THE GHOST OF THE GOODWINS

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXV, Issue 5008, 4 July 1903, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE GHOST OF THE GOODWINS

(By “11i1.a,” Author of “Dame Durdau." etc.) [Am, Rights Reserved.] (Copyright in tho United States of America. By D. T. Pierce.) "‘A yarn,'lady,” said the old seaman. r VVeli, yes, I could spin yor onu or two; a matter of fifty if it comes to that, bub for a right down good ’uu; a croc-pin’, unwhoiesoino kind o’ yarn such as young folks like Christmas time, you go to Jan Bruton down there, close to trio Visitors’ float, where the boats bo. lie's the sort you want.” 1 was -spending a week at a little unimportant seaside town on the Keutisu coast. Unimportant save to its inhabitants, and a certain industry in the carduio trade—of a renowned Broach brand—at least tiio cases were. In order to get away from the smoke and suiod of this thriving industry, X had planted myself among the pebbles and nets and iisbing boats and seeing the lounging figure of an oid sailor in cl jso proximity to a boat, had entered into conversation with him. After a good deal of local and general gossip ho had given ina tho information contained in my first sentc-noo, and with a view to profiting by it (professionally) 1 duly interviewed Jan Britton, and approached the subject with caution. ‘Man” was a seaman born and bred, tho son of a race, of seamen. Ho had “sailed tho ocean wide,’-’ from youth to manhood. Ho know Greenland’s icy mountains and India’s coral strand, so well, that tho Mission hymn which glorified them had quite a familiar nurse ty-tale flavour for him. Then after years of storm and stress and mingled fortune ho had married, spent his savings in the purchase of a boat, and now supported a wifo and family- by fishing and hiring out tho said boat to summer visitors He was a stalwart, well-built fellow, of any age from twenty-eight to thirty-six. He had a pleasant face, a merry eye, and a keen sense of humour, I sm quit© sure he knew what I was approaching as well as I know it mysolf, . but ids playing of rod and line was eminently skilful. It took, in fact, more than one interview, and a good many sails and rows to get out of Jan Britton his famous yarn. But one day ho relented, and in his own words I give here the story of the Ghost of tho Goodwins. “Talking of Ixreemashun.” observed Jan (apropos of nothing that I had said) “which is a mighty queer way o’ buryin’ oneself it seems to me—there was an old lady as used to come ’ere regular every summer. A good soul kind wasn’t tho word for ’or, and the good she did, and the way she ’ olped mo and my mates, not to speak of the rokommendations—wolf, it’s motii I could toll you in a week o’ Sundays. Fond o’ the sea, too, she were. Would just live on it. Hired me whole time straight off. Sort o’ oahiu-boy, first mate, purser, and oaptin’ all in one 1 was. That’s neither here nor thereThe pay was good, and she was right good company, too, and what with luushon . baskits and whiskey flasks, and toaohin’ her to row and fish and set a sail, weM a right down good time o’ it. Storm, or rain, or blow, ont she’d come; not a bit afoard o’ weather she warn’t. A fine plucky sort. God bless her.”

Ho sighed, and I looked sympathetic. “Yes,” he said in. answer to the look. ' “She's gone. 'Twas that made me think o’ Krcemashua. Why I’ve seen ’er sotting there, same as you might be, lady, with ’or oilsldn cap tight on her, pretty white hair, and her natty serge jacket. (sJio were a fine figured tady, mind you) and her face ail smilin’ and brown with sea and sun, and her pleasant way o’ talkin’ to us—me and my mates.” Ho paused again, and looked away bo where the cruel sandbanks were glistening in the morning sun. “Mighty tend o’ those ’ere Goodwins, she were,” he wont on. “Curious sort o’ fasoinashtm they ’ad for her. When tide served ’twas allays, ‘O, we’ll go to the Goodwins, Jan,’ and go we would, and many’s the time I’ve ’ad to carry ’er on and off when the sands were too wet for landing. Well, lady, ono evening we was a oomin’ ’ome arter a day oft there. ’Twas in September, I mind it well, and latish in the afternoon. A grey sky, lowerin’ like showed there’d be rain, and the wind was sighin’ mournful through the sails. My old lady seemed a bit low in her sperrita that day—her mind I mean. And sudden like, she says, ‘Jan, did ever you hear o’ Kreomashun?’ ‘Not as I know on, lady,’ I see, thinking maybe ’twas some new kind o’ mayterial for dresses; it didn’t sound like anything to eat. “I tell you what it .is,’ she ses; and she began explainin’ as how when folks was dead, ’twas a mighty sight decanter and healthier for to kreemato their bodies, and when that was done put the ashes into an urn, or box, or sum mat, and bury that, if so be one’s mind were set on a memorial vanlt, with inBcripsbuns. I didn’t seem to take it in, for a funeral with no ’earso or plumtngs or a grave to visit as a natral kind of konsequenoe didn’t seem proper respookt like to a corpse. But she talked and talked, and was mighty set on it as bein’ the best wav o’ settlin’ things for ’erself, and said as ’ow ’twas in ’er will, and must be done. I grew kind o’ queer bearin’ ■ ’or talk, and the sky was growin’ gloomy, and the lonesome grey sea looked melancholy, and ehe wam’t a bit cheery like ’erself, so I tacked and made for shore, and tried to get ’or to talk o’ summat else. But no. She were a bit obstinate sometimes, and on this ’ere speshal day she would ’ark back to that pint o’ the kreemashing. ‘Jan,’ she says, ‘I want you to promise mo something. I trust yon.’ she ses, ‘and if you giv’ your word I know you'll keep it.’ ‘Yes, lady,’ I ses. TTou can depend on that.’ ,‘WeM then it’s this,’ she ses. Tve a feelin’ I shan’t live much longer—’ ‘lor’ bless you, lady,’ I sos. “And you that ’ale and ’earty. A perfect female mariner,’ I ses. She laughed. ‘Ail the same, Jan, I feels it,’ she ses. ‘And I feels that this is the last year I’ll be sailin’ in your boat, and a walkin’ over them ’era Goodwins in your company. Now, Jan Britton, these sort o’ feelin’s.’ she ses, ‘are what are called presentermints and they’ve a mcanin’, and are sent as a warnin’ to us, to put our house in order same as the Bible tells us. So I’m taldn’ my warnin’,’ she ses. ‘And what I want you to promise is this. "When you hear o’ my decease,’ sho ses, ‘and I’ll take care you do,— you write at once to the address I’m a-goin’ to leave .with you. My only near o’ kin and executor is a nephew,’ she ses, ‘and ’e’es a clergyman o’ the ’ighest sort o’.’igh church, and 'o don’t ’old. with kreemashan, and I’m afeared ’eo won’t agree to' my diroeshuns. So this is what you must do, Jan. You ■write straight to ’im and say as I directed that the uni containin’ my ashes was to bo sent or given to you.’ “I sits up straight at that; goin’ to

explain as ’ow it were a great honour but X warn’t worthy of it no how. Bu„ she r-lopped my words. She were imgbty perempu-y sometimes, you see and made a chap feel as ’twero a sort o’ royal command ’o were given. ‘Jan,’ she, srs, 'you promised, and you must keep your promts’. When you gets tho urn,’ .-bo sen. ‘Ton must take it first tide as serves after you get it (mark that, lady—first tide as serves, it's mighty important to my story) and you must then,’ she sts, 'row out or sail as is best for you to the Goodwins. When you reaches them,’ she ses, ‘you must open the uru and scatter the ashen to tho winds, and if you liko, Jan/ she sos, soft-liko, ‘yon can say a hit o’ a prayer in your own honest 'cart for tho lonely old soul as is gone to its rest, For X am a lonely soul, Jan, and ‘avo few friends, and no loviu ’curt to care very much when my eyes closo on life for ever.’ ”

Ho paused, and I saw a curious moisture in tho keen blue eyes looking over tho sonny water.

“Sho spoke beautiful,” he went on. “Seems to mo now, lookin’ back, as t’wero ’or own funeral orashun sho were titterin’ that day while the wind moaned through tho ropes, and tiio greysea lapped tho boat sides. Melancholy it wore, lady, and I felt it such, and when X wanted to cheer ’cr tho words kind o’ stuck in my throat, and all I could say was, - D—n persouteruuuts.’ Bein’ a rough and ready sort o’ chap,” ho wont on, “I could find no lino words handy, and ’twas a silent and lonesome sail back, for she didn’t say much moro alter I give ’or my word.

“Soon arter that sho went back to London where she lived, and I put it all out o’ mind. October and November wero wild and stormy, and there wore wrecks all around tiio coast. .Me and my mates were kept busy one way and another, and I’d clean forgot all about that porsoutermlnt day of my promise, when 1 gets a paper, and a. big cross against one part, and it was the deaths, and thero right a top, was tho name of ray oldl lady I Cecilia Jane Rammago. Shock—l believe you ma’am, ’twas a shock. I felt that took aback —couldn’t sorb o’ bofievo it true; but next post come a letter written in a fine scholarly -band sayin’ as ’ow the writer had been - directed by . his lato aunt, Mrs Ilammago, to inform me of her death when that event should tako place. , So ’twas in a manner o’ ways verified, and'no help for’t. Nat’rally I waited for that ’ore Kreemashun urn to bo sent. to mo. but days wont on and it never came, and feolin’ kind o’ ankahus like I wrote to the gentleman’s address and said as ’ow I’d promised his aunt to take her ashes to the Goodwin Sands, and would he send them aa soon as convenient. ’Twas gottin’ nigh on to Christmas.—indeed ’twas the very day before when a parcel comes .for me, and my missus was mighty surprised at seeing a very ’ansom sort o’ vase wrapped mighty careful in a box, and thinkin’ ’twas an ornament for tlie mantelshelf, she set it there, and - when, I com© hem© that Christmas Eve why there it wasl

“ ‘The Kreemashim uml’ I cries, and ’ard work I bad to explain to ’er, but when she took it in and ’eard as ’ow ’twas the martial remains o’ that dear old lady she got terrible skeored. You see, ma’ain, she ’eld as ’ow buiyin’ was the right and natral end o’ a body. Even the sea won’t ’old ’em, you know, but sends ’em up to surface as if to show they oughter ’ave decent Christian intermint.' It certainly don’t ’old with kreomashing. Well, my missus begged and prayed me to take that ’ere urn away, and do as the old. lady had wished, and it seemed as if everything pinted that way, for the tide would serve that very evening, and there was a moon too, and the sea smooth enough to row on, and scarce a puff o’ wind at all. So off I sots wi’ the urn, and a di-op o’ rum to keep my sperrita up and the cold out of my bones. ’Twas a queer bizness the’, and when I looked up at the stars I couldn’t help a wonderin’ if she were there, , and a lookin' down on me to see if I was a-carryin’ out her direckshuns. Uncanny—ay that it were, lady, and I .don’t mind sayin’ ’twas as much as I could do to keep my eyes off that ’ere urn, and the more I looked the more I fancied as the old lady herself was sitting in ’er old place in the stern o’ the boat, and a watebin’ me pullin’ straight for the Goodwins. I took a puli at the bottle between whiles I must confess, and ’ad to rest a spell too. So ’twas nigh on midnight when I readied the sands at last. I made the boat secure, and stepped off wi’ that um in my hands, and reached a spot high and dry, tho’ the sea was shimmerin’ and shiverin’ all around, I tried to call her direeshuns to mind—‘Open tho um and scatter my ashes to the wind and say a prayer for mo.' That 'was the suin' o’ them near as I could remember".

“Well, fust I looked at that ’ere urn, turn it to all pints o’ the compass, so to say, but blest if I could'find any opening, or screw, or lid, so as to get them ashes out. No—not by no manner o’ means save personal violence was that ’ere kreemashuning obstndo to be opened. I stood there wi’ tho sea Bobbin’ all round, and the inoon bright and cold up above in tho sky, and tho tide a creepin’ ’igher every moment so I knew I hadn’t any time to'lose. ’And hammer and shake as 1 would, no ways I could see of folleriu’ out that poor Id soul’s last wishes 1 I got desprit like at last. ‘Here goes then,’ I sea—and prayin’ ‘Lord have mercy on her soul,’ I throws the urn to the winds, instead of the ashes, and hurries back to my boat. A capful of wind had sprung up, and I sets the sail, but what with settin’ and tackin’, and one thing or another. I s’pose ’twas some considerable time afore I made much headway. (Then I site down, has another pull at the bottle (mighty cold it was now, and creepy like just afore dawn) and fixin’ the rope kept ray eyes out for the shore, and my back to them ’ero lonesome sands behind. Sud-den-like I bears at the side o’ the boat a queer tap—tap—tappin’—like as if someone was knockin’.

My heart gives a jump, and I feels the sweat a startin’ out o’ my forehead. I looks round but I couldn’t see nothin’, and I tries to think ’twos a matter o’ fancy. No, lady, it wam’t. Sure as I live that sound comes agin. Tap—tap—tap. I summons up oourago and looks over the side o’ the boat and there—plain as I see you—was that ’ere kreemashun um keepin’ up beside the boat!”

At this dramatic point he paused, and I regarded him with the, amazement required, although the incident seemed to me capable of explanation. “What a strange thing—what did you db?”

“I looked at it, bobbins; up and clown, on that groy hearing sea, and it seemed as if the old lady was a follorin’ me, and upbraidin’ ' me for not ’aving obeyed her direeshnns. I didn’t like it. I’m not exactly a superstishus man, but gospel truth, lady, X didn’t like it. However, I ’adn’t the ’cart to leave it there floatin’ so lonely-liko on the lonely sea, and I leant over and took it in. ’Twas a mortial uncomfortable trip, that I trill say—creeps

and shivers, and tho sweat a pourin' out as I reived and sailed to make all speed, and tiio white uni there afore mo all that time. Bub 1 get home ai last, and took it along o’ mo to my cottage. Nob wantin’ my mi.-sus to sou it in tho mo-ruin’, 1 cast about for a safe piiace to nide it, and at last I put it on tho top shelf of a cupboard where woro a few jam crocks and pickle bottles. It waru’t the sort o’ company I liked to leave ’or in,” ho added apologetically. “But ’twas safe—leastwise I thought so. Then I finished the rum, and wont to bod.

“Next day, being Christmas day and a holiday, I laid abed longer than usual, and was. sort o’ di-eamiu’ and dozin’ mighty comfortable when 1 hears a loud screech from the kitchen, followed by a crash at if all tho chiuy was smashed!

“Up I jumps and looks in at the door.

“ ‘Why what the—’ I ses (axin’ your pardon, lady) and there lay my missus on tho floor in a dead faint and tho children all skeered, and that ’ere kreemashing urn smashed to bits! As I’m a living man, lady, that’s how it was!

“I gets tho old woman round, ami sets her up, and then sho falls a-cryiu’ and a-laughin’ as I’d never seen a sensible God-fearin’ female behavin’ ’orsoif afore. ‘Oh, Jan/ she says. ‘We’ro ’minted.’ ‘Rubbish,’ ses I. ‘What are you a torkin’ about?”

“‘Yos/sho ses. “Auntedl Tho lira’s come back!”

“ ‘Nab’rally it has/ ses I. “Seeing as ’ow I brought it. And' what in tho namo of thunder/ I ses, ‘did you go a-meddlin’ with it? And where, I ses, are tho ashes?

“ ‘Ashes/ she ses. And recoverin’ like wo stoops and looks about ahiong the broken pieces of tho urn, but as I’m a livin’ soul this day there warn’t no ashes Not a sign of dust even on any of the pieces. We picked 'em up most careful, and tolls ’er tho story as howl’d left the urn on the sands and found it a follerin’ o’ tho boat. X can bell you, lady, she didn’t like it. What to do now t didn’t know. Maybe them ashes woro so fine and powdery they’d blown away. Howsoraever ’twas an awful thing, for I couldn’t keep my word, and my wifo she’d got it in her ’cad that the old lady wound ’aunt us if so bp her last wishes waxu’t carried out. It was what the storv-bopks calls, a dy-leramcr, and no mistake! It warn’t quite tho sort o’ Christmas Day I’d expected, and ’twarn’t any use tryin’ to be jolly cos’we couldn’t be. rememberin’ that accident to tiio urn. At last I ses —‘Mary, I’ll go up to London and seo that oxercutioning gentlemen as the old lady said was her nephew, and tell him what’s happened. Perhaps he’s kept some o’ them ’ere ashes for himself,’ I ees, ‘and might spare a few, and then I'd cement this ’ere urn together, and .bury it accordin’ to her wishes,’ I ses. And Mary she agreed, but she and the children wouldn’t sleep there in the cottage, not on no account, and went to ’er sister’s 'ouse in Folkestone, when I goes up to London next day. “I called at the gentleman’s address, and was shown into his study. I didn’t much liko the looks o’ him. He was thin and peaky lookin’, and spoke as if be was a prayin’, and kept ’is ’auds together—so.” ‘ (Jan Britton gave an illustration of High Church mannerism, graphic, and distinctly recognisable) “and then,” ;he resumed, “I told him my story, and said how sorry I -was nob bein’ ’able to carry cut the good lady’s wishes. He listened, and a sort o’ curious, smile came over his face.

“My good man,’ he ses, ‘there ain’t no need for you to distress yourself. Of course there weren’t no ashes in the urn—for one good and sufficient reason.’ “I looks at him.

“ ‘The reason,’ he ses ‘is that my aunt wasn’t kreemated at ail I don’t hold with it,’ he sea. ‘lt would have been against my conscience, and I had her buried accordin' to the prescribed rites of the Christian Church,’ he ses. “Weill, lady, X was took aback. I stared at 'im. ‘But, sir,’ I ses. ‘Her last wishes—and what about her will ?’ ’ “ ‘She left no will,’ he ses. ‘No legal dookimdnt at least. Only a form of wordb expressing her absurd desires.’ “ ‘But don't you hold ’em binding, sir,’ I ses.

“ ‘Certainly , not. And when I got your letter, and remembered the ridio’r lons nonsense she ’ad written down I just sent you a vase X happened to ’are in my study in order to pacify you.’ “Lor, ma’am, I felt a fool, but I can tell you I’d like, to have taken that ’ere parson by his two shoulders, and given him a jolly good sbakin’.

“As ’twas I only took np my 'at, and I sea to ’im, ‘You’re a parson, and I leaves it to you and your conscience, for you’ll have to meet the old lady some day, and then there’ll be a*reckonin’ 1’

“Well, lady he just smiled very sweet like and ses., ‘ln my Father’s house are many mansions.’ “So I went back to my ’ome and left'’im to make a choice of ‘Eavonly apartments where maybe he'd not come across his aunt.” Next week! "The Babies.” By Richard Marsh.