II.

THE MULTIPLYING CELLAR.

St. Dilp by Tamar has altered little in a hundred years. As it stands to-day, embowered in cherry-trees, so (or nearly so) it stood on that warm afternoon in the early summer of 1807, when two weather-tanned seamen of His Majesty's Fleet came along its fore street with a hand-barrow and a huge cask very cunningly lashed thereto. On their way they eyed the cottages and gardens to right and left with a lively curiosity; but "Lord, Bill," said the shorter seaman, misquoting Wordsworth unawares, "the werry houses look asleep!"

At the "Punch-Bowl" Inn, kept by J. Coyne, they halted by silent consent. Mr. William Adams, who had been trundling the barrow, set it down, and Mr. Benjamin Jope—whose good-natured face would have recommended him anywhere—walked into the drinking-parlour and rapped on the table. This brought to him the innkeeper's daughter, Miss Elizabeth, twenty years old and comely. "What can I do for you, sir?" she asked.

"Two pots o' beer, first-along," said Mr. Jope.

"Two?"

"I got a shipmate outside."

Miss Elizabeth fetched the two pots.

"Here, Bill!" he called, carrying one to the door. Returning, he blew at the froth on his own pot meditatively. "And the next thing is, I want a house."

"A house?"

"'Stonishing echo you keep here.…Yes, miss, a house. My name's Jope—Ben Jope—o' the Vesuvius bomb, bo's'un; but paid off at eight this morning. My friend outside goes by the name of Bill Adams; an' you'll find him livelier than he looks. Everyone does. But I forgot; you ha'n't seen him yet, and he can't come in, havin' to look after the cask."

"The ca—" Miss Elizabeth had almost repeated the word, but managed to check herself.

"You ought to consult someone about it, at your age," said Mr. Jope solicitously. "Yes, the cask. Rum it is, an' a quarter-puncheon. Bill and me clubbed an' bought it off the purser las' night, the chaplain havin' advised us not to waste good prize-money ashore but invest it in something we really wanted. But I don't know if you've ever noticed how often one thing leads to another. You can't go drinkin' out a quarter-puncheon o' rum in the high road, not very well. So the next thing is, we want a house."

"But," said the girl, "who ever heard of a house to let hereabouts!"

Mr. Jope's face fell.

"Ain't there none? An' it seemed so retired, too, an' handy near Plymouth."

"There's not a house to let in St. Dilp parish, unless it be the Rectory."

Mr. Jope's face brightened.

"Then we'll take the Rectory," he said. "Where is it?"

"Down by the river.…But 'tis nonsense you're tellin'. The Rectory indeed! Why, it's a seat!"

Mr. Jope's face clouded.

"Oh," he said, "is that all?"

"It's a fine one, too."

"It'd have to be, to accomydate Bill an' me an' the cask. I wanted a house, as I thought I told ye."

"Oh, but I meant a country-seat," explained Miss Elizabeth. "The Rectory is a house."

Again Mr. Jope's face brightened.

"An' so big," she went on, "that the Rector can't afford to live in it. That's why 'tis to let. The rent's forty pound."

"Can I see him?"

"No, you can't; for he lives up to Lunnon an' hires Parson Spettigew of Botusfleming to do the work. But it's my father has the lettin' o' the Rectory if a tenant comes along. He keeps the keys."

"Then I 'd like to talk with your father."

"No you wouldn't," said the girl frankly; "because he's asleep. Father drinks a quart o' cider at three o'clock every day of his life, an' no one don't dare disturb him before six."

"Well, I like reggilar habits," said Mr. Jope, diving a hand into his breeches' pocket and drawing forth a fistful of golden guineas. "But couldn't you risk it?"

Miss Elizabeth's eyes wavered.

"No, I couldn'," she sighed, shaking her head. "Father's very violent in his temper. But I tell you what," she added: "I might fetch the keys, and you might go an' see the place for yourself."

"Capital," said Mr. Jope. While she was fetching these he finished his beer. Then, having insisted on paying down a guinea for earnest-money, he took the keys and her directions for finding the house. She repeated them in the porch for the benefit of the taller seaman; who, as soon as she had concluded, gripped the handles of his barrow afresh and set off without a word. She gazed after the pair as they passed down the street.

At the foot of it a by-lane branched off towards the creek-side. It led them past a churchyard and a tiny church almost smothered in cherry-trees—for the churchyard was half an orchard: past a tumbling stream, a mill and some wood-stacks; and so, still winding downwards, brought them to a pair of iron gates, rusty and weather-greened. The gates stood unlocked; and our two seamen found themselves next in a carriage-drive along which it was plain no carriage had passed for a very long while. It was overgrown with weeds, and straggling laurels encroached upon it on either hand; and as it rounded one of these laurels Mr. Jope caught his breath sharply.

"Lor' lumme!" he exclaimed. "It is a seat, as the gel said!"

Mr. Adams, following close with the wheelbarrow, set it down, stared, and said:

"Then she's a liar. It's a house."

"It's twice the size of a three-decker, anyway," said his friend, and together they stood and contemplated the building.

It was a handsome pile of old brickwork, set in a foundation of rock almost overhanging the river—on which, however, it turned its back; in design, an oblong of two storeys, with a square tower at each of the four corners, and the towers connected by a parapet of freestone. The windows along the front were regular, and those on the ground-floor less handsome than those of the upper floor, where (it appeared) were the staterooms. For—strangest feature of all— the main entrance was in this upper storey, with a dozen broad steps leading down to the unkempt carriage-way and a lawn, across which a magnificent turkey oak threw dark masses of shadow.

But the house was a picture of decay. Unpainted shutters blocked the windows; tall grasses sprouted in the crevices of the entrance steps and parapet; dislodged slates littered the drive; smears of old rains ran down the main roof and from a lantern of which the louvers were all in ruin, some hanging by a nail, others blown on edge by long-past gales. The very nails had rusted out of the walls, and the creepers they should have supported hung down in ropy curtains.

Mr. Adams scratched his head.

"What I'd like to know," said he after a while, "is how to get the cask up them steps."

"There'll be a cellar-door for sartin," Mr. Jope assured him cheerfully. "You don't suppose the gentry takes their beer in at the front, hey?"

"This," said Mr. Adams, "is rum; which is a totally different thing." But he set down his barrow, albeit reluctantly, and followed his shipmate up the entrance steps. The front door was massive, and sheeted over with lead embossed in foliate and heraldic patterns. Mr. Jope inserted the key, turned it with some difficulty, and pushed the door wide. It opened immediately upon the great hall, and after a glance within he removed his hat.

The hall, some fifty feet long, ran right across the waist of the house, and was lit by tall windows at either end. Its floor was of black and white marble in lozenge pattern. Three immense chandeliers depended from its roof. Along each of the two unpierced walls, against panels of peeling stucco, stood a line of statuary—heathen goddesses, fauns, athletes and gladiators, with here and there a vase or urn copied from the antique. The furniture consisted of half a dozen chairs, a settee, and an octagon table, all carved out of wood in pseudo-classical patterns, and painted with a grey wash to resemble stone.

"It's a fine room," said Mr. Jope, walking up to a statue of Diana: "but a man couldn' hardly invite a mixed company to dinner here."

"Symonds's f'r instance," suggested Mr. Adams. Symonds's being a somewhat notorious boarding-house in a street of Plymouth which shall be nameless.

"You ought to be ashamed o' yourself, Bill," said Mr. Jope sternly.

"They're anticks, that's what they are."

Mr. Adams drew a long breath.

"I shouldn' wonder," he said.

"Turnin' 'em wi' their faces to the wall 'd look too marked," mused Mr. Jope. "But a few tex o' Scripture along the walls might ease things down a bit."

"Wot about the hold?" Mr. Adams suggested.

"The cellar, you mean. Let's have a look."

They passed through the hall; thence down a stone stairway into an ample vaulted kitchen, and thence along a slate-flagged corridor flanked by sculleries, larders and other kitchen offices. The two seamen searched the floors of all in hope of finding a cellar trap or hatchway, and Mr. Adams was still searching when Mr. Jope called to him from the end of the corridor:

"Here we are!"

He had found a flight of steps worthy of a cathedral crypt, leading down to a stone archway. The archway was closed by an iron-studded door.

"It's like goin' to church," commented Mr. Jope, bating his voice. "Where's the candles, Bill?"

"In the barrer 'long wi' the bread an' bacon."

"Then step back and fetch 'em."

But from the foot of the stairs Mr. Jope presently called up that this was unnecessary, for the door had opened to his hand—smoothly, too, and without noise; but he failed to note this as strange, being taken aback for the moment by a strong draught of air that met him, blowing full in his face.

"There's daylight here, too, of a sort," he reported: and so there was. It pierced the darkness in a long shaft, slanting across from a doorway of which the upper panel stood open to the sky.

"Funny way o' leavin' a house," he muttered, as he stepped across the bare cellar floor and peered forth. "Why, hallo, here's water!"

The cellar, in fact, stood close by the river's edge, with a broad postern-sill actually overhanging the tide, and a flight of steps, scarcely less broad, curving up and around the south-west angle of the house.

While Mr. Jope studied these and the tranquil river flowing, all grey and twilit, at his feet, Mr. Adams had joined him and had also taken bearings.

"With a check-rope," said Mr. Adams, "—and I got one in the barrer— we can lower it down here easy."

He pointed to the steps.

"Hey?" said Mr. Jope. "Yes, the cask—to be sure."

"Wot else?" said Mr. Adams. "An' I reckon we'd best get to work, if we're to get it housed afore dark."

They did so: but by the time they had the cask bestowed and trigged up, and had spiled it and inserted a tap, darkness had fallen. If they wished to explore the house farther, it would be necessary to carry candles; and somehow neither Mr. Jope nor Mr. Adams felt eager for this adventure. They were hungry, moreover. So they decided to make their way back to the great hall, and sup.

They supped by the light of a couple of candles. The repast consisted of bread and cold bacon washed down by cold rum-and-water. At Symonds's—they gave no utterance to this reflection, but each knew it to be in the other's mind—at Symonds's just now there would be a boiled leg of mutton with turnips, and the rum would be hot, with a slice of lemon.

"We shall get accustomed," said Mr. Jope with a forced air of cheerfulness.

Mr. Adams glanced over his shoulder at the statuary and answered "yes" in a loud unfaltering voice. After a short silence he arose, opened one of the windows, removed a quid from his cheek, laid it carefully on the outer sill, closed the window, and resumed his seat. Mr. Jope had pulled out a cake of tobacco, and was slicing it into small pieces with his clasp-knife.

"Goin' to smoke?" asked Mr. Adams, with another glance at the Diana.

"It don't hurt this 'ere marble pavement—not like the other thing."

"No"—Mr. Adams contemplated the pavement while he, too, drew forth and filled a pipe—"a man might play a game of checkers on it; that is, o' course, when no one was lookin'."

"I been thinking," announced Mr. Jope, "over what his Reverence said about bankin' our money."

"How much d'ye reckon we've got?"

"Between us? Hundred an' twelve pound, fourteen and six. That's after paying for rum, barrer and oddments. We could live," said Mr. Jope, removing his pipe from his mouth and pointing the stem at his friend in expository fashion—"we could live in this here house for more'n three years."

"Oh!" said Mr. Adams, but without enthusiasm. "Could we now?"

"That is, if we left out the vittles."

"But we're not goin' to."

"O' course not. Vittles for two'll run away with a heap of it. And then there'll be callers."

"Callers?" Mr. Adams's face brightened.

"Not the sort you mean. Country folk. It's the usual thing when strangers come an' settle in a place o' this size.…But, all the same, a hundred an' twelve pound, fourteen and six is a heap: an' as I say, we got to think over bankin' it. A man feels solid settin' here with money under his belt; an' yet between you an' me I wouldn't mind if it was less so, in a manner o' speakin'."

"Me, either."

"I was wonderin' what it would feel like to wake in the night an' tell yourself that someone was rollin' up money for you like a snowball."

"There might be a certain amount of friskiness in that. But contrariwise, if you waked an' told yourself the fella was runnin' off with it, there wuldn'."

"Shore-living folks takes that risk an' grows accustomed to it. W'y look at the fellow in charge o' this house."

"Where?" asked Mr. Adams nervously.

"The landlord-fellow, I mean, up in the village. His daughter said he went to sleep every afternoon, an' wouldn' be waked. How could a man afford to do that if his money wasn' rollin' up somewhere for him? An' the place fairly lined with barrels o' good liquor."

"Mightn't liquor accumylate in the same way?" asked Mr. Adams, with sudden and lively interest.

"No, you nincom'," began Mr. Jope—when a loud knocking on the outer door interrupted him. "Hallo!" he sank his voice. "Callers already!"

He went to the door, unlocked and opened it. A heavy-shouldered, bull-necked man stood outside in the dusk.

"Good evenin'."

"Evenin'," said the stranger. "My name is Coyne an' you must get out o' this."

"I don't see as it follows," answered Mr. Jope meditatively. "But hadn't you better step inside?"

"I don't want to bandy words—" began the publican, entering as though he shouldered his way.

"That's right! Bill, fetch an' fill a glass for the gentleman."

"No, thank you.…Well, since you have it handy. But look here: I got nothin' particular to say against you two men, only you can't stop here to-night. That's straight enough, I hope, and no bones broken."

"Straight it is," Mr. Jope agreed: "and we'll talk o' the bones by an' by. Wot name, sir?—makin' so bold."

"My name's Coyne."

"An' mine's Cash." Mr. Jope fumbled with the fastening of a pouch underneath his broad waistbelt. "So we're well met. How much?"

"Eh?"

"How much? Accordin' to your darter 'twas forty pound a year, an' money down: but whether monthly or quarterly she didn' say."

"It's no question of money. It's a question of you two clearin' out, and at once. I'm breakin' what I have to say as gently as I can. If you don't choose to understand plain language, I must go an' fetch the constable."

"I seen him, up at the village this afternoon, an' you'd better not. Bill, why can't ye fill the gentleman's glass?"

"Because the jug's empty," answered Mr. Adams.

"Then slip down to the cellar again."

"No!" Mr. Coyne almost screamed it, rising from his chair. Dropping back weakly, he murmured, panting, "Not for me: not on any account!" His face was pale, and for the moment all the aggressiveness had gone out of him. He lifted a hand weakly to his heart.

"A sudden faintness," he groaned, closing his eyes. "If you two men had any feelin's, you'd offer to see me home."

"The pair of us?" asked Mr. Jope suavely.

"I scale over seventeen stone," murmured Mr. Coyne, still with his eyes closed; "an' a weight like that is no joke."

Mr. Jope nodded.

"You're right there; so you'd best give it over. Sorry to seem heartless, sir, but 'tis for your good: an' to walk home in your state would be a sin, when we can fix you up a bed in the house."

Mr. Coyne opened his eyes, and they were twinkling vindictively.

"Sleep in this house?" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't do it, not for a thousand pound!"

"W'y not?"

"You'll find out 'why not,' safe enough, afore the mornin'! Why 'twas in kindness—pure kindness—I asked the pair of ye to see me home. I wouldn't be one to stay in this house alone arter nightfall—no, or I wouldn't be one to leave a dog alone here, let be a friend. My daughter didn't tell, I reckon, as this place was ha'nted?"

"Ha'nted?"

"Aye. By females too."

"O—oh!" Mr. Adams, who had caught his breath, let it escape in a long sigh of relief. "Like Symonds's," he murmured.

"Not a bit like Symonds's," his friend corrected snappishly. "He's talkin' o' dead uns—ghosts—that is, if I take your meanin', sir?"

Mr. Coyne nodded.

"That's it. Ghosts."

"Get out with you!" said Mr. Adams, incredulous.

"You must be a pair of very simple men," said landlord Coyne, half-closing his eyes again, "if you reckoned that forty pound would rent a place like this without some drawbacks. Well, the drawbacks is ghosts. Four of 'em, and all females."

"Tell us about 'em, sir," requested Mr. Jope, dropping into his seat. "An' if Bill don't care to listen, he can fill up his time by takin' the jug an' steppin' down to the cellar."

"Damned if I do," said Mr. Adams, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the statues.

"It's a distressin' story," began Mr. Coyne with a very slight flutter of the eyelids. "Maybe my daughter told you—an' if she didn't, you may have found out for yourselves—as how this here house is properly speakin' four houses—nothing in common but the roof, an' the cellar, an' this room we're sittin' in.…Well, then, back along there lived an old Rector here, with a man-servant called Oliver. One day he rode up to Exeter, spent a week there, an' brought home a wife. Footman Oliver was ready at the door to receive 'em, an' the pair went upstairs to a fine set o' rooms he'd made ready in the sou'-west tower, an' there for a whole month they lived together, as you might say, in wedded happiness.

"At th' end o' the month th' old Rector discovered he had business takin' him to Bristol. He said his farewells very lovin'ly, promised to come back as soon as he could, but warned the poor lady against setting foot outside the doors. The gardens an' fields (he said) swarmed with field-mice, an' he knew she had a terror of mice of all sorts. So off he rode, an' by an' by came back by night with a second young lady: and Oliver showed 'em up to the nor'-east tower for the honeymoon.

"A week later my gentleman had a call to post down to Penzance. He warned his second wife that it was a terrible year for adders an' the ground swarmin' with 'em, for he knew she had a horror o' snakes. Inside of a fortnight he brought home a third—"

"Bill," said Mr. Jope, sitting up sharply, "what noise was that?"

"I didn't hear it," answered Mr. Adams, who was turning up his trousers uneasily. "Adders, maybe."

"Seemed to me it sounded from somewheres in the cellar. Maybe you wouldn't mind steppin' down, seein' as you don't take no interest in what Mr. Coyne's tellin'."

"I'm beginning to."

"The cellar's the worst place of all," said Mr. Coyne, blinking. "It's there that the bodies were found."

"Bodies?"

"Bodies. Four of 'em. I was goin' to tell you how he brought home another, havin' kept the third poor lady to her rooms with some tale about a mad dog starvin' to death in his shrubberies—he didn't know where—"

"If you don't mind," Mr. Jope interposed, "I've a notion to hear the rest o' the story some other evenin'. It's—it's agreeable enough to bear spinnin' out, an' I understand you're a fixture in this neighbourhood."

"Certainly," said Mr. Coyne, rising. "But wot about you?"

"I'll tell you to-morrow."

Mr. Jope gripped the arms of his chair, having uttered the bravest speech of his life. He sat for a while, the sound of his own voice echoing strangely in his ears, even when Mr. Coyne rose to take his leave.

"Well, I can't help admirin' you," said Mr. Coyne handsomely. "By the way the rent's by the quarter, an' in advance—fours into forty is ten; I mention it as a matter of business, and in case we don't meet again."

Mr. Jope counted out the money.

When Mr. Coyne had taken his departure the pair sat a long while in silence, their solitary candle flickering an the table between them.

"You spoke out very bold," said Mr. Adams at length.

"Did I?" said Mr. Jope. "I didn't feel it."

"What cuts me to the quick is the thought o' them adders outside."

"Ye dolt! There ain't no real adders outside. They're what the chap invented to frighten the women."

"Sure? Then," mused Mr. Adams, after a pause, "maybe there ain't no real ghosts neither, but he invented the whole thing."

"Maybe. What d'ye say to steppin' down an' fetchin' up another mugful o' liquor?"

"I say," answered Mr. Adams slowly, "as how I won't."

"Toss for it," suggested Mr. Jope. "You refuse? Very well, then, I must go. Only I thought better of ye, Bill—I did indeed."

"I can't help what ye thought," Mr. Adams began sulkily; and then, as his friend rose with the face of a man who goes to meet the worst, he sprang up quaking. "Lord's sake, Ben Jope! You ain't a-goin' to take the candle an' leave me!"

"Bill Adams," said Mr. Jope with fine solemnity, "if I was to put a name on your besettin' sin, it would be cowardice—an' you can just sit here in the dark an' think it over."

"When I was on the p'int of offering to go with ye!"

"Ho! Was you? Very well, then, I accept the offer, an' you can walk first."

"But I don't see—"

"Another word," announced Mr. Jope firmly, "an' you won't! For I'll blow out the candle."

Mr. Adams surrendered, and tottered to the door. They passed out, and through the vaulted kitchen, and along the slate-flagged corridor—very slowly here, for a draught fluttered the candle flame, and Mr. Jope had to shield it with a shaking palm. Once with a hoarse "What's that?" Mr. Adams halted and cast himself into a posture of defence—against his own shadow, black and amorphous, wavering on the wall.

They came to the iron-studded door.

"Open, you," commanded Mr. Jope under his breath. "And not too fast, mind—there was a breeze o' wind blowin' this arternoon. Steady does it—look out for the step, an' then straight forw—"

A howl drowned the last word, as Mr. Adams struck his shin against some obstacle and pitched headlong into darkness—a howl of pain blent with a dull jarring rumble. Silence followed, and out of the silence broke a faint groan.

"Bill! Bill Adams! Oh, Bill, for the Lord's sake—!" Still mechanically shielding his candle, Mr. Jope staggered back a pace, and leaned against the stone door-jamb for support.

"Here!" sounded the voice of Bill, very faint in the darkness. "Here! fetch along the light, quick!"

"Wot's it?"

"Casks."

"Casks?"

"Kegs, then. I ought to know," responded Bill plaintively, "seeing as I pretty near broke my leg on one!"

Mr. Jope peered forward, holding the light high. In the middle of the cellar stood the quarter-puncheon and around it a whole regiment of small barrels. Half doubting his eyesight, he stooped to examine them. Around each keg was bound a sling of rope.

"Rope?" muttered Mr. Jope, stooping. "Foreign rope—left-handed rope—" And with that of a sudden he sat down on the nearest keg and began to laugh. "The old varmint! the darned old sinful methodeerin' varmint!"

"Oh, stow it, Ben! 'Tisn' manly." But still the unnatural laughter continued. "What in thunder—"

Bill Adams came groping between the kegs.

"Step an' bar the outer door, ye nincom! Can't you see? There's been a run o' goods; an' while that Coyne sat stuffin' us up with his ghosts, his boys were down below here loadin' us up with neat furrin sperrits—loadin' us up, mark you. My blessed word, the fun we'll have wi' that Coyne to-morrow!"

Mr. Adams in a mental fog groped his way to the door opening on the river steps, bolted it, groped his way back and stood scratching his head. A grin, grotesque in the wavering light, contorted the long lower half of the face for a moment and was gone. He seldom smiled.

"On the whole," said Mr. Adams, indicating the kegs, "I fancy these better'n the naked objects upstairs. Suppose we spend the rest o' the night here? It's easier," he added, "than runnin' to and fro for the drink. But what about liquor not accumylatin'?"