Chapter 12
“‘You’ll see,’ ses the schoolmaster; ‘them was my instructions. It’s for your sake, Mr. Green; to give you a chance—at least, that’s wot your uncle said.’
“He sat down and took out the will and put on ’is spectacles. Then ’e spread it out on the table and took a glass o’ gin and water and began to read.
“It was all straightforward enough. The farm and stock, and two cottages, and money in the bank, was all left to Josiah Green, commonly called Foxy Green, on condition——
“There was such a noise o’ clapping, and patting Foxy on the back, that the schoolmaster ’ad to leave off and wait for quiet.
“‘On condition,’ he ses, in a loud voice, ‘that he marries the first Claybury woman, single or widow, that asks ’im to marry her in the presence of three witnesses. If he refuses, the property is to go to ’er instead.’
“Foxy turned round like mad then, and asked Henery Walker wot ’e was patting ’im on the back for. Then, in a choking voice, he asked to ’ave it read agin.
“‘Well, there’s one thing about it, Mr. Green,’ ses Henery Walker; ‘with all your property you’ll be able to ’ave the pick o’ the prettiest gals in Claybury.’
“‘’Ow’s that?’ ses Joe Chambers, very sharp; ‘he’s got to take the first woman that asks ’im, don’t matter wot ’er age is.’
“He got up suddenly, and, without even saying good-bye to Foxy, rushed out of the ’ouse and off over the fields as ’ard as ’e could go.
“‘Wot’s the matter with ’im? ’ ses Foxy.
“Nobody could give any answer, and they sat there staring at each other, till all of a sudden Henery Walker jumps up and goes off if anything ’arder than wot Joe Chambers had done.
“‘Anything wrong with the drink?’ ses Foxy, puzzled like.
“They shook their ’eads agin, and then Peter Gubbins, who’d been staring ’ard with ’is mouth open, got up and gave the table a bang with ’is fist.
“‘Joe Chambers ’as gone arter ’is sister,’ he ses, ‘and Henery Walker arter ’is wife’s sister, as ’e’s been keeping for this last six months. That’s wot they’ve gone for.’
“Everybody saw it then, and in two minutes Foxy and the schoolmaster was left alone looking at each other and the empty table.
“‘Well, I’m in for a nice thing,’ ses Foxy. ‘Fancy being proposed to by Henery Walker’s sister-in-law! Ugh!’
“‘It’ll be the oldest ones that’ll be the most determined,’ said the schoolmaster, shaking is ’ead. ‘Wot are you going to do?’
“‘I don’t know,’ ses Foxy, ‘it’s so sudden. But they’ve got to ’ave three witnesses, that’s one comfort. I’d like to tell Joe Chambers wot I think of ’im and ’is precious sister.’
“It was very curious the way the women took it. One an’ all of ’em pretended as it was an insult to the sex, and they said if Foxy Green waited till ’e was asked to marry he’d wait long enough. Little chits o’ gals o’ fourteen and fifteen was walking about tossing their ’eads up and as good as saying they might ’ave Green’s farm for the asking, but they wouldn’t ask. Old women of seventy and over said that if Foxy wanted to marry them he’d ’ave to ask, and ask a good many times too.
“Of course, this was all very well in its way, but at the same time three Claybury gals that was away in service was took ill and ’ad to come ’ome, and several other women that was away took their holidays before their relations knew anything about it. Almost every ’ouse in Claybury ’ad got some female relation staying in it, and they was always explaining to everybody why it was they ’ad come ’ome. None of ’em so much as mentioned Foxy Green.
“Women are artful creatures and think a lot of appearances. There wasn’t one of ’em as would ha’ minded wot other folks said if they’d caught Foxy, but they’d ha’ gone half crazy with shame if they’d tried and not managed it. And they couldn’t do things on the quiet because of the three witnesses. That was the ’ardship of it.
“It was the only thing talked about in Claybury, and Foxy Green soon showed as he was very wide-awake. First thing ’e did was to send the gal that used to do the dairy-work and the ’ouse-work off. Then ’e bought a couple o’ large, fierce dogs and chained ’em up, one near the front door and one near the back. They was very good dogs, and they bit Foxy hisself two or three times so as to let ’im see that they knew wot they was there for.
“He took George Smith, a young feller that used to work on the farm, into the ’ouse, and for the fust week or two ’e rather enjoyed the excitement. But when ’e found that ’e couldn’t go into the village, or even walk about ’is own farm in safety, he turned into a reg’lar woman-hater.
“The artful tricks those women ’ad wouldn’t be believed. One day when Foxy was eating ’is dinner William Hall drove up to the gate in a cart, and when George came out to know wot ’e wanted, ’e said that he ’ad just bought some pigs at Rensham and would Foxy like to make fust offer for ’em.
“George went in, and when ’e came out agin he said William Hall was to go inside. He ’eld the dog while William went by, and as soon as Foxy ’eard wot ’e wanted ’e asked ’im to wait till ’e’d finished ’is dinner, and then he’d go out and ’ave a look at ’em.
“‘I was wantin’ some pigs bad,’ he ses, ‘and the worst of it is I can’t get out to buy any as things are.’
“‘That’s wot I thought,’ ses William Hall; ‘that’s why I brought ’em to you.’
“‘You deserve to get on, William,’ ses Foxy. ‘George,’ he ses, turning to ’im.
“‘Yes,’ ses George.
“‘Do you know much about pigs?’
“‘I know a pig when I see one,’ ses George.
“‘That’s all I want,’ ses Foxy; ‘go and ’ave a look at ’em.’
“William Hall gave a start as George walked out, and a minute afterwards both of ’em ’eard an awful noise, and George came back rubbing ’is ’ead and saying that when ’e lifted up the cloth one o’ the pigs was William Hall’s sister and the others was ’er nephews. William said it was a joke, but Foxy said he didn’t like jokes, and if William thought that ’e or George was going to walk with ’im past the dog ’e was mistook.
“Two days arter that, Foxy, ’appening to look out of ’is bedroom window, saw one o’ the Claybury boys racing ’is cows all up and down the meadow. He came down quietly and took up a stick, and then ’e set out to race that boy up and down. He’d always been a good runner, and the boy was ’alf-blown like. ’E gave a yell as ’e saw Foxy coming arter ’im, and left the cow ’e was chasin’ and ran straight for the ’edge, with Foxy close behind ’im.
“Foxy was within two yards of ’im when ’e suddenly caught sight of a blue bonnet waiting behind the ’edge, and ’e turned round and went back to the ’ouse as fast as ’e could go and locked ’imself in. And ’e ’ad to sit there, half-busting, all the morning, and watch that boy chase ’is best cows up and down the meadow without daring to go out and stop ’im.
“He sent George down to tell the boy’s father that night, and the father sent back word that if Foxy ’ad got anything to say agin ’is boy why didn’t ’e come down like a man and say it hisself?
“Arter about three weeks o’ this sort o’ thing Foxy Green began to see that ’e would ’ave to get married whether he liked it or not, and ’e told George so. George’s idea was for ’im to get the oldest woman in Claybury to ask ’im in marriage, because then he’d soon be single agin. It was a good idea, on’y Foxy didn’t seem to fancy it.
“‘Who do you think is the prettiest gal in Claybury, George?’ he ses.
“‘Flora Pottle,’ ses George, at once.
“‘That’s exactly my idea,’ ses Foxy; ‘if I’ve got to marry, I’ll marry ’er. However, I’ll sleep on it a night and see ’ow I feel in the morning.’
I’ll marry Flora Pottle,’ he ses, when ’e got up. ‘You can go round this arternoon, George, and break the good news to ’er.’
“George tidied hisself up arter dinner and went. Flora Pottle was a very fine-looking gal, and she was very much surprised when George walked in, but she was more surprised when ’e told ’er that if she was to go over and ask Foxy to be ’er ’usband he wouldn’t say ‘No.’
“Mrs. Pottle jumped out of ’er skin for joy a’most. She’d ’ad a ’ard time of it with Flora and five young children since ’er ’usband died, and she could ’ardly believe ’er ears when Flora said she wouldn’t.
“‘’E’s old enough to be my father,’ she ses.
“‘Old men make the best ’usbands,’ ses George, coaxing ’er; ‘and, besides, think o’ the farm.’
“‘That’s wot you’ve got to think of,’ ses her mother. ‘Don’t think o’ Foxy Green at all; think o’ the farm.’
“Flora stood and leaned herself up agin a chest o’ drawers and twisted ’er hands, and at last she sent back word to say that she wanted time to think it over.
“Foxy Green was very much astonished when George took back that answer. He’d thought that any gal would ha’ jumped at ’im without the farm, and arter going upstairs and looking at hisself in the glass ’e was more astonished than ever.
“When George Smith went up to the Pottles agin the next day Flora made a face at ’im, and ’e felt as orkard as if ’e’d been courting ’er hisself a’most. At first she wouldn’t ’ave anything to say to ’im at all, but went on sweeping out the room, and nearly choking ’im. Then George Smith, wot was a likely young feller, put ’is arm round ’er waist, and, taking the broom away from ’er, made ’er sit down beside ’im while ’e gave ’er Foxy’s message.
“He did Foxy’s courting for ’im for an hour, although it on’y seemed about five minutes to both of ’em. Then Mrs. Pottle came in, and arter a lot of talk Flora was got to say that George Smith might come agin for five minutes next day.
“Foxy went on dreadful when ’e ’eard that Flora ’adn’t given an answer, but George Smith, who liked the job much better than farming or making beds, told ’im she was coming round, and that it was on’y natural a young gal should like to be courted a bit afore givin’ in.
“‘Yes,’ ses Foxy, biting ’is lip, ‘but ’ow’s it to be done?’
“‘You leave it to me,’ ses George Smith, ‘and it’ll be all right. I sit there and talk about the farm as well as wot you could.’
“‘And about me too, I s’pose?’ ses Foxy, catching ’im up.
“‘Yes,’ ses George; ‘I tell ’er all sorts o’ lies about you.’
“Foxy looked at ’im a moment, and then ’e went off grumbling. He was like a good many more men, and because Flora Pottle didn’t seem to want ’im ’e on’y fancied ’er the more. Next day ’e sent George Smith up with an old brooch as a present, and when George came back ’e said ’e thought that if it ’ad been a new one it would ’ave done wot was wanted.
“You can’t keep secrets in Claybury, and it soon got round wot Foxy Green was arter. That made the other women more determined than ever, and at last Foxy sent up word that if Flora wouldn’t ask ’im to let ’im know, as ’e was tired o’ being a prisoner, and old Mrs. Ball ’ad nearly ’ad ’im the day afore.
“It took George Smith two hours’ ’ard courtin’ afore he could get Flora Pottle to say ‘Yes,’ but at last she did, and then Mrs. Pottle came in, and she shook ’ands with George, and gave ’im a glass o’ beer. Mrs. Pottle wanted to take ’er up to Green’s farm there and then, but Flora said no. She said they’d go up at eight o’clock in the evenin’, and the sacrifice should be made then.
“Foxy didn’t like the word ‘sacrifice’ at all, but if ’e’d got to be married ’e’d sooner marry Flora than anybody, and ’e ’ad to put up with it.
“‘There’ll be you for one witness,’ he ses to George, ‘and Mrs. Pottle is two; wot about the third?’
“‘I should ’ave ’alf a dozen, so as to make sure,’ ses George.
“Foxy thought it was a good idea, and without letting ’em know wot it was for, ’e asked Henery Walker and Joe Chambers, and three or four more ’e ’ad a grudge against for trying to marry ’im to their relations, to come up and see that ’e’d been able to pick and choose.
“They came at ha’-past seven, and at eight o’clock there was a knock at the door, and George, arter carefully looking round, let in Mrs. Pottle and Flora. She was a fine-looking gal, and as she stood there looking at all them astonished men, ’er face all blushes and ’er eyes large and shining, Foxy thought getting married wasn’t such a bad thing arter all. He gave ’er a chair to sit on, and then ’e coughed and waited.
“‘It’s a fine night,’ he ses, at last.
“‘Beautiful,’ ses Mrs. Pottle.
“Flora didn’t say anything. She sat there shuffling ’er feet on the carpet, and Foxy Green kept on looking at ’er and waiting for ’er to speak, and ’oping that she wouldn’t grow up like ’er mother.
“‘Go on, Flora,’ ses Mrs. Pottle, nudging ’er.
“‘Go on, Flora,’ ses Henery Walker, mimicking ’er. ‘I s’pose you’ve come to ask Foxy a question by the look of it?’
“‘Yes,’ ses Flora, looking up. ‘Are you quite well, Mr. Green?’
“‘Yes, yes,’ ses Foxy; ‘but you didn’t come up ’ere to ask me that.’
“‘It’s all I could do to get ’er ’ere at all, Mr. Green,’ says Mrs. Pottle; ‘she’s that shy you can’t think. She’d rather ha’ ’ad you ask ’er yourself.’
“‘That can’t be done,’ ses Foxy, shaking ’is ’ead. ‘Leastways, I’m not going to risk it.’
“‘Now, Flora,’ ses ’er mother, nudging ’er agin.
“‘Come on, Flora Pottle,’ ses Bob Hunt; we’re all a-waitin’.’
“‘Shut your eyes and open your mouth, as if Foxy was a powder,’ ses Henery Walker.
“‘I can’t,’ ses Flora, turning to her mother. ‘I can’t and I won’t.’
“‘Flora Pottle,’ ses ’er mother, firing up.
“‘I won’t,’ ses Flora, firing up too; ‘you’ve been bothering me all day long for ever so long, and I won’t. I ’ate the sight of ’im. He’s the ugliest man in Claybury.’
“Mrs. Pottle began to cry and say that she’d disgraced ’er; but Foxy Green looked at ’er and ’e ses, ‘Very well, Flora Pottle, then we’ll say no more about it. Good evening.’
“‘Good evening,’ ses Mrs. Pottle, getting up and giving Flora a shake. ‘Come along, you tantalising mawther, do. You’ll die an old maid, that’s what you’ll do.’
“‘That’s all you know,’ ses Flora, smiling over at George Smith; ‘but if you’re so fond o’ Mr. Green why don’t you ask ’im yourself? He can’t say “No.”’
“For half a minute the room was as quiet as a grave, and the on’y thing that moved was Foxy Green’s eyes as he looked fust at the door at the other end of the room and then at the window.
“‘Lor’ bless my soul!’ ses Mrs. Pottle, in a surprised voice. ‘I never thought of it.’
“She sat down agin and smiled at Foxy as if she could eat ’im.
“‘I can’t think why I didn’t think of it,’ she ses, looking round. ‘I was going out like a lamb. Mr. Green——’
“‘One moment,’ ses Foxy, ’olding up ’is ’and. ‘I should be a terrible, bad, cruel, unkind husband to anybody I didn’t like. Don’t say words you’ll be sorry for arterwards, Mrs. Pottle.’
“‘I’m not going to,’ ses Mrs. Pottle; ‘the words I’m going to say will be good for both of us; I’m far more suitable for you than a young gal—Mr. Green, will you marry me?’
“Foxy Green looked at ’er for a moment, and then ’e looked round at all them grinning men wot he’d brought there by mistake to see ’im made a fool of. Then in a low, ’usky voice he ses, ‘I will.’”
JERRY BUNDLER
It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market town of Torchester was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted; the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him after his evening’s exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for the night.
In the comfortable coffee-room of the old Boar’s Head, half a dozen guests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light of the fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics to religion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghost stories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too much noise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner and gliding silently from the room. “That’s what I call a good story,” said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. “Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western with a ghost and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on the floor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faint groan vanished through the ventilator.”
“That’ll do, Hirst,” said another man.
“It’s not a subject for jesting,” said a little old gentleman who had been an attentive listener. “I’ve never seen an apparition myself, but I know people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the afterlife. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.”
“Never heard of it,” said another speaker, “and I’ve been here some years now.”
“It dates back a long time now,” said the old gentleman. “You’ve heard about Jerry Bundler, George?”
“Well, I’ve just ’eard odds and ends, sir,” said the old waiter, “but I never put much count to ’em. There was one chap ’ere what said ’e saw it, and the gov’ner sacked ’im prompt.”
“My father was a native of this town,” said the old gentleman, “and knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer, but I’ve heard him declare that once in his life he saw the appearance of Jerry Bundler in this house.”.
“And who was this Bundler?” inquired a voice.
“A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman—anything he could turn his dishonest hand to,” replied the old gentleman; “and he was run to earth in this house one Christmas week some eighty years ago. He took his last supper in this very room, and after he had gone up to bed a couple of Bow Street runners, who had followed him from London but lost the scent a bit, went upstairs with the landlord and tried the door. It was stout oak, and fast, so one went into the yard, and by means of a short ladder got onto the window-sill, while the other stayed outside the door. Those below in the yard saw the man crouching on the sill, and then there was a sudden smash of glass, and with a cry he fell in a heap on the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight they saw the white face of the pickpocket peeping over the sill, and while some stayed in the yard, others ran into the house and helped the other man to break the door in. It was difficult to obtain an entrance even then, for it was barred with heavy furniture, but they got in at last, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry dangling from the top of the bed by his own handkerchief.”
“Which bedroom was it?” asked two or three voices together.
The narrator shook his head. “That I can’t tell you; but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his bed and tried to strangle him.”
“That’ll do,” said an uneasy voice. “I wish you’d thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.”
“What for?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Well, I should take care not to sleep in it, that’s all,” said the voice, shortly.
“There’s nothing to fear,” said the other. “I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really hurt one. In fact my father used to confess that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that for all practical purposes Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cottonwool for all the harm they could do.”
“That’s all very fine,” said the last speaker again; “a ghost story is a ghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!”
“Pooh! nonsense!” said the old gentleman, rising; “ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part, I should rather like to see one. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night,” said the others. “And I only hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit,” added the nervous man as the door closed.
“Bring some more whisky, George,” said a stout commercial; “I want keeping up when the talk turns this way.”
“Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?” said George.
“No; the fire’s very comfortable,” said the traveller. “Now, gentlemen, any of you know any more?”
“I think we’ve had enough,” said another man; “we shall be thinking we see spirits next, and we’re not all like the old gentleman who’s just gone.”
“Old humbug!” said Hirst. “I should like to put him to the test. Suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage?”
“Bravo!” said Malcolm, huskily, drowning one or two faint “Noes.” “Just for the joke, gentlemen.”
“No, no! Drop it, Hirst,” said another man.
“Only for the joke,” said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. “I’ve got some things upstairs in which I am going to play in the Rivals—knee-breeches, buckles, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you’ll wait a bit I’ll give you a full-dress rehearsal, entitled, ‘Jerry Bundler; or, The Nocturnal Strangler.’”
“You won’t frighten us,” said the commercial, with a husky laugh.
“I don’t know that,” said Hirst, sharply; “it’s a question of acting, that’s all. I’m pretty good, ain’t I, Somers?”
“Oh, you’re all right—for an amateur,” said his friend, with a laugh.
“I’ll bet you a level sov. you don’t frighten me,” said the stout traveller.
“Done!” said Hirst. “I’ll take the bet to frighten you first and the old gentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges.”
“You won’t frighten us, sir,” said another man, “because we’re prepared for you; but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play.”
“Well, I’ll try you first,” said Hirst, springing up. “No gas, mind.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whom had been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. It ended in two of them going to bed.
“He’s crazy on acting,” said Somers, lighting his pipe. “Thinks he’s the equal of anybody almost. It doesn’t matter with us, but I won’t let him go to the old man. And he won’t mind so long as he gets an opportunity of acting to us.”
“Well, I hope he’ll hurry up,” said Malcolm, yawning; “it’s after twelve now.”
Nearly half an hour passed. Malcolm drew his watch from his pocket and was busy winding it, when George, the waiter, who had been sent on an errand to the bar, burst suddenly into the room and rushed towards them.
“’E’s comin’, gentlemen,” he said breathlessly.
“Why, you’re frightened, George,” said the stout commercial, with a chuckle.
“It was the suddenness of it,” said George, sheepishly; “and besides, I didn’t look for seein’ ’im in the bar. There’s only a glimmer of light there, and ’e was sitting on the floor behind the bar. I nearly trod on ’im.”
“Oh, you’ll never make a man, George,” said Malcolm.
“Well, it took me unawares,” said the waiter. “Not that I’d have gone to the bar by myself if I’d known ’e was there, and I don’t believe you would either, sir.”
“Nonsense!” said Malcolm. “I’ll go and fetch him in.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, sir,” said George, catching him by the sleeve. “It ain’t fit to look at by yourself, it ain’t, indeed. It’s got the—_What’s that?_”
They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase and the sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Before anybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into the room flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” demanded Malcolm. “Why, it’s Mr. Hirst.” He shook him roughly and then held some spirit to his lips. Hirst drank it greedily and with a sharp intake of his breath gripped him by the arm.
“Light the gas, George,” said Malcolm.