Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗

“stack of

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