To enter the dark recesses of the place without a light she knew would be impossible as well as useless, and she had no means of procuring a light. Besides, even if she had, what good could come of her exploration? The next impulse was to hasten back to the settlement at full speed and guide a party to the place; but, was it likely that the savage would remain long in the cave? This question suggested her former idea of the possible existence of another outlet; and as she thought upon Alice being now utterly beyond her reach, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. After a short time she began to pray. Then, as the minutes flew past, and her hopes sank lower and lower, she commenced—like many a child of Adam who thinks himself considerably wiser than a black girl—to murmur at her hard lot. This she did in an audible voice, having become forgetful of, as well as indifferent to, the chances of discovery.
"Oh! w'at for was me born?" she inquired, somewhat viciously; and not being able, apparently, to answer this question, she proceeded to comment in a wildly sarcastic tone on the impropriety of her having been brought into existence at all.
"Me should be dead. Wat's de use o'life w'en ums nothin' to live for? Alice gone! Darling Alice! Oh, dear! Me wish I wasn't never had been born; yes, me do! Don't care for meself! Wouldn't give nuffin for meself! Only fit to tend Missy Alice! Not fit for nuffin else. And now Alice gone—whar' to' nobody nose an' nobody care, 'xcept Poopy, who's not worth a brass button!"
Having given utterance to this last expression, which she had acquired from her friend Corrie, the poor girl began to howl in order to relieve her insupportable feelings.
It was at this point in our story that Master Corrie, and his companion the Grampus, having traced the before-mentioned footprints for a considerable distance, became cognizant of sundry unearthly sounds, on hearing which, never having heard anything like them before, these wanderers stood still in attitudes of breathless attention, and gazed at each other with looks of indescribable amazement, not altogether unmixed with a dash of consternation.
CHAPTER XI.
A Ghost—A Terrible Combat Ending in a Dreadful Plunge
"Corrie," said Jo Bumpus, solemnly, with a troubled expression on his grave face, "I've heer'd a many a cry in this life, both ashore and afloat; but, since I was half as long as a marlinespike, I've never heerd the likes o' that there screech nowhere."
At any other time the boy would have expressed a doubt as to the possibility of the Grampus having, at any period of his existence, been so short as "half the length of a marlinespike;" but, being very imaginative by nature, and having been encouraged to believe in ghosts by education, he was too frightened to be funny. With a face that might very well have passed for that of a ghost, and a very pale ghost too, he said, in a tremulous voice:
"Oh dear! Bumpus; what shall we do?"
"Dun know," replied Jo, very sternly; for the stout mariner also believed in ghosts, as a matter of course, although he would not admit it; and, being a man of iron mold and powerful will, there was at that moment going on within his capacious breast a terrific struggle between natural courage and supernatural cowardice.
"Let's go back," whispered Corrie. "I know another pass over the hills. It's a longer one, to be sure; but we can run, you know, to make for—"
He was struck dumb and motionless at this point by the recurrence of the dreadful howling, louder than ever, as poor Poopy's despair deepened.
"Don't speak to me, boy," said Bumpus, still more sternly, while a cold sweat stood in large beads on his pale forehead. "Here's wot I calls somethin' new; an' it becomes a man, specially a British seaman, d'ye see, to inquire into new things in a reasonable sort of way."
Jo caught his breath, and clutched the rock beside him powerfully, as he continued:
"It ain't a ghost, in course; it can't be that. Cause why? there's no sich a thing as a ghost."
"Ain't there?" whispered Corrie, hopefully.
The hideous yell that Poopy here set up seemed to give the lie direct to the skeptical seaman; but he went on deliberately, though with a glazed eye and a deathlike pallor on his face—
"No; there ain't no ghosts,—never wos, an' never will be. All ghosts is sciencrific dolusions, nothing more; and it's only the hignorant an' supercilious as b'lieves in 'em. I don't; an', wots more," added Jo, with tremendous decision, "I won't!"
At this point, the "sciencrific dolusion" recurred to her former idea of alarming the settlement; and with this view began to retrace her steps, howling as she went.
Of course, as Jo and his small companion had been guided by her footsteps, it followed that Poopy, in retracing them, gradually drew near to the terrified pair. The short twilight of those regions had already deepened into the shades of night; so that the poor girl's form was not at first visible, as she advanced from among the dark shadows of the overhanging cliffs and the large masses of scattered rock that lay strewn about that wild mountain pass.
Now, although John Bumpus succeeded, by an almost supernatural effort, in calming the tumultuous agitation of his spirit, while the wild cries of the girl were at some distance, he found himself utterly bereft of speech when the dreadful sounds unmistakably approached him. Corrie, too, became livid, and both were rooted to the spot in unutterable horror; but when the ghost at length actually came into view, and (owing to Poopy's body being dark, and her garments white) presented the appearance of a dimly luminous creature, without head, arms, or legs, the last spark of endurance in man and boy went out. The one gave a roar, the other a shriek of terror, and both turned and fled like the wind over a stretch of country, which, in happier circumstances, they would have crossed with caution.
Poopy helped to accelerate their flight by giving vent to a cry of fear, and thereafter to a yell of delight, as, from her point of view, she recognized the well-known outline of Corrie's figure clearly defined against the sky. She ran after them in frantic haste; but she might as well have chased a couple of wildcats. Either terror is gifted with better wings than hope, or males are better runners than females. Perhaps both propositions are true; but certain it is that Poopy soon began to perceive that the succor which had appeared so suddenly was about to vanish almost as quickly.
In this new dilemma, the girl once more availed herself of her slight knowledge of the place, and made a detour which enabled her to shoot ahead of the fugitives and intercept them in one of the narrowest parts of the mountain gorge. Here, instead of using her natural voice, she conceived that the likeliest way of making her terrified friends understand who she was, would be to shout with all the strength of her lungs. Accordingly, she planted herself suddenly in the center of their path, just as the two came tearing blindly round a corner of rock, and set up a series of yells, the nature of which utterly beggars description.
The result was, that, with one short wild cry of renewed horror, Bumpus and Corrie turned sharp round and fled in the opposite direction.
There is no doubt whatever that they would have succeeded in ultimately escaping from this pertinacious ghost, and poor Poopy would have had to make the best of her way to Sandy Cove alone, but for the fortunate circumstance that Corrie fell; and being only a couple of paces in advance of his companion, Bumpus fell over him.
The ghost took advantage of this to run forward, crying out, "Corrie! Corrie! Corrie!—it's me! me! ME!" with all her might.
"Eh! I do believe it knows my name!" cried the boy, scrambling to his feet, and preparing to renew his flight; but Bumpus laid his heavy hand on his collar, and held him fast.
"Wot! Did it speak?"
"Yes; listen! Oh dear! Come,—fly!"
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