The Man with a Shadow

Dally drew a long breath full of satisfaction, and then waiting till the blind dropped and the shadow of Leo appeared upon it from time to time, she proceeded to behave in a remarkably strange manner for a young person whose character means her life as a domestic servant.

Dally said softly through her nipped-together teeth:

“I thought as much, ma’am!” and then, with all the activity of a boy of fourteen, she tied a dark handkerchief tightly over her head and under her chin, stepped from her chair on to the window-sill, lowered herself on to the top of the tool-house, where she lay flat down in the bed of leaves, to form, had it been light, as prettily rustic-looking an idea for an artist of a Dryad in her leafy wreath as he need wish to have.

But Dally Watlock was not going to have a night’s rest al fresco, for she was exceedingly wide awake, and as soon as she was extended at full length parallel with her part of the house, and with her feet towards that portion where her superiors slept, she began to revolve upon her own axis in a very slow and careful manner, down and down the ivy slope of the lean – to thatched shed, there being plenty of stout ivy-boughs for her to grasp, so as to act as breaks and govern her speed. Now she was on her side, then as she slowly turned, her little red face was buried in the dark green leaves. A little more and it came up, and she was on the other side, and soon after upon her back. And so on and on till, merely crushing down the leaves a little, and without breaking a twig, she rolled down to the very edge, when, holding on tightly by the ivy, she let her legs drop, and touched the earth, making scarcely any more noise than a cat.

She remained perfectly motionless for a few minutes, and then crept stealthily to the main green walk in the garden, gazed watchfully back at Leo’s window, where the head and shoulders of her young mistress could be plainly seen upon the illuminated blind, and then ran swiftly down the grass path to the iron hurdle which separated the garden from the meadow, climbed it like a boy and as quickly, and then ran rapidly across the meadows in the direction of the church.

Dally Watlock had not gambolled about the old sexton’s knees as a child for nothing. She had been with the old man constantly, and been furnished by him with strange playthings in her time. To wit, there was a bag of buttons that had afforded her endless amusement, some being black, others silvered, while a certain portion were of superior make and richly gilt. Moredock called them buttons, but their shapes were peculiar, and looked as if they had been driven into the material to which they had been attached, instead of sewn. There were some ornaments, too, of stamped metal which had always been great favourites with Dally, from the fact of their containing the plump faces of baby boys with curly hair and wings.

Dally had many a time sat perched upon a tombstone and eaten apples while “gran’fa” dug graves, and the sight of the old man growing lower and lower as he dug, till from being buried to his knees he went down to his waist, to his chest, and then quite out of sight, was always full of fascination for the child.

As a natural result, the church had been a familiar playground on Saturdays, when, as the old man dusted and arranged cushions and hassocks, Dally would have scandalised a looker-on, for she played at visiting, treating the pews as houses, the aisles of the church as streets, and made calls after duly knocking at all the pew doors, the knocker being temporary in every case, and formed of a large, old, tarnished gilt coffin handle, which she held up with her left chubby fingers while she knocked with the right.

Moredock used to grin and enjoy it, petting the child, and humouring her in every way. She would be his companion in the belfry when he tolled or chimed the bells, and was even allowed to take a pull at one of the ropes, while they had often afforded her opportunities for a swing.

Dally Watlock, then, in earlier life had stolen away from home as often as possible, and was as familiar with the church roof, tower, and interior, as her grandfather; hence, on the night when she stole out of the Rectory and ran across the meadows, she had no difficulty in the way of the plan she had designed, which was to reach the old lych-gate, try whether it was locked, and, if so, climb it.

It was locked, and she clambered over quickly and silently, took a short cut among the graves to the old railed tomb, close to the big buttress by the centre south window that had once contained stained glass. Here the smaller casement used for ventilation readily opened at the insertion of the blade of a pocket-knife, leaving room for the active girl, who had reached it by climbing up and standing upon the tomb railings, to pass through and lower herself into the dark interior of the church.

Here, standing upon the cushions of one of the primitive old square pews, she crouched and listened breathlessly; but all was still, and after satisfying herself as far as she could that she was alone, she slipped down, passed through the door into the aisle, and then on and on, bent almost double, so as to keep below the level of the pew tops, where the darkness was intense.

The girl’s every movement was as lithe and stealthy as that of some wild animal; always on the alert for danger and ready for instant flight; but there seemed to be no cause for fear, and she crept on and on till the rood-screen was reached, and she passed into the chancel, where she soon lay down by the ornamental railings of the Candlish tomb, between it and the oak panels of that family’s pew, where there was an interval quite large enough to hide her compact little frame.

It was not so dark here, for a faint twilight streamed in through the great east window; but still the gloom was too deep for any one who passed to be recognisable.

Dally listened, and still crouched there, with her heart beating fast and her keen eyes roving from place to place as her ears strove to catch the faintest sound. The two grotesque effigies of the Candlishes reclined just above her head, the tablets on the walls faintly shimmered, and a dark mass – the pulpit – loomed up beyond the rood-screen, and all was so still that her breath sounded to her laboured, and as if passing through rustling paper.

After carefully scrutinising the place in all directions, she fixed her eyes upon the dark patch with pointed top which represented the way into the vestry. It was just opposite to her, and seemed to be the great object of her nocturnal journey.

For a few minutes all was still. Then there was a faint chirruping noise which emanated from Dally’s lips, as she backed softly a little more into her hiding-place.

No response!

She chirruped again, and failing to obtain any reply, she made a quick motion with one hand, the result being a sharp rap as if a tiny stone had struck the vestry door to make a second sound as it fell upon the stone floor.

No response!

“Safe!” whispered Dally to herself, and making a faint rustling sound, she glided out from her hiding-place, and crossing the chancel, raised the heavy latch of the vestry door.

There was a faint click as she passed in and closed it after her. Then another rustling sound, and a peculiar rattling noise, for Dally had drawn the large key she had borrowed from the sexton’s cottage, placed it in the lock of the spiral staircase leading up to the rood-loft, opened it, and after withdrawing and inserting the key on the inner side, she crept in, locked the door, went rapidly up to the opening where she had sat during the funeral service, and then resting her arms upon the carved stone tracery, she thrust her head and shoulders as far forward as she could, and listened and waited for what was to come.

Volume Two – Chapter Nine.

Watchers

The old church at Duke’s Hampton, a fine old structure, built in the latter part of the thirteenth century, stood calm and still upon its eminence that dark night. The older folks at the village said it was terribly haunted “arter dark,” and the younger believed. Strange sights and sounds were said to have been seen and heard. Ghostly forms glided on silent wing round the tower and swept low amongst the tombs, uttering weird shrieks. Curious mutterings and croaks were heard on high among the corbels and demoniacal gargoyles, the holes in the tower among the ivy, and low moans often proceeded from the shuttered windows where the big bells hung.

All true, for down there in leafy Warwickshire there were plenty of owls, daws, starlings, and pigeons to make the old ivy-clothed building a bird sanctuary where they were never touched. They seemed to belong to “my church;” to Moredock; and he never took nest or destroyed their young.

On the night when Dally Watlock took upon herself to watch, high up in the rood-loft, steps approached the church from the back, about half an hour later, and a dark figure entered the churchyard, to walk cautiously and silently up towards the outer door of the vestry.

As it silently crossed the yard, a head slowly appeared above the wall, and watched the tall dark figure for a few minutes, as it seemed to glide in and out among the tombstones, and then fade completely away.

The watcher held on by the churchyard wall for a few minutes, rigid and paralysed. There was a faint sound of breathing heard, but it was catching and spasmodic, as if the watcher were in pain. But at last, after gazing in the direction where the dark figure had disappeared, with starting eyes, and a sensation on the top of the head as if the cap there was being softly lifted, the gentleman of inquiring mind tried to wrench his hands from where they clutched the top of the wall.

It was a momentary act, resulting in his grasping the coping-stone more tightly, and uttering the words:

“Ha’ mussy upon us!” For Joe Chegg felt his legs give way at the knees, and that he was bathed in a cold perspiration.

“If I can only get back safe home again,” he moaned to himself, “never no more – never no more!”

He felt that he had gazed for the first time at one of the peripatetic horrors of which he had heard since he was a child, and in which he had always religiously believed. In fact, he would never have ventured to the churchyard at midnight had he not been moved by one of the strongest passions of our nature. He had gone there most fully convinced that somewhere about he would encounter the gentleman who met Dally Watlock; and to emphasise their meeting, he had brought his smallest mallet from his tool-basket, as being a handy kind of tool.

But he had not reckoned upon seeing a tall dark figure draped in a long black cloak glide silently by him, growing taller and taller as it disappeared, leaving him with his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, and without the wit to consider that where he stood in the meadow he was in the dry ditch, that the churchyard wall formed a kind of haha at that spot by the rise of the earth resulting from centuries of interments; and that, in addition, there was a steep slope up to the church, sufficient to make any one standing by the vestry door ten feet above his head.

But Joe Chegg would not have believed these simple physical facts had they been explained to him. He had seen a veritable spirit that might mean his own “fetch.” Whether or no, he wanted to go home and keep his own counsel, mentally vowing – as he at last wrenched himself away, and ran as hard as he could over the dewy grass – that, come what might, he would, if he were spared, never run such a risk again.

He was in the act of dragging himself away, thankful that he was on the meadow-side of the wall, when a low muttering moan rose upon the night air, from the direction in which the monstrous figure had disappeared; and that moan acted as a spur to the frightened man.

It was simple enough, as simple as the explanation of other supernatural sounds, for as the dark figure stood close to the vestry door for a few moments and at last uttered an impatient “tut-tut-tut,” there was a grumbling, muttering sound from a horizontal stone, and Moredock rose, saying in a low voice:

“All right, doctor – all right. I was half asleep, and didn’t hear you come.”

The next moment they had entered the Candlish vault, and the door was closed, Moredock directly after proceeding to strike a match.

“How much longer’s this a-going on?” he grumbled.

“Till I have finished,” said the doctor sternly; but there was a strange intonation of the voice – a peculiar manner – which made the sexton, as he struck the light and held it to the candle in his lanthorn, gaze sharply at the speaker.

“All right, doctor. I don’t grumble; you’ll give me my dose again – seems to settle and comfort a man while he’s waiting.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said North hastily.

“You can rouse me up if I drop off to sleep, doctor. Couldn’t get my nap i’ the chair ’safternoon, and it makes a man a bit drowsy.”

North lit his lamp, which stood ready upon the stone table, and the yellow light filled the grim place with its soft glow once more – a pleasantly subdued light which displayed the surrounding niches and the empty coffin of the late squire, and shone softly upon gilt plate, handle, and tarnished nail, but lay in an intense ring of brightness upon the table that bore it and the sawdust around.

The customary portion from the flask was poured out, and swallowed by the old sexton with a satisfied smack of the lips before he set down the glass upon a coffin-lid.

“Ha! that’s fine, doctor,” he said with a loud laugh, as his countenance puckered into a goblin grin. “Cordial that is. Goes down into a man’s toes and the tips of his fingers, and makes his heart beat. You’re a clever one, doctor – a clever one, that you are. Rouse me up if you want me. I may go to sleep again – I may go to sleep.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll call you,” said North, as the old man seated himself once more in his corner with head against the wall, while before the doctor had settled the shade of his lamp to his satisfaction, a stertorous snore came from Moredock’s corner, accompanied at intervals by a low moaning gasp.

“How easy to produce death!” said North, in a low voice. “Science gives us the power to cause that and sleep, which is its semblance, at our will. Why should it be more difficult to produce life?”

“How many nights is this?” he continued. “Ten, and I seem no nearer – nay, further away, for – ah!” he ejaculated savagely, “there is that wretched coward shrinking again.”