by W. W. Jacobs
“Never mind, the well’s all right,” said Benson.
“It won’t take a moment, sir,” said the other over his shoulder.
“Are you master here, or am I?” said Benson hoarsely.
George came back slowly, a glance at his master’s face stopping the protest upon his tongue, and he stood by watching him sulkily as he sat on the well and removed his outer garments. Both men watched him curiously, as having completed his preparations he stood grim and silent with his hands by his sides.
“I wish you’d let me go, sir,” said George, plucking up courage to address him. “You ain’t fit to go, you’ve got a chill or something. I shouldn’t wonder it’s the typhoid. They’ve got it in the village bad.”
For a moment Benson looked at him angrily, then his gaze softened. “Not this time, George,” he said, quietly. He took the looped end of the rope and placed it under his arms, and sitting down threw one leg over the side of the well.
“How are you going about it, sir?” queried George, laying hold of the rope and signing to Bob to do the same.
“I’ll call out when I reach the water,” said Benson; “then pay out three yards more quickly so that I can get to the bottom.”
“Very good, sir,” answered both.
Their master threw the other leg over the coping and sat motionless. His back was turned toward the men as he sat with head bent, looking down the shaft. He sat for so long that George became uneasy.
“All right, sir?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Benson, slowly. “If I tug at the rope, George, pull up at once. Lower away.”
The rope passed steadily through their hands until a hollow cry from the darkness below and a faint splashing warned them that he had reached the water. They gave him three yards more and stood with relaxed grasp and strained ears, waiting.
“He’s gone under,” said Bob in a low voice.
The other nodded, and moistening his huge palms took a firmer grip of the rope.
Fully a minute passed, and the men began to exchange uneasy glances. Then a sudden tremendous jerk followed by a series of feebler ones nearly tore the rope from their grasp.
“Pull!” shouted George, placing one foot on the side and hauling desperately. “Pull! pull! He’s stuck fast; he’s not coming; P-U-LL!”
In response to their terrific exertions the rope came slowly in, inch by inch, until at length a violent splashing was heard, and at the same moment a scream of unutterable horror came echoing up the shaft.
“What a weight he is!” panted Bob. “He’s stuck fast or something. Keep still, sir; for heaven’s sake, keep still.”
For the taut rope was being jerked violently by the struggles of the weight at the end of it. Both men with grunts and sighs hauled it in foot by foot.
“All right, sir,” cried George, cheerfully.
He had one foot against the well, and was pulling manfully; the burden was nearing the top. A long pull and a strong pull, and the face of a dead man with mud in the eyes and nostrils came peering over the edge. Behind it was the ghastly face of his master; but this he saw too late, for with a great cry he let go his hold of the rope and stepped back. The suddenness overthrew his assistant, and the rope tore through his hands. There was a frightful splash.
“You fool!” stammered Bob, and ran to the well helplessly.
“Run!” cried George. “Run for another line.”
He bent over the coping and called eagerly down as his assistant sped back to the stables shouting wildly. His voice re-echoed down the shaft, but all else was silence.
3
The Three Sisters
Thirty years ago on a wet autumn evening the household of Mallett’s Lodge was gathered round the death-bed of Ursula Mallow, the eldest of the three sisters who inhabited it. The dingy moth-eaten curtains of the old wooden bedstead were drawn apart, the light of a smoking oil-lamp falling upon the hopeless countenance of the dying woman as she turned her dull eyes upon her sisters. The room was in silence except for an occasional sob from the youngest sister, Eunice. Outside the rain fell steadily over the steaming marshes.
“Nothing is to be changed, Tabitha,” gasped Ursula to the other sister, who bore a striking likeness to her although her expression was harder and colder; “this room is to be locked up and never opened.”
“Very well,” said Tabitha brusquely, “though I don’t see how it can matter to you then.”
“It does matter,” said her sister with startling energy. “How do you know, how do I know that I may not sometimes visit it? I have lived in this house so long I am certain that I shall see it again. I will come back. Come back to watch over you both and see that no harm befalls you.”
“You are talking wildly,” said Tabitha, by no means moved at her sister’s solicitude for her welfare. “Your mind is wandering; you know that I have no faith in such things.”
Ursula sighed, and beckoning to Eunice, who was weeping silently at the bedside, placed her feeble arms around her neck and kissed her.
“Do not weep, dear,” she said feebly. “Perhaps it is best so. A lonely woman’s life is scarce worth living. We have no hopes, no aspirations; other women have had happy husbands and children, but we in this forgotten place have grown old together. I go first, but you must soon follow.”
Tabitha, comfortably conscious of only forty years and an iron frame, shrugged her shoulders and smiled grimly.
“I go first,” repeated Ursula in a new and strange voice as her heavy eyes slowly closed, “but I will come for each of you in turn, when your lease of life runs out. At that moment I will be with you to lead your steps whither I now go.”
As she spoke the flickering lamp went out suddenly as though extinguished by a rapid hand, and the room was left in utter darkness. A strange suffocating noise issued from the bed, and when the trembling women had relighted the lamp, all that was left of Ursula Mallow was ready for the grave.
That night the survivors passed together. The dead woman had been a firm believer in the existence of that shadowy borderland which is said to form an unhallowed link between the living and the dead, and even the stolid Tabitha, slightly unnerved by the events of the night, was not free from certain apprehensions that she might have been right.
With the bright morning their fears disappeared. The sun stole in at the window, and seeing the poor earthworn face on the pillow so touched it and glorified it that only its goodness and weakness were seen, and the beholders came to wonder how they could ever have felt any dread of aught so calm and peaceful. A day or two passed, and the body was transferred to a massive coffin long regarded as the finest piece of work of its kind ever turned out of the village carpenter’s workshop. Then a slow and melancholy cortege headed by four bearers wound its solemn way across the marshes to the family vault in the grey old church, and all that was left of Ursula was placed by the father and mother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.
To Eunice as they toiled slowly home the day seemed strange and Sabbath-like, the flat prospect of marsh wilder and more forlorn than usual, the roar of the sea more depressing. Tabitha had no such fancies. The bulk of the dead woman’s property had been left to Eunice, and her avaricious soul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings of regret for the deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.
“What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?” she asked as they sat at their quiet tea.
“I shall leave it as it stands,” said Eunice slowly. “We have both got sufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it to supporting some beds in a children’s hospital.”
“If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital,” said Tabitha in her deep tones, “she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you do not respect her wishes more.”
“What else can I do with it then?” inquired Eunice.
“Save it,” said the other with gleaming eyes, “save it.”
Eunice shook her head.
“No,�
�� said she, “it shall go to the sick children, but the principal I will not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and you can do what you like with it.”
“Very well,” said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; “I don’t believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don’t believe she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the money she stored so carefully.”
“What do you mean?” asked Eunice with pale lips. “You are trying to frighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things.”
Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of her sister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composed herself for a nap.
For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of the dead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked, its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness of the others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn than ever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like an unquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive of much thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms and dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strange noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held accountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strange sounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied that she saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequent search with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunice was disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from a complaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabitha admitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and virtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another direction.
Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, and she yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced by avarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidly separate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsest dishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far the better dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featured creature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of the candle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did this passion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, and lay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking of the coins at her unholy vigils.
One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. “Why don’t you bank your money, Tabitha?” she said; “it is surely not safe to keep such large sums in such a lonely house.”
“Large sums!” repeated the exasperated Tabitha, “large sums! what nonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keep me.”
“It’s a great temptation to housebreakers,” said her sister, not pressing the point. “I made sure last night that I heard somebody in the house.”
“Did you?” said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face. “So did I. I thought they went to Ursula’s room, and I got out of bed and went on the stairs to listen.”
“Well?” said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister’s face.
“There was something there,” said Tabitha slowly. “I’ll swear it, for I stood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling on the floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat, but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and the cat was in the kitchen.”
“Oh, let us leave this dreadful house,” moaned Eunice.
“What!” said her sister grimly; “afraid of poor Ursula? Why should you be? your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who perhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers.”
“Oh!” said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, “if I saw her I should die. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. O God! have mercy on me, I am dying.”
She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sank senseless to the floor.
“Get some water,” cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up the stairs, “Eunice has fainted.”
The old woman, with a timid glance at her, retired, reappearing shortly afterwards with the water, with which she proceeded to restore her much-loved mistress to her senses. Tabitha, as soon as this was accomplished, stalked off to her room, leaving her sister and Martha sitting drearily enough in the small parlour, watching the fire and conversing in whispers.
It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not last much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so lonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at length consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small but comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a speedy change.
It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of the marshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for one supreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals, the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then the wind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce gusts which, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their full fury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air shrieked in its chimneys, windows rattled, doors slammed, and even the very curtains seemed to live and move.
Eunice was in bed, awake. A small night-light in a saucer of oil shed a sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs, bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her. But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor, crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on the stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with a quickly beating heart she regained her bed.
The sounds ceased and a deep silence followed, which she herself was unable to break although she strove hard to do so. A wild gust of wind shook the windows and nearly extinguished the light, and when its flame had regained its accustomed steadiness she saw that the door was slowly opening, while the huge shadow of a hand blotted the papered wall. Still her tongue refused its office. The door flew open with a crash, a cloaked figure entered and, throwing aside its coverings, she saw with a horror past all expression the napkin-bound face of the dead Ursula smiling terribly at her. In her last extremity she raised her faded eyes above for succour, and then as the figure noiselessly advanced and laid its cold hand upon her brow, the soul of Eunice Mallow left its body with a wild shriek and made its way to the Eternal.
Martha, roused by the cry, and shivering with dread, rushed to the door and gazed in terror at the figure which stood leaning over the bedside. As she watched, it slowly removed the cowl and the napkin and exposed the fell face of Tabitha, so strangely contorted between fear and triumph that she hardly recognized it.
“Who’s there?” cried Tabitha in a terrible voice as she saw the old woman’s shadow on the wall.
“I thought I heard a cry,” said Martha, entering. “Did anybody call?”
“Yes, Eunice,” said the other, regarding her closely. “I, too, heard the cry, and hurried to her. What makes her so strange? Is she in a trance?”
“Ay,” said the old woman, falling on her knees by the bed and sobbing bitterly, “the trance of death. Ah, my dear, my poor lonely girl, that this should be the end of it! She has died of fright,” said the old woman, pointing to the eyes, which even yet retained their horror. “She has seen something devilish.”
Tabitha’s gaze fell. “She has always suffered with her heart,” she muttered; “the night has frightened her; it frightened me.”
She stood upright by the foot of the bed as Martha drew the sheet over the face of the dead woman.
“First Ursula, then Eunice,” said Tabitha, drawing a deep breath. “I can’t stay here. I’ll dress and wait for the morning.”
She left the room as she spoke, and with bent head proceeded to her own. Martha remained by the bedside, and gently closing the staring eyes, fell on her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for the departed soul. Overcome with grief and fear she remained with bowed head until a sudden sharp cry from Tabitha brought her to her feet.
“Well,” said the old woman, going to the door.
“Where are you?” cried Tabitha, somewhat reassured by her voice.
“In Miss Eunice’s bedroom. Do you want anything?”
“Come down at once. Quick! I am unwell.”
Her voice rose suddenly to a scream. “Quick! For God’s sake! Quick, or I shall go mad. There is some strange woman in the house.”
The old woman stumbled hastily down the dark stairs. “What is the matter?” she cried, entering the room. “Who is it? What do you mean?”
“I saw it,” said Tabitha, grasping her convulsively by the shoulder. “I was coming to you when I saw the figure of a woman in front of me going up the stairs. Is it—can it be Ursula come for the soul of Eunice, as she said she would?”
“Or for yours?” said Martha, the words coming from her in some odd fashion, despite herself.
Tabitha, with a ghastly look, fell cowering by her side, clutching tremulously at her clothes. “Light the lamps,” she cried hysterically. “Light a fire, make a noise; oh, this dreadful darkness! Will it never be day!”
“Soon, soon,” said Martha, overcoming her repugnance and trying to pacify her. “When the day comes you will laugh at these fears.”
“I murdered her,” screamed the miserable woman, “I killed her with fright. Why did she not give me the money? ‘Twas no use to her. Ah! Look there!”
