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DICKEN THE DEVIL by Joseph Sheridan LaFarno This is a
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LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
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For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording
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by Tony Addison. DICKEN THE DEVIL by Joseph Sheridan LaFarno
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About thirty years ago, I was selected by two rich
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old maids to visit a property in that part of
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Lancashire which lies near the famous Forest of Pendle, with
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which Mr. Ainsworth's Lancashire Witches has made us so pleasantly familiar.
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My business was to make partition of a small property,
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including a house and demean, to which they had a
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long time before succeeded as co-heiresses. The last forty miles
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of my journey I was obliged to post, chiefly by crossroads,
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little known and less frequented, and presenting scenery often extremely
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interesting and pretty. The picturesqueness of the landscape was enhanced
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by the season, the beginning of September, at which I
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was travelling. I had never been in this part of
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the world before. I am told it is now a
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great deal less wild, and consequently less beautiful. At the
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inn where I had stopped for a relay of horses
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and some dinner, for it was then past five o'clock,
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I found the host a hale old fellow of five
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and sixty, as he told me, a man of easy
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and garrulous benevolence, willing to accommodate his guests with any
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amount of talk which the slightest tap sufficed to set
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flowing on any subject you pleased. I was curious to
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learn something about Barwick, which was the name of the
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demean and house I was going to. As there was
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no inn within some miles of it, I had written
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to the steward to put me up there the best
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way he could for a night. The host of the
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three nuns which was the sign under which he entertained wayfarers,
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had not a great deal to tell. It was twenty
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years or more since old Squire Bowes died, and no
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one had lived in the hall ever since, except the
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gardener and his wife. Tom Windsor will be as old
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a man as myself, but he's a bit taller, not
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so much in flesh quite, said the fat innkeeper. But
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there were stories about the house, I repeated, that they
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said prevented tenants from coming into it. Old wives' tales.
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How many years ago that will be, sir. I forget them.
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I forget them all. Ah, yes, there always will be
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when a house is left so. Foolish folk will always
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be talking. But I hadn't heard a word about it
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this twenty years. It was vain trying to pump him.
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THE OLD LANDLORD OF THE THREE NUNS FOR SOME REASON
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DID NOT CHOOSE TO TELL TALES OF BARICAL IF HE
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REALLY DID, AS I SUSPECTED, REMEMBER THEM. I PAID MY
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RECOGNEM AND RESUMED MY JOURNEY, WELL PLEASED WITH THE GOOD
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CHEER OF THAT OLD WORLD INN, BUT A LITTLE DISAPPOINTED.
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WE HAD BEEN DRIVING FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR WHEN
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WE BEGAN TO CROSS A WILD COMMON. and I knew that,
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this past, a quarter of an hour would bring me
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to the door of Barrick Hall. The peat and firs
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were pretty soon left behind. We were again in the
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wooded scenery that I enjoyed so much, so entirely natural
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and pretty, and so little disturbed by traffic of any kind.
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I was looking from the chaise window, and soon detected
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the object of which for some time my eye had
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been in search. barrack hall was a large quaint house
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of that cage-work fashion known as black and white in
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which the bars and angles of an oak framework contrast
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black as ebony with the white plaster that overspreads the
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masonry built into its interstices this steep-roofed elizabethan house stood
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in the midst of park-like grounds of no great extent
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but rendered imposing by the noble stature of the old
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trees that now cast their lengthening shadows eastward over the
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sward from the declining sun. The park wall was grey
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with age, and in many places laden with ivy. In
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deep grey shadow, that contrasted with the dim fires of
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evening reflected on the foliage above it, in a gentle
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hollow stretched a lake that looked cold and black, and seemed,
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as it were, to skulk from observation with a guilty knowledge.
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I had forgot that there was a lake at Varick,
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but the moment this caught my eye, like the cold
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polish of a snake in the shadow, my instinct seemed
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to recognise something dangerous, and I knew that the lake
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was connected. I could not remember how, with the story
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I had heard of this place in my boyhood. I
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drove up a grass-grown avenue, under the boughs of these
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noble trees, whose foliage, dyed in autumnal red and yellow,
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returned the beams of the western sun gorgeously. We drew
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up at the door. I got out, and had a
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good look at the front of the house. It was
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a large and melancholy mansion, with signs of long neglect
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upon it. Great wooden shutters in the old fashion were
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barred outside across the windows. Grass and even nettles were
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growing thick on the courtyard, and a thin moss streaked
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the timber beams. The plaster was discoloured by time and weather,
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and bore great russet and yellow stains. The gloom was
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increased by several grand old trees that crowded close about
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the house. I mounted the steps and looked round. The
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dark lake lay near me now, a little to the left.
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It was not large. It may have covered some ten
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or twelve acres, but it added to the melancholy of
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the scene. Near the centre of it was a small island,
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with two old ash-trees leaning toward each other, their pensive
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images reflected in the stirless water. The only cheery influence
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in this scene of antiquity, solitude, and neglect was that
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the house and landscape were warmed with the ruddy western beams.
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I knocked, and my summons resounded, hollow and ungenial in
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my ear, and the bell from far away returned a
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deep-mouthed and surly ring, as if it resented being roused
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from a score-year slumber. A light-limbed, jolly-looking old fellow, in
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a barricade jacket and gaiters, with a smile of welcome
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and a very sharp red nose that seemed to promise
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good cheer, opened the door with a promptitude that indicated
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a hospitable expectation of my arrival. There was but little
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light in the hall, and that little lost itself in
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darkness in the background. It was very spacious and lofty,
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with a gallery running round it, which, when the door
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was open, was visible at two or three points. Almost
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in the dark, my new acquaintance led me across this
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wide hall, into the room destined for my reception it
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was spacious and wainscoted up to the ceiling the furniture
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of this capacious chamber was old-fashioned and clumsy there were
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curtains still to the windows and a piece of turkey
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carpet lay upon the floor those windows were two in
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number looking out through the trunks of the trees close
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to the house upon the lake it needed all the
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fire and all the pleasant associations of my entertainer's red
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nose to light up this melancholy chamber. A door at
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its farther end admitted to the room that was prepared
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for my sleeping apartment. It was wainscoted like the other.
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It had a four-post bed with heavy tapestry curtains, and
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in other respects was furnished in the same old-world and
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ponderous style as the other room. its window like those
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of that apartment looked out upon the lake sombre and
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sad as these rooms were they were yet scrupulously clean
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i had nothing to complain of but the effect was
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rather dispiriting having given some directions about supper a pleasant
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incident to look forward to and made a rapid toilette
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i called on my friend with the gaiters and red
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nose tom windsor whose occupation was that of a bailiff
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or under-steward of the property, to accompany me, as we
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had still an hour or so of sun and twilight,
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in a walk over the grounds. It was a sweet
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autumn evening, and my guide, a hardy old fellow, strode
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at a pace that tasked me to keep up with.
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Among clumps of trees, at the northern boundary of the demesne,
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we lighted upon the little antique parish church. I was
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looking down upon it from an eminence, and the park
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wall interposed. But a little way down was a stile,
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affording access to the road, and by this we approached
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the iron gate of the churchyard. I saw the church
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door open. The sexton was replacing his pick, shovel, and spade,
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with which he had just been digging a grave in
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the churchyard. in their little repository under the stone stair
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of the tower. He was a polite, shrewd little hunchback
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who was very happy to show me over the church.
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Among the monuments was one that interested me. It was
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erected to commemorate the very Squire Bowers from whom my
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two old maids had inherited the house and estate of Barrick.
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It spoke of him in terms of grandiloquent eulogy, and
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informed the Christian reader that he had died in the
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bosom of the Church of England at the age of seventy-one.
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I read this inscription by the parting beams of the
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setting sun, which disappear behind the horizon just as we
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passed out from under the porch. Twenty years since the
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squire died, said I, reflecting as I loitered still in
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the churchyard. Aye, sir, twelve-twenty year the ninth the last month,
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and a very good old gentleman, good-natured enough, and an
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easy gentleman he was, sir. I don't think while he
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lived he ever heard a fly, acquiesced Tom Windsor. It
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ain't always easy saying what's in them, though, and what
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they may take or turn to afterwards. and some of
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them sort I think goes mad. You don't think he
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was out of his mind? I asked. He? Oh, la! No,
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not he, sir. A bit lazy, mayhap, like other old fellows. Ah,
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but I knew devilish well what he was about. Tom
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Windsor's account was a little enigmatical, but like old Squire Bowes,
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I was a bit lazy that evening, and asked no
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more questions about him. We got over the stile upon
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the narrow road that skirts the churchyard. It is overhung
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by elms more than a hundred years old, and in
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the twilight which now prevailed was growing very dark. As
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side by side we walked along this road, hemmed in
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by two loose stone-like walls, something running towards us in
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a zigzag line passed us at a wild pace, with
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a sound like a frightened laugh or a shudder, and
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I saw as it passed that it was a human figure.
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I may confess now that I was a little startled.
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The dress of this figure was in part white. I
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know I mistook it at first for a white horse
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coming down the road at a gallop. Tom Windsor turned
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about and looked after the retreating figure. he'll be on
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his travels to-night he said in a low tone easy
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served with a bed that lad be six foot a
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dry peat or heat or a nook in a dry
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ditch that lad hasn't slept once in a house this
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twenty year and never will while grass grows is he
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mad i asked something that way sir he's an idiot
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an orpy we call him dickon the devil because the
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devil's almost the only word that's ever in his mouth.
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It struck me that this idiot was in some way
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connected with the story of old Squire Bowes. Queer things
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are told of him, I dare say, I suggested. More
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or less, sir, more or less. Queer stories, some. Twenty
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years since he slept in a house. That's about the
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time the Squire died, I continued So it will be so,
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and not very long after. You must tell me all
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about that, Tom, tonight, when I can hear it comfortably
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after supper. Tom did not seem to like my invitation,
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and looking straight before him as we trudged on, he said,
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You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and now
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it's been troubling folk inside the walls or out. all
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round the woods of Barrick this ten year or more,
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and my old woman down there is clear against talking
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about such matters, and thinks it best, and so do I,
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to let sleeping dogs be.' He dropped his voice towards
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the close of the sentence, and nodded significantly. We soon
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reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the
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park wall, by which we entered the grounds of Barrick
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once more. The twilight deepening over the landscape, the huge
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and solemn trees, and the distant outline of the haunted house,
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exercised a sombre influence on me, which, together with the
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fatigue of a day of travel, and the brisk walk
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we had had, disinclined me to interrupt the silence, in
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which my companion now indulged. A certain air of comparative
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comfort on our arrival, in great measure dissipated the gloom
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that was stealing over me. Although it was by no
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means a cold night, I was very glad to see
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some wood blazing in the grate, and a pair of
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candles aiding the light of the fire made the room
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look cheerful. A small table, with a very white cloth,
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and preparations for supper was also a very agreeable object.
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I should have liked very well, under these influences, to
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have listened to Tom Windsor's story, but after supper I
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grew too sleepy to attempt to lead him to the subject,
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and after yawning for a time I found there was
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no use in contending against my drowsiness, so I betook
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myself to my bedroom, and by ten o'clock was fast asleep.
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What interruption I experienced that night, I shall tell you presently.
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It was not much, but it was very odd. By
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next night I had completed my work at Barrack. From
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early morning till then I was so incessantly occupied and
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hard-worked that I had not time to think over the
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singular occurrence to which I have just referred. Behold me, however,
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at length, once more seated at my little supper-table, having
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ended a comfortable meal. It had been a sultry day,
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and I had thrown one of the large windows up
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as high as it would go. I was sitting nearer,
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with my brandy and water at my elbow, looking out
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into the dark. There was no moon, and the trees
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that are grouped about the house make the darkness round
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it supernaturally profound on such nights tom said i so
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soon as the jug of hot punch i had supplied
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him with began to exercise its genial and communicative influence
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you must tell me who beside your wife and you
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and myself slept in the house last night sitting near
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the door, set down his tumbler, and looked at me askance,
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while you might count seven, without speaking a word.' Who
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else slept in the house?' he repeated, very deliberately.' Not
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a living soul, sir.' And he looked hard at me,
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still evidently expecting something more.' That is very odd,' I said,
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returning his stare, and feeling confused. really a little odd
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you are sure you were not in my room last
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night not till i came to call you sir this
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morning i can make oath of that well said i
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there was someone there. I can make oath of that.'
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I was so tired I could not make up my
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mind to get up, but I was waked by a
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sound that I thought was someone flinging down the two
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tin boxes in which my papers were locked up violently
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on the floor. I heard a slow step on the ground,
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and there was light in the room. although I remembered
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having put out my candle. I thought it must have
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been you who had come in for my clothes and
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upset the boxes by accident. Whoever it was, he went
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out and the light with him. I was about to
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settle again when the curtain, being a little open at
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the foot of the bed, I saw a light on
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the wall opposite, such as a candle from outside would
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cast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started
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up in the bed drew the side curtain, and saw
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that the door was opening and admitting light from outside.
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It is close, you know, to the head of the bed.
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A hand was holding on the edge of the door
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and pushing it open, and not a bit like yours,
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a very singular hand. Let me look at yours. He
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extended it for my inspection. Oh, no, there's nothing wrong
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with your hand. this was differently shaped fatter and the
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middle finger was stunted and shorter than the rest looking
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as if it had once been broken and the nail
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was crooked like a claw i called out who's there
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and the light and the hand were withdrawn and i
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saw and heard no more of my visitor so sure
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as you're a living man that was him exclaimed tom
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windsor his very nose growing pale and his eyes almost
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darting out of his head.' Who?' I asked.' Old Squire Bowes.'
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Twas his hand, you saw.' The Lord of Mercy on us,'
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answered Tom.' The broken finger and the nail bent like
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a hoop.' Oh, well for you, sir.' He didn't come
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back when you called that time.' You came here about them,
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Miss Dimmock's business,' and he never meant they should ever
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put a ground in barrack.' And he was making a
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will to give it away quite different' when death took
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him short. He never was uncivil to no one, but
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he couldn't abide them ladies. My mind misgave me when
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I heard it was about their business you were coming,
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and now you see how it is, he'll be at
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his old tricks again. With some pressure, and a little
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more punch, I induced Tom Windsor to explain his mysterious
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allusions by recounting the occurrences which followed the old squire's death.'
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Squire Bowes of Barrack died without making a will, as
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you know,' said Tom.' And all the folk round were sorry,
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that is to say, sir,' as sorry as folk will
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be for an old man that has seen a long
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tale of years' and has no right to grumble that
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death has knocked an hour too soon at his door.'
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The squire was well liked.' He was never in a
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passion or said a hard word,' and he would not
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00:23:07.400 --> 00:23:10.960
hurt a fly.' and that made what happened after his
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decease the more surprising. The first thing these ladies did
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when they got the property was to buy stock for
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the park. It was not wise in any case to
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graze the land on their own account, but they little
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knew all they had to contend with. Before long something
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went wrong with the cattle, first one and then another
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took sick and died, and so on, till the loss
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began to grow heavy. Then queer stories, little by little,
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began to be told. It was said, first by one,
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then by another, that Squire Bowes was seen about evening
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time walking, just as he used to do when he
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was alive among the old trees, leaning on his stick,
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and sometimes, when he came up with the cattle, he
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would stop and lay his hand kindly like on the
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back of one of them, and that one was sure
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to fall sick next day and die soon after. No
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00:24:07.730 --> 00:24:09.809
one ever met him in the park or in the woods,
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or ever saw him, except a good distance off. But
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they knew his gait and his figure well, and the
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clothes he used to wear, and they could tell the
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beast he laid his hand on by its colour, white,
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dun or black, and that beast was sure to sicken
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and die. The neighbours grew shy of taking the path
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over the park, and no one liked to walk in
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the woods or come inside the bounds of Barrack. and
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the cattle went on sickening and dying as before. At
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that time there was one Thomas Pike. He had been
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a groom to the old squire, and he was in
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care of the place, and was the only one that
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used to sleep in the house. Tom was vexed hearing
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these stories, which he did not believe the harp on him,
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and more especial, as he could not get man or
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boy to herd the cattle, all being afeard. so he
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wrote to Matlock in Derbyshire for his brother Richard Pike,
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a clever lad, and one that knew now of the
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story of the old squire walking. Dick came, and the
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cattle was better. Folks said they could still see the
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old squire sometimes walking as before in openings of the
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wood with his stick in his hand, but he was
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shy of coming nigh the cattle, whatever his reason might be,
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since Dick and Pike came. and he used to stand
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a long bit off looking at them, with no more
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stir in him than a trunk of one of the
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old trees, for an hour at a time, till the
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shape melted away little by little, like the smoke of
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a fire that burns out. Tom Pike and his brother Dickon,
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being the only living souls in the house, lay in
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the big bed in the servants' room, the house being
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fast barred and locked one night in November. Tom was
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lying next the wall, and he told me, as wide
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awake as ever he was at noonday, his brother Dickon
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lay outside and was sound asleep. Well, as Tom lay thinking,
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with his eyes turned toward the door, it opened slowly,
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and who should come in but old Squire Bowles, his
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face looking as dead as he was in his coffin.
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Tom's very breath left his body, He could not take
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his eyes off him, and he felt the hair rising
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up on his head. The squire came to the side
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of the bed and put his arms under Dickon and
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lifted the boy in a dead sleep all the time
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and carried him out so at the door. Such was
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the appearance to Tom Pike's eyes, and he was ready
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to swear to it anywhere. When this happened, the light,
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wherever it came from, all on a sudden went out.
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and Tom could not see his own hand before him.
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More dead than alive he lay till daylight. Sure enough,
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his brother Dickon was gone. No sign of him could
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00:27:10.980 --> 00:27:14.509
he discover about the house, and with some trouble he
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got a couple of the neighbours to help him to
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search the woods and grounds. Not a sign of him anywhere.
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At last one of them thought of the island in
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00:27:23.750 --> 00:27:27.049
the lake. The little boat was moored to the old
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00:27:27.150 --> 00:27:30.920
post at the water's edge, In they got, though with
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00:27:31.000 --> 00:27:35.559
small hope of finding him there. Find him, nevertheless they did,
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sitting under the big ash tree, quite out of his wits.
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And to all their questions he answered nothing but one cry,
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Bows the devil, see him, see him, bows the devil.
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00:27:49.289 --> 00:27:52.259
An idiot they found him, and so he will be
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till God sets all things right. No one could ever
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00:27:56.319 --> 00:27:59.930
get him to sleep under Rooftree Moor. He wanders from
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house to house while daylight lasts, and no one cares
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to lock the harmless creature in the workhouse, and folk
395
00:28:08.180 --> 00:28:11.640
would rather not meet him after nightfall, for they think
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where he is there may be worse things near. A
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silence followed Tom's story. He and I were alone in
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that large room. I was sitting near the open window
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looking into the dark night air. I fancied I saw
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00:28:29.609 --> 00:28:32.990
something white move across it, and I heard a sound
401
00:28:33.049 --> 00:28:38.079
like low talking that swelled into a discordant shriek.' Hoo!
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00:28:38.619 --> 00:28:45.269
Bow's the devil! Over your shoulder! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo-ha! Ha! Ha!'
403
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I started up, and saw by the light of the
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candle with which Tom strode to the window the wild
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eyes and blighted face of the idiot, as, with a
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sudden change of mood, he drew off whispering and tittering
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to himself, and holding up his long fingers, and looking
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at the tips like a hand of glory. Tom pulled
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down the window. The story and its epilogue were over.
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I confess I was rather glad when I heard the
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sound of the horses' hooves on the courtyard a few
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minutes later, and still gladder when, having bidden Tom a
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kind farewell, I had left the neglected house of barrack
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A mile behind me. End of Dickon the Devil
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DICKEN THE DEVIL by Joseph Sheridan LaFarno This is a
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LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
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For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording
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by Tony Addison. DICKEN THE DEVIL by Joseph Sheridan LaFarno
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About thirty years ago, I was selected by two rich
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old maids to visit a property in that part of
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Lancashire which lies near the famous Forest of Pendle, with
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which Mr. Ainsworth's Lancashire Witches has made us so pleasantly familiar.
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My business was to make partition of a small property,
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including a house and demean, to which they had a
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long time before succeeded as co-heiresses. The last forty miles
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of my journey I was obliged to post, chiefly by crossroads,
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little known and less frequented, and presenting scenery often extremely
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interesting and pretty. The picturesqueness of the landscape was enhanced
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by the season, the beginning of September, at which I
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was travelling. I had never been in this part of
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the world before. I am told it is now a
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great deal less wild, and consequently less beautiful. At the
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inn where I had stopped for a relay of horses
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and some dinner, for it was then past five o'clock,
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I found the host a hale old fellow of five
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and sixty, as he told me, a man of easy
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and garrulous benevolence, willing to accommodate his guests with any
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amount of talk which the slightest tap sufficed to set
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flowing on any subject you pleased. I was curious to
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learn something about Barwick, which was the name of the
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00:02:08.639 --> 00:02:12.830
demean and house I was going to. As there was
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no inn within some miles of it, I had written
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to the steward to put me up there the best
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way he could for a night. The host of the
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three nuns which was the sign under which he entertained wayfarers,
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had not a great deal to tell. It was twenty
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years or more since old Squire Bowes died, and no
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one had lived in the hall ever since, except the
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gardener and his wife. Tom Windsor will be as old
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a man as myself, but he's a bit taller, not
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so much in flesh quite, said the fat innkeeper. But
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there were stories about the house, I repeated, that they
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said prevented tenants from coming into it. Old wives' tales.
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How many years ago that will be, sir. I forget them.
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I forget them all. Ah, yes, there always will be
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when a house is left so. Foolish folk will always
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be talking. But I hadn't heard a word about it
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this twenty years. It was vain trying to pump him.
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THE OLD LANDLORD OF THE THREE NUNS FOR SOME REASON
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DID NOT CHOOSE TO TELL TALES OF BARICAL IF HE
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REALLY DID, AS I SUSPECTED, REMEMBER THEM. I PAID MY
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RECOGNEM AND RESUMED MY JOURNEY, WELL PLEASED WITH THE GOOD
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CHEER OF THAT OLD WORLD INN, BUT A LITTLE DISAPPOINTED.
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WE HAD BEEN DRIVING FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR WHEN
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WE BEGAN TO CROSS A WILD COMMON. and I knew that,
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this past, a quarter of an hour would bring me
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to the door of Barrick Hall. The peat and firs
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were pretty soon left behind. We were again in the
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wooded scenery that I enjoyed so much, so entirely natural
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and pretty, and so little disturbed by traffic of any kind.
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I was looking from the chaise window, and soon detected
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the object of which for some time my eye had
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been in search. barrack hall was a large quaint house
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of that cage-work fashion known as black and white in
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which the bars and angles of an oak framework contrast
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black as ebony with the white plaster that overspreads the
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masonry built into its interstices this steep-roofed elizabethan house stood
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in the midst of park-like grounds of no great extent
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but rendered imposing by the noble stature of the old
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trees that now cast their lengthening shadows eastward over the
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sward from the declining sun. The park wall was grey
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with age, and in many places laden with ivy. In
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deep grey shadow, that contrasted with the dim fires of
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evening reflected on the foliage above it, in a gentle
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hollow stretched a lake that looked cold and black, and seemed,
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as it were, to skulk from observation with a guilty knowledge.
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I had forgot that there was a lake at Varick,
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but the moment this caught my eye, like the cold
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polish of a snake in the shadow, my instinct seemed
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to recognise something dangerous, and I knew that the lake
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was connected. I could not remember how, with the story
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I had heard of this place in my boyhood. I
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drove up a grass-grown avenue, under the boughs of these
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noble trees, whose foliage, dyed in autumnal red and yellow,
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returned the beams of the western sun gorgeously. We drew
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up at the door. I got out, and had a
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good look at the front of the house. It was
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a large and melancholy mansion, with signs of long neglect
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upon it. Great wooden shutters in the old fashion were
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barred outside across the windows. Grass and even nettles were
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growing thick on the courtyard, and a thin moss streaked
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the timber beams. The plaster was discoloured by time and weather,
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and bore great russet and yellow stains. The gloom was
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increased by several grand old trees that crowded close about
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the house. I mounted the steps and looked round. The
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dark lake lay near me now, a little to the left.
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It was not large. It may have covered some ten
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or twelve acres, but it added to the melancholy of
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the scene. Near the centre of it was a small island,
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with two old ash-trees leaning toward each other, their pensive
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images reflected in the stirless water. The only cheery influence
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in this scene of antiquity, solitude, and neglect was that
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the house and landscape were warmed with the ruddy western beams.
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I knocked, and my summons resounded, hollow and ungenial in
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my ear, and the bell from far away returned a
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deep-mouthed and surly ring, as if it resented being roused
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from a score-year slumber. A light-limbed, jolly-looking old fellow, in
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a barricade jacket and gaiters, with a smile of welcome
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and a very sharp red nose that seemed to promise
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good cheer, opened the door with a promptitude that indicated
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a hospitable expectation of my arrival. There was but little
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light in the hall, and that little lost itself in
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darkness in the background. It was very spacious and lofty,
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with a gallery running round it, which, when the door
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was open, was visible at two or three points. Almost
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in the dark, my new acquaintance led me across this
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wide hall, into the room destined for my reception it
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was spacious and wainscoted up to the ceiling the furniture
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of this capacious chamber was old-fashioned and clumsy there were
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curtains still to the windows and a piece of turkey
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carpet lay upon the floor those windows were two in
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number looking out through the trunks of the trees close
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to the house upon the lake it needed all the
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fire and all the pleasant associations of my entertainer's red
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nose to light up this melancholy chamber. A door at
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its farther end admitted to the room that was prepared
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for my sleeping apartment. It was wainscoted like the other.
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It had a four-post bed with heavy tapestry curtains, and
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in other respects was furnished in the same old-world and
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ponderous style as the other room. its window like those
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of that apartment looked out upon the lake sombre and
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sad as these rooms were they were yet scrupulously clean
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i had nothing to complain of but the effect was
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rather dispiriting having given some directions about supper a pleasant
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incident to look forward to and made a rapid toilette
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i called on my friend with the gaiters and red
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nose tom windsor whose occupation was that of a bailiff
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or under-steward of the property, to accompany me, as we
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had still an hour or so of sun and twilight,
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in a walk over the grounds. It was a sweet
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autumn evening, and my guide, a hardy old fellow, strode
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at a pace that tasked me to keep up with.
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Among clumps of trees, at the northern boundary of the demesne,
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we lighted upon the little antique parish church. I was
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looking down upon it from an eminence, and the park
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wall interposed. But a little way down was a stile,
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affording access to the road, and by this we approached
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the iron gate of the churchyard. I saw the church
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door open. The sexton was replacing his pick, shovel, and spade,
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with which he had just been digging a grave in
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the churchyard. in their little repository under the stone stair
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of the tower. He was a polite, shrewd little hunchback
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who was very happy to show me over the church.
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Among the monuments was one that interested me. It was
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erected to commemorate the very Squire Bowers from whom my
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two old maids had inherited the house and estate of Barrick.
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It spoke of him in terms of grandiloquent eulogy, and
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informed the Christian reader that he had died in the
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bosom of the Church of England at the age of seventy-one.
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I read this inscription by the parting beams of the
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setting sun, which disappear behind the horizon just as we
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passed out from under the porch. Twenty years since the
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squire died, said I, reflecting as I loitered still in
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the churchyard. Aye, sir, twelve-twenty year the ninth the last month,
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and a very good old gentleman, good-natured enough, and an
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easy gentleman he was, sir. I don't think while he
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lived he ever heard a fly, acquiesced Tom Windsor. It
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ain't always easy saying what's in them, though, and what
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they may take or turn to afterwards. and some of
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them sort I think goes mad. You don't think he
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was out of his mind? I asked. He? Oh, la! No,
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not he, sir. A bit lazy, mayhap, like other old fellows. Ah,
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but I knew devilish well what he was about. Tom
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Windsor's account was a little enigmatical, but like old Squire Bowes,
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I was a bit lazy that evening, and asked no
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more questions about him. We got over the stile upon
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the narrow road that skirts the churchyard. It is overhung
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by elms more than a hundred years old, and in
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the twilight which now prevailed was growing very dark. As
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side by side we walked along this road, hemmed in
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by two loose stone-like walls, something running towards us in
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a zigzag line passed us at a wild pace, with
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a sound like a frightened laugh or a shudder, and
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I saw as it passed that it was a human figure.
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I may confess now that I was a little startled.
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The dress of this figure was in part white. I
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know I mistook it at first for a white horse
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coming down the road at a gallop. Tom Windsor turned
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about and looked after the retreating figure. he'll be on
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his travels to-night he said in a low tone easy
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served with a bed that lad be six foot a
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dry peat or heat or a nook in a dry
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ditch that lad hasn't slept once in a house this
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twenty year and never will while grass grows is he
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mad i asked something that way sir he's an idiot
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an orpy we call him dickon the devil because the
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devil's almost the only word that's ever in his mouth.
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It struck me that this idiot was in some way
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connected with the story of old Squire Bowes. Queer things
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are told of him, I dare say, I suggested. More
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or less, sir, more or less. Queer stories, some. Twenty
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years since he slept in a house. That's about the
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time the Squire died, I continued So it will be so,
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and not very long after. You must tell me all
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about that, Tom, tonight, when I can hear it comfortably
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after supper. Tom did not seem to like my invitation,
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and looking straight before him as we trudged on, he said,
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You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and now
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it's been troubling folk inside the walls or out. all
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round the woods of Barrick this ten year or more,
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and my old woman down there is clear against talking
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about such matters, and thinks it best, and so do I,
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to let sleeping dogs be.' He dropped his voice towards
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the close of the sentence, and nodded significantly. We soon
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reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the
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park wall, by which we entered the grounds of Barrick
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once more. The twilight deepening over the landscape, the huge
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and solemn trees, and the distant outline of the haunted house,
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exercised a sombre influence on me, which, together with the
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fatigue of a day of travel, and the brisk walk
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we had had, disinclined me to interrupt the silence, in
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which my companion now indulged. A certain air of comparative
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comfort on our arrival, in great measure dissipated the gloom
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that was stealing over me. Although it was by no
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means a cold night, I was very glad to see
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some wood blazing in the grate, and a pair of
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candles aiding the light of the fire made the room
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look cheerful. A small table, with a very white cloth,
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and preparations for supper was also a very agreeable object.
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I should have liked very well, under these influences, to
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have listened to Tom Windsor's story, but after supper I
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grew too sleepy to attempt to lead him to the subject,
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and after yawning for a time I found there was
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no use in contending against my drowsiness, so I betook
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myself to my bedroom, and by ten o'clock was fast asleep.
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What interruption I experienced that night, I shall tell you presently.
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It was not much, but it was very odd. By
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next night I had completed my work at Barrack. From
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early morning till then I was so incessantly occupied and
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hard-worked that I had not time to think over the
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singular occurrence to which I have just referred. Behold me, however,
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at length, once more seated at my little supper-table, having
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ended a comfortable meal. It had been a sultry day,
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and I had thrown one of the large windows up
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as high as it would go. I was sitting nearer,
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with my brandy and water at my elbow, looking out
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into the dark. There was no moon, and the trees
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that are grouped about the house make the darkness round
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it supernaturally profound on such nights tom said i so
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soon as the jug of hot punch i had supplied
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him with began to exercise its genial and communicative influence
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you must tell me who beside your wife and you
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and myself slept in the house last night sitting near
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the door, set down his tumbler, and looked at me askance,
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while you might count seven, without speaking a word.' Who
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else slept in the house?' he repeated, very deliberately.' Not
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a living soul, sir.' And he looked hard at me,
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still evidently expecting something more.' That is very odd,' I said,
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returning his stare, and feeling confused. really a little odd
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you are sure you were not in my room last
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night not till i came to call you sir this
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morning i can make oath of that well said i
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there was someone there. I can make oath of that.'
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I was so tired I could not make up my
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mind to get up, but I was waked by a
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sound that I thought was someone flinging down the two
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tin boxes in which my papers were locked up violently
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on the floor. I heard a slow step on the ground,
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and there was light in the room. although I remembered
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having put out my candle. I thought it must have
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been you who had come in for my clothes and
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upset the boxes by accident. Whoever it was, he went
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out and the light with him. I was about to
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settle again when the curtain, being a little open at
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the foot of the bed, I saw a light on
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the wall opposite, such as a candle from outside would
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cast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started
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up in the bed drew the side curtain, and saw
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that the door was opening and admitting light from outside.
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It is close, you know, to the head of the bed.
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A hand was holding on the edge of the door
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and pushing it open, and not a bit like yours,
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a very singular hand. Let me look at yours. He
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extended it for my inspection. Oh, no, there's nothing wrong
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with your hand. this was differently shaped fatter and the
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middle finger was stunted and shorter than the rest looking
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as if it had once been broken and the nail
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was crooked like a claw i called out who's there
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and the light and the hand were withdrawn and i
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saw and heard no more of my visitor so sure
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as you're a living man that was him exclaimed tom
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windsor his very nose growing pale and his eyes almost
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darting out of his head.' Who?' I asked.' Old Squire Bowes.'
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Twas his hand, you saw.' The Lord of Mercy on us,'
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answered Tom.' The broken finger and the nail bent like
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a hoop.' Oh, well for you, sir.' He didn't come
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back when you called that time.' You came here about them,
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Miss Dimmock's business,' and he never meant they should ever
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put a ground in barrack.' And he was making a
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will to give it away quite different' when death took
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him short. He never was uncivil to no one, but
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he couldn't abide them ladies. My mind misgave me when
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I heard it was about their business you were coming,
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and now you see how it is, he'll be at
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his old tricks again. With some pressure, and a little
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more punch, I induced Tom Windsor to explain his mysterious
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allusions by recounting the occurrences which followed the old squire's death.'
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Squire Bowes of Barrack died without making a will, as
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you know,' said Tom.' And all the folk round were sorry,
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that is to say, sir,' as sorry as folk will
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be for an old man that has seen a long
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tale of years' and has no right to grumble that
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death has knocked an hour too soon at his door.'
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The squire was well liked.' He was never in a
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passion or said a hard word,' and he would not
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hurt a fly.' and that made what happened after his
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decease the more surprising. The first thing these ladies did
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when they got the property was to buy stock for
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the park. It was not wise in any case to
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graze the land on their own account, but they little
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knew all they had to contend with. Before long something
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went wrong with the cattle, first one and then another
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took sick and died, and so on, till the loss
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began to grow heavy. Then queer stories, little by little,
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began to be told. It was said, first by one,
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then by another, that Squire Bowes was seen about evening
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time walking, just as he used to do when he
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was alive among the old trees, leaning on his stick,
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and sometimes, when he came up with the cattle, he
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would stop and lay his hand kindly like on the
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back of one of them, and that one was sure
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to fall sick next day and die soon after. No
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one ever met him in the park or in the woods,
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or ever saw him, except a good distance off. But
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they knew his gait and his figure well, and the
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clothes he used to wear, and they could tell the
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beast he laid his hand on by its colour, white,
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dun or black, and that beast was sure to sicken
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and die. The neighbours grew shy of taking the path
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over the park, and no one liked to walk in
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the woods or come inside the bounds of Barrack. and
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the cattle went on sickening and dying as before. At
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that time there was one Thomas Pike. He had been
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a groom to the old squire, and he was in
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care of the place, and was the only one that
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used to sleep in the house. Tom was vexed hearing
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these stories, which he did not believe the harp on him,
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and more especial, as he could not get man or
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boy to herd the cattle, all being afeard. so he
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wrote to Matlock in Derbyshire for his brother Richard Pike,
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a clever lad, and one that knew now of the
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story of the old squire walking. Dick came, and the
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cattle was better. Folks said they could still see the
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old squire sometimes walking as before in openings of the
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wood with his stick in his hand, but he was
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shy of coming nigh the cattle, whatever his reason might be,
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since Dick and Pike came. and he used to stand
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a long bit off looking at them, with no more
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stir in him than a trunk of one of the
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old trees, for an hour at a time, till the
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shape melted away little by little, like the smoke of
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a fire that burns out. Tom Pike and his brother Dickon,
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being the only living souls in the house, lay in
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the big bed in the servants' room, the house being
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fast barred and locked one night in November. Tom was
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lying next the wall, and he told me, as wide
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awake as ever he was at noonday, his brother Dickon
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lay outside and was sound asleep. Well, as Tom lay thinking,
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with his eyes turned toward the door, it opened slowly,
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and who should come in but old Squire Bowles, his
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face looking as dead as he was in his coffin.
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Tom's very breath left his body, He could not take
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his eyes off him, and he felt the hair rising
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up on his head. The squire came to the side
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of the bed and put his arms under Dickon and
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lifted the boy in a dead sleep all the time
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and carried him out so at the door. Such was
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the appearance to Tom Pike's eyes, and he was ready
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to swear to it anywhere. When this happened, the light,
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00:26:55.920 --> 00:26:58.730
wherever it came from, all on a sudden went out.
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00:26:59.390 --> 00:27:02.019
and Tom could not see his own hand before him.
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More dead than alive he lay till daylight. Sure enough,
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his brother Dickon was gone. No sign of him could
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00:27:10.980 --> 00:27:14.509
he discover about the house, and with some trouble he
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00:27:14.549 --> 00:27:16.269
got a couple of the neighbours to help him to
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00:27:16.329 --> 00:27:20.410
search the woods and grounds. Not a sign of him anywhere.
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00:27:21.390 --> 00:27:23.730
At last one of them thought of the island in
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the lake. The little boat was moored to the old
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post at the water's edge, In they got, though with
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00:27:31.000 --> 00:27:35.559
small hope of finding him there. Find him, nevertheless they did,
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00:27:36.299 --> 00:27:39.289
sitting under the big ash tree, quite out of his wits.
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And to all their questions he answered nothing but one cry,
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Bows the devil, see him, see him, bows the devil.
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An idiot they found him, and so he will be
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00:27:52.339 --> 00:27:56.259
till God sets all things right. No one could ever
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00:27:56.319 --> 00:27:59.930
get him to sleep under Rooftree Moor. He wanders from
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house to house while daylight lasts, and no one cares
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00:28:04.279 --> 00:28:08.119
to lock the harmless creature in the workhouse, and folk
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00:28:08.180 --> 00:28:11.640
would rather not meet him after nightfall, for they think
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00:28:11.740 --> 00:28:14.920
where he is there may be worse things near. A
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00:28:16.940 --> 00:28:21.589
silence followed Tom's story. He and I were alone in
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00:28:21.650 --> 00:28:25.430
that large room. I was sitting near the open window
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00:28:25.690 --> 00:28:29.549
looking into the dark night air. I fancied I saw
400
00:28:29.609 --> 00:28:32.990
something white move across it, and I heard a sound
401
00:28:33.049 --> 00:28:38.079
like low talking that swelled into a discordant shriek.' Hoo!
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00:28:38.619 --> 00:28:45.269
Bow's the devil! Over your shoulder! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo-ha! Ha! Ha!'
403
00:28:46.240 --> 00:28:48.940
I started up, and saw by the light of the
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candle with which Tom strode to the window the wild
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eyes and blighted face of the idiot, as, with a
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00:28:55.930 --> 00:28:59.349
sudden change of mood, he drew off whispering and tittering
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00:28:59.410 --> 00:29:02.890
to himself, and holding up his long fingers, and looking
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00:29:02.950 --> 00:29:06.950
at the tips like a hand of glory. Tom pulled
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00:29:06.990 --> 00:29:10.670
down the window. The story and its epilogue were over.
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00:29:11.950 --> 00:29:15.190
I confess I was rather glad when I heard the
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00:29:15.289 --> 00:29:18.569
sound of the horses' hooves on the courtyard a few
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00:29:18.630 --> 00:29:22.890
minutes later, and still gladder when, having bidden Tom a
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00:29:22.950 --> 00:29:26.690
kind farewell, I had left the neglected house of barrack
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A mile behind me. End of Dickon the Devil
