A Ghost Story: Founded on Fact.[1]
Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.18 #107 (Apr 1859).
Very possibly the reader may suppose that he is to be carried back to the dark ages, or transported to some distant region, far as the Blocksberg, because he is about to meet a ghost. We hasten to undeceive him. He is merely requested to step into an old-fashioned coach—as coaches ran some thirty years since, and travel along the well-beaten post-road which, within the memory of living men, formed the great highway between the famous cities of Boston and New York. Having honestly paid his fare, changed horses at Harlem, and lunched at West Farms, he is supposed to arrive, some time before sunset, at the village of R—, a brisk little place on the Sound, duly provided with steamboat wharf, stores, taverns, and sloops. We might easily name the very locality, the precise spot on which occurred the startling circumstance which we are about to relate; but personal considerations, regard for Sally and her lovers, point out a different course, and a general idea of the ground must suffice. Measuring distances by steam, and not by old-fashioned mile-stones, Sally Lewis lived very near New York; a two hours' run in the little steamboat would carry her to town any day. True, the church spires were not in sight from her grandfather's door, but many a summer evening, while sitting in the little porch, Sally had watched the fire-rockets in their meteor-like ascent from the public gardens of the city, and many a winter's night she had stood at her window, shivering with cold and pity, as she watched the angry glare of the flames raging within the bosom of the town. True, the hum of mart and street did not reach the Lewis farm; but the worthy Deacon's radishes and onions found their way, twice a week, to Fulton Market, and the cockney loungers of Broadway came every summer, with the grasshoppers and katydids, to air themselves in the rural walks of R—. In short, the Lewis family were no rude, ignorant backwoodsmen; their position was a favorable one, surrounded by the full glare of enlightenment streaming from the windows of lantern-like academies and school-houses; they knew B from Bull's foot, they had seen the sights of Manhattan; they had beheld General Washington in uniform and wax at the Museum; and, quite as a matter of course, they read carefully one of the two newspapers published every Friday morning in the main street of R—.
The old couple, moreover, were very honest, worthy people, with consciences at least as quiet as those of their neighbors. They owned a few acres of land in the outskirts of the village, and here stood their dwelling, amidst red beans and yellow pumpkin blossoms. The house was small, wooden, and red; just like a thousand others about the country whose inmates have never seen a ghost. Nearly opposite was a pleasant country place belonging to a gentleman who passed his winters in New York, and on their right stood the district school-house, where the children of the community, and Sally among the rest, were supposed to have acquired a vast amount of learning, including all the arts and sciences, There was no church-yard or cemetery in sight, and the only wood at hand was a pretty grove on Mr. Van Wyck's lawn, while all about them lay cheerful gardens and open fields. The highway passed immediately before their door, and it was a road much traveled by coach, wagon, and cart. In short, to judge from appearances, one would never have believed the place likely to be favored by visits from a spectre. It must also be observed that, looking toward the village, one saw through an avenue of Lombardy poplars the wooden walls of the R— Academy, the belfry of which, very striking in its architectural proportions, looked down upon the neighborhood in full scientific dignity; moreover a Lyceum, delivering learned lectures, met every Wednesday evening beneath the same roof. It would have been only natural to suppose that the bell of an Academy, swinging over a Lyceum, might have laid the ghost which appeared to Sally and her lovers; but such was not the case, and, as if still farther to refute common notions on such points, the moment chosen by the spectre for its first appearance was one little in accordance with the presumed partialities of a gloomy, restless, spirit; it was in the month of June, when all is life and loveliness, and beneath the soft light of a summer moon that the apparition was seen.
Sally Lewis herself, our little heroine, was a tailoress; not a very romantic occupation, you will say; but one that is very useful and respectable nevertheless. It has been observed, by-the-by, that this trade, with the feminine termination to its style and title, is a usurpation upon the sphere of the lords of the creation peculiar to American society. But we hear of men dressmakers at Naples—men-milliners at Paris, why not, therefore, of a tailoress on the shores of Long Island Sound? Let us be thankful that little Sally Lewis did not aim, like some of her ill-starred countrywomen, at being an oratoress, or a parsoness, or a coloneless, but contented herself, in a common sensible way, with needle and thimble. Sally was, moreover, a very clever, skillful little tailoress, managing goose and shears with great dexterity. She was very pretty too, and upon the whole, making certain allowances, rather a good girl—active, neat, good-tempered, and kind-hearted. Her grand-parents, at least, could see few faults in her. Their partiality had indeed spoiled Sally just a little, for to tell the whole truth she was somewhat giddy and vain—two foibles quite enough to bring about a world of mischief. Once in a while the old people seemed to see things in this light.
"But then the child is so young, Nathan! She'll grow more sober presently," said Grandmother Lewis, looking over her spectacles at Sally, who was loitering about the porch, broom in hand, with the amiable hope of distracting the attention of a certain young carpenter of her acquaintance, from the work he had just then in hand—repairing the paling of Mr. Van Wyck's grounds opposite the Deacon's cottage.
"I suppose she will, wife. I only wish the girl would take Ben Wright in the end, for he is one of the likeliest young men about here—as good a carpenter as there is fifty miles around," replied the Deacon.
"So he is, Nathan; and I shouldn't wonder if she did take him before a twelvemonth is over. She likes him, I reckon, about as well as any of the boys that come after her."
"Well, I can't say I like to see her treating Ben as she does sometimes. Why she almost teased the life out of him last week going to that 'ere frolic on the water with big Abe Johnson."
"So she did. But that's only her way. Girls is sometimes awful hard on the one they like best. Why I used to be awful hard on you, Nathan, just to see how you would take it," quietly observed grandmother Lewis, wiping her glasses, to take up a stitch in the stocking she was knitting for the Deacon.
A twinkle of sober fun just glimmered in Deacon Lewis's little gray eye as he rolled a bit of tobacco in his mouth, smoothed his thin white locks, and bethought him of sundry heartaches which his Hetty had given him half a century before.
"Why, there was Abe Johnson's grand'ther—wasn't I awful sweet to him sometimes, just for the sake of teasin' you, Nathan? And all the time I cared more for one kind look out of your eyes than I did for Abe Johnson—the grand'ther, I mean—and all his fields and cows and sheep in the bargain."
"You did—did you, Hetty?" said the Deacon, complacently. "Well, you said somethin' like that afore, old woman, fifty-six years last fall, I reckon it was. That's a good while ago; but it sounds kind o' good to hear you say the words now, Hetty."
"To be sure," said the old dame, nodding her head with the confidence of one who had played with the Deacon's heart-strings pretty well in her day.
"Well, I suppose the young folks know what they are about."
"They don't always know that, by a good sight, Nathan. But we musn't be over hard on 'em, for all that. We must give 'em time to come round."
But now Sally had just discovered that she was only wearing out the new broom for nothing, since the porch, with the little walk in front, were as clean as possible. Her sweeping, however, had not been entirely thrown away. Ben Wright had first looked up from his work, then said good-morning, and afterward wasted some five minutes of his time chatting with Sally, finally sawing off a piece of paling in the wrong place. All this was highly satisfactory. Sally had behaved badly during the last week, and she knew it perfectly well, having been guilty of sundry misdemeanors in the way of flirting, right and left, after giving Ben so much previous encouragement that he had fully made up his mind to offer himself at the first opportunity. Sally was, in fact, a little flirt in the grain; I am ashamed to confess it, not admiring flirts at all; but as she was, in most other respects, a pretty good little damsel, we must follow her grandmother's example and not be too severe on her.
The broom was hung up. Sally began to get things ready for dinner.
"It can't want much of noon," she said, tripping about very briskly.
"About five minutes," replied the grandmother, looking up at the wooden clock in the corner.
Sally glanced toward the door. "There's a heavy shower coming up," she observed.
"Yes, and rain is much wanted," replied the Deacon, as he went soberly into the garden to pick cucumbers for dinner.
Sally fidgeted about, now here, now there.
"Grandmother," she said, suddenly.
"Well, child?" answered the old dame.
"It's going to rain hard!"
"It's likely that it will," said grandmother, looking at the clouds.
Here Sally stepped into the buttery.
"The bell will ring soon for noon, I reckon," she added, coming into the kitchen again.
"To be sure it will."
"I was thinking—" Here Sally popped her little brown head into the open cupboard.
"Well, what was you thinking, child?" asked the old dame, with some curiosity.
"Suppose we was to ask Benjamin Wright to come in and eat his dinner here to-day, seeing he's working so nigh the house, and there's such a black gust coming up? If we don't, he'll have to walk the best part of a mile in the rain to his brother's. It's dropping now," said Sally, hurriedly, and turning a little red.
"Why, yes, child. It would be kind o' neighborly to ask him in."
"Only neighborly—just what I thought. And there's the currant-pie I made yesterday, in the cupboard."
"And you've got out a clean table-cloth, I see."
"Why, I thought I might just as well," said Sally, who generally managed the housekeeping her own way.
"Well, I'll tell your grandfather to ask Benjamin, when he brings in the cucumbers."
"Oh, I can ask him myself, grandmother!"
"Do as you like, child"—which Sally was very apt to do without any bidding whatever.
Things were soon ready. The cloth was spread on the cherry table; a broken dish was changed for a better one, to put the cold boiled pork on; a bit of cheese was cut; the cucumbers were sliced; the currant-pie was set on the table; and a bright knife and fork laid by the place destined for Ben.
The Deacon took last week's newspaper, and sat down in his rocking-chair, waiting for Sally to put the stew on table.
"We're thinking of asking Benjamin Wright to step in and eat his dinner here to-day; it's going to rain hard, and he has a good way to go to his brother's," said Grandmother Lewis to the old man, with a look which added, "It's all Sally's doings, and you see how things are going."
It took the Deacon a full minute to understand the drift of the matter; but when he saw through it he left his chair well pleased, and was stepping into the porch to call out the invitation across the road. But this, it seems, did not suit Sally.
"I can ask him, grandfather," she said, tripping past the Deacon, a pink sun-bonnet on her head, a bright tin pail in her hand. "I must go over the way for fresh water."
So the Deacon went back to his rocking-chair, and Sally crossed the road to the pump. How the invitation was worded we can not say, but Grandmother Lewis, peeping through the scarlet-bean trained over the window near which she sat, reported to her good man that "Ben looked mighty pleased, and that Sally seemed kind o' bashful for her."
The bell soon rang for noon, and with its first stroke Ben Wright stepped into Deacon Lewis's kitchen, looking hot and happy. He was hungry too. He did, perhaps, only too much justice to the savory stew, the cold pork, potatoes, currant-pie, cheese, and cucumbers; but as he had been hard at work since sunrise, his good appetite on such a sentimental occasion must be overlooked or forgiven. The old couple were well pleased. Sally looked pretty and tidy, and gave only one or two saucy little twists of the head, really in spite of herself as it seemed. She meant to behave remarkably well. Upon the whole, all parties appeared to feel that the stew might prove an important dish to those who shared it together; as for Ben, he came fully to the conclusion that, if he could help it, this should not be the last dinner that Sally was to cook for him. He was entirely mollified by the invitation, and determined to make, that very evening, an unconditional offer of himself, and every thing belonging to him, to his little hostess's acceptance. After half an hour's chat, when the shower had passed over, he went to his work again, and while his auger turned and turned in the piece of timber at his feet, Ben revolved in his mind all the beauties and good qualities of Sally Lewis. Drooping love and expiring hope had been surprisingly revived by the stew. That very morning, when Ben came to his work opposite the Deacon's door, he threw a look at the little sign over the window, "S. Lewis, Tailoress," and said to himself, "Sally Lewis is a pretty girl; but that's all that can be said for her. She's quite welcome to walk home from meeting every Sunday with Job Potter for all I care—that she is!" At noon Ben ate the stew. Sally became once more not only "the prettiest girl in R—, but as good as she was pretty." When he went home from his work in the evening his head was so full of her that he did not even see the stage-coach driving past, nor a face nodding to him from the window. Yet that arrival boded no good to Ben Wright, as we shall presently see.
After the young carpenter had eaten his supper he determined not to go back to his task that evening; he was working by the job, and could well afford to give up an hour or two to courting. He would ask Sally Lewis to take a walk, and—perhaps he might ask her something else too.
"What have you put on your Sunday coat for, Ben? is any thing going on to-night?" asked his brother, as the young man stepped up to the looking-glass in the kitchen, to give the last touch to hair and collar.
"Now you're after Sally Lewis again, in spite of all you said yesterday!" interposed his sharp-sighted sister-in-law—no friend of Sally's.
As Ben could not deny the accusation, and as he heartily repented having called Sally a wild thing the night before, he made no reply to either remark.
"I thought Sally and Abe Johnson were going to make a match," said the brother.
"Sally Lewis don't care a copper for you, Ben; take my word for it!" said the sister-in-law.
"I'm not so sure of that," thought Ben to himself, dwelling on the delicious stew, as he took his way toward the Deacon's, heart and head full of the little tailoress. It wanted still an hour of sunset, and the youth indulged in delightful anticipations as to the result of that hour. "What walk would Sally choose? What would she say? How would she look!"
Ben moved briskly, full of pleasant fancies, and soon reached the Deacon's door. He knocked; the old couple were in the kitchen, and welcomed him. He saw at a glance that the window of the little parlor adjoining was open, and Sally appeared at the door to invite him in. She was dressed in all her finery, and looked brighter and prettier than usual. Could she have foreseen that Ben was coming? His heart beat and his eye brightened at the thought! He followed her into the little parlor with high expectations of felicity; alas! as he crossed the doorsill he beheld—not a ghost, something infinitely worse—a rival; the most dangerous of two or three rivals!
"How's your health, Mr. Wright?" drawled out a curly-headed, pink-checked youth, one whom Ben knew only too well, a young dandy tailor, the son of a neighbor. It was the same face which had nodded to the young carpenter from the stage-coach. Orville Snip was a youth who a year earlier had been a plain, hard-working lad. Within the last six months he had, unhappily for himself, inherited a little money, which now seemed very likely to ruin him. His ambition had been fired by the thousand dollars left him by an uncle. He turned his back on his native village, went to New York, entered a grand tailoring establishment, launched out into small follies innumerable, and had now returned to R— with the laudable object of amazing his old neighbors in general, and of captivating the heart of Sally Lewis in particular. The previous winter he had kept up a great flirtation with her, and caused Ben, who had loved the child for a year or two, many an uneasy hour. We shall not attempt to describe the sudden and complete damp thrown over poor Ben's spirits by finding Orville Snip with Sally on this evening of all others. The walk must be given up; the words he came to say must remain untold; and he must try, moreover, to look with decent civility upon Orville's very handsome coat and very curly locks, diamond breast-pin, signet ring, and gold chain to boot.
"I thought you did not recognize me when I passed in the stage, Mr. Wright, though I knew you at once; you looked quite natural with your utensils on your arm."
"My tools you mean. I did not see you. But I'm not sure I should have known you if I had. You are somewhat changed."
"Do you think so?" drawled out the simpering youth. "Well, I suppose I am altered, for even Miss Lewis did not recognize me at first."
"Oh! you are wonderful changed," said Sally.
"You are so dressy, and you have got so much hair about your face, I shouldn't have known you in an hour if you hadn't told your name."
"Ha, ha, ha! But many gentlemen in the city dress as much, I assure you, Miss Lewis; and as for mustaches, it is hardly possible to do the thing genteelly without them," replied Orville, with a sentimental smirk, for which Ben could have cheerfully knocked him down.
"I'd no notion they were so common," said Sally.
"Would you advise me to shave? Gentlemen from the city are often stared at in the country, I am told. Would you advise me to have the operation performed, Miss Lewis?"
"Oh no! I think mustaches are very becoming to you."
"Why the ladies seem to approve of them. Mr. Wright, you'll have to follow the fashion, too," continued Orville, with a simper.
"I don't pretend to follow the fashions on my face; and I should think you might find it rather a troublesome trade."
"Me? Not at all, I assure you. The cultivation of refinement comes natural to gentlemen from the city."
"Is it pleasant living in New York?" inquired Sally, with interest. "I was there for a short spell last year, but I never staid long at a time."
"It's the only place in the world fit to live in, Miss Lewis! When a gentleman has once got accustomed to fashionable life in the city, he feels quite out of his equipment any where else."
"It's a beautiful, grand place," said Sally. "So many elegant houses! And then the stores! And the ladies all so tasty!"
"You are quite right. Apropos, do you remember the store of Fitter and Shaper, Merchant Tailors, in the Bowery? It must have struck you, I think. I've just gone into their establishment. Fitter is a protajay of mine, and offered me a situation. It's the finest show window in our line from one end of the street to the other."
"It's lucky there are different trades to choose from!" exclaimed Ben. "Now I could never make up my mind to live within doors, among bales of cloth and such like. It would choke me!" he added, much as if that process were already going on.
"Ha, ha!" simpered Orville, running a finger through his curly locks. "You are not inclined to the tailoring business, Mr. Wright. To speak freely, I should judge so from appearances. But you are very impolite to Miss Lewis in saying so much against her profession."
Sure enough, here was poor Ben getting himself into trouble by abusing Sally's trade; while, on the other hand, he was drawing the chains of sympathy closer between his sweet-heart and his rival, who both dealt in broadcloth.
"I didn't mean that," blundered Ben.
"You didn't mean to be impolite to Miss Lewis because she's a tailoring lady, I dare say; but to my mind the ladies show their taste by taking up the business."
"You are quite free to say what you like about my trade, Mr. Wright," said Sally, with a terrible toss of her head. "Moreover, you're at liberty to think what you please about it, I'm sure."
Worse and worse. Poor Ben was in a fever. And thus matters continued throughout the evening. Orville was radiant with elegance. He could not say enough about the magnificence of New York, the charms of town life, and, above all, the splendors of the establishment of Fitter, Shaper, and Co. Sally listened with lively interest. Orville seemed rising in her estimation every moment. Such elegance, such knowledge of the world, such fashionable words and opinions, such whiskers, such mustaches, and such a diamond pin had never yet appeared under the Deacon's roof. Possibly Sally's tailoring capabilities also enabled her to appreciate more fully the fineness of Orville's broadcloth and the pattern of his waistcoat. Ben grew more and more silent, Orville more and more talkative. At length a bell was heard. It was that of the Academy; being a Wednesday evening, the Lyceum was about to meet.
"That bell sounds natural—it is the Academy, I presume," observed Orville.
"Yes, it is Lyceum night," replied Sally.
"Indeed! Did you propose attending the exercises, Miss Lewis?"
"Well, I hadn't calculated to go."
"Pray change your intention, and allow me to escort you."
"Well, I don't care if I do," replied Sally, rising with alacrity. "I don't think much of lectures; but it's pleasant to go any where of an evening."
No sooner said than done. In a trice Sally had put on her best shawl and hat, and certainly both were very becoming. Orville was at her side in a minute. Not a word did Ben say. Sally gave a half look toward him.
"You are going with us, I suppose, Mr. Wright?" she asked, in a cold tone.
'I'm much obliged; but I wasn't thinking of going to the lecture when I came out tonight." And Ben took leave very abruptly.
Whether Sally felt any qualms of conscience we can not say; but if she did they were not lasting. She soon took her seat in the lecture-room of the Academy by the side of the dandy Orville, now receiving his tender insinuations with a bright color, now looking busily among the audience, spying out acquaintances here and there, and hoping they were all wondering at the elegance of her companion. Sally was completely dazzled by Orville Snip. As for the lecture on "Athenian Eloquence," delivered by Alcibiades Bunker, Esq., she did not hear one word of it; but then, to do her justice, she did not pretend to care for it. With many other faults Sally had one great merit: she was entirely free from pretensions of all sorts, literary, scientific, or social.
Ben had walked rapidly away from the Deacon's door without exactly knowing what direction he had taken; but at the end of five minutes he found he was going home, and kept on his way there full of bursting thoughts, in which Sally and Orville had each a share. Not caring to show his face before his sister-in-law that evening, he slipped into the little room where he slept while she was out of the way, locked his door, and throwing himself on the bed lay there tossing about all night.
The next morning, sorely against his will, Ben was obliged to return to his job upon Mr. Van Wyck's fences, opposite the Deacon's door and Sally's sign. He walked resolutely along, and would not cast even one side glance toward the dwelling of the Lewises, but set about his work hammering and sawing with even more diligence than usual. Noon came; but no invitation with it, no stew to cheer his spirits to-day. Instead of any consolation he was obliged to hear from his sister-in-law that folks said Orville Snip, who was a sort of cousin of hers, "had come, and had been at the Lyceum the night before with Sally Lewis! It must be a mistake about Sally, for I know you were courting Sally at the Deacon's last night. It's some other girl, I suppose, that looks like her."
Ben made no answer. But when his brother and sister-in-law began talking over Orville Snip's good luck in general, his legacy in particular, and expressed the opinion that he had come back to R— for a wife, they drove Ben from table, and out of the house ten minutes sooner than he needed to have gone.
On his way back to work again, not caring to run the risk of meeting Orville airing himself in the main street, Ben took a by-way through the fields. He had nearly reached Mr. Van Wyck's, and was passing through a meadow adjoining the lawn he was fencing, when an object lying in the grass near the path struck his eye. It was a man's hat; a gray beaver, and, strange to say, no cast-off rubbish, but in perfectly good condition. Ben looked about for the owner. Two cows grazing quietly at a distance were the only occupants of the field. The young man turned aside to take a nearer view. As he stepped from the path it suddenly struck him the hat looked wonderfully like one worn the preceding evening by Orville Snip! It was the extreme of the latest fashion in shape and color. As the idea occurred to him Ben gave the beaver an involuntary kick, which turned it over and showed a name written in the crown—"Orville Snip, Esquire; No — Bowery, New York City."
"The very hat!" exclaimed Ben, snapping his fingers. But why should Mr. Snip's new beaver be lying in Mr. Van Wyck's meadow, instead of crowning its owner's curly, oily locks? This was a point Ben was already burning with curiosity to solve. It was very probable that Orville, in returning from the Deacon's the night before, might have taken this path, which led, by a short cut, toward his mother's; but why should he have left his hat on the way? With all the dislike of a rival Ben could not accuse young Snip of drinking, unless he had fallen into bad habits very lately; neither could Orville have become intoxicated either at the Deacon's or at the Lyceum. The neighborhood was a good one, quiet and orderly, and a highway robbery had never been committed at R Besides, the hat showed no traces of violence to the owner, but was perfect in every way, excepting that it looked precisely as if it had passed the night in the wet grass. To discover the history of the hat that very day was Ben's determination on the spot. In the mean time he tied up the beaver in his handkerchief, and hurried to his work again, concealing his prize in a basket of shavings. Enlivened by curiosity, and chuckling at the idea of having Orville's handsome beaver buried in shavings, Ben was now once more in tolerably good spirits. Even his indignation against Sally showed symptoms of subsiding a little. He cast several looks over the way; things appeared there just as usual. He saw grandmother Lewis knitting in her rocking-chair, and the Deacon at work in the garden; he had also several glimpses of Sally herself, passing to and fro, once with a bright pink frock on her arm, and again clapping and starching some piece of muslin finery, as though preparing for company. Ben took another look at the hat, to make sure he had read the name aright, and was well pleased to see again in full letters the style and title of Mr. Snip. At length, who should come stepping along but Orville himself, dressed precisely as he was the evening before, with the exception of his hat—he now wore a straw instead of yesterday's beaver. Nodding condescendingly to Ben, from the opposite side of the road, he entered the Deacon's door.
Now Ben had resolved the night before, as he saw Sally Lewis tripping off to the Academy by the side of Orville Snip, that he would never again cross the Deacon's threshold, or certainly not until Sally had begged him to do so, on her bended knees. But, as we have already observed, the consciousness of having Orville's beaver in his basket had a highly soothing effect; it was a very agreeable thought that he could make his rival look foolish whenever it pleased him to do so. He therefore chose to remember, what he had previously resolved to forget, that during his yesterday's dinner, while partaking of the stew, the Deacon had said something about a little job on his garden gate. Accordingly Ben now walked boldly across the street, and went to the door, hammer and nails in hand. Sally asked him in. Orville was already there. At the first glance Ben thought, or fancied, that his spirits were somewhat lower than the day before; and there was occasionally a sort of uneasy, absent look about his mustached countenance which was not lost upon the young carpenter.
"Won't you take a seat, Mr. Wright," said Sally, blushing a little as she offered him a chair.
"Thank ye—I can't stay but a minute," said Ben, taking the chair however. "How did you like the lecture?" he asked, turning to Orville, impatient to hear him speak.
"The lecture! Oh, it was very fine, Squire Bunker is an elegant speaker."
"Did it last long? Was it late before you got home?" continued Ben, quite unable to repress his curiosity. Orville changed color—there could be no doubt of the fact.
"I don't believe it lasted more than an hour," said Sally, very naturally. "Don't you think we were back again before ten, Mr. Snip?"
"I guess so," said Orville, with a bewildered look that surprised Sally.
"Why, I am sure it was not later," added Sally, who thought Orville much less fascinating and complimentary than the evening before.
"I suppose you have seen a good many old friends already," observed Ben, by way of carrying on the conversation, and thus giving himself an excuse for cross-questioning Orville.
"I've seen all I care to see," replied the youth; an answer which Sally took entirely as a compliment to herself, although, as Orville spoke, a strange expression passed over his face.
"You saw a good many old friends last night, Mr. Snip, at the lecture," added Ben.
Orville faintly muttered some indistinct reply.
Ben scrutinized the youth as closely as he dared, and was convinced, from his whole expression, that something untoward had taken place. What could it have been? No attack from thieves, certainly; for the false diamond breast-pin, the magnificent signet ring, and glittering watch-chain, still adorned Orville's person as on the previous evening. Ben determined to draw still nearer to the particular point which so strongly excited his curiosity.
"What have you done with your beaver?" asked the young carpenter, with pretended carelessness, as he took up the straw hat near him. "I was thinking of getting one like it myself, if such a thing could be had in the village."
Orville pretended not to hear, but he turned deadly pale.
"Were you looking for your instruments, Miss Lewis?" he said, picking up Sally's shears; but his voice faltered as he spoke, and his hand actually trembled as he held them toward her.
"I was saying, Mr. Snip, that this here hat is not as tasty looking as the beaver you had on yesterday, for I noticed that article as being uncommon handsome," repeated Ben, gaining in complacency as Orville became confused.
"Why, I suppose straw is cooler for warm weather," interposed Sally, finding that Orville did not answer immediately.
"I suppose so—yes, it's cooler," repeated Orville; and then, making a desperate effort, he rallied his spirits, and soon began to talk nearly as glibly as the evening before. Ben could learn nothing more; so after a while he went off and patched up the Deacon's gate, determined to return again in the evening, in order to solve the mystery of the hat, if possible.
Carrying Orville's beaver in the basket of shavings under his arm, he walked home again across the meadow; but although he peered sharply about, in every direction, all looked just as usual in the field, even at the precise spot where the hat had been picked up, which was at the foot of a bank, just beneath the ha-ha wall of Mr. Van Wyck's lawn.
In the evening, having left the beaver in his own room, Ben set out again for the Deacon's. Orville was already there, and seemed to have recovered entirely from the morning's embarrassment. He tried to make himself very agreeable to Sally, and talked again largely about New York and what fashionable gentlemen said and did there. He even bore one allusion to his hat quite firmly, giving Ben a quick, suspicious glance as he spoke.
It was still early in the evening, and the old Deacon and his wife were in the room.
"When do you expect to get through with your work at Mr. Van Wyck's?" inquired the Deacon of Ben.
"I have nearly done, Sir; the piece of paling opposite your house is the last of the job."
"Mr. Van Wyck has been doing a good deal at his place this year, one way and another—setting out trees, putting up fences, and getting things in order," observed the Deacon.
"It's a handsome place, and well worth the pains Mr. Van Wyck takes with it," added Ben.
"Yes, it's the handsomest place about here, to my mind. It's a fine farm, and well worked. I suppose you have heard of the strange mess they lighted on in the garden the other day—them dead bones."
"Yes, Sir; I happened to be there when they plowed them up."
"Be there many of them?" asked Grandmother Lewis, with much interest.
"Why, yes, marm; Dr. Gallipot came over to look at them, and he concluded there must have been as many as twenty men buried there."
"I suppose some battle was fought hereabouts in the Revolution," said Sally.
"No, child; there was no such battle fought here. There was a fight upon Griffin's farm, nigh the wood."
"Some folks say that ghosts have been seen in that wood," observed Sally.
"Well, I don't know how that may be, child, but there was a smart fight up there between some of our farmers and the royal troops. But as for these bones in Mr. Van Wyck's garden, it's more likely they're the old Indian natives. There used to be a swell in the land just there, and by digging and plowing they've come to the graves, I suppose."
"Well, whosoever's the bones may be, if they're human beings they ought to have Christian burial. It's cruel like to leave 'em uncovered," added the old grandmother.
"They'll be buried again to-morrow, Hetty; I heard them talking about it."
"Yes, marm; Mr. Van Wyck ordered a box to put them in, which I am making now," added Ben.
"That's right. I do suppose if ever there was any thing that could bring a man's spirit back again to walk on the earth, it would be having his bones uncovered and his grave dug up. Especially Indians; for it's well known they're wonderful particular about their dead," said the Deacon.
"Do you really think, grandfather, that ghosts come back to this world?" inquired Sally, a little sobered by the turn the conversation had taken.
"There's a good deal to be said on that p'int, child. There's nothing quite against it that I know of; and some good people think they've seen them. I shouldn't like to say for sure that they do come back, or that they don't."
"I, for one, don't much believe in them," said Ben; "for it's what no man would believe in unless he had seen one; and I never saw a ghost yet."
"To be sure, it must be very uncommon, if it does ever happen," added Mr. Lewis.
"Did you ever know a man, Sir, whose word was good for any thing, who declared he had seen a ghost?"
"No—I never did."
But here Grandmother Lewis interposed. She had never seen a ghost herself; but she could name several people who knew others who had seen ghosts. And moreover, a certain gossip of hers, the widow Timms, had actually seen two ghosts: the first, a man who had been hanged for murder in the neighborhood, whose ghost she saw the week afterward, standing under the gallows; and the second was her own husband, whose ghost she had seen digging potatoes one night, a week after his death.
During these remarks Orville had been listening in breathless silence, looking so strangely withal, that at last he attracted the Deacon's attention.
"Why, Mr. Snip, you look as if you were staring at a ghost this minute!"
Orville faltered a few words but made no distinct reply.
"Perhaps he has seen one," observed the grandmother, with a tone half compassionate, half respectful.
Poor Orville stammered and blundered and said nothing clear.
"Is it so?" asked the Deacon. "If you have seen a ghost in the course of your life, Orville, why, don't be above saying so," added the old man, with lively interest.
Sally dropped her scissors; Ben forgot to pick them up, so great was his curiosity excited by young Snip's manner. Still he seemed unwilling to speak.
"You look considerable exercised, Orville, and I think you had better say what's on your mind," continued the Deacon.
"It's a great comfort to tell any thing strange to other folks, as I know from experience," added the old lady.
Thus urged, Orville at length spoke.
"If I was only sure you wouldn't make fun of me—Ben Wright here, and Sally—" continued the youth, in a more plain and natural voice than he had spoken in since the appearance of his mustache.
"If you have really seen a ghost, I should be the last man to laugh at you," replied Ben, in his usual good-natured way, though he was firmly convinced that Orville had been frightened by a shadow.
"Well, as you're all friends here, I may as well tell what happened," began Orville. "After the lecture I came home with her," looking at Sally, "and she asked me in—and I staid late."
Ben make a nervous movement on his chair.
"She sat in this very room maybe a couple of hours. At last I went off, not thinking of any trouble at all. It was late, and to make the walk shorter, I turned in at Mr. Van Dyck's, as I have often done since my brother's been overseer there. It's considerable shorter than going by the road."
His listeners assented, and motioned to him to go on.
"Well, I walked along as spry as can be round by the garden, meaning to go out by the gate on the other road. I soon came to the place where they had been plowing. Now, I never was afraid of a ghost in all my life; I never thought of such a thing. But when I came to the place I saw the bones all lying about in the moonlight. I knew what they was, for my brother had told me about them, and said how the doctors declared they was human beings. Well, seeing them all lying about in the moonlight made me feel kind o' solemn."
"That was only nat'ral, and to your credit, Orville," said Grandmother Lewis.
"Feeling solemn, as I said, I walked on quicker—" catching Sally's eye full on him, Orville was put out.
Ben bit his lip, and tried his best to look grave, still feeling very incredulous.
"Well," said the old Deacon, impatiently, "you was feeling kind o' solemn, and walking quick—"
"Just then I stumbled over a bone—I tripped so as to fall half over."
"Oh! that was dreadful bad luck—to stumble over dead bones!" groaned the old lady, holding up her hands and shaking her head.
"Go on, go on!" cried the Deacon.
"When I righted myself—"
Here Orville paused with a look of horror that could never be counterfeit.
"What happened then?" cried Ben, burning with curiosity.
"I saw a ghost, as sure as my name is Orville Snip!"
"What?" "How?" "Where?" cried the listeners, eagerly.
"It was standing just before me, in the edge of the wood," said Orville, in a hollow voice, the perspiration starting from his forehead at the recollection.
"What was it like?" asked Ben.
"Like a ghost!" said Orville, solemnly.
"How large was it?"
"Taller than a man, by a good deal."
"White or black?"
"All white—like—wrapped in a winding-sheet."
Sally clasped her hands with an exclamation of horror.
"Did it speak?"
"At first it only looked straight at me."
"Did it move?"
"It stood still at first, only stretching out its arms."
"Oh, deary me! that was to warn you not to walk on the bones," said the old lady.
"What else did it do? Perhaps you only concluded you saw it," added Ben.
"No I didn't, Ben Wright; I saw it as plain as I see you now," replied the other, bluntly. "The moon was shining, though it was not very bright, to be sure, but I could see all about me—the house—the trees—the bones."
"Did it speak at all?"
"Only in a kind of fluttering, whispering way."
"What did it say?"
"I—I'm not sure I heard quite plain."
"How long did it stay?"
"I don't know for certain; I stopped just a minute to make sure I really did see it, and then—"
"And what then?"
"It began to move toward me, and—and I turned round and jumped down the ha-ha—and—and—walked home through the meadow."
"You felt solemn and walked quick, I suppose," said Ben.
"I can tell you what, Ben Wright, if you had a ghost at your heels you would walk quick too."
"Maybe I should; but it followed at your heels, did it? did you turn round to look?"
"Yes, Sir, I did; and I saw it moving about among the bushes."
"Did it feel solemn, and move quick?" again asked Ben, who felt convinced in his own mind that Orville had seen nothing but the bones and the moonlight.
"I only wish you could see it too!" cried Orville.
"I wish I could. Will you go with me tonight—now—and show me the place?"
"Yes, I will go;" cried Orville, mustering all his courage at this challenge.
"There's no use in going now, boys," said Grandmother Lewis. "Ghosts was never yet known to come so early. It's after the lights are put out in the houses, and Christian people are all asleep, that they prowl about."
"What o'clock was it when you saw it last night?" asked Ben.
"About midnight."
"Well, we can wait till then, unless you're afraid to take another look."
"No more afraid than you, Ben Wright!"
"I don't see, boys, why I shouldn't go too," observed the Deacon.
Orville was well pleased to secure another recruit, and Ben had no objection; but Grandmother Lewis would not listen to the plan. To be left alone with Sally while ghosts were abroad in the neighborhood was not to be thought of for a moment. But Sally, who had some spirit and more curiosity, settled the matter by proposing that the whole party should go together. It required full half an hour's persuasion to bring Grandmother Lewis over to this plan; but Sally was accustomed to have her way on all occasions, and at last succeeded. The old lady admitted that if nothing was seen no harm was done, while, on the other hand, should they actually meet the ghost, it would be something to boast of for the rest of her days. So it was settled—they were all to go. The interval between this decision and the eventful hour of midnight was passed very appropriately in relating all the startling horrors and wonders known to either of the party; at last even Ben caught himself gravely telling a regular ghost story, which, however, he professed not to believe at all. When midnight drew near, they all set out.
The night was warm and close. There was a young moon in the heavens, but passing clouds partially obscured her light, while fitful flashes of lightning in the distance seemed to threaten a shower.
"I am afraid the ghost won't show himself before so many folks, and one of them a Deacon too," said Ben, as they left the house.
"Hush, Benjamin; don't talk so bold like!" exclaimed the old lady.
"You won't be after making fun when you see it!" cried Orville, who felt very uncomfortable as they drew near Mr. Van Wyck's gate, though, under the eyes of his sweet-heart and his rival, he did not dare to retreat.
Ben walked first, and quietly opened the gate. The party entered, and a winding road, which swept in a wide semicircle toward the principal entrance of the house, lay before them. On one side was a grassplot bordered with flowers, on the other a lawn sprinkled with clumps of shrubbery and scattered trees. The house was shut up, being unoccupied at the time, and all was calm and silent about them. The young moon shed a pale light around, which was now darkened by passing clouds, now broken by flashes of dull, lurid lightning.
"You turned off here, I suppose, if you were going out of the other gates," said Ben, who headed the line.
A brief assent was Orville's only reply, from the rear, where he had taken up his position, while the Deacon's family, in the middle rank, were all more or less excited by the singular object of their midnight walk, and even Ben was growing more and more eager as they approached the spot.
"Here is the pile of bones, and there all about is where they were plowed up; you can just see the white bones though the moon is under a cloud now."
"I see them; and I smell the fresh earth," said the Deacon.
"These are really human bones!" cried Sally.
"Human bones, child; and no man can tell when they were buried," replied the Deacon, while Grandmother Lewis looked down in solemn silence, heaving dreadful sighs and clutching tight at Sally's arm.
Just then the cloud which had vailed the moon passed slowly away; the moonlight fell upon the lawn, then reached the sweeping road, then the curious excited group, and whitened the pile of bones lying at their feet.
A hollow whisper startled the party.
It was from Orville; tightly grasping the arm of the young carpenter, he pointed to the grove on their right.
"There!" he muttered in a smothered voice.
His companions turned. A tall, spectral-looking figure stood just within the edge of the wood, with an earnest gaze fastened upon the group.
In a single second conviction had flashed upon all—it was no shadow, no play of the moonlight, no deception of the fancy, but an unearthly, wonderful, spectral form, bearing an aspect unlike any object they had ever yet beheld.
The old grandame groaned and shook, and, covering her eyes with her apron, would have dropped to the ground had she not been supported. Sally trembled like an aspen-leaf, and drew closer to the Deacon, though her eye seemed riveted, as by a spell, on the apparition. Orville retreated behind Sally; the Deacon was amazed, bewildered, appalled. Ben felt very strangely indeed.
"Ghost or devil, I'll see what it is!" cried Ben, rallying after the first instant of amazement.
"Oh, Benjamin, don't go!" whispered Sally, imploringly.
Ben paused, and looked back at Sally. When he turned again the spectre had vanished. The moonlight faded, clouds returned, and all was dark again.
"Let us go home," said Sally, faintly, and trembling all over.
"It's an awful sight!" murmured the Deacon.
The old woman groaned.
Just at that moment the dim outline appeared again for a second, quivering as with agitation, and apparently in motion.
"It's coming this way!" cried Orville, in terror.
"I'll meet it, then!" exclaimed Ben, advancing toward the wood.
In vain Sally implored him to come back. He walked firmly on, although he could not move quickly, for it was now quite dark again. Presently another flash of lightning glared over the lawn. The apparition seemed to have changed its position, though still within the edge of the grove. A thousand strange thoughts chased each other through the young man's mind with the rapidity of the lightning flickering over his head. He had played ghost himself in his boyish days, but never had he seen or even imagined any thing like the shadowy figure which now vanished, now reappeared before his strained eyeballs, seeming by its vague indistinctness to mock both thought and vision.
"It's like what one dreams of!"
"It may be the ghost of an Indian chief. Some of their braves have that grand look; I've seen them."
"It moves—slowly—now quick again! It raises its arm!"
A faint, whispering, fluttering sound was now heard; but so vague and indistinct as to mock the bewildered senses of the young man. At that instant, in making a sudden, eager movement, Ben stumbled over the root of a tree, and fell on one knee upon the grass. He rose and was on his feet again in a second; but the apparition was gone. He hesitated, paused, listened, and then advanced more cautiously in the darkness. Some large object stopped his advance. It was the branch of a tree. Measuring its girth with his arms, Ben knew it to be the large elm beneath which the apparition had first shown itself.
"Here I'll stand and know the end of it, if I have to stay till daylight!" cried the youth, boldly.
But a chill went to his very heart when, stretching out his arm at the same instant, he felt a cold, damp touch upon his hand. He started involuntarily. He looked up. That imposing, shadowy figure, with its earnest, unearthly gaze fastened upon himself, stood immediately before him, apparently within reach, and seeming to grow more and more distinct, and yet more ghostly, every second. Ben gazed in wonder, absolutely speechless. A fluttering murmur was heard. Was it from the leaves of the tree above, or some spirit-tongue addressing him?
He gazed, he listened more intently.
His resolution was rewarded. The object of the apparition was revealed.
A sharp, vivid flash of lightning, followed by a rattling peal of thunder, were succeeded by darkness yet deeper; and as the spectre once more vanished, young Wright turned away, slowly and thoughtfully retracing his steps toward the pile of bones where he had left his friends.
But the Deacon's family were gone. They had moved toward the gate, where they stood anxiously awaiting Ben's return. He was received by them as Hercules returning from the kingdom of Pluto.
Sally went forward to meet him.
"Is it you, Benjamin? Is the ghost gone?"
"It has vanished."
"Did it speak?"
"It spoke."
"Oh! what did it say?"
"It gave me a message—to you!" whispered Ben, solemnly, taking the hand Sally had unconsciously extended toward him as she spoke; and then a loud, ringing, uncontrollable peal of laughter burst from his lips, sounding strangely, indeed, amidst the solemn midnight hush of those quiet grounds.
The Deacon and Grandmother Lewis were seized with horror at this untimely merriment. Sally believed he had lost his senses.
"The ghost is stone!" he cried. "It's white marble—one of the figures they call statues. I never saw one in my life, but I've read about them. Mr. Van Wyck was expecting some from Italy. I did not know they had come!"
"What? A stun ghost!" cried Dame Lewis.
"Stone? Well, I've heard of such things, though I never seed one," said the Deacon.
"A stun ghost! That's what I never heerd of!" said Dame Lewis, again.
"Only a stone figure, mam," interposed Ben.
"A stun figure, Nathan! That's as bad as a ghost! It's like the graven images of the idolaters!"
"They're common enough in the old countries, though we haven't any hereabouts. But I sha'n't soon forget this one! Where's Orville?" And again Ben laughed heartily.
Mr. Snip had vanished as effectually as the apparition, and indeed he disappeared entirely from R— the next day. As the clouds were now very threatening, the whole party returned to the little red house—the Deacon comforting his companions with the remark that they had at least seen something he had never beheld before. Ere he went home that night Ben contrived to persuade Sally to hear the message of the ghost: "Better take for a husband an honest, hard-working fellow, who loves you heartily, than a monkey-faced, spendthrift dandy, who is in love with himself, and, moreover, afraid of a ghost!"
Such we have heard was the amount of the message. Sally wisely determined to follow the advice, coming as it did from a ghost. The next day Ben and herself went by daylight to look at the "stun ghost," as Grandmother Lewis persisted in calling it. As for Ben, he was far more struck with the noble statue of Demosthenes, from the Naples Gallery, when seen by daylight, than he had been in its ghostly character at midnight. The young man was strangely impressed with it. He returned to the feet of the statue again and again, at all hours, gazing, wondering, admiring, until at length, one day, the young carpenter, like the Italian boy, felt that he was an artist too! He went home and chiseled an imaginary head of Ethan Allen, in wood. His success was very good. Mr. Van Wyck saw it, urged him forward, like a kind and wise friend, furnishing counsel, encouragement, advice, engravings, casts, means, as these were needed. We all know the result. Mr. Wright not only received a wife from the hands of the ghost, but fame and fortune reached him through the same channel. His celebrated statue for the Central Park at New York has been seen and admired by—how many! That sweet bust of his wife—little Sally Lewis that was—is it not one of the loveliest things in the public gallery of the city of Albany?
1. The principal fact in this narrative is literally true, and occurred within thirty miles of New York some five-and-twenty years since.