Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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chimneys.”
“Oh!” he said, in an altered tone; “so they left the chimney-stack, did
they?”
Mr. Wayman perceived that change of tone.
“I begin to understand,” he said; “you hid that money in one of the
chimneys.”
“Never you mind where I hid it. There’s little chance of its being
found there, after bricklayers pulling the place to pieces. I must get
into that house, come what may.”
“You’ll find that difficult,” answered Wayman.
“Perhaps. But I’ll do it, or my name’s not Black Milsom.”
*
Captain Joseph Duncombe, or Joe Duncombe, as he generally called
himself, was a burly, rosy-faced man of fifty years of age; a hearty,
honest fellow. He was a widower, with only one child, a daughter, whom
he idolized.
Any father might have been forgiven for being devotedly fond of such a
daughter as Rosamond Duncombe.
Rosamond was one of those light-hearted, womanly creatures who seem
born to make home a paradise. She had a sweet temper; a laugh which was
like music; a manner which was fascination itself.
When it is also taken into consideration that she had a pretty little
nose, lips that were fresh and rosy as ripe red cherries, cheeks that
were like dewy roses, newly-gathered, and large, liquid eyes, of the
deepest, clearest blue, it must be confessed that Rosamond Duncombe was
a very charming girl.
If Joseph Duncombe doted on this bright-haired, blue-eyed daughter, his
love was not unrecompensed. Rosamond idolized her father, whom she
believed to be the best and noblest of created beings.
Rosamond’s remembrance of her mother was but shadowy. She had lost that
tender protector at a very early age.
Within the last year and a half her father had retired from active
service, after selling his vessel, the “Vixen,” for a large price, so
goodly a name had she borne in the merchant service.
This retirement of Captain Duncombe’s was a sacrifice which he made for
his beloved daughter.
For himself, the life of a seaman had lost none of its attractions. But
when he saw his fair young daughter of an age to leave school, he
determined that she should have a home.
He had made a very comfortable little fortune during five-and-thirty
years of hard service. But he had never made a sixpence the earning of
which he need blush to remember. He was known in the service as a model
of truth and honesty.
Driving about the eastern suburbs of London, he happened one day to
pass that dreary plot of waste ground on which the miser’s tumble-down
dwelling had been built. It was a pleasant day in April, and the place
was looking less dreary than usual. The spring sunshine lit up the
broad river, and the rigging of the ships stood out in sharp black
lines against a bright blue sky.
A board against the dilapidated palings announced that the ground was
to be sold.
Captain Duncombe drew up his horse suddenly.
“That’s the place for me!” he exclaimed; “close by the old river, whose
tide carried me down to the sea on my first voyage five-and-thirty
years ago—within view of the Pool, and all the brave old ships lying
at anchor. That’s the place for me! I’ll sweep away that old ramshackle
hovel, and build a smart water-tight little cottage for my pet and me
to live in; and I’ll stick the Union Jack on a main-top over our heads,
and at night, when I lie awake and hear the water rippling by, I shall
fancy I’m still at sea.”
A landsman would most likely have stopped to consider that the
neighbourhood was lonely, the ground damp and marshy, the approach to
this solitary cross-road through the most disreputable part of London.
Captain Duncombe considered nothing, except two facts—first the river,
then the view of the ships in the Pool.
He drove back to Wapping, where he found the house-agent who was
commissioned to sell old Screwton’s dwelling. That gentleman was only
too glad to get a customer for a place which no one seemed inclined to
have on any terms. He named his price. The merchant-captain did not
attempt to make a bargain; but agreed to buy the place, and to give
ready money for it, as soon as the necessary deeds were drawn up and
signed. In a week this was done, and the captain found himself
possessor of a snug little freehold on the banks of the Thames.
He lost no time in transforming the place into an abode of comfort,
instead of desolation. It was only when the transformation was
complete, and Captain Duncombe had spent upwards of a thousand pounds
on his folly, that he became acquainted with the common report about
the place.
Sailors are proverbially superstitious. After hearing that dismal
story, Joseph Duncombe was rather inclined to regret the choice he had
made; but he resolved to keep the history of old Screwton a secret from
his daughter, though it cost him perpetual efforts to preserve silence
on this subject.
In spite of his precaution, Rosamond came to know of the ghost.
Visiting some poor cottagers, about a quarter of a mile from River
View, she heard the whole story—told her unthinkingly by a foolish old
woman, who was amongst the recipients of her charity.
Soon after this, the story reached the ears of the two servants—an
elderly woman, called Mugby, who acted as cook and housekeeper; and a
smart girl, called Susan Trott.
Mrs. Mugby pretended to ridicule the idea of Screwton’s ghost.
“I’ve lived in a many places, and I’ve heard tell of a many ghostes,”
she said; “but never yet did I set eyes on one, which my opinion is
that, if people will eat cold pork for supper underdone, not to mention
crackling or seasoning, and bottled stout, which is worse, and lies
still heavier on the stomach—unless you take about as much ground
ginger as would lie on a sixpence, and as much carbonate of soda as
would lie on a fourpenny-bit—and go to bed upon it all directly
afterwards, they will see no end of ghostes. I have never trifled with
my digestion, and no ghostes have I ever seen.”
The girl, Susan Trott, was by no means so strong-minded. The idea of
Miser Screwton’s ghost haunted her perpetually of an evening; and she
would no more have gone out into the captain’s pretty little garden
after dark, than she would have walked straight to the mouth of a
cannon.
Rosamond Duncombe affected to echo the heroic sentiments of the
housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby. There never had been such things as ghosts,
and never would be; and all the foolish stories that were told of
phantoms and apparitions, had their sole foundation in the imaginations
of the people who told them.
Such was the state of things in the household of Captain Duncombe at
the time of Black Milsom’s return from Van Diemen’s Land.
It was within two nights after that return, that an event occurred,
never to be forgotten by any member of Joseph Duncombe’s household.
The evening was cold, but fine; the moon, still at its full, shone
bright and clear upon the neat garden of River View Cottage. Captain
Duncombe and his daughter were alone in their comfortable sitting-room,
playing the Captain’s favourite game of backgammon, before a cheery
fire. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby, had complained all day of a touch of
rheumatism, and had gone to bed after the kitchen tea, leaving Susan
Trott, the smart little parlour-maid, to carry in the pretty pink and
gold china tea-service, and hissing silver tea-kettle, to Miss Rosamond
and her papa in the sitting-room.
Thus it was that, after having removed the tea-tray, and washed the
pretty china cups and saucers, Susan Trott seated herself before the
fire, and set herself to trim a new cap, which was designed for the
especial bewilderment of a dashing young baker.
The dashing young baker had a habit of lingering at the gate of River
View Cottage a good deal longer than was required for the transaction
of his business; and the dashing young baker had more than once hinted
at an honourable attachment for Miss Susan Trott.
Thinking of the baker, and of all the tender things and bright promises
of a happy future which he had murmured in her ear, as they walked home
from church on the last Sunday evening, Susan found the solitary hours
pass quickly enough. She looked up suddenly as the clock struck ten,
and found that she had let the fire burn out.
It was rather an awful sensation to be alone in the lower part of the
house after every one else had gone to bed; but Susan Trott was very
anxious to finish the making of the new cap; so she went back to the
kitchen, and seated herself once more at the table.
She had scarcely taken up her scissors to cut an end of ribbon, when a
low, stealthy tapping sounded on the outer wooden shutter of the window
behind her.
Susan gave a little shriek of terror, and dropped the scissors as if
they had been red-hot. What could that awful sound mean at ten o’clock
at night?
For some moments the little parlour-maid was completely overcome by
terror. Then, all at once, her thoughts flew back to the person whose
image had occupied her mind all that evening. Was it not just possible
that the dashing young baker might have something very particular to
say to her, and that he had come in this mysterious manner to say it?
Again the same low, stealthy tapping sounded on the shutter.
This time Susan Trott plucked up a spirit, took the bright brass
candlestick in her hand, and went to the little door leading from the
scullery to the back garden.
She opened the door and peered cautiously out. No one was to be seen—
that tiresome baker was indulging in some practical joke, no doubt, and
trying to frighten her.
Susan was determined not to be frightened by her sweet-heart’s tricks,
so she tripped boldly out into the garden, still carrying the brass
candlestick.
At the first step the wind blew out the candle; but, of course, that
was of very little consequence when the bright moonlight made
everything as clearly visible as at noon.
“I know who it is,” cried Susan, in a voice intended to reach the
baker; “and it’s a great shame to try and frighten a poor girl when
she’s sitting all alone by herself.”
She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from her
extended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel pathway—a statue of
fear.
Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of the
scullery, she saw an awful figure—whose description was too familiar
to her.
There it was. The ghost—the shadowy image of the man who had destroyed
himself in that house. A tall, spectral figure, robed in a long garment
of grey serge; a scarlet handkerchief twisted round the head rendered
the white face whiter by contrast with it.
As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards on the
grass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant.
The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered the
house by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing on
the grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once feminine
curiosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantom
figure into the house.
From the kitchen doorway she beheld the figure standing on
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