Chapter 6

Ted said it was all nonsense, but it was no good, and the next night he went off alone and came back very cross, saying that Mrs. Jennings 'ad been with 'em all the time, and when 'e spoke to Emma about it she said it was just tit for tat, and reminded 'im 'ow she had 'ad to put up with Charlie. For four nights running 'e went out for walks, with Emma holding one of 'is arms and Mrs. Jennings the other.

“It's miserable for you all alone 'ere by yourself; Charlie,” he ses. “Why not come? She can't marry you against your will. Besides, I miss you.”

Charlie shook 'ands with 'im, but 'e said 'e wouldn't walk out with Mrs. Jennings for a fortune. And all that Ted could say made no difference. He stayed indoors of an evening reading the paper, or going for little walks by 'imself, until at last Ted came 'ome one evening, smiling all over his face, and told 'im they had both been making fools of themselves for nothing.

“Mrs. Jennings is going to be married,” he ses, clapping Charlie on the back.

“Wot?” ses Charlie.

Ted nodded. “Her and Emma 'ad words to-night,” he ses, laughing, “and it all come out. She's been keeping company for some time. He's away at present, and they're going to be married as soon as 'e comes back.”

“Well,” ses Charlie, “why did she——”

“To oblige Emma,” ses Ted, “to frighten you into staying at 'ome. I'd 'ad my suspicions for some time, from one or two things I picked up.”

“Ho!” ses Charlie. “Well, it'll be my turn to laugh to-morrow night. We'll see whether she can shake me off agin.”

Ted looked at 'im a bit worried. “It's a bit orkard,” he ses, speaking very slow. “You see, they made it up arterwards, and then they both made me promise not to tell you, and if you come, they'll know I 'ave.”

Charlie did a bit o' thinking. “Not if I pretend to make love to Mrs. Jennings?” he ses, at last, winking at 'im. “And it'll serve her right for being deceitful. We'll see 'ow she likes it. Wot sort o' chap is the young man—big?”

“Can't be,” ses Ted; “cos Emma called 'im a little shrimp.”

“I'll come,” ses Charlie; “and it'll be your own fault if they find out you told me about it.”

They fell asleep talking of it, and the next evening Charlie put on a new neck-tie he 'ad bought, and arter letting Ted have arf an hour's start went out and met 'em accidental. The fust Mrs. Jennings knew of 'is being there was by finding an arm put round 'er waist.

“Good-evening, Sophy,” he ses.

“'Ow—'ow dare you?” ses Mrs. Jennings, giving a scream and pushing him away.

Charlie looked surprised.

“Why, ain't you pleased to see me?” he ses. “I've 'ad the raging toothache for over a week; I've got it now a bit, but I couldn't stay away from you any longer.”

“You behave yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“Ted didn't say anything about your toothache,” ses Emma.

“I wouldn't let 'im, for fear of alarming Sophy,” ses Charlie.

Mrs. Jennings gave a sort of laugh and a sniff mixed.

“Ain't you pleased to see me agin?” ses Charlie.

“I don't want to see you,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “Wot d'ye think I want to see you for?”

“Change your mind pretty quick, don't you?” ses Charlie. “It's blow 'ot and blow cold with you seemingly. Why, I've been counting the minutes till I should see you agin.”

Mrs. Jennings told 'im not to make a fool of 'imself, and Charlie saw 'er look at Emma in a puzzled sort of way, as if she didn't know wot to make of it. She kept drawing away from 'im and he kept drawing close to 'er; other people on the pavement dodging and trying to get out of their way, and asking them which side they was going and to stick to it.

“Why don't you behave yourself?” ses Emma, at last.

“We're all right,” ses Charlie; “you look arter your own young man. We can look arter ourselves.”

“Speak for yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings, very sharp.

Charlie laughed, and the more Mrs. Jennings showed 'er dislike for 'is nonsense the more he gave way to it. Even Ted thought it was going too far, and tried to interfere when he put his arm round Mrs. Jennings's waist and made 'er dance to a piano-organ; but there was no stopping 'im, and at last Mrs. Jennings said she had 'ad enough of it, and told Emma she was going off 'ome.

'He Put his Arm Round Mrs. Jennings's Waist and Made 'er Dance to a Piano-organ.'

“Don't take no notice of 'im,” ses Emma.

“I must,” ses Mrs. Jennings, who was arf crying with rage.

“Well, if you go 'ome, I shall go,” ses Emma. “I don't want 'is company. I believe he's doing it on purpose.

“Behave yourself, Charlie,” ses Ted.

“All right, old man,” ses Charlie. “You look arter your young woman and I'll look arter mine.”

“Your wot?” ses Mrs. Jennings, very loud.

“My young woman,” ses Charlie.

“Look 'ere,” ses Emma. “You may as well know first as last—Sophy 'as got a young man.”

“O' course she 'as,” ses Charlie. “Twenty-seven on the second of next January, he is; same as me.”

“She's going to be married,” ses Emma, very solemn.

“Yes, to me,” ses Charlie, pretending to be surprised. “Didn't you know that?”

He looked so pleased with 'imself at his cleverness that Emma arf put up her 'and, and then she thought better of it and turned away.

“He's just doing it to get rid of you,” she ses to Mrs. Jennings, “and if you give way you're a bigger silly than I took you for. Let 'im go on and 'ave his own way, and tell your intended about 'im when you see 'im. Arter all, you started it.”

“I was only 'aving a bit o' fun,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“Well, so is he,” ses Emma.

“Not me!” ses Charlie, turning his eyes up. “I'm in dead earnest; and so is she. It's only shyness on 'er part; it'll soon wear off.”

He took 'old of Mrs. Jennings's arm agin and began to tell 'er 'ow lonely 'is life was afore she came acrost his path like an angel that had lost its way. And he went on like that till she told Emma that she'd either 'ave to go off 'ome or scream. Ted interfered agin then, and, arter listening to wot he 'ad got to say, Charlie said as 'ow he'd try and keep his love under control a bit more.

“She won't stand much more of it,” he ses to Ted, arter they 'ad got 'ome that night. “I shouldn't be surprised if she don't turn up to-morrow.”

Ted shook his 'ead. “She'll turn up to oblige Emma,” he ses; “but there's no need for you to overdo it, Charlie. If her young man 'appened to get to 'ear of it it might cause trouble.”

“I ain't afraid of 'im,” ses Charlie, “not if your description of 'im is right.”

“Emma knows 'im,” ses Ted, “and I know she don't think much of 'im. She says he ain't as big as I am.”

Charlie smiled to himself and laid awake for a little while thinking of pet names to surprise Mrs. Jennings with. He called 'er a fresh one every night for a week, and every night he took 'er a little bunch o' flowers with 'is love. When she flung 'em on the pavement he pretended to think she 'ad dropped 'em; but, do wot he would, 'e couldn't frighten 'er into staying away, and 'is share of music-'alls and bus rides and things like that was more than 'e cared to think of. All the time Ted was as happy as a sand-boy, and one evening when Emma asked 'im to go 'ome to supper 'e was so pleased 'e could 'ardly speak.

“Father thought he'd like to see you,” ses Emma. “I shall be proud to shake 'im by the 'and,” ses Ted, going red with joy.

“And you're to come, too, Sophy,” ses Emma, turning to Mrs. Jennings.

Charlie coughed, feeling a bit orkard-like, and Emma stood there as if waiting for 'im to go.

“Well, so long,” ses Charlie at last. “Take care o' my little prize packet.”

“You can come, too, if you like,” ses Emma. “Father said I was to bring you. Don't 'ave none of your nonsense there, that's all.”

Charlie thanked 'er, and they was all walking along, him and Mrs. Jennings behind, when Emma looked over 'er shoulder.

“Sophy's young man is coming,” she ses.

“Ho!” ses Charlie. He walked along doing a bit o' thinking, and by and by 'e gives a little laugh, and he ses, “I—I don't think p'r'aps I'll come arter all.”

“Afraid?” ses Emma, with a nasty laugh.

“No,” ses Charlie.

“Well, it looks like it,” ses Emma.

“He's brave enough where wimmen are concerned,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“I was thinking of you,” ses Charlie.

“You needn't trouble about me,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “I can look after myself, thank you.”

Charlie looked round, but there was no help for it. He got as far away from Mrs. Jennings as possible, and when they got to Emma's house he went in last.

Emma's father and mother was there and two or three of 'er brothers and sisters, but the fust thing that Charlie noticed was a great lump of a man standing by the mantelpiece staring at 'im.

“Come in, and make yourselves at 'ome,” ses Mr. White. “I'm glad to see you both. Emma 'as told me all about you.”

Charlie's 'art went down into 'is boots, but every-body was so busy drawing their chairs up to the table that they didn't notice 'ow pale he 'ad gone. He sat between Mr. White and Mrs. Jennings, and by and by, when everybody was talking, he turned to 'im in a whisper, and asked 'im who the big chap was.

“Mrs. Jennings's brother,” ses Mr. White; “brewer's drayman he is.”

Charlie said, “Oh!” and went on eating, a bit relieved in 'is mind.

“Your friend and my gal 'll make a nice couple,” ses Mr. White, looking at Ted and Emma, sitting 'and in 'and.

“She couldn't 'ave a better husband,” ses Charlie, whispering again; “but where is Mrs. Jennings's young man? I 'eard he was to be here.”

Mr. White put down 'is knife and fork. “Eh?” he ses, staring at 'im.

“Mrs. Jennings's intended?” ses Charlie.

“Who are you getting at?” ses Mr. White, winking at 'im.

“But she 'as got one, ain't she?” ses Charlie. “That'll do,” ses Mr. White, with another wink. “Try it on somebody else.”

“Wot are you two talking about?” ses Emma, who 'ad been watching 'em.

“He's trying to pull my leg,” ses 'er father, smiling all over his face. “Been asking me where Mrs. Jennings's young man is. P'r'aps you oughtn't to 'ave told us yet, Emma.”

“It's all right,” ses Emma. “He's got a very jealous disposition, poor fellow; and me and Sophy have been telling 'im about a young man just to tease 'im. We've been describing him to 'imself all along, and he thought it was somebody else.”

She caught Charlie's eye, and all in a flash he saw 'ow he 'ad been done. Some of 'em began to laugh, and Mrs. Jennings put her 'and on his and gave it a squeeze. He sat there struck all of a heap, wondering wot he was going to do, and just at that moment there was a knock at the street door.

“I'll open it,” he ses.

He jumped up before anybody could stop 'im and went to the door. Two seconds arter Ted Denver followed 'im, and that is last he ever saw of Charlie Brice, he was running down the road without 'is hat as hard as he could run.

'He Was Running Down the Road Without 'is Hat As Hard As He Could Run.'

“THE TOLL-HOUSE”

“It's all nonsense,” said Jack Barnes. “Of course people have died in the house; people die in every house. As for the noises—wind in the chimney and rats in the wainscot are very convincing to a nervous man. Give me another cup of tea, Meagle.”

“Lester and White are first,” said Meagle, who was presiding at the tea-table of the Three Feathers Inn. “You've had two.”

Lester and White finished their cups with irritating slowness, pausing between sips to sniff the aroma, and to discover the sex and dates of arrival of the “strangers” which floated in some numbers in the beverage. Mr. Meagle served them to the brim, and then, turning to the grimly expectant Mr. Barnes, blandly requested him to ring for hot water.

“We'll try and keep your nerves in their present healthy condition,” he remarked. “For my part I have a sort of half-and-half belief in the super-natural.”

“All sensible people have,” said Lester. “An aunt of mine saw a ghost once.”

White nodded.

“I had an uncle that saw one,” he said.

“It always is somebody else that sees them,” said Barnes.

“Well, there is a house,” said Meagle, “a large house at an absurdly low rent, and nobody will take it. It has taken toll of at least one life of every family that has lived there—however short the time—and since it has stood empty caretaker after caretaker has died there. The last caretaker died fifteen years ago.”

“Exactly,” said Barnes. “Long enough ago for legends to accumulate.”

“I'll bet you a sovereign you won't spend the night there alone, for all your talk,” said White, suddenly.

“And I,” said Lester.

“No,” said Barnes slowly. “I don't believe in ghosts nor in any supernatural things whatever; all the same I admit that I should not care to pass a night there alone.”

“But why not?” inquired White.

“Wind in the chimney,” said Meagle with a grin.

“Rats in the wainscot,” chimed in Lester.

“As you like,” said Barnes coloring.

“Suppose we all go,” said Meagle. “Start after supper, and get there about eleven. We have been walking for ten days now without an adventure—except Barnes's discovery that ditchwater smells longest. It will be a novelty, at any rate, and, if we break the spell by all surviving, the grateful owner ought to come down handsome.”

“Let's see what the landlord has to say about it first,” said Lester. “There is no fun in passing a night in an ordinary empty house. Let us make sure that it is haunted.”

He rang the bell, and, sending for the landlord, appealed to him in the name of our common humanity not to let them waste a night watching in a house in which spectres and hobgoblins had no part. The reply was more than reassuring, and the landlord, after describing with considerable art the exact appearance of a head which had been seen hanging out of a window in the moonlight, wound up with a polite but urgent request that they would settle his bill before they went.

“It's all very well for you young gentlemen to have your fun,” he said indulgently; “but supposing as how you are all found dead in the morning, what about me? It ain't called the Toll-House for nothing, you know.”

“Who died there last?” inquired Barnes, with an air of polite derision.

“A tramp,” was the reply. “He went there for the sake of half a crown, and they found him next morning hanging from the balusters, dead.”

“Suicide,” said Barnes. “Unsound mind.”

The landlord nodded. “That's what the jury brought it in,” he said slowly; “but his mind was sound enough when he went in there. I'd known him, off and on, for years. I'm a poor man, but I wouldn't spend the night in that house for a hundred pounds.”

'I'm a Poor Man, But I Wouldn't Spend the Night in That House for a Hundred Pounds.'

He repeated this remark as they started on their expedition a few hours later. They left as the inn was closing for the night; bolts shot noisily behind them, and, as the regular customers trudged slowly homewards, they set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house. Most of the cottages were already in darkness, and lights in others went out as they passed.

“It seems rather hard that we have got to lose a night's rest in order to convince Barnes of the existence of ghosts,” said White.

“It's in a good cause,” said Meagle. “A most worthy object; and something seems to tell me that we shall succeed. You didn't forget the candles, Lester?”

“I have brought two,” was the reply; “all the old man could spare.”

There was but little moon, and the night was cloudy. The road between high hedges was dark, and in one place, where it ran through a wood, so black that they twice stumbled in the uneven ground at the side of it.

“Fancy leaving our comfortable beds for this!” said White again. “Let me see; this desirable residential sepulchre lies to the right, doesn't it?”

“Farther on,” said Meagle.

They walked on for some time in silence, broken only by White's tribute to the softness, the cleanliness, and the comfort of the bed which was receding farther and farther into the distance. Under Meagle's guidance they turned off at last to the right, and, after a walk of a quarter of a mile, saw the gates of the house before them.

'They Saw the Gates of The House Before Them.'

The lodge was almost hidden by overgrown shrubs and the drive was choked with rank growths. Meagle leading, they pushed through it until the dark pile of the house loomed above them.

“There is a window at the back where we can get in, so the landlord says,” said Lester, as they stood before the hall door.

“Window?” said Meagle. “Nonsense. Let's do the thing properly. Where's the knocker?”

He felt for it in the darkness and gave a thundering rat-tat-tat at the door.

“Don't play the fool,” said Barnes crossly.

“Ghostly servants are all asleep,” said Meagle gravely, “but I'll wake them up before I've done with them. It's scandalous keeping us out here in the dark.”

He plied the knocker again, and the noise volleyed in the emptiness beyond. Then with a sudden exclamation he put out his hands and stumbled forward.

“Why, it was open all the time,” he said, with an odd catch in his voice. “Come on.”

“I don't believe it was open,” said Lester, hanging back. “Somebody is playing us a trick.”

“Nonsense,” said Meagle sharply. “Give me a candle. Thanks. Who's got a match?”

Barnes produced a box and struck one, and Meagle, shielding the candle with his hand, led the way forward to the foot of the stairs. “Shut the door, somebody,” he said, “there's too much draught.”

“It is shut,” said White, glancing behind him.

Meagle fingered his chin. “Who shut it?” he inquired, looking from one to the other. “Who came in last?”

“I did,” said Lester, “but I don't remember shutting it—perhaps I did, though.”

Meagle, about to speak, thought better of it, and, still carefully guarding the flame, began to explore the house, with the others close behind. Shadows danced on the walls and lurked in the corners as they proceeded. At the end of the passage they found a second staircase, and ascending it slowly gained the first floor.

“Careful!” said Meagle, as they gained the landing.

He held the candle forward and showed where the balusters had broken away. Then he peered curiously into the void beneath.

“This is where the tramp hanged himself, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully.

“You've got an unwholesome mind,” said White, as they walked on. “This place is quite creepy enough without your remembering that. Now let's find a comfortable room and have a little nip of whiskey apiece and a pipe. How will this do?”

He opened a door at the end of the passage and revealed a small square room. Meagle led the way with the candle, and, first melting a drop or two of tallow, stuck it on the mantelpiece. The others seated themselves on the floor and watched pleasantly as White drew from his pocket a small bottle of whiskey and a tin cup.

“H'm! I've forgotten the water,” he exclaimed.

“I'll soon get some,” said Meagle.

He tugged violently at the bell-handle, and the rusty jangling of a bell sounded from a distant kitchen. He rang again.

“Don't play the fool,” said Barnes roughly.

Meagle laughed. “I only wanted to convince you,” he said kindly. “There ought to be, at any rate, one ghost in the servants' hall.”

Barnes held up his hand for silence.

“Yes?” said Meagle with a grin at the other two. “Is anybody coming?”

“Suppose we drop this game and go back,” said Barnes suddenly. “I don't believe in spirits, but nerves are outside anybody's command. You may laugh as you like, but it really seemed to me that I heard a door open below and steps on the stairs.”

His voice was drowned in a roar of laughter.

“He is coming round,” said Meagle with a smirk. “By the time I have done with him he will be a confirmed believer. Well, who will go and get some water? Will you, Barnes?”

“No,” was the reply.

“If there is any it might not be safe to drink after all these years,” said Lester. “We must do without it.”

Meagle nodded, and taking a seat on the floor held out his hand for the cup. Pipes were lit and the clean, wholesome smell of tobacco filled the room. White produced a pack of cards; talk and laughter rang through the room and died away reluctantly in distant corridors.

“Empty rooms always delude me into the belief that I possess a deep voice,” said Meagle. “To-morrow——”

He started up with a smothered exclamation as the light went out suddenly and something struck him on the head. The others sprang to their feet. Then Meagle laughed.

“It's the candle,” he exclaimed. “I didn't stick it enough.”

Barnes struck a match and relighting the candle stuck it on the mantelpiece, and sitting down took up his cards again.

“What was I going to say?” said Meagle. “Oh, I know; to-morrow I——”

“Listen!” said White, laying his hand on the other's sleeve. “Upon my word I really thought I heard a laugh.”

“Look here!” said Barnes. “What do you say to going back? I've had enough of this. I keep fancying that I hear things too; sounds of something moving about in the passage outside. I know it's only fancy, but it's uncomfortable.”

“You go if you want to,” said Meagle, “and we will play dummy. Or you might ask the tramp to take your hand for you, as you go downstairs.”

Barnes shivered and exclaimed angrily. He got up and, walking to the half-closed door, listened.

“Go outside,” said Meagle, winking at the other two. “I'll dare you to go down to the hall door and back by yourself.”

Barnes came back and, bending forward, lit his pipe at the candle.

“I am nervous but rational,” he said, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke. “My nerves tell me that there is something prowling up and down the long passage outside; my reason tells me that it is all nonsense. Where are my cards?”

He sat down again, and taking up his hand, looked through it carefully and led.

“Your play, White,” he said after a pause. White made no sign.

“Why, he is asleep,” said Meagle. “Wake up, old man. Wake up and play.”

Lester, who was sitting next to him, took the sleeping man by the arm and shook him, gently at first and then with some roughness; but White, with his back against the wall and his head bowed, made no sign. Meagle bawled in his ear and then turned a puzzled face to the others.

“He sleeps like the dead,” he said, grimacing. “Well, there are still three of us to keep each other company.”

“Yes,” said Lester, nodding. “Unless—Good Lord! suppose——”

He broke off and eyed them trembling.

“Suppose what?” inquired Meagle.

“Nothing,” stammered Lester. “Let's wake him. Try him again. White! White!”

“It's no good,” said Meagle seriously; “there's something wrong about that sleep.”

“That's what I meant,” said Lester; “and if he goes to sleep like that, why shouldn't——”

Meagle sprang to his feet. “Nonsense,” he said roughly. “He's tired out; that's all. Still, let's take him up and clear out. You take his legs and Barnes will lead the way with the candle. Yes? Who's that?”

He looked up quickly towards the door. “Thought I heard somebody tap,” he said with a shamefaced laugh. “Now, Lester, up with him. One, two— Lester! Lester!”

He sprang forward too late; Lester, with his face buried in his arms, had rolled over on the floor fast asleep, and his utmost efforts failed to awaken him.

“He—is—asleep,” he stammered. “Asleep!”

Barnes, who had taken the candle from the mantel-piece, stood peering at the sleepers in silence and dropping tallow over the floor.

'Barnes, Stood Peering at the Sleepers in Silence And Dropping Tallow over the Floor.'

“We must get out of this,” said Meagle. “Quick!” Barnes hesitated. “We can't leave them here—” he began.

“We must,” said Meagle in strident tones. “If you go to sleep I shall go—Quick! Come.”

He seized the other by the arm and strove to drag him to the door. Barnes shook him off, and putting the candle back on the mantelpiece, tried again to arouse the sleepers.

“It's no good,” he said at last, and, turning from them, watched Meagle. “Don't you go to sleep,” he said anxiously.

Meagle shook his head, and they stood for some time in uneasy silence. “May as well shut the door,” said Barnes at last.