Verner's Pride. Henry Wood
the middle o' the afternoon, sir. The clock had gone three."
"Did you stay tea there?"
"In course, sir, I did. Broom, he was out, and she was at home by herself a-rinsing out some things. But she soon put 'em away, and we sat down and had our teas together. We was a-talking about—"
"Never mind that," said Mr. Verner. "It was in coming home, I conclude, that you were met by young Broom."
Mrs. Roy raised her apron again, and passed it over her face but not a word spoke she in answer.
"What time did you leave Broom's cottage to return home?"
"I can't be sure, sir, what time it was. Broom's haven't got no clock; they tells the time by the sun."
"Was it dark?"
"Oh, yes, it was dark, sir, except for the moon. That had been up a good bit, for I hadn't hurried myself."
"And what did you see or hear, when you got near the Willow Pond?"
The question sent Mrs. Roy into fresh tears; into fresh tremor.
"I never saw nothing," she reiterated. "The last time I set eyes on Rachel Frost was at church on Sunday."
"What is the matter with you?" cried Mr. Verner, with asperity. "Do you mean to deny that anything had occurred to put you in a state of agitation, when you were met by young Broom?"
Mrs. Roy only moaned.
"Did you hear people quarrelling?" he persisted.
"I heard people quarrelling," she sobbed. "I did. But I never saw, no more than the dead, who it was."
"Whose voices were they?"
"How can I tell, sir? I wasn't near enough. There were two voices, a man's and a woman's; but I couldn't catch a single word, and it did not last long. I declare, if it were the last word I had to speak, that I heard no more of the quarrel than that, and I wasn't no nearer to it."
She really did seem to speak the truth, in spite of her shrinking fear, which was evident to all. Mr. Verner inquired, with incredulity equally evident, whether that was sufficient to put her into the state of tremor spoken of by young Broom.
Mrs. Roy hung her head.
"I'm timid at quarrels, 'specially if it's at night," she faintly answered.
"And was it just the hearing of that quarrel that made you sink down on your knees, and clasp hold of a tree?" continued Mr. Verner. Upon which Mrs. Roy let fall her head on her hands, and sobbed piteously.
Robin Frost interrupted, sarcasm in his tone—"There's a tale going on, outside, that you saw a ghost, and it was that as frighted you," he said to her. "Perhaps, sir"—turning to Mr. Verner—"you'll ask her whose ghost it was."
This appeared to put the finishing touch to Mrs. Roy's discomfiture. Nothing could be made of her for a few minutes. Presently, her agitation somewhat subsided; she lifted her head, and spoke as with a desperate effort.
"It's true," she said. "I'll make a clean breast of it. I did see a ghost, and it was that as upset me so. It wasn't the quarrelling frighted me: I thought nothing of that."
"What do you mean by saying you saw a ghost?" sharply reproved Mr. Verner.
"It was a ghost, sir," she answered, apparently picking up a little courage, now the subject was fairly entered upon.
A pause ensued. Mr. Verner may have been at a loss what to say next. When deliberately assured by any timorous spirit that they have "seen a ghost," it is waste of time to enter an opposing argument.
"Where did you see the ghost?" he asked.
"I had stopped still, listening to the quarrelling, sir. But that soon came to an end, for I heard no more, and I went on a few steps, and then I stopped to listen again. Just as I turned my head towards the grove, where the quarrelling had seemed to be, I saw something a few paces from me that made my flesh creep. A tall, white thing it looked, whiter than the moonlight. I knew it could be nothing but a ghost, and my knees sunk down from under me, and I laid hold o' the trunk o' the tree."
"Perhaps it was a death's head and bones?" cried John Massingbird.
"Maybe, sir," she answered. "That, or something worse. It glided through the trees with its great eyes staring at me; and I felt ready to die."
"Was it a man's or a woman's ghost?" asked Mr. Bitterworth, a broad smile upon his face.
"Couldn't have been a woman's, sir; 'twas too tall," was the sobbing answer. "A great tall thing it looked, like a white shadder. I wonder I be alive!"
"So do I," irascibly cried Mr. Verner. "Which way was it going? Towards the village, or in this direction?"
"Not in either of 'em, sir. It glided right off at a angle amid the trees."
"And it was that—that folly, that put you into the state of tremor in which Broom found you?" said Mr. Verner. "It was nothing else?"
"I declare, before Heaven, that it was what I saw as put me into the fright young Broom found me in," she repeated earnestly.
"But if you were so silly as to be alarmed for the moment, why do you continue to show alarm still?"
"Because my husband says he'll shake me," she whimpered, after a long pause. "He never has no patience with ghosts."
"Serve you right," was the half-audible comment of Mr. Verner. "Is this all you know of the affair?" he continued, after a pause.
"It's all, sir," she sobbed. "And enough too. There's only one thing as I shall be for ever thankful for."
"What's that?" asked Mr. Verner.
"That my poor Luke was away afore this happened. He was fond of hankering after Rachel, and folks might have been for laying it on his shoulders; though, goodness knows, he'd not have hurt a hair of her head."
"At any rate, he is out of it," observed John Massingbird.
"Ay," she replied, in a sort of self-soliloquy, as she turned to leave the room, for Mr. Verner told her she was dismissed, "it'll be a corn o' comfort amid my peck o' troubles. I have fretted myself incessant since Luke left, a-thinking as I could never know comfort again; but perhaps it's all for the best now, as he should ha' went."
She curtsied, and the door was closed upon her. Her evidence left an unsatisfactory feeling behind it.
An impression had gone forth that Mrs. Roy could throw some light upon the obscurity; and, as it turned out, she had thrown none. The greater part of those present gave credence to what she said. All believed the "ghost" to have been pure imagination; knowing the woman's proneness to the marvellous, and her timid temperament. But, upon one or two there remained a strong conviction that Mrs. Roy had not told the whole truth; that she could have said a great deal more about the night's work, had she chosen to do so.
No other testimony was forthcoming. The cries and shouts of young Broom, when he saw the body in the water, had succeeded in arousing some men who slept at the distant brick-kilns; and the tidings soon spread, and crowds flocked up. These people were eager to pour into Mr. Verner's room now, and state all they knew, which was precisely the evidence not required; but of further testimony to the facts there was none.
"More may come out prior to the inquest; there's no knowing," observed Mr. Bitterworth, as the gentlemen stood in a group, before separating. "It is a very dreadful thing, demanding the most searching investigation. It is not likely she would throw herself in."
"A well-conducted girl like Rachel Frost throw herself wilfully into a pond to be drowned!" indignantly repeated Mr. Verner. "She would be one of the last to do it."
"And equally one of the last to be thrown in," said Dr. West. "Young women are not thrown into ponds without some cause; and I should think few ever gave less cause for maltreatment of any kind than she. It appears most strange to me with whom she could have been quarrelling—if indeed it was Rachel that was quarrelling."
"It is all strange together," cried Lionel Verner. "What took Rachel that way at all, by night time?"
"What