CHAPTER XIV.
THE MILLBANK GHOST.
One of the greatest charms of London has ever been the facility of gettingaway from it to some adjacent rustic or pseudo-rustic spot; and in 1666,though many people declared that the city had outgrown all reason, and waseating up the country, a two-mile journey would carry the Londoner frombricks and mortar to rusticity, and while the tower of St Paul's Cathedralwas still within sight he might lie on the grass on a wild hillside,and hear the skylark warbling in the blue arch above him, and scentthe hawthorn blowing in untrimmed hedge-rows. And then there were thefashionable resorts--the gardens or the fields which the town had marked asits own. Beauty and wit had their choice of such meeting-grounds betweenWestminster and Barn Elms, where in the remote solitudes along the rivermurder might be done in strict accordance with etiquette, and was tooseldom punished by law.
Among the rendezvous of fashion there was one retired spot less widelyknown than Fox Hall or the Mulberry Garden, but which possessed a certainrepute, and was affected rather by the exclusives than by the crowd. It wasa dilapidated building of immemorial age, known as the "haunted Abbey,"being, in fact, the refectory of a Cistercian monastery, of which all otherremains had disappeared long ago. The Abbey had flourished in the lifetimeof Sir Thomas More, and was mentioned in some of his familiar epistles.The ruined building had been used as a granary in the time of Charles theFirst; and it was only within the last decade that it had been redeemedfrom that degraded use, and had been in some measure restored and madehabitable for the occupation of an old couple, who owned the surroundingfields, and who had a small dairy farm from which they sent fresh milk intoLondon every morning.
The ghostly repute of the place and the attraction of new milk, cheesecakes, and syllabubs, had drawn a certain number of those satiatedpleasure-seekers who were ever on the alert for a new sensation, among whomthere was none more active or more noisy than Lady Sarah Tewkesbury. Shehad made the haunted Abbey in a manner her own, had invited her friendsto midnight parties to watch for the ghost, and to morning parties to eatsyllabubs and dance on the grass. She had brought a shower of gold into thelap of the miserly freeholder, and had husband and wife completely underher thumb.
Doler, the husband, had fought in the civil war, and Mrs. Doler had beena cook in the Fairfax household; but both had scrupulously sunk allCromwellian associations since his Majesty's return, and in boasting, as heoften did boast, of having fought desperately and been left for dead at thebattle of Brentford, Mr. Doler had been careful to suppress the fact thathe was a hireling soldier of the Parliament. He would weep for the martyredKing, and tell the story of his own wounds, until it is possible he hadforgotten which side he had fought for, in remembering his personal prowessand sufferings.
So far there had been disappointment as to the ghost. Sounds had been heardof a most satisfying grimness, during those midnight and early morningwatchings; rappings, and scrapings, and scratching on the wall, groaningsand meanings, sighings and whisperings behind the wainscote; but nothingspectral had been seen; and Mrs. Doler had been severely reprimanded by herpatrons and patronesses for the unwarrantable conduct of a spectre whichshe professed to have seen as often as she had fingers and toes.
It was the phantom of a nun--a woman of exceeding beauty, but white as thelinen which banded her cheek and brow. There was a dark story of violatedoaths, priestly sin, and the sleepless conscience of the dead, who couldnot rest even in that dreadful grave where the sinner had been immuredalive, but must needs haunt the footsteps of the living, a wandering shade.Some there were who disbelieved in the traditions of that living grave,and who even went so far as to doubt the ghost; but the spectre had anestablished repute of more than a century, was firmly believed in by allthe children and old women of the neighbourhood, and had been written aboutby students of the unseen.
One of Lady Sarah's parties took place at full moon, not long after thevisit to Deptford, and Lord Fareham's barge was again employed, this timeon a nocturnal expedition up the river to the fields near the hauntedAbbey, to carry Hyacinth, her sister, De Malfort, Lord Rochester, Sir RalphMasaroon, Sir Denzil Warner, and a bevy of wits and beauties--beauties whohad, some of them, been carrying on the beauty-business and trading in eyesand complexion for more than one decade, and who loved that night seasonwhen paint might be laid on thicker than in the glare of day.
The barge wore a much more festive aspect under her ladyship's managementthan when used by his lordship for a daylight voyage like the trip toDeptford. Satin coverlets and tapestry curtains had been brought fromLady Fareham's own apartments, to be flung with studied carelessness overbenches and tabourets. Her ladyship's singing-boys and musicians weregrouped picturesquely under a silken canopy in the bows, and a row oflanterns hung on chains festooned from stem to stern, pretty gew-gaws, thathad no illuminating power under that all-potent moon, but which glitteredwith coloured light like jewels, and twinkled and trembled in the summerair.
A table in the stern was spread with a light collation, which gave anexcuse for the display of parcel-gilt cups, silver tankards, and Venetianwine-flasks. A miniature fountain played perfumed waters in the midst ofthis splendour; and it amused the ladies to pull off their long gloves, dipthem in the scented water, and flap them in the faces of their beaux.
The distance was only too short, since Lady Fareham's friends declared thevoyage was by far the pleasanter part of the entertainment. Denzil, amongothers, was of this opinion, for it was his good fortune to have securedthe seat next Angela, and to be able to interest her by his account of thebuildings they passed, whose historical associations were much better knownto him than to most young men of his epoch. He had sat at the feet of a manwho scoffed at Pope and King, and hated Episcopacy, but who revered allthat was noble and excellent in England's past.
"Flams, mere flams!" cried Hyacinth, acknowledging the praises bestowed onher barge; "but if you like clary wine better than skimmed milk you hadbest drink a brimmer or two before you leave the barge, since 'tis oddsyou'll get nothing but syllabubs and gingerbread from Lady Sarah."
"A substantial supper might frighten away the ghost, who doubtless partedwith sensual propensities when she died," said De Malfort. "How do we watchfor her? In a severe silence, as if we were at church?"
"Aw would keep silence for a week o' Sawbaths gin Aw was sure o' seeing abogle," said Lady Euphemia Dubbin, a Scotch marquess's daughter, who hadmarried a wealthy cit, and made it the chief endeavour of her life toignore her husband and keep him at a distance.
She hated the man only a little less than his plebeian name, which she hadnot succeeded in persuading him to change, because, forsooth, there hadbeen Dubbins in Mark Lane for many generations. All previous Dubbins hadlived over their warehouses and offices; but her ladyship had broughtThomas Dubbin from Mark Lane to my Lord Bedford's Piazza in the ConventGarden, where he endured the tedium of existence in a fine new house inwhich he was afraid of his fine new servants, and never had anything to eatthat he liked, his gastronomic taste being for dishes the very names ofwhich were intolerable to persons of quality.
This evening Mr. Dubbin had been incorrigible, and had insisted onintruding his clumsy person upon Lady Fareham's party, arguing with a dullpersistence that his name was on her ladyship's billet of invitation.
"Your name is on a great many invitations only because it is my misfortuneto be called by it," his wife told him. "To sit on a barge after teno'clock at night in June--the coarsest month in summer--is to courtlumbago; and all I hope is ye'll not be punished by a worse attack thancommon."
Mr. Dubbin had refused to be discouraged, even by this churlishness fromhis lady, and appeared in attendance upon her, wearing a magnificentbirthday suit of crimson velvet and green brocade, which he meant topresent to his favourite actor at the Duke's Theatre, after he hadexhibited himself in it half a dozen times at Whitehall, for the benefitof the great world, and at the Mulberry Garden for the admiration of the_bona-robas_. He was a fat, double-chinned
little man, the essence of goodnature, and perfectly unconscious of being an offence to fine people.
Although not a wit himself, Mr. Dubbin was occasionally the cause of wit inothers, if the practice of bubbling an innocent rustic or citizen can becalled wit. Rochester and Sir Ralph Masaroon, and one Jerry Spavinger,a gentleman jockey, who was a nobody in town, but a shining light atNewmarket, took it upon themselves to draw the harmless citizen, and, as apreliminary to making him ridiculous, essayed to make him drunk.
They were clustered together in a little group somewhat apart from therest of the company, and were attended upon by a lackey who brought a fulltankard at the first whistle on the empty one, and whom Mr. Dubbin, aftera rapid succession of brimmers, insisted on calling "drawer." It was veryseldom that Rochester condescended to take part in any entertainment onwhich the royal sun shone not, unless it were some post-midnight maraudingwith Buckhurst, Sedley, and a band of wild coursers from the purlieus ofDrury Lane. He could see no pleasure in any medium between Whitehall andAlsatia.
"If I am not fooling on the steps of the throne, let me sprawl inthe gutter with pamphleteers and orange-girls," said this precociousprofligate. "I abhor a reputable party among your petty nobility, and ifI had not been in love with Lady Fareham off and on, ever since I cut mysecond teeth, I would have no hand in such a humdrum business as this."
"There's not a neater filly in the London stable than her ladyship," saidJerry, "and I don't blame your taste. I was side-glassing her yesterday inHi' Park, but she didn't seem to relish the manoeuvre, though I was wearinga Chedreux peruke that ought to strike 'em dead."
"You don't give your peruke a chance, Jerry, while you frame that ugly phizin it."
"Why not buffle the whole company, my lord?" said Masaroon, while Mr.Dubbin talked apart with Lady Euphemia, who had come from the other end ofthe barge to warn her husband against excess in Rhenish or Burgundy. "Youare good at disguises. Why not act the ghost and frighten everybody out oftheir senses?"
"Il n'y a pas de quoi, Ralph. The creatures have no sense to be robbedof. They are second-rate fashion, which is only worked by machinery. Theyimitate us as monkeys do, without knowing what they aim at. Their womenhave virtuous instincts, but turn wanton rather than not be like the maidsof honour; and because we have our duels their men murder each other fora shrugged shoulder or a casual word. No, I'll not chalk my face or smearmyself with phosphorus to amuse such trumpery. It was worth my pains todisguise myself as a German Nostradamus, in order to fool the lovelyJennings and her friend Price--who won't easily forget their adventuresas orange-girls in the heart of the city. But I have done with all suchfollies."
"You are growing old, Wilmot. The years are telling upon your spirits."
"I was nineteen last birthday, and 'tis fit I should feel the burden oftime, and think of virtue and a rich wife."
"Like Mrs. Mallet, for example."
"Faith, a man might do worse than win so much beauty and wealth. But thecreature is arrogant, and calls me 'child;' and half the peerage is afterher. But we'll have our jest with the city scrub, Ralph; not because I bearhim malice, but because I hate his wife. And we'll have our masqueradingsome time after midnight; if you can borrow a little finery."
Mr. Dubbin was released from his lady's _sotto voce_ lecture at thisinstant, and Lord Rochester continued his communication in a whisper, theHonourable Jeremiah assenting with nods and chucklings, while Masaroonwhistled for a fresh tankard, and plied the honest merchant with a glasswhich he never allowed to be empty.
The taste for masquerading was a fashion of the time, as much as combing aperiwig, or flirting a fan. While Rochester was planning a trick upon thecitizen, Lady Fareham was whispering to De Malfort under cover of thefiddles, which were playing an Italian pazzemano, an air belovedby Henrietta of Orleans, who danced to that music with her royalbrother-in-law, in one of the sumptuous ballets at St. Cloud.
"Why should they be disappointed of their ghost," said Hyacinth, "when itwould be so easy for me to dress up as the nun and scare them all? Thiswhite satin gown of mine, with a few yards of white lawn arranged on myhead and shoulders----"
"Ah, but you have not the lawn at hand to-night, or your woman to arrangeyour head," interjected De Malfort quickly. "It would be a capital joke;but it must be for another occasion and choicer company. The rabbleyou have to-night is not worth it. Besides, there is Rochester, who ispast-master in disguises, and would smoke you at a glance. Let me arrangeit some night before the end of the summer--when there is a waning moon. Itwere a pity the thing were done ill."
"Will you really plan a party for me, and let me appear to them on thestroke of one, with my face whitened? I have as slender a shape as mostwomen."
"There is no such sylph in London."
"And I can make myself look ethereal. Will you draw the nun's habit for me?and I will give your picture to Lewin to copy."
"I will do more. I will get you a real habit."
"But there are no nuns so white as the ghost."
"True, but you may rely upon me. The nun's robes shall be there, thephosphorous, the blue fire, and a selection of the choicest company totremble at you. Leave the whole business to my care. It will amuse me toplan so exquisite a jest for so lovely a jester."
He bent down to kiss her hand, till his forehead almost touched her knee,and in the few moments that passed before he raised it, she heard himlaughing softly to himself, as if with irrepressible delight.
"What a child you are," she said, "to be pleased with such folly!"
"What children we both are, Hyacinth! My sweet soul, let us always bechildish, and find pleasure in follies. Life is such a poor thing, that ifwe had leisure to appraise its value we should have a contagion of suicidethat would number more deaths than the plague. Indeed, the wonder is, notthat any man should commit _felo de se_, but that so many of us should takethe trouble to live."
Lady Sarah received them at the landing-stage, with an escort of fops andfine ladies; and the festival promised to be a success. There was a bettersupper, and more wine than people expected from her ladyship; and aftersupper a good many of those who pretended to have come to see the ghost,wandered off in couples to saunter along the willow-shaded bank, while onlythe more earnest spirits were content to wait and watch and listen in thegreat vaulted hall, with no light but the moon which sent a flood of silverthrough the high Gothic window, from which every vestige of glass had longvanished.
There were stone benches along the two side walls, and Lady Sarah's_prevoyance_ had secured cushions or carpets for her guests to sit upon;and here the superstitious sat in patient weariness, Angela among them,with Denzil still at her side, scornful of credulous folly, but loving tobe with her he adored. Lady Fareham had been tempted out-of-doors by DeMalfort to look at the moonlight on the river, and had not returned.Rochester and his crew had also vanished directly after supper; and forcompany Angela had on her left hand Mr. Dubbin, far advanced in liquor, andtrembling at every breath of summer wind that fluttered the ivy round theruined window, and at every shadow that moved upon the moonlit wall. Hiswife was on the other side of the hall, whispering with Lady Sarah, andboth so deep in a court scandal--in which the "K" and the "D" recurredvery often--that they had almost forgotten the purpose of that moonlightsitting.
Suddenly in the distance there sounded a long shrill wailing, as of a soulin agony, whereupon Mr. Dubbin, after clinging wildly to Angela, and beingsomewhat roughly flung aside by Denzil, collapsed altogether, and rolledupon the ground.
"Lady Euphemia," cried Mrs. Townshend, a young lady who had been sittingnext the obnoxious citizen, "be pleased to look after your drunken husband.If you take the low-bred sot into company, you should at least chargeyourself with the care of his manners."
The damsel had started to her feet, and indignantly snatched her satinpetticoat from contact with the citizen's porpoise figure.
"I hate mixed company," she told Angela, "and old maids who marrytallow-chandlers. If a woman of rank ma
rries a shopkeeper she ought neverto be allowed west of Temple Bar."
This young lady was no believer in ghosts; but others of the company weretoo scared for speech. All had risen, and were staring in the directionwhence that dismal shriek had come. A trick, perhaps, since anybody withstrong lungs--dairymaid or cowboy--could shriek. They all wanted to _see_something, a real manifestation of the supernatural.
The unearthly sound was repeated, and the next moment a spectral shape, inflowing white garments, rushed through the great window, and crossed thehall, followed by three other shapes in dark loose robes, with hoodedheads. One carried a rope, another a pickaxe, the third a trowel and hod ofmortar. They crossed the hall with flying footsteps--shadowlike--the paleshape in distracted flight, the dark shapes pursuing, and came to a stopclose against the wall, which had been vacated by the scared assembly,scattering as if the king of terrors had appeared among them--yet withfascinated eyes fixed on those fearsome figures.
"It is the nun herself!" cried Lady Sarah, apprehension and triumphcontending in her agitated spirits; for it was surely a feather in herladyship's cap to have produced such a phantasmal train at her party. "Thenun and her executioners!"
The company fell back from the ghostly troop, recoiling till they were allclustered against the opposite wall, leaving a clear space in front of thespectres, whence they looked on, shuddering, at the tragedy of the erringSister's fate, repeated in dumb show. The white-robed figure knelt andgrovelled at the feet of those hooded executioners. One seized and boundher, with strange automatic action, unlike the movements of livingcreatures, and another smote the wall with a pickaxe that made no sound,while the third waited with his trowel and mortar. It was a gruesome sightto those who knew the story--a gruesome, yet an enjoyable spectacle; since,as Lady Sarah's friends had not had the pleasure of knowing the sinningSister in the flesh, they watched this ghostly representation of hersuffering with as keen an interest as they would have felt had they beenprivileged to see Claud Duval swing at Tyburn.
The person most terrified by this ghostly show was the only one who had thehardihood to tackle the performers. This was Mr. Dubbin, who sat on theground watching the shadowy figures, sobered by fear, and his shrewd citysenses gradually returning to a brain bemused by Burgundy.
"Look at her boots!" he cried suddenly, scrambling to his feet, andpointing to the nun, who, in sprawling and writhing at the feet of herexecutioner, had revealed more leg and foot than were consistent with herspectral whiteness. "She wears yaller boots, as substantial as any shoeleather among the company. I'll swear to them yaller boots."
A chorus of laughter followed this attack--laughter which found a smotheredecho among the ghosts. The spell was broken; disillusion followed theexquisite thrill of fear; and all Lady Sarah's male visitors made a rushupon the guilty nun. The loose white robe was stripped off, and littleJerry Spavinger, gentleman jock, famous on the Heath, and at Doncaster,stood revealed, in his shirt and breeches, and those light riding-bootswhich he rarely exchanged for a more courtly chaussure.
The monks, hustled out of their disguise, were Rochester, Masaroon, andLady Sarah's young brother, George Saddington.
"From my Lord Rochester I expect nothing but pot-house buffoonery; butI take it vastly ill on your part, George, to join in making me alaughing-stock," remonstrated Lady Sarah.
"Indeed, sister, you have to thank his light-headed lordship for giving aspirited end to your assembly. Could you conceive how preposterous youand your friends looked sitting against the walls, mute as stockfish, andsuggesting nothing but a Quaker's meeting, you would make us your lowestcurtsy, and thank us kindly for having helped you out of a dilemma."
Lady Sarah, who was too much of a woman of the world to quarrel seriouslywith a Court favourite, furled the fan with which she had been cooling herindignation, and tapped young Wilmot playfully on that oval cheek where thebeard had scarce begun to grow.
"Thou art the most incorrigible wretch of thy years in London," she said,"and it is impossible to help being angry with thee or to help forgivingthee."
The saunterers on the willow-shadowed banks came strolling in. LadyFareham's cornets and fiddles sounded a March in Alceste; and the partybroke up in laughter and good temper, Mr. Dubbin being much complimentedupon his having detected Spavinger's boots.
"I ought to know 'em," he answered ruefully. "I lost a hundred meggs on himToosday se'nnight, at Windsor races; and I had time to take the pattern ofthem boots while he was crawling in, a bad third."