Reality or Delusion?
“Johnny Ludlow”, 1868*
Edited by Sanguine Woods, 2018
First appeared in The Argosy (UK) in December 1868**
People like ghost stories at Christmas, so I’ll tell one. It is every word true. And I don’t mind confessing that for ages afterwards some of us did not care to pass the place alone at night.
We were staying at Crabb Cot. Lena had been ailing during the Autumn, and in October Mrs. Todhetley proposed to the Squire that they should remove her there for a change. Which was done.
The Worcestershire people call North Crabb a village; but one might count the houses in it, little and great, and not find four-and-twenty. South Crabb, half a mile off, is larger; but the church and school are at North Crabb. And I need not have mentioned South Crabb at all, for what there is to tell has nothing to do with it.
John Ferrar had been employed by Squire Todhetley as a kind of over-looker of the estate, or working bailiff. He had died the previous winter; leaving nothing behind him except some debts, for he was not provident, and his handsome son Daniel. Daniel Ferrar disliked work: he used to make a show of helping his father, but it came to little. Old Ferrar had not put him to any trade or particular occupation; and Daniel, who was as proud as Lucifer, would not turn to it himself. He liked to be a gentleman. All he did now was to work in his garden, and feed his fowls, ducks, rabbits, and pigeons, of which he kept a great quantity, selling them to the good houses and sending them to market.
But, as everybody said, poultry would not maintain him. Mrs. Lease, in the pretty cottage hard by, grew tired of saying it. He used to run in and out of there at will since he was a boy, and was now engaged to be married to Maria. She would have a little money, and the Leases were respected in North Crabb. People began to whisper a query as to how Ferrar got his corn for the poultry; he was not known to buy much; and he would have to go out of his house at Christmas, for the owner of it, Mr. Coney, had given him notice. Mrs. Lease, anxious about Maria’s prospects, asked him what he intended to do then, and he answered, “Make his fortune: he should begin to do it as soon as he could turn himself round.” But the time had gone on, and the turning round seemed to be as far off as ever.
After Midsummer, a niece of the schoolmistress’s had come to the school to stay; her name, Harriet Roe. Henriette she had been christened, for her mother was French; but North Crabb, not understanding French, converted it into Harriet. She was a showy, free-mannered, good-looking girl, and made speedy acquaintance with Daniel Ferrar; or he with her. They improved upon it so rapidly that Maria Lease grew jealous, and North Crabb said he cared for Harriet a thousand times more than for Maria. When Tod and I got home the latter end of October, to spend the Squire’s birthday, things were in this state. James Hill, the new bailiff , gave us the account of matters in general. Daniel Ferrar had been drinking lately, Hill added, and his head was not strong enough to stand it; and he was also beginning to look as if he had a heap of care upon him.
‘A nice lot, he, for them two women to be fighting for,’ cried Hill, who was no friend to Ferrar. ‘There’ll be mischief between ’em if they don’t draw in a bit. Maria Lease is next kin to mad over it, I know; and t’other, knowing herself the best liked, crows over her. It’s something like the Bible story of Leah and Rachel, young gents; Dan Ferrar likes the one, and he’s bound by law of promise to the t’other. As to the French jade,’ concluded Hill, giving his head a toss, ‘she’d make a show of liking any man that followed her, she would; a dozen of ’em on a string.’
It was all very well for surly Hill to call Daniel Ferrar a ‘nice lot’, but he was the best-looking fellow in church on Sunday morning—well-dressed too. But his colour seemed brighter; and his hands shook as they were raised, often, to push back his hair, that the sun shone upon through the south window, turning it to gold. He scarcely looked up, not even at Harriet Roe, with her dark eyes roving everywhere, and her streaming pink ribbons. Maria Lease was pale, quiet, and nice, as usual; she had no beauty, but her face was sensible, and her deep grey eyes had a strange and curious earnestness. The new parson preached, a young man just appointed to the parish of Crabb. He went in for great observances of Saints’ days, and told his congregation that he should expect to see them at church on the morrow, which would be the Feast of All Saints.
Daniel Ferrar walked home with Mrs. Lease and Maria after service, and got invited to dinner. I ran across to shake hands with the old dame, who had once nursed me through an illness, and promised to look in and see her later. We were going back to school on the morrow. As I turned away, Harriet Roe passed, her pink ribbons and her cheap gay silk dress gleaming in the sunlight. She stared at me, and I stared back again. And now, the explanation of matters being over, the real story begins. But I shall have to tell some of it as it was told by others.
The tea-things waited on Mrs. Lease’s table in the afternoon; waited for Daniel Ferrar. He had left them shortly before to go and attend to his poultry. Nothing had been said about his coming back for tea: it had been looked upon as a matter of course. But he did not make his appearance, and the tea was taken without him. At half-past five the church-bell rang out for evening service, and Maria put her things on. Mrs. Lease did not go out at night.
‘You are starting early, Maria. You’ll be in church afore other people.’
‘That won’t matter, mother.’
A jealous suspicion lay on Maria—that the secret of Daniel Ferrar’s non-return was his having fallen in with Harriet Roe—perhaps he had gone of his own accord to seek her. She walked slowly along. The gloom of dusk, and a deep dusk, had stolen over the evening, but the moon would be up later. As Maria passed the school-house, she halted to glance in at the window, the shutters were not closed yet, and the room was lighted by the blaze of the fire. Harriet was not there. She only saw Miss Timmens the mistress, who was putting on her bonnet before a hand-glass propped upright on the mantelpiece. Without warning, Miss Timmens turned and threw open the window. It was only for the purpose of pulling-to the shutters, but Maria thought she must have been observed, and spoke.
‘Good evening, Miss Timmens.’
‘Who is it?’ cried out Miss Timmens, in answer, peering into the dusk. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Maria Lease! Have you seen anything of Harriet? She went off somewhere this afternoon, and never came in to tea.’
‘I have not seen her.’
‘She’s gone to the Batleys’ I’ll be bound. She knows I don’t like her to be with the Batley girls: they make her ten times flightier than she would be.’
Miss Timmens drew in her shutters with a jerk, without which they would not close, and Maria Lease turned away.
‘Not at the Batleys’; not at the Batleys’; but with him,’ she cried, in bitter rebellion, as she turned away from the church, not to it. Was she to blame for wishing to see whether she was right or not?—for walking about a little in the thought of meeting them? At any rate it is what she did. And had her reward; such as it was.
As she was passing the top of the withy walk their voices reached her ear. People often walked there, and it was one of the ways to South Crabb. Maria drew back amidst the trees, and they came on: Harriet Roe and Daniel Ferrar, walking arm-in-arm.
‘I think I had better take it off,’ Harriet was saying. ‘No need to invoke a storm upon my head. And that would come in a shower of sharp hail from stiff old Aunt Timmens.’
The answer seemed one of quick assent, but Ferrar spoke low. Maria Lease had hard work to control herself; anger, passion, jealousy, all blazed up. With her arms stretched out to a friendly tree on either side—with her heart beating—with her pulses coursing on to fever-heat, she watched them across the bit of common to the road. Harriet went one way then; he another in the direction of Mrs. Lease’s cottage. No doubt to fetch her—Maria—to church, with a plausible plea of having been detained. Until now she had had no proof of his falsity; had never perfectly believed in it.
She took her arms from the trees and went forward, a sharp faint cry of despair breaking forth on the night-air. Maria Lease was one of those silent-natured girls who can never speak of a wrong like this. She had to bury it within her; down, down, out of sight and show; and she went into church with her usual quiet step. Harriet Roe with Miss Timmens came next, quite demure, as if she had been singing some of the infant scholars to sleep at their own homes. Daniel Ferrar did not go at all; he stayed, as was found afterwards, with Mrs. Lease. Maria might as well have been at home as at church; better perhaps that she had been. Not a syllable of the service did she hear; her brain was a sea of confusion; a rising tumult getting higher and higher. She did not hear even the text, ‘Peace, be still’, or the sermon, both so singularly appropriate. The passions in men’s minds, the preacher said, raged and foamed just like the angry waves of the sea in a storm, until Jesus came to still them.
I ran after Maria when church was over, and went in to pay the promised visit to old Mother Lease. Daniel Ferrar was sitting in the parlour. He got up and offered Maria a chair at the fire, but she turned her back and stood at the table under the window, taking off her gloves. An open Bible was before Mrs. Lease; I wondered whether she had been reading aloud to Daniel Ferrar.
‘What was the text, child?’
‘Do you hear, Maria? What was the text?’
Maria turned at that, as if suddenly awakened. Her face was white; her eyes had in them a certain terror.
‘The text?’ she stammered. ‘I—I forget it, mother. It was from Genesis, I think.’
‘Was it, Master Johnny?’
‘It was from the fourth chapter of St. Mark, “Peace, be still.”’
Mrs. Lease stared at me. ‘Why, that’s the very chapter I’ve been reading. Well now, that’s curious. But there’s never a better in the Bible, and never a better text was taken from it than them three words. I have been telling Daniel here, Master Johnny, that when once that peace, Christ’s peace, is got into the heart, storms can’t hurt us much. And you are going away again to-morrow, sir?’ she added, after a pause. ‘It’s a short stay.’
I was not going away on the morrow. Tod and I, taking the Squire in a genial moment after dinner, had pressed to be let stay until Tuesday, Tod using the argument, and laughing while he did it, that it must be wrong to travel on All Saints’ Day, when the parson had specially enjoined us to be at church. The Squire told us we were a couple of encroaching rascals, and if he did let us stay it should be upon condition that we went to church. This I said to them.
‘He may send you all the same, sir, when the morning comes,’ remarked Daniel Ferrar.
‘Knowing Mr. Todhetley as you do Ferrar, you may remember that he never breaks his promises.’
Daniel laughed. ‘He grumbles over them, though, Master Johnny.’
‘Well, he may grumble to-morrow over our staying, say it’s wasting the time that ought to be spent in study, but he’ll not send us back until Tuesday.’
Until Tuesday! If I could have foreseen then what would have happened before Tuesday! If all of us could have foreseen! Seen the few hours between now and then depicted, as if in a mirror, event by event! Would it have saved the calamity, the dreadful sin that could never be redeemed? Why, yes; surely it would. Daniel Ferrar turned round and looked at Maria.
‘Why don’t you come to the fire?’
‘I’m very well here, thank you.’
She had sat down where she was, her bonnet against the curtain. Mrs. Lease, not noticing that anything was amiss, had begun talking about Lena, whose illness was turning to low fever, when the house door opened and Harriet Roe came in.
‘What a lovely night it is!’ she said, taking, of own accord, the chair I had not cared to take, for I kept saying I must go. ‘Maria, what went with you after church? I was hunting for you everywhere.’
Maria gave no answer. She looked black and angry; and her chest heaved as if a storm were brewing. Harriet Roe slightly laughed.
‘Do you intend to make holiday to-morrow, Mrs. Lease?’
‘Me make holiday! what is there in to-morrow to make holiday for?’
‘I shall,’ continued Harriet, without answering the question; ‘I used to do it in France. All Saints’ Day is a grand holiday there; we go to church in the best clothes we’ve got, and pay visits afterwards. Following it, like a dark shadow, comes the gloomy jour des morts.’
‘The what?’ cried Mrs. Lease, bending her ear.
‘The day of the dead. All Souls’ Day. But you English don’t go to the cemeteries to pray.’
Mrs. Lease put on her spectacles, which lay between the open pages of the Bible, and stared at Harriet. Perhaps she thought they might assist her to understand. The girl laughed.
‘On All Souls’ Day, whether it may be wet or dry, the French cemeteries are full of kneeling women, draped in black; praying for the repose of their dead relatives, after the manner of the Roman Catholics.’
Daniel Ferrar, who had not spoken a word since she came in, but sat with his face to the fire, turned round and looked at her. Upon which she tossed back her head and her pink ribbons, and smiled till all her teeth were seen. Good teeth they were. As to reverence in her tone, there was none.
‘I have seen them kneeling when the slosh and wet were up to the ankles. Did you ever see a ghost?’ added she, with energy. ‘The French believe that the spirits of the dead come abroad on the night of All Saints’ Day. You’d scarcely get a French woman to go out of her house after dark. It is their chief superstition of all’
‘What is the superstition?’ questioned Mrs. Lease.
‘Why, that,’ said Harriet. ‘They believe that the dead are allowed to revisit the world after dark, on the Eve of All Souls, and hover in the air; waiting to appear to any of their living relatives, who may venture out, lest they should forget to pray on the morrow for their souls’ rest.’ (1)
‘Well, I never!’ cried Mrs. Lease, staring excessively. ‘Did you ever hear the like of that, sir?’ turning to me.
‘Yes; I have heard of it.’
Harriet Roe turned to me when I spoke; I was standing at the corner of the mantel-piece. She laughed a free laugh.
‘I say, wouldn’t it be fun to go out to-morrow night, and look for the ghosts? Only, perhaps they don’t visit this country, as it not being under Rome.’
‘Now just you behave yourself before your betters, Harriet Roe,’ put in Mrs. Lease, sharply. ‘That gentleman is young Mr. Ludlow,of Crabb Cot.’
‘And very happy I am to make young Mr. Ludlow’s acquaintance,’ returned easy Harriet, flinging back her mantle from her shoulders. ‘How hot your parlour is, Mrs. Lease.’
The fastening hook of the cloak had caught in a thin chain of twisted gold that she wore round her neck, pulling it out to view. She hurriedly folded her cloak together, as if wishing to conceal the chain. But Mrs. Lease’s spectacles had seen it.
‘What’s that you’ve got on, Harriet? A gold chain?’
A moment’s pause, and then Harriet Roe flung back her mantle again, a defiant look upon her face, and touched the chain with her hand.
‘That’s what it is, Mrs. Lease; a gold chain. And a very pretty one, too.’
‘Was it your mother’s?’
‘It never was anybody’s but mine. I had it made a present to me this afternoon; for a keepsake.’
Happening to look at Maria, I was startled at her face, it was so white and dark; white with emotion, dark with an angry despair that I for one did not comprehend. Harriet Roe, throwing at her a look of saucy triumph, went out with as little ceremony as she had come in; and we heard her footsteps outside getting gradually further away in the distance. Daniel Ferrar rose.
‘I’ll take my departure too, I think. You are very unsociable to-night, Maria.’
‘Maybe I am. Maybe I have cause to be.’
She flung his hand back when he held it out; and in another minute, as if a thought struck her, ran after him into the passage to speak. I, standing near the door in the small room, caught the words.
‘I must have an explanation with you, Daniel Ferrar. Now. To-night. We cannot go on thus for a single hour longer.’
‘Not to-night, Maria; there’s no time. And I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You do know. Listen. I will not go to my rest, no, not though it were for twenty nights to come, until we have had it out. I vow I will not. There. You are playing with me. Others have long said so, and I know it now.’
He seemed to speak some quieting words to her, for the tone was low and soothing, and then went out, shutting the door behind him. Maria came back and stood with her face and its ghastliness turned from view, her chest heaving like mad. And still the old mother noticed nothing.
**Above: Facsimile pages from the issue of Argosy in which “Reality, or Delusion?” first appeared (December 1968). Due to differences discovered across various post-Argosy publications of the story, I went with the text as it appears in the above publications–except for the question of the ending, which is also different–and quite poor in its construction–across post-Argosy appearances of the story. For this post, I used the ending text from the above assumed “first edition” of the story, and crafted a three-paragraph ending that follows the logic imposed on the reader by the story (which, interestingly, was missing in the ending of the first Argosy appearance), and fits with the author’s style, voice, and ideas as represented in the story. – Sanguine Woods, May 2018
‘Why don’t you take your things off, Maria?’ she asked.
‘Presently,’ was the answer.
I said good night and went away then. Half way home I met Tod with the two young Lexoms; they made us go in and stay to supper, and it was ten o’clock before we got away.
‘We shall catch it,’ said Tod, setting off to run. They never let us stay out late on a Sunday evening, on account of the reading.
But, as it happened, we escaped scot-free this time, for the house was in a commotion about Lena. She had been better in the afternoon, but at nine o’clock the fever came back worse than ever. Her little cheeks and lips were scarlet as she lay on the bed, her wide-open eyes shone bright and glistening. The Squire had gone up to look at her, and was fuming and fretting in his usual fashion.
‘The doctor has never sent the medicine,’ said patient Mrs. Todhetley, who must have been worn out with nursing. ‘She ought to take it; I am sure she ought.’
‘These boys are good to run over for that,’ cried the Squire. ‘It won’t hurt them; it’s a fine night.’
Of course we were good for it. And got our caps again, being charged to enjoin Mr. Cole to come over the first thing in the morning.
‘Do you care much about my going with you, Johnny?’ Tod asked as we were turning out at the door. ‘I am awfully tired.’
‘Not a bit. I’d as soon go alone as in company. You’ll see me back in half an hour.’
I took the nearest way; flying across the fields at a canter, and startling the hares. Mr. Cole lived near South Crabb, and I don’t believe more than ten minutes had gone by when I knocked at his door. But to get back as quickly was another thing. The doctor was not at home. He had been called out to a patient at eight o’clock, and was not back yet.
I went in to wait; the servant said he might be expected to come in from minute to minute. It being of no use to go away without the medicine, I sat down in the surgery in front of the shelves, and fell asleep counting the white jars and physic bottles. The doctor’s entrance awoke me.
‘I am sorry you should have had to come over and to wait,’ he said. ‘When my other patient, with whom I was detained a considerable time, was done with, I went on to Crabb Cot with the child’s medicine, which I had in my pocket.’
‘They think her very ill tonight, sir.’
‘I left her better, and going quietly to sleep. She will soon be well, I hope.’
‘Why! is that the time?’ I exclaimed, happening to catch sight of the clock as I was crossing the hall. It was nearly twelve. Mr. Cole laughed, saying the time passed quickly when folk were asleep.
I went back slowly. The sleep, or the canter thither, had made me feel as tired as Tod said he was. It was a night to be abroad in and to enjoy; calm, warm, light. The moon, high in the blue sky, sent her rays on every individual blade of grass; they sparkled on the water of the little rivulet; they brought out the moss on the grey walls of the old church; they played on its round-faced clock, then striking twelve.
Twelve o’clock at night at North Crabb answers to about three in the morning in London, for country people are mostly abed and asleep at ten. Therefore, when loud and angry voices struck up in dispute, just as the last stroke of the hour was dying away on the midnight air, I stood still and didn’t believe my ears.
I was close at home then. The sounds came from the back of a detached barn, or granary, for it was used as a store-house for corn, the front of which I had to pass. Round I went, and saw—Maria Lease; and something else that I could not at first comprehend. In the pursuit of her vow, not to go to rest until she had ‘had it out’ with Daniel Ferrar, she had come abroad searching for him. What ill fate brought her looking for him up by our barn?—perhaps because she had looked fruitlessly in every other spot.
At the back of this barn, up some steps, was an unused door. Unused partly because it was not required, the principal entrance being in front; partly because the key of it had been for a long while missing. As it went, stealing out at this door, a bag of corn upon his shoulders, had come Daniel Ferrar in a smock-frock. Maria saw him, and stood back in the shade. She watched him lock the door and put the key in his pocket; she watched him give the heavy bag a jerk as he turned to come down the steps. Then she burst out. Her shrieking reproaches had petrified him, and he had stood there like one suddenly turned to stone.
I understood it all soon; it needed not Maria’s words to enlighten me. Daniel Ferrar possessed the lost key and could come in and out at will in the midnight hours when the world was safe, and help himself to the corn. No wonder his poultry throve; no wonder there had been grumblings at Crabb Cot at the mysterious disappearance of the good grain.
Maria Lease was decidedly mad in those few first moments. Stealing is looked upon in an honest village as an awful thing; a disgrace, a crime; and there was the night’s previous misery besides. Daniel Ferrar was a thief! Daniel Ferrar was false to her! The storm of words and reproaches came forth in confusion, none very distinct. ‘Living upon theft! Convicted felon! Transportation for life! Mr. Todhetley’s corn! Fattening poultry on stolen goods! Buying gold chains with the profits for that bold flaunting French girl, Harriet Roe! Taking his stealthy walks with her!’
My going up to them stopped the charge. There was a pause; and then Maria, in her mad passion, denounced him to me, as representative (it was how she put it) of Mr. Todhetley—the breaker-in of our premises! the robber of our stored corn!
Daniel Ferrar came down the steps; he had remained there as a statue, immovable; and turned his white face to me. Never a word in defence said he: the blow had crushed him; he was a proud man (if any one can understand that), and to be discovered in this ill-doing was worse than death.
‘Don’t think of me more hardly than you can help, Master Johnny,’ he said in a still tone. ‘I have been a’most tired of my life this long while.’
Putting down the bag of corn near the steps, he took the key from his pocket and handed it to me. The man’s aspect had so changed; there was something so grievously subdued and sad about him altogether, that I felt as sorry for him as if he had not been guilty. Maria Lease went on in her fierce passion.
‘You’ll be more tired of it to-morrow when the police are taking you to Worcester gaol. Squire Todhetley will not spare you, though your father was his many-year bailiff. He couldn’t, you know, if he wished; Master Ludlow has seen you in the act.’
‘Let me have the key again for a minute, sir,’ he said, as quietly as though he did not heard a word. And I gave it to him. I’m not sure but I should have given him my head had he asked for it.
He swung the bag on his shoulders, unlocked the granary door, and put the bag beside the other sacks. The bag was his own, as we found afterwards, but he left it. Locking the door again, he gave me the key, and went away with a weary step.
‘Good-bye, Master Johnny.’
I answered back good night civilly, though he had been stealing. When he was out of sight, Maria Lease, her passion full upon her still, dashed off towards her mother’s cottage, a strange cry of despair breaking from her.
‘Where have you been lingering, Johnny?’ roared the Squire, who was sitting up for me. ‘You’ve been throwing at the owls, sir, that’s what you’ve been at; you have been scudding after the hares.’
I said I had waited for Mr. Cole, and had come back slower than I went; but I said no more, and got up to my room at once. And the Squire went to his.
I know I am only a muff; people tell me so, often; but I can’t help it; I did not make myself. I lay awake till nearly daylight, first wishing Daniel Ferrar could be screened, and then thinking it might perhaps be done. If he would only take the lesson to profit and go on straight for the future, what a capital thing it would be. We had liked old Ferrar; he did me and Tod many a good turn: and, for the matter of that we liked Daniel. So I never said a word when morning came of the past night’s work.
‘Is Daniel at home?’ I asked, going to Ferrar’s the first thing before breakfast. I meant to tell him that if he’d keep right, I’d keep counsel.
‘He went out at dawn, sir,’ answered the old woman who did for him and sold his poultry at market. ‘He’ll be in presently; he’s had no breakfast yet.’
‘Then tell him, when he comes, to wait in, and see me; tell him “it’s all right”. Can you remember, Goody? “It is all right.”’
‘I’ll remember, safe enough, Master Ludlow.’
Tod and I, being on our honour, went to church, and found about ten people in the pews. Harriet Roe was one, with her pink ribbons, the twisted gold chain hanging below a short-cut velvet jacket.
‘No, sir; he has not been home yet; I can’t think where he can have got to,’ was the old Goody’s reply when I went again to Ferrar’s. And so I wrote a word in pencil, and told her to give it him when he came in, for I couldn’t go dodging there every hour in the day.
After luncheon, in strolling by the back of the barn, a certain reminiscence I suppose taking me there, for it was not a frequented spot, I saw Maria Lease coming past the three-cornered grove of trees lower down.
Well, it was a change! The passionate woman of the previous night had subsided into a poor, wild-looking, sorrow-stricken thing, fit to die of remorse. The excessive passion had wrought its usual consequences: a reaction; a reaction in favour of Daniel Ferrar. She came up to me, clasping her hands in agony—that I would spare him; that I would not tell of him; that I would give him a chance for the future: and her lips quivered and trembled, and there were dark circles round her hollow eyes.
I said that I had not told and did not intend to tell. Upon which she was going to fall down on her knees with thanks, but I rushed off.
‘Do you know where he is?’ I asked, when she came to her sober senses.
‘Oh, I wish I did know! Master Johnny, he is just the man to go and do something desperate. He’d never face shame; and I was a mad, hard-hearted, wicked fool to do what I did last night. He might run away to sea; he might go and enlist for a soldier.’
‘I dare say he is at home by this time. I have left a word for him there, and promised to go in and see him to-night. If he’ll undertake not to be up to wrong things again, nobody shall ever know of this from me.’
She went away easier, and I sauntered on towards South Crabb. Eager as Tod and I had been for the day’s holiday, it did not seem to be turning out much of a boon. In going home again, there was nothing worth staying out for, I had come to about the spot by the three-cornered grove where I had seen Maria, when a galloping policeman over-took me. My heart stood still as well as my feet; for I thought he must have come after Daniel Ferrar.
‘Can you tell me if I am near to Crabb Cot—Squire Todhetley’s?’ he asked, reining-in his fast horse.
‘You’ll come to it in a minute. I live there. Squire Todhetley is not at home. What do you want with him?’
‘It’s only to give in an official paper, sir. I’ve got to leave one personally upon all the county magistrates.’ He rode on.
When I got in I saw the folded paper upon the hall-table; the man and horse had already gone onwards. It was worse indoors than out; less to be done; Tod had disappeared after church; the Squire was abroad; Mrs. Todhetley sat upstairs with Lena; and so I strolled out again. It was only three o’clock then.
An hour or more were got through somehow; meeting one, talking to another, throwing at the ducks and geese; anything. Mrs. Lease had her head (smothered in a yellow shawl) stretched out over the palings as I passed her cottage.
‘Don’t catch cold, mother.’
‘I am looking for Maria, sir. I can’t think what has come to her to-day, Master Johnny,’ she added, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. ‘The girl seems demented; she has been going in and out ever since daylight like a dog in a fair.’
‘If I meet her I’ll send her home.’
And in another minute I did meet her. For she was coming out of Daniel Ferrar’s yard. I supposed he was at home.
‘No,’ she said looking, more wild, worn, haggard than before; ‘that’s what I have been to ask. I am just out of my senses, sir. He is gone for certain. Gone!’
I did not think it. He would not be likely to go away without clothes.
‘Well, I know he is, Master Johnny; something tells it to me. I’ve been all about everywhere. There’s a great dread upon me, sir; I never felt anything like it.’
‘Wait until night, Maria; I dare say he’ll go home then. Your mother is looking out for you; I said if I met you I’d send you in.’
Mechanically she turned toward the cottage, and I went on. Presently, as I was sitting on a gate watching the sunset, Harriet Roe passed towards the withy walk, and gave me a nod in her free but good-natured way.
‘Are you going down there to look out for the ghosts this evening?’ I asked: and I wished not long afterwards I had never said it. ‘It will soon be dark.’
‘So it will,’ she said, turning to the red western sky. ‘But I have no time to give to the ghosts to-night.’
‘Have you seen Ferrar to-day?’ I said, an idea occurring to me.
‘No. And I can’t think where he has got to; unless he is off to Worcester. He told me he should have to go there some day this week.’
She evidently knew nothing about him, and went on her way with another free-and-easy nod. I sat on the gate till the sun had gone down, and then thought it was time to be getting homewards.
Close against the barn (the scene of last night’s trouble), who should I come upon but Maria Lease. She was standing still, and turned quickly at the sound of my footsteps. Her face was bright again, but had a puzzled look upon it.
‘I have just seen him; he’s not gone!’ she said in a glad whisper. ‘You were right, Master Johnny, and I was wrong!’
‘Where did you see him?’
‘Here, not a minute ago. I saw him twice. He is angry, very, and will not let me speak to him; both times he got away before I could reach him. He is close by somewhere.’
I looked round, naturally, but Ferrar was nowhere to be seen. There was nothing to conceal him except the barn, and that was locked up. The account she gave was this (and her face grew puzzled again as she related it):
Unable to rest indoors, she had wandered up here again, and saw Ferrar standing at the corner of the barn, looking very hard at her. She thought he was waiting for her to come up, but before she got close he had gone, and she did not see which way. She hastened past the barn in front, went ran round to the back, and there he was again. He stood near the steps, looking out for her, waiting for her, as it again seemed, gazing at her with the same fixed stare. But, once again, she missed him before she could get quite up; and it was at that moment that I appeared.
I ran around the barn, but could not see Ferrar. Inside the barn he could not be; it was securely locked; and there was no appearance of him in the open country. It was, so to say, broad daylight yet, or at least not far short of it; the red light was still in the western sky.
‘Are you sure it was Ferrar, Maria?’
‘Sure!’ she returned in surprise. ‘You don’t think I could mistake him, do you? He was wearing that smelly old seal-skin hat, tied down over the ears; and a thick grey winter coat. It was buttoned all the way up on a day like this!’
That Ferrar had gone into hiding somewhere appeared quite evident. While we started about, we heard voices in the direction of our house, and Maria, not caring to be seen, went away quickly.
Tod, the Squire, and two or three men rode up.
‘I say, Johnny, what a shocking thing this is! Have you heard it?’
It was Tod who spoke. I had heard nothing; and when he told me, I turned sick, taking one thing with another, which I daresay you’ll think nobody but a muff would do.
Ferrar was indeed dead. He had been hiding all day in the three-cornered grove, perhaps waiting for the night to get away—perhaps only waiting for the night to go home again. Who can tell? About half-past two, Luke Macintosh, a labourer who happened to be passing through the grove had seen Ferrar there, and talked to him for a few minutes. The same man, passing through again a little before sunset, found Ferrar hanging from a tree, dead. Macintosh ran with the news to Crabb Cot. When facts came to be examined, and notes compared, there appeared only too much reason to think that the unfortunate appearance of the galloping policeman near the spot had terrified Ferrar into the act; perhaps—we all hoped it!—it had scared his senses quite away. Look at it as we would, it was very dreadful.
But what of the appearance Maria Lease saw? Was it reality or delusion? That is (as the Squire put it), did her eyes see a spectral Daniel Ferrar? or were they deceived by some imagination of the brain? Opinions were divided. Nothing can shake Maria’s own steadfast belief in the reality of the spectral vision; to her it remains an awful certainty, true and sure as heaven.
If I say that I believe in it too, I shall be called a muff and a double muff.
But there is one stumbling-block difficult to get over. Ferrar, when found, was wearing travelling clothes suitable to the mild weather–these did not include a heavy coat or hat, seal-skin or no. Daniel, when seen by Maria, behind the barn that day, had been wearing a seal-skin hat and thick grey winter coat. It seemed a bit of a mystery for a number of reasons.
Maria called on me the following afternoon to check in on the old woman who worked for Ferrar. (She swore an oath it was not she who told the woman, or anyone else in Crabb Cot, about the spectre or the bit about the winter clothing.) The wizened face that answered Ferrar’s door showed signs of a long night of crying. The two women shared an embrace.
“Shall we see the trunk, Goody?” I asked. We followed her upstairs to a small dressing room adjacent to Ferrar’s bedroom. The trunk was in the corner of the room. Maria took the key. I already knew what we would find inside; and somehow, I knew Maria shared my certainty. But the deed must be done.
She turned the key in the lock, and I opened the trunk’s lid. Daniel’s seal-skin hat looked dull and brown against a large grey coat, folded, and buttoned all the way up; both were right where Daniel Ferrar had laid them the previous year…in anticipation of the coming winter.
(1)The superstition obtains amidst some of the lower orders in France.—Ed.
About the Author
*Johnny Ludlow and Mrs. Henry Wood were pen-names for Ellen Wood (née Price), one of the best-selling authors of the second half of the nineteenth-century. Wood first became famous as the author of East Lynne (1861)—one of the most successful of the sensation novels of the 1860s. Wood followed her initial triumph with thirty more novels, and over a hundred short stories, most containing elements of mystery, crime, detection and suspense.
She also edited the highly successful Argosy magazine from 1867 until her death some twenty years later. Ellen Price was born in Worcester in 1814, the eldest daughter of a glove-manufacturer and his imaginative wife. Ellen was raised by her paternal grandparents, but at the death of her grandfather when she was seven she was returned to the family home. Wood started writing in childhood, but she destroyed these early compositions, which included poetic lives of Lady Jane Grey and Catherine de Medici.
At the age of twenty-two she married Henry Wood, the head of a large banking and shipping firm and someone who had been involved in consular affairs. The first twenty years of her married life were spent in France. Wood is known to have given birth to two daughters (one of whom died in infancy from scarlet fever) and at least three sons. One of her sons, Charles, became Wood’s partner at the Argosy magazine, and wrote the only, but highly inadequate, biography of his mother.
It was whilst living in France, that Wood began to contribute short stories, almost on a monthly basis, to the New Monthly Magazine, edited by the novelist Harrison Ainsworth. Her first known story, ‘Seven Years in the Wedded Life of a Roman Catholic’ was published in the issue for February 1851. In 1855 Ainsworth also began to edit Bentley’s Miscellany, and Wood contributed many short pieces to this journal in addition to the ones she was already providing for the New Monthly.
Above: Facsimile pages from Argosy Magazine, V. 19, 1875, Contents, showing “Johnny Ludlow Papers”.
*Ellen Wood’s Statement on the Authorship of the Johnny Ludlow Stories
Some speculation has existed as to who is the writer of the Papers purporting to be by Johnny Ludlow, and more than one individual has come forward claiming to be the Author. In answer to this, and to divers suppositions, I think the time has come for me to state that they were written by myself. When I began the stories—for the Argosy Magazine—my only motive for not putting my name to them was that they appeared to be told by a boy; and to append my name as the Author would have destroyed the illusion; or, at least, have clashed with it. Many of my friends, the publishers, printers, etc., have known from the first who wrote “Johnny Ludlow.”
And now, having said thus much, it only remains for me to thank the public, as I do heartily, for the very great favour they have accorded to these simple and unpretending stories.
Ellen Wood, London
For more about the author and her work, see: