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MADAM CROWL’S GHOST

Contributed anonymously to All the Year Round in 1870-1, but afterwards incorporated bodily into Chronicles of Golden Friars (1871, vol. i.) in the story of “Laura Mildmay,” where it is put into the mouth of an old north-country nurse, Mrs. Jolliffe.

I’m an old woman now; and I was but thirteen my last birthday, the night I came to Applewale House. My aunt was the housekeeper there, and a sort o’ one-horse carriage was down at Lexhoe to take me and my box up to Applewale.

I was a bit frightened by the time I got to Lexhoe, and when I saw the carriage and horse, I wished myself back again with my mother at Hazelden. I was crying when I got into the “shay”–that’s what we used to call it–and old John Mulbery that drove it, and was a good-natured fellow, bought me a handful of apples at the Golden Lion, to cheer me up a bit; and he told me that there was a currant-cake, and tea, and pork-chops, waiting for me, all hot, in my aunt’s room at the great house. It was a fine moonlight night and I eat the apples, lookin’ out o’ the shay winda.

It is a shame for gentlemen to frighten a poor foolish child like I was. I sometimes think it might be tricks. There was two on ’em on the tap o’ the coach beside me. And they began to question me after nightfall, when the moon rose, where I was going to. Well, I told them it was to wait on Dame Arabella Crowl, of Applewale House, near by Lexhoe.

“Ho, then,” says one of them, “you’ll not be long there!”

And I looked at him as much as to say, “Why not?” for I had spoke out when I told them where I was goin’, as if ’twas something clever I had to say.

“Because,” says he–”and don’t you for your life tell no one, only watch her and see–she’s possessed by the devil, and more an half a ghost. Have you got a Bible?”

“Yes, sir,” says I. For my mother put my little Bible in my box, and I knew it was there: and by the same token, though the print’s too small for my ald eyes, I have it in my press to this hour.

As I looked up at him, saying “Yes, sir,” I thought I saw him winkin’ at his friend; but I could not be sure.

“Well,” says he, “be sure you put it under your bolster every night, it will keep the ald girl’s claws aff ye.”

And I got such a fright when he said that, you wouldn’t fancy! And I’d a liked to ask him a lot about the ald lady, but I was too shy, and he and his friend began talkin’ together about their own consarns, and dowly enough I got down, as I told ye, at Lexhoe. My heart sank as I drove into the dark avenue. The trees stands very thick and big, as ald as the ald house almost, and four people, with their arms out and finger-tips touchin’, barely girds round some of them.

Well, my neck was stretched out o’ the winda, looking for the first view o’ the great house; and, all at once we pulled up in front of it.

A great white-and-black house it is, wi’ great black beams across and right up it, and gables lookin’ out, as white as a sheet, to the moon, and the shadows o’ the trees, two or three up and down upon the front, you could count the leaves on them, and all the little diamond-shaped winda-panes, glimmering on the great hall winda, and great shutters, in the old fashion, hinged on the wall outside, boulted across all the rest o’ the windas in front, for there was but three or four servants, and the old lady in the house, and most o’ t’rooms was locked up.

My heart was in my mouth when I sid the journey was over, and this, the great house afore me, and I sa near my aunt that I never sid till noo, and Dame Crowl, that I was come to wait upon, and was afeard on already.

My aunt kissed me in the hall, and brought me to her room. She was tall and thin, wi’ a pale face and black eyes, and long thin hands wi’ black mittins on. She was past fifty, and her word was short; but her word was law. I hev no complaints to make of her; but she was a hard woman, and I think she would hev bin kinder to me if I had bin her sister’s child in place of her brother’s. But all that’s o’ no consequence noo.

The squire–his name was Mr. Chevenix Crowl, he was Dame Crowl’s grandson–came down there, by way of seeing that the old lady was well treated, about twice or thrice in the year. I sid him but twice all the time I was at Applewale House.

I can’t say but she was well taken care of, notwithstanding, but that was because my aunt and Meg Wyvern, that was her maid, had a conscience, and did their duty by her.

Mrs. Wyvern–Meg Wyvern my aunt called her to herself, and Mrs. Wyvern to me–was a fat, jolly lass of fifty, a good height and a good breadth, always good-humoured, and walked slow. She had fine wages, but she was a bit stingy, and kept all her fine clothes under lock and key, and wore, mostly, a twilled chocolate cotton, wi’ red, and yellow, and green sprigs and balls on it, and it lasted wonderful.

She never gave me nout, not the vally o’ a brass thimble, all the time I was there; but she was good-humoured, and always laughin’, and she talked no end o’ proas over her tea; and, seeing me sa sackless and dowly, she roused me up wi’ her laughin’ and stories; and I think I liked her better than my aunt–children is so taken wi’ a bit o’ fun or a story–though my aunt was very good to me, but a hard woman about some things, and silent always.

My aunt took me into her bed-chamber, that I might rest myself a bit while she was settin’ the tea in her room. But first she patted me on the shouther, and said I was a tall lass o’ my years, and had spired up well, and asked me if I could do plain work and stitchin’; and she looked in my face, and said I was like my father, her brother, that was dead and gone, and she hoped I was a better Christian, and wad na du a’ that lids.

It was a hard sayin’ the first time I set my foot in her room, I thought.

When I went into the next room, the housekeeper’s room–very comfortable, yak (oak) all round–there was a fine fire blazin’ away, wi’ coal, and peat, and wood, all in a low together, and tea on the table, and hot cake, and smokin’ meat; and there was Mrs. Wyvern, fat, jolly, and talkin’ away, more in an hour than my aunt would in a year.

While I was still at my tea my aunt went up-stairs to see Madam Crowl.

“She’s agone up to see that old Judith Squailes is awake,” says Mrs. Wyvern. “Judith sits with Madam Crowl when me and Mrs. Shutters”–that was my aunt’s name–” is away. She’s a troublesome old lady. Ye’ll hev to be sharp wi’ her, or she’ll be into the fire, or out o’ t’ winda. She goes on wires, she does, old though she be.”

“How old, ma’am?” says I.

“Ninety-three her last birthday, and that’s eight months gone,” says she; and she laughed. “And don’t be askin’ questions about her before your aunt–mind, I tell ye; just take her as you find her, and that’s all.”

“And what’s to be my business about her, please ma’am?” says I.

“About the old lady? Well,” says she, “your aunt, Mrs. Shutters, will tell you that; but I suppose you’ll hev to sit in the room with your work, and see she’s at no mischief, and let her amuse herself with her things on the table, and get her her food or drink as she calls for it, and keep her out o’ mischief, and ring the bell hard if she’s troublesome.”

“Is she deaf, ma’am?”

“No, nor blind,” says she; “as sharp as a needle, but she’s gone quite aupy, and can’t remember nout rightly; and Jack the Giant Killer, or Goody Twoshoes will please her as well as the King’s court, or the affairs of the nation.”

“And what did the little girl go away for, ma’am, that went on Friday last? My aunt wrote to my mother she was to go.”

“Yes; she’s gone.”

“What for?” says I again.

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