The witchs head 1884, p.7
The Witch’s Head (1884), page 7
Jeremy turned his broad back upon Ernest — he felt that he could speak better on such a subject with his back turned — and, addressing empty space before him, said:
“I think it was precious unkind of you.”
“What was precious unkind?”
“To go and cut me out of the only girl — —”
“I ever loved?” suggested Ernest, for he was hesitating.
“I ever loved!” chimed in Jeremy; for the phrase expressed his sentiments exactly.
“Well, old chap, if you would come to the point a little more, and tell me who the deuce you are talking about — —”
“Why, who should I be talking about? there is only one girl — —”
“You ever loved?”
“I ever loved!”
“Well, in the name of the Holy Roman Empire, who is she?”
“Why, Eva Ceswick.”
Ernest whistled.
“I say, old chap,” he said, after a pause, “why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t even know that you knew her. Are you engaged to her, then?”
“Engaged! no.”
“Well, then, have you an understanding with her?”
“No, of course not.”
“Look here, old fellow, if you would just slew round a bit and tell me how the matter stands, we might get on a little.”
“It doesn’t stand at all, but — I worship the ground she treads on; there!”
“Ah!” said Ernest, “that’s awkward, for so do I — at least I think I do.”
Jeremy groaned, and Ernest groaned too, by way of company.
“Look here, old chap,” said the latter, “what is to be done? You should have told me, but you didn’t, you see. If you had, I would have kept clear. Fact is, she bowled me over altogether, bowled me clean.”
“So she did me.”
“I’ll tell you what, Jeremy, I’ll go away and leave you to make the running. Not that I see that there is much good in either of us making the running, for we have nothing to marry on, and no more has she.”
“And we are only twenty-one. We can’t marry at twenty-one,” put in Jeremy, “or we should have a large family by the time we’re thirty. Fellows who marry at twenty-one always do.”
“She’s twenty-one; she told me so.”
“She told me too,” said Jeremy, determined to show that Ernest was not the only person favoured with this exciting fact.
“Well, shall I clear? we can’t jaw about it for ever.”
“No,” said Jeremy, slowly, and in a way that showed that it cost him an effort to say it, “that would not be fair; besides, I expect that the mischief is done; everybody gets fond of you, old fellow, men or women. No, you shan’t go, and we won’t get to loggerheads over it either. I’ll tell you what we will do — we will toss up.”
This struck Ernest as a brilliant suggestion.
“Right you are,” he said, at once producing a shilling; “singles or threes?”
“Singles, of course; it’s sooner over.”
Ernest poised the coin on his thumb.
“You call. But, I say, what are we tossing for? We can’t draw lots for the girl like the fellows in Homer. We haven’t captured her yet.”
This was obviously a point that required consideration. Jeremy scratched his head.
“How will this do?” he said. “The winner to have a month to make the running in, the loser not to interfere. If she won’t have anything to say to him after a month, then the loser to have his fling. If she will, loser to keep away.”
“That will do. Stand clear; up you go.”
The shilling spun in the air.
“Tails!” howled Jeremy.
It lit on the beak of the astonished bittern and bounded off on to the floor, finally rolling under a box full of choice specimens of petrified bones of antediluvian animals that had been washed out of the cliffs. The box was lugged out of the way with difficulty, and the shilling disclosed.
“Heads it is!” said Ernest exultingly.
“I expected as much; just my luck. Well, shake hands, Ernest. We won’t quarrel about the girl, please God.”
They shook hands heartily enough and parted; but from that time for many a long day there was an invisible something between them that had not been there before. Strong indeed must be the friendship of which the bonds do not slacken when the shadow of a woman’s love falls upon it.
That afternoon Dorothy said that she wanted to go into Kesterwick to make some purchases, and Ernest offered to accompany her. They walked in silence as far as Titheburgh Abbey; indeed, they both suffered from a curious constraint that seemed effectually to check their usual brother-and-sister-like relations. Ernest was just beginning to feel the silence awkward when Dorothy stopped.
“What was that?” she said. “I thought I heard somebody cry out.”
They listened, and presently both heard a woman’s voice calling for help. The sound seemed to come from the cliff on their left. They stepped to the edge and looked over. As may be remembered, some twenty feet from the top of the cliff, and fifty or more from the bottom, there was at this spot a sandy ledge, on which were deposited many of the remains washed out of the churchyard by the sea. Now, this particular spot was almost inaccessible without ladders, because, although it was easy enough to get down to its level, the cliff bulged out on either side of it, and gave for the space of some yards little or no hold for the hands or feet of the climber.
The first thing that caught Ernest’s eyes when he looked over was a lady’s foot and ankle, which appeared to be resting on a tiny piece of rock that projected from the surface of the cliff; the next was the imploring face of Eva Ceswick, who was sprawling in a most undignified position on the bulge of sandstone, with nothing more between her and eternity than the very unsatisfactory and insufficient knob of rock. It was evident that she could move neither one way or the other without being precipitated to the bottom of the cliff, to which she was apparently clinging by suction like a fly.
“Great God!” exclaimed Ernest. “Hold on, I will come to you.”
“I can’t hold much longer.”
It was one thing to say that he would come, and another to do it. The sand gave scarcely any foothold; how was he to get enough purchase to pull Eva round the bulge? He looked at Dorothy in despair. Her quick mind had taken in the situation at a glance.
“You must get down there above her, Ernest, and lie flat, and stretch out your hand to her.”
“But there is nothing to hold to. When she puts her weight on to my hand we shall both go together.”
“No, I will hold your legs. Be quick, she is getting exhausted.”
It took Ernest but two seconds to reach the spot that Dorothy had pointed to, and to lay himself flat, or rather slanting, for his heels were a great deal higher than his head. Fortunately, he discovered a hard knob of sandstone, against which he could rest his left hand. Meanwhile, Dorothy, seating herself as securely as she could above, seized him by the ankles. Then Ernest stretched his hand downwards, and, gripping Eva by the wrist, began to put out his strength. Had the three found any time to indulge their sense of humour, they might have found the appearance they presented intensely ludicrous; but they did not, for the very good reason that for thirty seconds or so their lives were not worth a farthing’s purchase. Ernest strained and strained, but Eva was a large woman, although she danced so lightly, and the bulge over which he had to pull her was almost perpendicular. Presently he felt that Dorothy was beginning to slip above him.
“She must make an effort, or we shall all go,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Drive your knees into the sand and throw yourself forward, it is your only chance!” gasped Ernest to the exhausted girl beneath him.
She realised the meaning of his words, and gave a desperate struggle.
“Pull, Doll; for God’s sake, pull! she’s coming.”
Then followed a second of despairing effort, and she was beside him on the spot where he lay; another struggle and the three sank exhausted on the top of the cliff, rescued from a most imminent death.
“By Jove!” ejaculated Ernest, “that was a near thing!”
Dorothy nodded; she was too exhausted to speak. Eva smiled and fainted.
He turned to her with a little cry and began to chafe her cold hands.
“Oh, she’s dead, Doll!” he said.
“No, she has fainted. Give me your hat.”
Before he could do so she had seized it, and was running as quickly as her exhaustion would allow towards a spring that bubbled up a hundred yards away, and which once had been the water supply of the old abbey.
Ernest went on rubbing for a minute or more, but without producing the slightest effect. He was in despair. The beautiful face beneath him looked so wan and death-like; all the red had left her lips. In his distress, and scarcely knowing what he did, he bent over them and kissed them, once, twice, thrice. That mode of restoration is not recommended in the medicine chest “guide,” but in this instance it was not without its effect. Presently a faint and tremulous glow diffused itself over the pale cheek; in another moment it deepened to a most unmistakable blush. (Was it a half-consciousness of Ernest’s new method of treatment, or merely the returning blood that produced the blush? Let us not inquire.) Next Eva sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up.
“Oh, you are not dead!”
“No, I don’t think so, but I can’t quite remember. What was it? Ah, I know”; and she shut her eyes, as though to keep out some horrid sight. Presently she opened them again. “You have saved my life,” she said. “If it had not been for you, I should have now been lying crushed at the foot of that dreadful cliff. I am so grateful.”
At that moment Dorothy came back with a little water in Ernest’s black hat, for in her hurry she had spilled most of it.
“Here, drink some of this,” she said.
Eva tried to do so; but a billycock hat is not a very convenient drinking vessel till you get used to it, and she upset more than she swallowed. But what she drank did her good. She put down the hat, and they all three laughed a little; it was so funny drinking out of an old hat.
“Were you long down there before we came?” asked Dorothy.
“No, not long; only about half a minute on that dreadful bulge.”
“What on earth did you go there for?” said Ernest, putting his dripping hat on to his head, for the sun was hot.
“I wanted to see the bones. I am very active, and thought that I could get up quite safely; but sand is so slippery. Oh, I forgot; look here”; and she pointed to a thin cord that was tied to her wrist.
“What is that?”
“Why, it is tied to such an odd lead box that I found in the sand. Mr. Jones said the other day that he thought it was a bit of an old coffin, but it is not, it is a lead box with a rusty iron handle. I could not move it much; but I had this bit of cord with me — I thought I might want it getting down, you know — so I tied one end of it to the handle.”
“Let us pull it up,” said Ernest, unfastening the cord from Eva’s wrist, and beginning to tug.
But the case was too heavy for him to lift alone; indeed, it proved as much as they could all three manage to drag it to the top. However, up it came at last. Ernest examined it carefully, and came to the conclusion that it was very ancient. The massive iron handle at the top of the oblong case was almost eaten through with rust, and the lead itself was much corroded, although, from fragments that still clung to it, it was evident that it had once been protected by an outer case of oak. Evidently the case had been washed out of the churchyard where it had lain for centuries.
“This is quite exciting,” said Eva, who was now sufficiently interested to forget all about her escape. “What can be in it? — treasure or papers, I should think.”
“I don’t know,” answered Ernest; “I should hardly think that they would bury such things in a churchyard. Perhaps it is a small baby.”
“Ernest,” broke in Dorothy, in an agitated way, “I don’t like that thing. I can’t tell you why, but I am sure it is unlucky. I wish that you would throw it back to where it came from, or into the sea. It is a horrid thing, and we have nearly lost our lives over it already.”
“Nonsense, Doll! whoever thought that you were so superstitious? Why, perhaps it is full of money or jewels. Let’s take it home and open it.”
“I am not superstitious, and you can take it home if you like. I will not touch it; I tell you it is a horrid thing.”
“All right Doll, then you shan’t have a share of the spoil. Miss Ceswick and I will divide it. Will you help me to carry it to the house, Miss Ceswick? — that is, unless you are afraid of it, like Doll.”
“Oh no,” she answered, “I am not afraid; I am dying of curiosity to see what is inside.”
CHAPTER X
WHAT EVA FOUND
“YOU ARE SURE you are not too tired?” said Ernest, after a moment’s consideration.
“No, indeed, I have quite recovered,” she answered with a blush.
Ernest blushed too, from sympathy probably, and went to pick up a bough that lay beneath a stunted oak-tree which grew in the ruins of the abbey, on the spot where once the altar had stood. This he ran through the iron handle, and, directing Eva to take hold of one end, he took the other himself, Dorothy marching solemnly in front.
As it happened, Jeremy and Mr. Cardus were strolling along together smoking, when suddenly they caught sight of the cavalcade advancing, and hurried to meet it.
“What is all this?” asked Mr. Cardus of Dorothy, who was now nearly fifty yards ahead of the other two.
“Well, Reginald, it is a long story. First we found Eva Ceswick slipping down the cliff, and dragged her up just in time.”
“My luck again!” thought Jeremy, groaning in spirit. “I might have sat on the edge of that cliff for ten years, and never got a chance of dragging her up.”
“Then we pulled up that horrid box, which she found down in the sand, and tied a cord to.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Ernest, who was now arriving, “and, would you believe it, Dorothy wanted us to throw it back again!”
“I know I did; I said that it was unlucky, and it is unlucky.”
“Nonsense, Dorothy! it is very interesting. I expect that it will be found to contain deeds buried in the churchyard for safety and never dug up again,” broke in Mr. Cardus, much interested. “Let me catch hold of that stick, Miss Ceswick, and I daresay that Jeremy will go on and get a hammer and a cold chisel, and we will soon solve the mystery.”
“Oh, very well, Reginald; you will see,” said Dorothy.
Mr. Cardus glanced at her. It was curious her taking such an idea. Then they walked to the house. On reaching the sitting-room they found Jeremy already there with his hammer and chisel. He was an admirable amateur blacksmith; indeed, there were few manual trades of which he did not know a little, and, placing the case on the table, he set about the task of opening it in a most workmanlike manner.
The lead, though it was in places eaten quite away, was still thick and sound near the edges, and it took him a good quarter of an hour’s hard chopping to remove what appeared to be the front of the case. Excitement was at its height as it fell forward with a bang on the table; but it was then found that what had been removed was merely a portion of an outer case, there being beneath it an inner chest, also of lead.
“Well,” said Jeremy, “they fastened it up pretty well”; and then he set to work again.
This inner skin of lead was thinner and easier to cut than the first had been, and he got through the job more quickly though not nearly quickly enough for the impatience of the bystanders. At last the front fell out, and disclosed a small cabinet made of solid pieces of black oak and having a hinged door, which was fastened by a tiny latch and hasp of the common pattern that is probably as old as doors are. From this cabinet there came a strong odour of spices.
The excitement was now intense, and seemed to be shared by everybody in the house. Grice had come in through the swing-door and stationed herself in the background, Sampson and the groom were peering through the window, and even old Atterleigh, attracted by the sound of the hammering, had strolled aimlessly in.
“What can it be?” said Eva, with a gasp.
Slowly Jeremy extracted the cabinet from its leaden coverings and set it on the table.
“Shall I open it?” he said. Suiting the action to the word, he lifted the latch, and placing the chisel between the edge of the little door and its frame, prised the cabinet open.
The smell of spices became even more pronounced than ever, and for a moment the cloud of dust that came from them, as their fragments rolled out of the cabinet on to the table, prevented the spectators, who, all but Dorothy, were crowding up to the case, from seeing what it contained. Presently, however, a large whitish bundle became visible. Jeremy put in his hand, pulled it out, and laid it on the top of the box. It was heavy. But when he had done this he did not seem inclined to go any further in the matter. The bundle had, he considered, an uncanny look.
At that moment an interruption took place, for Florence Ceswick entered through the open door. She had come up to see Dorothy, and was astonished to find such a gathering.
“Why, what is it all about?” she asked.
Somebody told her in as few words as possible, for everybody’s attention was concentrated on the bundle, which nobody seemed inclined to touch.
“Well, why don’t you open it?” asked Florence.
“I think that they are all afraid,” said Mr. Cardus, with a laugh.
He was watching the various expressions on the faces with an amused air.
“Well, I am not afraid, at any rate,” said Florence. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, the Gorgon’s head is about to be unveiled: look the other way, or you will all be turned to stone.”
“This is getting delightfully ghastly,” said Eva to Ernest.
“I know that it will be something horrid,” added Dorothy.
Meanwhile Florence had drawn out a heavy pin of ancient make, with which the wrapping of the bundle was fastened, and began to unwind a long piece of discoloured linen. At the first turn another shower of spices fell out. As soon as these had been swept aside, Florence proceeded slowly with her task, and as she removed fold after fold of the linen, the bundle began to take shape and form, and the shape it took was that of a human head!
