“Yo’ see I’m an ould bachelor, and I just thought as I’d redd up things a bit. How dun yo’ find ‘em, doctor?”
“Well, the poor old couple have had a terrible shock. I shall send them some soothing medicine to bring down the pulse, and a lotion for the old man’s head. It is very well it bled so much; there might have been a good deal of inflammation.” And so he went on, giving directions to Bessy for keeping them quietly in bed through the day. From these directions she gathered that they were not, as she had feared all night long, near to death. The doctor expected them to recover, though they would require care. She almost wished it had been otherwise, and that they, and she too, might have just lain down to their rest in the churchyard so cruel did life seem to her; so dreadful the recollection of that subdued voice of the hidden robber, smiting her with recognition.
All this time John was getting things ready for breakfast, with something of the handiness of a woman. Bessy half resented his officiousness in pressing Dr. Preston to have a cup of tea, she did so want him to begone and leave her alone with her thoughts. She did not know that all was done for love of her; that the hard-featured, short-spoken John was thinking all the time how ill and miserable she looked, and trying with tender artifices to make it incumbent upon her sense of hospitality to share Dr. Preston’s meal.
“I’ve seen as the cows is milked,” said he, “yourn and all; and Atkinson’s brought ours round fine. Whatten a marcy it were as she were sick just very night! Yon two chaps ‘ud ha’ made short work on’t if yo’ hadna fetched us in; and as it were we had a sore tussle. One on ‘em ‘ll bear the marks on’t to his dying day, wunnot he, doctor?”
“He’ll barely have his leg well enough to stand his trial at York Assizes; they’re coming off in a fortnight from now.”
“Ay, and that reminds me, Bessy, yo’ll have to go witness before Justice Royds. Constables bade me tell yo’, and gie yo’ this summons. Dunnot be feared; it will not be a long job, though I’m not saying as it ‘ll be a pleasant one. Yo’ll have to answer questions as to how, and all about it; and Jane” (his sister) “will come and stop wi’ th’ oud folks; and I’ll drive yo’ in the shandry.”
No one knew why Bessy’s colour blenched, and her eye clouded. No one knew how she apprehended lest she should have to say that Benjamin had been of the gang, if, indeed, in some way the law had not followed on his heels quick enough to catch him.
But that trial was spared her; she was warned by John to answer questions, and say no more than was necessary, for fear of making her story less clear; and as she was known, by character, at least to Justice Royds and his clerk, they made the examination as little formidable as possible.
When all was over, and John was driving her back again, he expressed his rejoicing that there would be evidence enough to convict the men without summoning Nathan and Hester to identify them. Bessy was so tired that she hardly understood what an escape it was; how far greater than even her companion understood.
Jane Kirkby stayed with her for a week or more, and was an unspeakable comfort. Otherwise she sometimes thought she should have gone mad, with the face of her uncle always reminding her in its stony expression of agony, of that fearful night. Her aunt was softer in her sorrow, as became one of her faithful and pious nature; but it was easy to see how her heart bled inwardly. She recovered her strength sooner than her husband; but as she recovered, the doctor perceived the rapid approach of total blindness. Every day, nay, every hour of the day, that Bessy dared, without fear of exciting their suspicions of her knowledge, she told them, as she had anxiously told them at first, that only two men, and those perfect strangers, had been discovered as being concerned in the burglary. Her uncle would never have asked a question about it, even if she had with-held all information about the affair; but she noticed the quick, watching, waiting glance of his eye whenever she returned from any person or place where she might have been supposed to gain intelligence if Benjamin were suspected or caught; and she hastened to relieve the old man’s anxiety, by always telling all that she had heard; thankful that as the days passed on the danger she sickened to think of grew less and less.
Day by day Bessy had ground for thinking that her aunt knew more than she had apprehended at first. There was something so very humble and touchingin Hester’s blind way of feeling about for her husband — stern, woe-begone Nathan — and mutely, striving to console him in the deep agony of which Bessy learnt from this loving, piteous manner, that her aunt was conscious. Her aunt’s face looked blankly up into his, tears slowly running down from her sightless eyes, while from time to time, when she thought herself unheard by any save him, she would repeat such texts as she had heard at church in happier days, and which she thought, in her true, simple piety, might tend to console him. Yet day by day her aunt grew more and more sad.
Three or four days before assize-time, two summonses to attend the trial at York were sent to the old people. Neither Bessy, nor John, nor Jane, could understand this; for their own notices had come long before, and they had been told that their evidence would be enough to convict.
But alas! the fact was that the lawyer employed to defend the prisoners had heard from them that there was a third person engaged, and had heard who that third person was; and it was this advocate’s business to diminish if possible the guilt of his clients, by proving that they were but tools in the hands of one who had, from his superior knowledge of the premises and the daily customs of the inhabitants, been the originator and planner of the whole affair. To do this it was necessary to have the evidence of the parents, who, as the prisoners had said, must have recognised the voice of the young man, their son. For no one knew that Bessy, too, could have borne witness to his having been present, and, as it was supposed that Benjamin had escaped out of England, there was no exact betrayal of him on the part of his accomplices.
Wondering, bewildered, and weary, the old couple reached York, in company with John and Bessy, on the eve of the day of trial. Nathan was still so self-contained, that Bessy could never guess what had been passing in his mind. He was almost passive under his old wife’s trembling caresses; he seemed hardly conscious of them, so rigid was his demeanour.
She, Bessy feared at times, was becoming childish; for she had evidently so great and anxious a love for her husband, that her memory seemed going in her endeavours to melt the stoniness of his aspect and manners; she appeared occasionally to have forgotten why he was so changed, in her piteous little attempts to bring him back to his former self.
“They’ll for sure never torture them when they see what old folks they are!” cried Bessy, on the morning of the trial, a dim fear looming over her mind. “They’ll never be so cruel, for sure!”
But “for sure” it was so. The barrister looked up at the judge, almost apologetically, as he saw how hoary headed and woeful an old man was put into the witness-box when the defence came on, and Nathan Huntroyd was called on for his evidence.
“It is necessary, on behalf of my clients, my lord, that I should pursue a course which, for all other reasons, I deplore.”
“Go on!” said the judge. “What is right and legal must be done.” But, an old man himself, he covered his quivering mouth with his hand as Nathan, with grey, unmoved face, and solemn, hollow eyes, placing his two hands on each side of the witness-box, prepared to give his answers to questions, the nature of which he was beginning to foresee, but would not shrink from replying to truthfully; “the very stones” (as he said to himself, with a kind of dulled sense of the Eternal Justice), “rise up against such a sinner.”
“Your name is Nathan Huntroyd, I believe?”
“It is.”
“You live at Nab-end Farm?”
“I do.”
“Do you remember the night of November the twelfth?”
“Yes.”
“You were awakened that night by some noise, I believe. What was it?”
The old man’s eyes fixed themselves upon his questioner with a look
of a creature brought to bay. That look the barrister never forgets. It will haunt him till his dying day.
“It was a throwing up of stones against our window.”
“Did you hear it at first?”
“No.”
“What awakened you, then?”
“She did.”
“And then you both heard the stones. Did you hear nothing else?”
A long pause. Then a low, clear “Yes.”
“What?”
“Our Benjamin asking us for to let him in. She said as it were him, leastways.”
“And you thought it was him, did you not?”
“I told her” (this time in a louder voice) “for to get to sleep, and not to be thinking that every drunken chap as passed by were our Benjamin, for that he were dead and gone.”
“And she?”
“She said as though she’d heerd our Benjamin afore she were welly awake, axing for to be let in. But I bade her ne’er heed her dreams, but turn on her other side, and get to sleep again.”
“And did she?”
A long pause — judge, jury, bar, audience, all held their breath. At length Nathan said,
“No!”
“What did you do then? (My lord I am compelled to ask these painful questions.)”
“I saw she wadna be quiet; she had allays thought he would come back to us, like the Prodigal i’ th’ Gospels.” (His voice choked a little, but he tried to make it steady, succeeded, and went on.) “She said if I wadna get up she would; and just then I heerd a voice. I’m not quite mysel, gentlemen I’ve been ill and i’ bed, an’ it makes me trembling-like. Some one said, ‘Father, mother, I’m here, starving i’ the cold wunnot yo’ get up and let me in?’”
“And that voice was?”
“It were like our Benjamin’s. I see whatten yo’re driving at, sir, and I’ll tell yo’ truth, though it kills me to speak it. I dunnot say it were our Benjamin as spoke, mind yo’ I only say it were like “
“That’s all I want, my good fellow. And on the strength of that entreaty, spoken in your son’s voice, you went down and opened the door to these two prisoners at the bar, and to a third man?”
Nathan nodded assent, and even that counsel was too merciful to force him to put more into words.
“Call Hester Huntroyd.”
An old woman, with a face of which the eyes were evidently blind, with a sweet, gentle, care-worn face, came into the witness-box, and meekly curtseyed to the presence of those whom she had been taught to respect — a presence she could not see.
There was something in her humble, blind aspect as she stood waiting to have something done to her — what, her poor troubled mind hardly knew — that touched all who saw her inexpressibly. Again the counsel apologised, but the judge could not reply in words; his face was quivering all over, and the jury looked uneasily at the prisoners’ counsel. That gentleman saw that he might go too far, and send their sympathies off on the other side; but one or two questions he must ask. So, hastily recapitulating much that he had learned from Nathan, he said, “You believed it was your son’s voice asking to be let in?”
“Ay! Our Benjamin came home, I’m sure; choose where he is gone.”
She turned her head about, as if listening for the voice of her child, in the hushed silence of the court.
“Yes; he came home that night and your husband went down to let him in?”
“Well! I believe he did. There was a great noise of folk down stair.”
“And you heard your son Benjamin’s voice among the others?”
“Is it to do him harm, sir?” asked she, her face growing more intelligent and intent on the business in hand.
“That is not my object in questioning you. I believe he has left England, so nothing you can say will do him any harm. You heard your son’s voice, I say?”
“Yes, sir. For sure, I did.”
“And some men came upstairs into your room? What did they say?”
“They axed where Nathan kept his stocking.”
“And you did you tell them?”
“No, sir, for I knew Nathan would not like me to.”
“What did you do then?”
A shade of reluctance came over her face, as if she began to perceive causes and consequences.
“I just screamed on Bessy that’s my niece, sir.”
“And you heard some one shout out from the bottom of the stairs?”
She looked piteously at him, but did not answer.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I wish to call your particular attention to this fact: she acknowledges she heard some one shout — some third person, you observe — shout out to the two above. What did he say? That is the last question I shall trouble you with. What did the third person, left behind down stairs, say?”
Her face worked her mouth opened two or three times as if to speak she stretched out her arms imploringly; but no word came, and she fell back into the arms of those nearest to her. Nathan forced himself forward into the witness-box:
“My Lord Judge, a woman bore ye, as I reckon; it’s a cruel shame to serve a mother so. It wur my son, my only child, as called out for us t’ open door, and who shouted out for to hold th’ oud woman’s throat if she did na stop her noise, when hoo’d fain ha’ cried for her niece to help. And now yo’ve truth, and a’ Hi’ truth, and I’ll leave yo’ to th’ ‘Judgment o’ God for th’ way yo’ve getten at it.”
Before night the mother was stricken with paralysis, and lay on her death-bed. But the broken-hearted go Home, to be comforted of God.
The Ghost in the Corner Room by Charles Dickens
I had observed Mr. Governor growing fidgety as his turn his “spell,” he called it ap-proached, and he now surprised us all, by rising with a serious countenance, and requesting permission to “come aft” and have speech with me, before he spun his yarn. His great popularity led to a gracious concession of this indulgence, and we went out together into the hall.
“Old shipmate,” said Mr. Governor to me; “ever since I have been aboard of this old hulk, I have been haunted, day and night.”
“By what, Jack?”
Mr. Governor, clapping his hand on my shoulder and keeping it there, said:
“By something in the likeness of a Woman.”
“All! Your old affliction. You’ll never get over that, Jack, if you live to be a hundred.”
“No, don’t talk so, because I am very serious. All night long, I have been haunted by one figure. All day, the same figure has so bewildered me in the kitchen, that I wonder I haven’t poisoned the whole ship’s company. Now, there’s no fancy here. Would you like to see the figure?”
“I should like to see it very much.”
“Then here it is!” said Jack. Thereupon, he presented my sister, who had stolen out quietly, after us.
“Oh, indeed?” said I. “Then, I suppose, Patty, my dear, I have no occasion to ask whether you have been haunted?”
“Constantly, Joe,” she replied.
The effect of our going back again, all three together, and of my presenting my sister as the Ghost from the Corner Room, and Jack as the Ghost from my Sister’s Room, was triumphant — the crowning hit of the night. Mr. Beaver was so particularly delighted, that he by-and-by declared “a very little would make him dance a hornpipe.” Mr. Governor immediately supplied the very little, by offering to make it a double hornpipe; and there “ensued such toe-and-heeling, and buckle-covering, and double-shuffling, and heel-sliding, and execution of all sorts of slippery manoeuvres with vibratory legs, as none of us ever saw before, or will ever see again. When we had all laughed and applauded till we were faint, Starling, not to be outdone, favoured us with a more modern saltatory entertainment in the Lancashire clog manner — to the best of my belief, the longest dance ever performed: in which the sound of his feet became a Locomotive going through cuttings, tunnels, and open country, and became a vast number of other things we should never have suspected, unless he had kindly told us what they were.
It was resolved before we separated that night, that our three mouths’ period in the Haunted House should be wound up with the marriage of my sister and Mr. Governor. Belinda was nominated bridesmaid, and Stirling was engaged for bridegroom’s man.
In a word, we lived our term out, most happily, and were never for a moment haunted by anything more disagreeable than our own imaginations and remembrances. My cousin’s wife, in her great love for her husband and in her gratitude to him for the change her love had wrought in her, had told us, through his lips, her own story; and I am sure there was not one of us who did not like her the better for it, and respect her the more.
So, at last, before the shortest month in the year was quite out, we all walked forth one morning to the church with the spire, as if nothing uncommon were going to happen; and there Jack and my sister were married, as sensibly as could be. It occurs to me to mention that I observed Belinda and Alfred Starling to be rather sentimental and low, on the occasion, and that they are since engaged to be married in the same church. I regard it as an excellent thing for both, and a kind of union very wholesome for the times in which we live. He wants a little poetry, and she wants a little prose, and the marriage of the two things is the happiest marriage I know for all mankind.
Finally, I derived this Christmas Greeting from the Haunted House, which I affectionately address with all my heart to all my readers: Let us use the great virtue, Faith, but not abuse it; and let us put it to its best use, by having faith in the great Christmas book of the New Testament, and in one another.
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON
I was born at Sawley, where the shadow of Pendle Hill falls at sunrise. I suppose Sawley sprang up into a village in the time of the monks, who had an abbey there. Many of the cottages are strange old places; others, again, are built of the abbey stones, mixed up with the shale from the neighbouring quarries; and you may see many a quaint bit of carving worked into the walls, or forming the lintels of the doors. There is a row of houses, built still more recently, where one Mr Peel came to live there for the sake of the water-power, and gave the place a fillip into something like life; though a different kind of life, as I take it, from the grand, slow ways folks had when the monks were about.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 470
