwas rummaging in the drawer in which she usually kept her money.\n\nHaving got her quarter's pension of two pounds that day, however, she\nhad placed it, folded in a rag, in the corner of her tea caddy, and\nlocked it up in the \"eat-malison\" or cupboard.\n\nShe was frightened when she saw the figure in her room, and she could\nnot tell whether her visitor might not have made his entrance from the\ncontiguous churchyard. So, sitting bolt upright in her bed, her grey\nhair almost lifting her kerchief off her head, and all over in \"a fit\no' t' creepins,\" as she expressed it, she demanded:\n\n\"In God's name, what want ye thar?\"\n\n\"Whar's the peppermint ye used to hev by ye, woman? I'm bad wi' an\ninward pain.\"\n\n\"It's all gane a month sin',\" she answered; and offered to make him a\n\"het\" drink if he'd get to his room.\n\nBut he said:\n\n\"Never mind, I'll try a mouthful o' gin.\"\n\nAnd, turning on his heel, he left her.\n\nIn the morning the sexton was gone. Not only in his lodging was there\nno account of him, but, when inquiry began to be extended, nowhere in\nthe village of Golden Friars could he be found.\n\nStill he might have gone off, on business of his own, to some distant\nvillage, before the town was stirring; and the sexton had no near\nkindred to trouble their heads about him. People, therefore, were\nwilling to wait, and take his return ultimately for granted.\n\nAt three o'clock the good Vicar, standing at his hall door, looking\nacross the lake towards the noble fells that rise, steep and furrowed,\nfrom that beautiful mere, saw two men approaching across the green, in\na straight line, from a boat that was moored at the water's edge. They\nwere carrying between them something which, though not very large,\nseemed ponderous.\n\n\"Ye'll ken this, sir,\" said one of the boatmen as they set down,\nalmost at his feet, a small church bell, such as in old-fashioned\nchimes yields the treble notes.\n\n\"This won't be less nor five stean. I ween it's fra' the church\nsteeple yon.\"\n\n\"What! one of our church bells?\" ejaculated the Vicar--for a moment\nlost in horrible amazement. \"Oh, no!--_no_, that can't possibly be!\nWhere did you find it?\"\n\nHe had found the boat, in the morning, moored about fifty yards from\nher moorings where he had left it the night before, and could not\nthink how that came to pass; and now, as he and his partner were about\nto take their oars, they discovered this bell in the bottom of the\nboat, under a bit of canvas, also the sexton's pick and\nspade--\"tom-spey'ad,\" they termed that peculiar, broad-bladed\nimplement.\n\n\"Very extraordinary! We must try whether there is a bell missing from\nthe tower,\" said the Vicar, getting into a fuss. \"Has Crooke come back\nyet? Does anyone know where he is?\"\n\nThe sexton had not yet turned up.\n\n\"That's odd--that's provoking,\" said the Vicar. \"However, my key will\nlet us in. Place the bell in the hall while I get it; and then we can\nsee what all this means.\"\n\nTo the church, accordingly, they went, the Vicar leading the way, with\nhis own key in his hand. He turned it in the lock, and stood in the\nshadow of the ground porch, and shut the door.\n\nA sack, half full, lay on the ground, with open mouth, a piece of cord\nlying beside it. Something clanked within it as one of the men shoved\nit aside with his clumsy shoe.\n\nThe Vicar opened the church door and peeped in. The dusky glow from\nthe western sky, entering through a narrow window, illuminated the\nshafts and arches, the old oak carvings, and the discoloured\nmonuments, with the melancholy glare of a dying fire.\n\nThe Vicar withdrew his head and closed the door. The gloom of the\nporch was deeper than ever as, stooping, he entered the narrow door\nthat opened at the foot of the winding stair that leads to the first\nloft; from which a rude ladder-stair of wood, some five and twenty\nfeet in height, mounts through a trap to the ringers' loft.\n\nUp the narrow stairs the Vicar climbed, followed by his attendants, to\nthe first loft. It was very dark: a narrow bow-slit in the thick wall\nadmitted the only light they had to guide them. The ivy leaves, seen\nfrom the deep shadow, flashed and flickered redly, and the sparrows\ntwittered among them.\n\n\"Will one of you be so good as to go up and count the bells, and see\nif they are all right?\" said the Vicar. \"There should be--\"\n\n\"Agoy! what's that?\" exclaimed one of the men, recoiling from the foot\nof the ladder.\n\n\"By Jen!\" ejaculated the other, in equal surprise.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" gasped the Vicar, who, seeing indistinctly a dark\nmass lying on the floor, had stooped to examine it, and placed his\nhand upon a cold, dead face.\n\nThe men drew the body into the streak of light that traversed the\nfloor.\n\nIt was the corpse of Toby Crooke! There was a frightful scar across\nhis forehead.\n\nThe alarm was given. Doctor Lincote, and Mr. Jarlcot, and Turnbull, of\nthe George and Dragon, were on the spot immediately; and many curious\nand horrified spectators of minor importance.\n\nThe first thing ascertained was that the man must have been many hours\ndead. The next was that his skull was fractured, across the forehead,\nby an awful blow. The next was that his neck was broken.\n\nHis hat was found on the floor, where he had probably laid it, with\nhis handkerchief in it.\n\nThe mystery now began to clear a little; for a bell--one of the chime\nhung in the tower--was found where it had rolled to, against the wall,\nwith blood and hair on the rim of it, which corresponded with the\ngrizzly fracture across the front of his head.\n\nThe sack that lay in the vestibule was examined, and found to contain\nall the church plate; a silver salver that had disappeared, about a\nmonth before, from Dr. Lincote's store of valuables; the Vicar's gold\npencil-case, which he thought he had forgot in the vestry book; silver\nspoons, and various other contributions, levied from time to time off\na dozen different households, the mysterious disappearance of which\nspoils had, of late years, begun to make the honest little community\nuncomfortable. Two bells had been taken down from the chime; and now\nthe shrewd part of the assemblage, putting things together, began to\ncomprehend the nefarious plans of the sexton, who lay mangled and dead\non the floor of the tower, where only two days ago he had tolled the\nholy bell to call the good Christians of Golden Friars to worship.\n\nThe body was carried into the yard of the George and Dragon and laid\nin the old coach-house; and the townsfolk came grouping in to have a\npeep at the corpse, and stood round, looking darkly, and talking as\nlow as if they were in a church.\n\nThe Vicar, in gaiters and slightly shovel hat, stood erect, as one in\na little circle of notables--the doctor, the attorney, Sir Geoffrey\nMardykes, who happened to be in the town, and Turnbull, the host--in\nthe centre of the paved yard, they having made an inspection of the\nbody, at which troops of the village stragglers, to-ing and fro-ing,\nwere gaping and frowning as they whispered their horrible conjectures.\n\n\"What d'ye think o' that?\" said Tom Scales, the old hostler of the\nGeorge, looking pale, with a stern, faint smile on his lips, as he and\nDick Linklin sauntered out of the coach-house together.\n\n\"The deaul will hev his ain noo,\" answered Dick, in his friend's ear.\n\"T' sexton's got a craigthraw like he gav' the lass over the clints of\nScarsdale; ye mind what the ald soger telt us when he hid his face in\nthe kitchen of the George here? By Jen! I'll ne'er forget that story.\"\n\n\"I ween 'twas all true enough,\" replied the hostler; \"and the sizzup\nhe gav' the sleepin' man wi' t' poker across the forehead. See whar\nthe edge o' t' bell took him, and smashed his ain, the self-same lids.\nBy ma sang, I wonder the deaul did na carry awa' his corpse i' the\nnight, as he did wi' Tam Lunder's at Mooltern Mill.\"\n\n\"Hout, man, who ever sid t' deaul inside o' a church?\"\n\n\"The corpse is ill-faur'd enew to scare Satan himsel', for that\nmatter; though it's true what you say. Ay, ye're reet tul a trippet,\nthar; for Beelzebub dar'n't show his snout inside the church, not the\nlength o' the black o' my nail.\"\n\nWhile this discussion was going on, the gentlefolk who were talking\nthe matter over in the centre of the yard had dispatched a message for\nthe coroner all the way to the town of Hextan.\n\nThe last tint of sunset was fading from the sky by this time; so, of\ncourse, there was no thought of an inquest earlier than next day.\n\nIn the meantime it was horribly clear that the sexton had intended to\nrob the church of its plate, and had lost his life in the attempt to\ncarry the second bell, as we have seen, down the worn ladder of the\ntower. He had tumbled backwards and broken his neck upon the floor of\nthe loft; and the heavy bell, in its fall, descended with its edge\nacross his forehead.\n\nNever was a man more completely killed by a double catastrophe, in a\nmoment.\n\nThe bells and the contents of the sack, it was surmised, he meant to\nhave conveyed across the lake that night, and with the help of his\nspade and pick to have buried them in Clousted Forest, and returned,\nafter an absence of but a few hours--as he easily might--before\nmorning, unmissed and unobserved. He would no doubt, having secured\nhis booty, have made such arrangements as would have made it appear\nthat the church had been broken into. He would, of course, have taken\nall measures to divert suspicion from himself, and have watched a\nsuitable opportunity to repossess himself of the buried treasure and\ndispose of it in safety.\n\n[Illustration: _It was the corpse of Toby Crooke_!]\n\nAnd now came out, into sharp relief, all the stories that had, one way\nor other, stolen after him into the town. Old Mrs. Pullen fainted when\nshe saw him, and told Doctor Lincote, after, that she thought he was\nthe highwayman who fired the shot that killed the coachman the night\nthey were robbed on Hounslow Heath. There were the stories also told\nby the wayfaring old soldier with the wooden leg, and fifty others, up\nto this more than half disregarded, but which now seized on the\npopular belief with a startling grasp.\n\nThe fleeting light soon expired, and twilight was succeeded by the\nearly night.\n\nThe inn yard gradually became quiet; and the dead sexton lay alone, in\nthe dark, on his back, locked up in the old coach-house, the key of\nwhich was safe in the pocket of Tom Scales, the trusty old hostler of\nthe George.\n\nIt was about eight o'clock, and the hostler, standing alone on the\nroad in the front of the open door of the George and Dragon, had just\nsmoked his pipe out. A bright moon hung in the frosty sky. The fells\nrose from the opposite edge of the lake like phantom mountains. The\nair was stirless. Through the boughs and sprays of the leafless elms\nno sigh or motion, however hushed, was audible. Not a ripple glimmered\non the lake, which at one point only reflected the brilliant moon from\nits dark blue expanse like burnished steel. The road that runs by the\ninn door, along the margin of the lake, shone dazzlingly white.\n\nWhite as ghosts, among the dark holly and juniper, stood the tall\npiers of the Vicar's gate, and their great stone balls, like heads,\noverlooking the same road, a few hundred yards up the lake, to the\nleft. The early little town of Golden Friars was quiet by this time.\nExcept for the townsfolk who were now collected in the kitchen of the\ninn itself, no inhabitant was now outside his own threshold.\n\nTom Scales was thinking of turning in. He was beginning to fell a\nlittle queer. He was thinking of the sexton, and could not get the\nfixed features of the dead man out of his head, when he heard the\nsharp though distant ring of a horse's hoof upon the frozen road.\nTom's instinct apprized him of the approach of a guest to the George\nand Dragon. His experienced ear told him that the horseman was\napproaching by the Dardale road, which, after crossing that wide and\ndismal moss, passes the southern fells by Dunner Cleugh and finally\nenters the town of Golden Friars by joining the Mardykes road, at the\nedge of the lake, close to the gate of the Vicar's house.\n\nA clump of tall trees stood at this point; but the moon shone full\nupon the road and cast their shadow backward.\n\nThe hoofs were plainly coming at a gallop, with a hollow rattle. The\nhorseman was a long time in appearing. Tom wondered how he had heard\nthe sound--so sharply frosty as the air was--so very far away.\n\nHe was right in his guess. The visitor was coming over the mountainous\nroad from Dardale Moss; and he now saw a horseman, who must have\nturned the corner of the Vicar's house at the moment when his eye was\nwearied; for when he saw him for the first time he was advancing, in\nthe hazy moonlight, like the shadow of a cavalier, at a gallop, upon\nthe level strip of road that skirts the margin of the mere, between\nthe George and the Vicar's piers.\n\nThe hostler had not long to wonder why the rider pushed his beast at\nso furious a pace, and how he came to have heard him, as he now\ncalculated, at least three miles away. A very few moments sufficed to\nbring horse and rider to the inn door.\n\nIt was a powerful black horse, something like the great Irish hunter\nthat figured a hundred years ago, and would carry sixteen stone with\nease across country. It would have made a grand charger. Not a hair\nturned. It snorted, it pawed, it arched its neck; then threw back its\nears and down its head, and looked ready to lash, and then to rear;\nand seemed impatient to be off again, and incapable of standing quiet\nfor a moment.\n\nThe rider got down\n\n    As light as shadow falls.\n\nBut he was a tall, sinewy figure. He wore a cape or short mantle, a\ncocked hat, and a pair of jack-boots, such as held their ground in\nsome primitive corners of England almost to the close of the last\ncentury.\n\n\"Take him, lad,\" said he to old Scales. \"You need not walk or wisp\nhim--he never sweats or tires. Give him his oats, and let him take his\nown time to eat them. House!\" cried the stranger--in the old-fashioned\nform of summons which still lingered, at that time, in out-of-the-way\nplaces--in a deep and piercing voice.\n\nAs Tom Scales led the horse away to the stables it turned its head\ntowards its master with a short, shill neigh.\n\n\"About _your_ business, old gentleman--we must not go too fast,\" the\nstranger cried back again to his horse, with a laugh as harsh and\npiercing; and he strode into the house.\n\nThe hostler led this horse into the inn yard. In passing, it sidled up\nto the coach-house gate, within which lay the dead sexton--snorted,\npawed and lowered its head suddenly, with ear close to the plank, as\nif listening for a sound from within; then uttered again the same\nshort, piercing neigh.\n\nThe hostler was chilled at this mysterious coquetry with the dead. He\nliked the brute less and less every minute.\n\nIn the meantime, its master had proceeded.\n\n\"I'll go to the inn kitchen,\" he said, in his startling bass, to the\ndrawer who met him in the passage.\n\nAnd on he went, as if he had known the place all his days: not seeming\nto hurry himself--stepping leisurely, the servant thought--but gliding\non at such a rate, nevertheless, that he had passed his guide and was\nin the kitchen of the George before the drawer had got much more than\nhalf-way to it.\n\nA roaring fire of dry wood, peat and coal lighted up this snug but\nspacious apartment--flashing on pots and pans, and dressers high-piled\nwith pewter plates and dishes; and making the uncertain shadows of the\nlong \"hanks\" of onions and many a flitch and ham, depending from the\nceiling, dance on its glowing surface.\n\nThe doctor and the attorney, even Sir Geoffrey Mardykes, did not\ndisdain on this occasion to take chairs and smoke their pipes by the\nkitchen fire, where they were in the thick of the gossip and\ndiscussion excited by the terrible event.\n\nThe tall stranger entered uninvited.\n\nHe looked like a gaunt, athletic Spaniard of forty, burned half black\nin the sun, with a bony, flattened nose. A pair of fierce black eyes\nwere just visible under the edge of his hat; and his mouth seemed\ndivided, beneath the moustache, by the deep scar of a hare-lip.\n\nSir Geoffrey Mardykes and the host of the George, aided by the doctor\nand the attorney, were discussing and arranging, for the third or\nfourth time, their theories about the death and the probable plans of\nToby Crooke, when the stranger entered.\n\nThe new-comer lifted his hat, with a sort of smile, for a moment from\nhis black head.\n\n\"What do you call this place, gentlemen?\" asked the stranger.\n\n\"The town of Golden Friars, sir,\" answered the doctor politely.\n\n\"The George and Dragon, sir: Anthony Turnbull, at your service,\"\nanswered mine host, with a solemn bow, at the same moment--so that the\ntwo voices went together, as if the doctor and the innkeeper were\nsinging a catch.\n\n\"The George and the Dragon,\" repeated the horseman, expanding his long\nhands over the fire which he had approached. \"Saint George, King\nGeorge, the Dragon, the Devil: it is a very grand idol, that outside\nyour door, sir. You catch all sorts of worshippers--courtiers,\nfanatics, scamps: all's fish, eh? Everybody welcome, provided he\ndrinks like one. Suppose you brew a bowl or two of punch. I'll stand\nit. How many are we? _Here_--count, and let us have enough. Gentlemen,\nI mean to spend the night here, and my horse is in the stable. What\nholiday, fun, or fair has got so many pleasant faces together? When I\nlast called here--for, now I bethink me, I have seen the place\nbefore--you all looked sad. It was on a Sunday, that dismalest of\nholidays; and it would have been positively melancholy only that your\nsexton--that saint upon earth--Mr. Crooke, was here.\" He was looking\nround, over his shoulder, and added: \"Ha! don't I see him there?\"\n\nFrightened a good deal were some of the company. All gaped in the\ndirection in which, with a nod, he turned his eyes.\n\n\"He's _not_ thar--he _can't_ be thar--we _see_ he's not thar,\" said\nTurnbull, as dogmatically as old Joe Willet might have delivered\nhimself--for he did not care that the George should earn the\nreputation of a haunted house. \"He's met an accident, sir: he's\ndead--he's elsewhere--and therefore can't be here.\"\n\nUpon this the company entertained the stranger with the\nnarrative--which they made easy by a division of labour, two or three\ngenerally speaking at a time, and no one being permitted to finish a\nsecond sentence without finding himself corrected and supplanted.\n\n\"The man's in Heaven, so sure as you're not,\" said the traveller so\nsoon as the story was ended. \"What! he was fiddling with the church\nbell, was he, and d----d for that--eh? Landlord, get us some drink. A\nsexton d----d for pulling down a church bell he has been pulling at\nfor ten years!\"\n\n\"You came, sir, by the Dardale-road, I believe?\" said the doctor\n(village folk are curious). \"A dismal moss is Dardale Moss, sir; and a\nbleak clim' up the fells on t' other side.\"\n\n\"I say 'Yes' to all--from Dardale Moss, as black as pitch and as\nrotten as the grave, up that zigzag wall you call a road, that looks\nlike chalk in the moonlight, through Dunner Cleugh, as dark as a\ncoal-pit, and down here to the George and the Dragon, where you have a\nroaring fire, wise men, good punch--here it is--and a corpse in your\ncoach-house. Where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered\ntogether. Come, landlord, ladle out the nectar. Drink, gentlemen--drink,\nall. Brew another bowl at the bar. How divinely it stinks of alcohol!\nI hope you like it, gentlemen: it smells all over of spices, like a\nmummy. Drink, friends. Ladle, landlord. Drink, all. Serve it out.\"\n\nThe guest fumbled in his pocket, and produced three guineas, which he\nslipped into Turnbull's fat palm.\n\n\"Let punch flow till that's out. I'm an old friend of the house. I\ncall here, back and forward. I know you well, Turnbull, though you\ndon't recognize me.\"\n\n\"You have the advantage of me, sir,\" said Mr. Turnbull, looking hard\non that dark and sinister countenance--which, or the like of which, he\ncould have sworn he had never seen before in his life. But he liked\nthe weight and colour of his guineas, as he dropped them into his\npocket. \"I hope you will find yourself comfortable while you stay.\"\n\n\"You have given me a bedroom?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--the cedar chamber.\"\n\n\"I know it--the very thing. No--no punch for me. By and by, perhaps.\"\n\nThe talk went on, but the stranger had grown silent. He had seated\nhimself on an oak bench by the fire, towards which he extended his\nfeet and hands with seeming enjoyment; his cocked hat being, however,\na little over his face.\n\nGradually the company began to thin. Sir Geoffrey Mardykes was the\nfirst to go; then some of the humbler townsfolk. The last bowl of\npunch was on its last legs. The stranger walked into the passage and\nsaid to the drawer:\n\n\"Fetch me a lantern. I must see my nag. Light it--hey! That will do.\nNo--you need not come.\"\n\nThe gaunt traveller took it from the man's hand and strode along the\npassage to the door of the stableyard, which he opened and passed out.\n\nTom Scales, standing on the pavement, was looking through the stable\nwindow at the horses when the stranger plucked his shirtsleeve. With\nan inward shock the hostler found himself alone in presence of the\nvery person he had been thinking of.\n\n\"I say--they tell me you have something to look at in there\"--he\npointed with his thumb at the old coach-house door. \"Let us have a\npeep.\"\n\nTom Scales happened to be at that moment in a state of mind highly\nfavourable to anyone in search of a submissive instrument. He was in\ngreat perplexity, and even perturbation. He suffered the stranger to\nlead him to the coach-house gate.\n\n\"You must come in and hold the lantern,\" said he. \"I'll pay you\nhandsomely.\"\n\nThe old hostler applied his key and removed the padlock.\n\n\"What are you afraid of? Step in and throw the light on his face,\"\nsaid the stranger grimly. \"Throw open the lantern: stand _there_.\nStoop over him a little--he won't bite you. Steady, or you may pass\nthe night with him!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the meantime the company at the George had dispersed; and, shortly\nafter, Anthony Turnbull--who, like a good landlord, was always last in\nbed, and first up, in his house--was taking, alone, his last look\nround the kitchen before making his final visit to the stable-yard,\nwhen Tom Scales tottered into the kitchen, looking like death, his\nhair standing upright; and he sat down on an oak chair, all in a\ntremble, wiped his forehead with his hand, and, instead of speaking,\nheaved a great sigh or two.\n\nIt was not till after he had swallowed a dram of brandy that he found\nhis voice, and said:\n\n\"We've the deaul himsel' in t' house! By Jen! ye'd best send fo t'\nsir\" (the clergyman). \"Happen he'll tak him in hand wi' holy writ, and\nsend him elsewhidder deftly. Lord atween us and harm! I'm a sinfu'\nman. I tell ye, Mr. Turnbull, I dar' n't stop in t' George to-night\nunder the same roof wi' him.\"\n\n\"Ye mean the ra-beyoned, black-feyaced lad, wi' the brocken neb? Why,\nthat's a gentleman wi' a pocket ful o' guineas, man, and a horse worth\nfifty pounds!\"\n\n\"That horse is no better nor his rider. The nags that were in the\nstable wi' him, they all tuk the creepins, and sweated like rain down\na thack. I tuk them all out o' that, away from him, into the\nhack-stable, and I thocht I cud never get them past him. But that's\nnot all. When I was keekin inta t' winda at the nags, he comes behint\nme and claps his claw on ma shouther, and he gars me gang wi' him, and\nopen the aad coach-house door, and haad the cannle for him, till he\npearked into the deed man't feyace; and, as God's my judge, I sid the\ncorpse open its eyes and wark its mouth, like a man smoorin' and\nstrivin' to talk. I cudna move or say a word, though I felt my hair\nrising on my heed; but at lang-last I gev a yelloch, and say I, 'La!\nwhat is that?' And he himsel' looked round on me, like the devil he\nis; and, wi' a skirl o' a laugh, he strikes the lantern out o' my\nhand. When I cum to myself we were outside the coach-house door. The\nmoon was shinin' in, ad I cud see the corpse stretched on the table\nwhar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi' a purr o' his foot.\n'Lock it,' says he; and so I did. And here's the key for ye--tak it\nyoursel', sir. He offer'd me money: he said he'd mak me a rich man if\nI'd sell him the corpse, and help him awa' wi' it.\"\n\n\"Hout, man! What cud he want o' t' corpse? He's not doctor, to do a'\nthat lids. He was takin' a rise out o' ye, lad,\" said Turnbull.\n\n\"Na, na--he wants the corpse. There's summat you a' me can't tell he\nwants to do wi' 't; and he'd liefer get it wi' sin and thievin', and\nthe damage of my soul. He's one of them freytens a boo or a dobbies\noff Dardale Moss, that's always astir wi' the like after nightfall;\nunless--Lord save us!--he be the deaul himsel.'\"\n\n\"Whar is he noo?\" asked the landlord, who was growing uncomfortable.\n\n\"He spang'd up the back stair to his room. I wonder you didn't hear\nhim trampin' like a wild horse; and he clapt his door that the house\nshook again--but Lord knows whar he is noo. Let us gang awa's up to\nthe Vicar's, and gan _him_ come down, and talk wi' him.\"\n\n\"Hoity toity, man--you're too easy scared,\" said the landlord, pale\nenough by this time. \"'Twould be a fine thing, truly, to send abroad\nthat the house was haunted by the deaul himsel'! Why, 'twould be the\nruin o' the George. You're sure ye locked the door on the corpse?\"\n\n\"Aye, sir--sartain.\"\n\n\"Come wi' me, Tom--we'll gi' a last look round the yard.\"\n\nSo, side by side, with many a jealous look right and left, and over\ntheir shoulders, they went in silence. On entering the old-fashioned\nquadrangle, surrounded by stables and other offices--built in the\nantique cagework fashion--they stopped for a while under the shadow of\nthe inn gable, and looked round the yard, and listened. All was\nsilent--nothing stirring.\n\nThe stable lantern was lighted; and with it in his hand Tony Turnbull,\nholding Tom Scales by the shoulder, advanced. He hauled Tom after him\nfor a step or two; then stood still and shoved him before him for a\nstep or two more; and thus cautiously--as a pair of skirmishers under\nfire--they approached the coach-house door.\n\n\"There, ye see--all safe,\" whispered Tom, pointing to the lock, which\nhung--distinct in the moonlight--in its place. \"Cum back, I say!\"\n\n\"Cum on, say I!\" retorted the landlord valorously. \"It would never do\nto allow any tricks to be played with the chap in there\"--he pointed\nto the coachhouse door.\n\n\"The coroner here in the morning, and never a corpse to sit on!\" He\nunlocked the padlock with these words, having handed the lantern to\nTom. \"Here, keck in, Tom,\" he continued; \"ye hev the lantern--and see\nif all's as ye left it.\"\n\n\"Not me--na, not for the George and a' that's in it!\" said Tom, with a\nshudder, sternly, as he took a step backward.\n\n\"What the--what are ye afraid on? Gi' me the lantern--it is all one:\n_I_ will.\"\n\nAnd cautiously, little by little, he opened the door; and, holding the\nlantern over his head in the narrow slit, he peeped in--frowning and\npale--with one eye, as if he expected something to fly in his face. He\nclosed the door without speaking, and locked it again.\n\n\"As safe as a thief in a mill,\" he whispered with a nod to his\ncompanion. And at that moment a harsh laugh overhead broke the silence\nstartlingly, and set all the poultry in the yard gabbling.\n\n\"Thar he be!\" said Tom, clutching the landlord's arm--\"in the\nwinda--see!\"\n\nThe window of the cedar-room, up two pair of stairs, was open; and in\nthe shadow a darker outline was visible of a man, with his elbows on\nthe window-stone, looking down upon them.\n\n\"Look at his eyes--like two live coals!\" gasped Tom.\n\nThe landlord could not see all this so sharply, being confused, and\nnot so long-sighted as Tom.\n\n\"Time, sir,\" called Tony Turnbull, turning cold as he thought he saw a\npair of eyes shining down redly at him--\"time for honest folk to be in\ntheir beds, and asleep!\"\n\n\"As sound as your sexton!\" said the jeering voice from above.\n\n\"Come out of this,\" whispered the landlord fiercely to his hostler,\nplucking him hard by the sleeve.\n\nThey got into the house, and shut the door.\n\n\"I wish we were shot of him,\" said the landlord, with something like a\ngroan, as he leaned against the wall of the passage. \"I'll sit up,\nanyhow--and, Tom, you'll sit wi' me. Cum into the gun-room. No one\nshall steal the dead man out of my yard while I can draw a trigger.\"\n\nThe gun-room in the George is about twelve feet square. It projects\ninto the stable-yard and commands a full view of the old coach-house;\nand, through a narrow side window, a flanking view of the back door of\nthe inn, through which the yard is reached.\n\nTony Turnbull took down the blunderbuss--which was the great ordnance\nof the house--and loaded it with a stiff charge of pistol bullets.\n\nHe put on a great-coat which hung there, and was his covering when he\nwent out at night, to shoot wild ducks. Tom made himself comfortable\nlikewise. They then sat down at the window, which was open, looking\ninto the yard, the opposite side of which was white in the brilliant\nmoonlight.\n\nThe landlord laid the blunderbuss across his knees, and stared into\nthe yard. His comrade stared also. The door of the gun-room was\nlocked; so they felt tolerably secure.\n\nAn hour passed; nothing had occurred. Another. The clock struck one.\nThe shadows had shifted a little; but still the moon shone full on the\nold coach-house, and the stable where the guest's horse stood.\n\nTurnbull thought he heard a step on the back-stair. Tom was watching\nthe back-door through the side window, with eyes glazing with the\nintensity of his stare. Anthony Turnbull, holding his breath, listened\nat the room door. It was a false alarm.\n\nWhen he came back to the window looking into the yard:\n\n\"Hish! Look thar!\" said he in a vehement whisper.\n\nFrom the shadow at the left they saw the figure of the gaunt horseman,\nin short cloak and jack-boots, emerge. He pushed open the stable door,\nand led out his powerful black horse. He walked it across the front of\nthe building till he reached the old coach-house door; and there, with\nits bridle on its neck, he left it standing, while he stalked to the\nyard gate; and, dealing it a kick with his heel, it sprang back with\nthe rebound, shaking from top to bottom, and stood open. The stranger\nreturned to the side of his horse; and the door which secured the\ncorpse of the dead sexton seemed to swing slowly open of itself as he\nentered, and returned with the corpse in his arms, and swung it across\nthe shoulders of the horse, and instantly sprang into the saddle.\n\n\"Fire!\" shouted Tom, and bang went the blunderbuss with a stunning\ncrack. A thousand sparrows' wings winnowed through the air from the\nthick ivy. The watch-dog yelled a furious bark. There was a strange\nring and whistle in the air. The blunderbuss had burst to shivers\nright down to the very breech. The recoil rolled the inn-keeper upon\nhis back on the floor, and Tom Scales was flung against the side of\nthe recess of the window, which had saved him from a tumble as\nviolent. In this position they heard the searing laugh of the\ndeparting horseman, and saw him ride out of the gate with his ghastly\nburden.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPerhaps some of my readers, like myself, have heard this story told by\nRoger Turnbull, now host of the George and Dragon, the grandson of the\nvery Tony who then swayed the spigot and keys of that inn, in the\nidentical kitchen of which the fiend treated so many of the neighbours\nto punch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat infernal object was subserved by the possession of the dead\nvillain's body, I have not learned. But a very curious story, in which\na vampire resuscitation of Crooke the sexton figures, may throw a\nlight upon this part of the tale.\n\nThe result of Turnbull's shot at the disappearing fiend certainly\njustifies old Andrew Moreton's dictum, which is thus expressed in his\ncurious \"History of Apparitions\": \"I warn rash brands who, pretending\nnot to fear the devil, are for using the ordinary violences with him,\nwhich affect one man from another--or with an apparition, in which\nthey may be sure to receive some mischief. I knew one fired a gun at\nan apparition and the gun burst in a hundred pieces in his hand;\nanother struck at an apparition with a sword, and broke his sword in\npieces and wounded his hand grievously; and 'tis next to madness for\nanyone to go that way to work with any spirit, be it angel or be it\ndevil.\"","title":"Madam Crowl's Ghost and the Dead Sexton","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":13827}