How Eliza Came Home

How Eliza Came Home (A Case of Haunting under the Mendips) By Elliott ’Donnell © 2008 by http://www.HorrorMasters.com

In Somersetshire, not a dozen miles from brown, dusty Burnham, browsing snugly on the thickly wooded slopes of the Mendips, lies the village of Dunley. In appearance it is much about the same as any other village in the western counties, a long, straggling line of white—of neat, little, whitewashed cottages with warmly thatched roofs and cobble stone pathways. Here in the centre is an open space in which the village pump and big stone cross, alleged to be Roman, occupy the most prominent positions. There is only one shop, nominally a post-office, but in reality a general emporium, kept by a Miss Johnston, who guarantees the sale of pretty nearly everything in the line of confectionery, groceries and stationery, and only stops short of fish and meat, which are hawked to the village once a week from Burnham. A dozen doors from Miss Johnston is the wheelwright, David Hoddell, whose son Alfred has rather a full tenor voice, which dominates all the other voices in the Chapel choir. Alfred has been much spoilt. He is the only child, and as his father has a banking account (apart from the Vicar, the Methodist Minister, and a Miss Bissett, he is about the only man in the village who has one), to which Alfred is the sole heir, he is looked upon as a person of considerable importance and of great eligibility in the matrimonial market. Just opposite Hoddell’s, in a rather more pretentious cottage than the rest, lives Miss Bissett, a small farmer’s daughter, who is decidedly unattractive in appearance, but commands respect on account of her private income, generally estimated at two or three hundred a year. On, again, past Miss Bissett’s house, and the houses of the Vicar and Baptist Minister, which almost face one another, is the Church, a grey stone edifice with a tower surmounted by a spire, and rounded arch windows of the early Norman period. Here the village, properly speaking, terminates. Pursuing one’s course, however, along the highroad, one arrives, after ten or twelve minutes’ vigorous walking, at a tumbledown building, once—as is obviously demonstrated by the huge, gaunt, slimy wheel—a mill; but now used solely as a dwelling-place, and occupied, at the time this narrative commences, by a labourer of the name of Martin, his wife Mary, and their daughter Eliza, an extraordinarily pretty girl, with long, fair hair, and delicate features, and dark gipsy eyes; though they denied it vehemently, the Martins, so many of the gossips said, were of Romany descent. John Martin was sober enough, indeed he was rarely seen inside a public-house, but he had a rooted dislike to regular employment, and would do odd jobs for the Vicar, or for any one else who might occasionally want him, rather than work daily on one of the farms. If anyone missed a fowl or pig, the theft was invariably attributed to Martin, though no such deed was ever brought home to him. His wife, on the other hand, was universally admitted to be diligent and honest, and most of the laundry work in the village was entrusted to her; the mill premises, more particularly the banks of the stream, seldom being without their complement of clothes and linen, which flapped to and fro on lines, or were substantially pinned to the grass by heavy stones.

About Eliza there were adverse opinions. With one or two exceptions the women in the village disliked her, and could not say anything bad enough about her. According to them she was a lazy, impudent, brazen-faced hussy; she wore clothes she could not possibly afford to buy; and not a man in the place was safe from her advances. On the other hand the men, with one or two exceptions, whilst admitting all this in the presence of their women folk, denied it amongst themselves. They declared that Eliza was an extremely modest and well-behaved girl, who, far from going out of her way to attract their attentions, invariably repelled the slightest attempt at familiarity. The opinions of the men, however, varied in accordance with their respective positions, and this difference of attitude towards her may be taken as a fair example of that snobbishness and veneration of respectability found in all grades of society in England. The Baptist Minister and his wife, never missing an opportunity to hold her up as an awful example of Sabbathbreaking to their followers, crossed over the road, so as to give her a wide berth whenever they saw her coming; John Adams, up at the blacksmith’s; Dick Peters, son of the publican; Harry Oaks, groom at the Vicarage, and others of the village elite, whilst fully agreed as to the charm of her personality, only spoke to her clandestinely, and when they made sure none of their neighbours were looking; and even Tom Weston, the postman, generally acknowledged as lower down in the scale than any of the others I have mentioned, though ready enough to pass a compliment or two to her when he delivered letters at the mill, was very careful not to be drawn into conversation with her anywhere in the village. As I have suggested, it was the gipsy blood in her—and also, of course, her beauty— that brought about this state of affairs. A gipsy was bad enough, but a pretty gipsy was— well, dreadful—the inhabitants of Dunley looking upon gipsies much in the same way as Americans do negroes-as hardly human at all—merely trash, the trash of the roads and commons. This was the position of Eliza Martin. She and her family were outcasts, and, after a careful sifting of evidence, I have come to the conclusion there was absolutely nothing against her but the suspected taint of blood, and her undeniable beauty. Such was the state of affairs in June 1911. In July she took to being out later in the evening than was her wont, and her parents noticed a slight alteration in her manner. She was gay and pensive in turns. Sometimes, as her mother said, she would get up in the morning whistling like a lark, and would help with the clothes, laughing and joking all the while she was wringing and ironing them; at other times, still quoting her mother’s terminology, she would move about the house like a statue, and no one would get a word or smile out of her. “What is it? What’s the matter with you?” her father asked, but Eliza only shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with I,” she said, “least-ways, nothing to complain about—as yet.” But her father was not satisfied. He was greatly attached to Eliza; more, perhaps, than to her mother, and it grieved him sorely to see she was not herself. “What do you think it is?” he asked his wife, in the privacy of their bedroom. “What do I think it is?” Mrs. Martin replied, sotto voce. “Why, I believe she’s walking out with some one, that she’s in love with him. I know the symptoms well.”

“Eliza courted! And I knowing nothing about it!” Martin ejaculated. “That’s not like Eliza.” “There’s no counting for girls when they’re in love,” Mrs. Martin rejoined. “Don’t say a word to her. She’ll get all right in time, and I wouldn’t have her upset for the world. She helps I wonderful with the clothes.” “Aye, the clothes!” Martin commented bitterly. “That’s all you think about. It’s the girl that concerns me most! Who do you reckon it is?” “What, as goes out with her?” “Aye.” “I’ve no idea. Most of the lads in the village are too proud to be seen walking out with our Eliza.” “Yes! curse ’em,” Martin growled. “Eliza’s worth all the lot of ‘em put together. Still, if it ain’t one of the Dunley boys, who is it?” “It may be some visitor,” Mrs. Martin said, cautiously, “though I’ve seen none about here lately, and I’ve certainly not had their washing.” “Well, whoever it is,” Martin retorted savagely, “he’s got to reckon with I, if anything goes amiss with Eliza. I’ll—” “Yes, you’ll do anything save work,” Mrs. Martin said, mimicking him. “Come, be quiet, and don’t raise your voice, or the girl will hear you. Wait, and maybe in a day or two she’ll tell us all about it.” This was on the fifteenth. (I’ve entered the dates carefully in a book I keep for the purpose.) On the eighteenth, the subject was again broached— this time by the wife. “I’ve found out all about it,” Mrs. Martin whispered, as she and her husband retired to bed. “Found out about what?” Martin queried. “Why, Eliza!” Mrs. Martin responded. “The man she’s courting with?” “Aye. You’ll never guess who he is.” “John Adams?” Martin whispered. “No-a! Not John Adams!” “Dick Peters?” “No-a! Not Dick Peters!” “Harry Oaks?” “No-a! Not Harry Oaks!” “Tom Weston?” “No-a! Nor Tom Weston!” “Then I give it up t Who is it?” “Why,” Mrs. Martin said, sinking her voice to such a depth that it could scarcely be heard at all, “they do say as how it’s—I don’t wonder you couldn’t guess—you’ll never be more surprised in your life—calm yourself for goodness’ sake—it’s Alfred Hoddell!” “Alfred Hoddell?” Mrs. Martin nodded. “What Alfred Hoddell, the son of old David Hoddell, him as keeps the wheelwright’s?” Again Mrs. Martin nodded. “Well! I couldn’t have believed it! So it’s him that’s keeping company with our Eliza. How did you get to know of it? Who told you?” “Miss Johnston and Emma up at the Vicarage.” “And what do his folks think about it?”

“I don’t suppose he’s told them,” Mrs. Martin said slowly. “Be careful, she’ll hear you.” “So it’s what they call a secret engagement, is it?” Martin muttered. “No one in the know but themselves. It would be a good thing for our Eliza to marry into that family, for they tell me the old man’s got a pile of money in some bank or other.” “There’s no doubt about that,” Mrs. Martin rejoined, “it would be a mighty good thing. But don’t say a word about it at present—Eliza’s a queer girl! “Humph!” Martin murmured, “Eliza’s all right. It’s the man I’m thinking about. So long as he plays the game straight I’ve nothing to say in the matter—the girl may marry who she pleases, but—” and he clenched his fist ominously. Two days later, Mrs. Martin, returning home rather late in the evening with some washing, found Eliza seated on the corner of her bed, her face buried in her hands, weeping bitterly. “Hey, girl,” Mrs. Martin exclaimed, “whatever ails you?” “Nothing, mother,” Eliza sobbed, “only the toothache. I’ve had it on and off all day.” “And you with such white teeth!” Mrs. Martin said in astonishment. “Why, sakes alive, I should have thought they were all as sound as rocks! You’d best go to the dentist over in Burnham and let him draw the one that is paining you. “No-a, mother,” Eliza replied; “maybe it will be right enough in the morning,” and she dried her tears and helped Mrs. Martin arrange the clothes in the garden. This was on the twentieth; on the twenty-second Eliza again stayed at home in the evening, and was again discovered weeping—this time by her father. “That tooth of yours, Eliza, will drive you mad,” Martin observed. “Go in by the carrier tomorrow and have ’im out.” “Nay, father!” Eliza responded, “that would do no good. It’s not my teeth at all—it’s neuralgia.” The following day Mrs. Martin made a discovery. Just outside Miss Johnston’s shop she overheard the tail end of a conversation between the Baptist Minister and David Hoddehl. “Yes,” the latter was saying, “they’ve been out together several times, but Alfred’s a bit shy-like.” “Takes after his father, I suppose,” the Minister laughed. “I trust it will come off for all sakes, for the two seemed admirably matched, and from what I hear she seems to be tolerably well-to-do.” “That is so!” David Hoddell answered, “though Alfred loves her entirely for herself.” “Of course, of course!” the Minister commented. “Let me know when I’m to congratulate you.” “I will, I will,” David Hoddell replied, and the conversation ended. “Is there any truth in it, do you think?” Mrs. Martin panted, as she laid her washing basket on Miss Johnston’s counter. “Truth in what?” Miss Johnston demanded. “Why, that young Mr. Hoddell is carrying on with Miss Bissett.” “I don’t know about ‘carrying on,’” Miss Johnston replied, frigidly, “but I believe he’s been walking out with her. Indeed, I saw them out together only last night.” “I suppose everyone’s talking about it,” Mrs. Martin said, with some warmth. “I expect they’re all saying it’s better for him to marry some one in his own station of life.”

“I can’t say,” Miss Johnston answered curtly, “for I never listen to gossip.” And she changed the subject. “I can see it all now,” Mrs. Martin said to herself, as she left the shop, “it’s as clear as daylight. Young Alfred Hoddell’s only been playing with Eliza, and never intended anything serious, and has thrown her over for Miss Bissett. That accounts for the toothache and neuralgia. The girl’s breaking her heart for him. Sakes, what will happen when Martin finds out?” And Mrs. Martin sought the mill in a state of great perturbation. Eliza was out all the afternoon, and on her return home, at about seven, when the supper was being laid, her parents noticed she was very pale, and that there was a wild look in her eyes. “I don’t want anything to eat,” she said. “I’m going to bed. My head’s a bit queer.” She went upstairs, slammed the door and her parents did not see her again till the morning. On the morrow, that is to say the twenty fourth, she came down and got the breakfast as usual, after which she ran out into the garden on the plea of looking at the clothes. “How’s your head?” her father called out after her. “Oh, better,” she replied, “much better. It will be quite gone soon.” Her parents waited some minutes, and as she did not come back, Martin shouted out, “Eliza! Eliza! Where are you?” There was no response. He called again. “Eliza! Whatever are you doing? Your breakfast is getting cold.” Still no reply. Then he got up, but Mrs. Martin drew him back and persuaded him to sit down. “Wait a little longer,” she said, “maybe the girl’s found something missing and has gone into the road to look for it. She’ll be here directly.” “I only hope so,” Martin said hoarsely, “but I feel uneasy about her. The girl is not herself, she has some secret she’s hiding from us.” Five minutes passed, during which Martin’s knife and fork lay idly on his plate, and he sat with his elbows on the table, buried in thought. Then he started abruptly to his feet. “Look here, mother,” he said, “I can’t stand this any longer. I’m going to see what’s become of her.” He went out and Mrs. Martin sat alone listening—listening—and heard nothing but the tick, tick, of the grandfather clock, and an occasional barking of the dogs. Seven o’clock came, and half-past seven, and still no signs of either Martin or his daughter. And Mrs. Martin, unable to sit idle any longer, went into the garden and began to hang up the clothes. At eight o’clock, hearing footsteps coming along the road, she ran to the gate to see who it was, and saw Martin—Martin hot and tired—but no sign of Eliza. “Have you found her?” she inquired. “No-a,” Martin replied, “I’ve searched high and low, and she’s not to be seen anywhere. The Lord only knows where she’s gone and what’s become of her. ‘Tis to be hoped she’s come to no harm.” “Maybe she’s hiding from us on purpose,” Mrs. Martin said, “she’s come over so queer of late that there’s no telling what she won’t do. Better rest awhile, and, perhaps, she’ll turn up of her own accord.”

In this respect, however, Mrs. Martin did not prove correct, for dinner-time came, and went by, and no Eliza. Then she, too, became alarmed, and tramped to the village, and inquired first at one cottage, and then at another. But no one had seen or heard anything of the missing girl. At first the villagers thought nothing of it—the Dunley people are apathetic even for Somersetshire—and Eliza, well, she was only Eliza, a good-for-nothing gipsy girl—as wilful and capricious as any girl could be—who had most likely gone off for the day to Burnham or Highbridge with some unknown, disreputable admirer. But when nighttime came and the girl did not return, then a few of them began to be interested; and on the morrow, when it was known she was still absent, all Dunley grew talkative. Some one told the Vicar, the Vicar told the Squire, the Squire told his wife, and his wife declared something ought to be done in the matter; that no doubt a scandal had taken place, that the Martins were really a very disgraceful family, and that she should see if steps could not be taken to have them ejected from the neighbourhood—a resolution which met with the approval of more than half the village. Then came rather an exciting piece of news. The proprietor of the public-house, who was at war with both Church and Chapel folk, had sent for Martin, and had informed him that a certain pedlar swore to having seen Eliza and Alfred Hoddell alone together, about 8 a.m., the preceding day, that is to say, shortly after her disappearance, in a wood some three miles to the south of the mill, and that Eliza was terribly agitated. Regarding this as a clue, and brimming over with resentment and indignation, for he had never really liked young Hoddell, Martin at once sought the latter, and demanded a full explanation. Alfred Hoddell, who appeared to be greatly frightened, for Martin, when roused, had a very ugly temper, at once appealed to his father and mother, who emphatically declared that at the hour named he, Alfred, had been at home with them, and that he had spent the afternoon and evening with Miss Bissett, whose engagement to him Martin now learned for the first time, had been announced in the village two days ago. Infuriated at this intelligence, Martin denounced the Hoddells in the strongest terms possible, said he was certain that if any one knew what had become of Eliza, it was Alfred, and left the premises, swearing vengeance on the whole family, should the girl have met with any mishap. The village now divided into two parties: the Nonconformist element, who, no doubt, considered it their duty to rally round the Hoddells, and scoffed at the story of the pedlar; and those possessing a more independent turn of mind, who, remembering former reports of Alfred’s clandestine meetings with Eliza, thought the pedlar’s statement might very well be true. The Vicar, deeming this was an occasion for the employment of tact, apologetically declined to pass any verdict, whilst the Squire shook his head, and said he would prefer to wait a little. The day waned; dusk settled over Dunley; Mrs. Martin’s hands trembled as she folded up the clothes, and Martin bit his nails, repeatedly muttering, deep down in his throat, “Alfred Hoddell—curse him!” Still no Eliza. At ten o’clock there was a perceptible change in the temperature, the leaves which had lain still all day rustled, and dark shadows slowly invaded the sky. Gradually the stars one by one vanished from sight; the moon became obscured, and a slight breeze, bearing down from the silent Mendips, moaned mournfully across the sleeping meadows and made the great mill wheel clank. “There’s going to be a storm,” Mrs. Martin remarked fearfully.

“Aye!” Martin replied. “It’s cooming, right enough.” “I hope Eliza won’t be out in it,” Mrs. Martin went on, “that she has some sort of shelter over her head.” “Aye!” Martin responded, “I hope she has, but it is Hoddell, young Alfred Hoddell I’m thinking of most, just now. If—by G—, if , I’ll KILL him!” The rain came down, the mill-stream rose, the wind howled and roared, and the people of Dunley agreed it was one of the worst storms they had experienced for years. “If anything brings Eliza Martin home, this ought to,” they said. “We shall awake in the in their senses would remain out of doors in such morning to hear she has returned, for no one weather.” Soon after midnight the storm abated; the rolling clouds parted; the stars once again glittered keenly overhead. When dawn broke, the weather had regained the unusual tranquillity of the past five or six weeks. The postman on his first round met Martin hurrying to the village. “Well!” he remarked, in his slow Somersetshire style, “has Eliza coom back yet?” “No-a!” Martin replied fiercely, “and it’s my belief she never will. I’m going to the police.” He swept on, and the postman, oblivious of his letters, watched him out of sight. “And she never will!” he repeated. “Them is ugly words but maybe they’re true. I’ve thought all along,” and he resumed his round—whistling. It was just about this time that Mrs. Martin got up from the breakfast table, where she had sat ever since Martin left her, and went out of doors to see after the clothes. The day was hot and very still. Not a leaf moved, nor a blade of grass stirred. “My! we’re going to have it hot!” Mrs. Martin sighed, “and no Eliza!” She took a few steps, and then came to a halt. The sight of the mill-stream almost paralysed her. The night before it had been a mere ripple—a shallow, harmless, babbling, gentle brook, deep only close around the wheel; but now, now it was a great, hideous mass of roaring water, brown, fearsome, murderous. Mrs. Martin gazed at it in horror. She had never seen anything like it—it looked so wicked—it fascinated, appalled her. Forcing herself away from it with difficulty, she hung up all the clothes she had with her and went indoors for more. There was a great pile of them in a corner of the kitchen, and she was bending down preparatory to picking them up, when a light step sounded on the cobble stones outside, and the next moment in came Eliza—Eliza, looking as if she had been out in a dozen storms. Her hair was hanging down her back in a tangled mass, her bodice was half open and torn, her skirt was covered with mud, and clung tightly to her legs, her stockings hung loosely over her boots, one of which was burst open at the side, and her cheeks were very white. “Eliza!” her mother gasped, “wherever have you been?” Eliza made no reply—she did not even glance round—but crossing the kitchen hastily, rushed upstairs to her room and slammed the door. For some seconds Mrs. Martin heard her making a great noise, as if she was moving the bed and chest-of-drawers, everything, in fact, in the room. Then, there came a great—an appallingly great—crash; and then—silence. Everything in the house was absolutely still.

A strange terror seized hold of Mrs. Martin, and unable to remain another second in the kitchen, she rushed into the road. A few yards distant was the postman coming with the letters. A disconnected sentence or two was sufficient to explain to him what she wanted, and accompanied by him, she returned to the house. They went up to Eliza’s door and gently opened it—the room was aglow with sunlight, and all the furniture was in its accustomed place. But there was no Eliza. Then the postman, pointing excitedly through the open window, uttered a loud cry, and tearing downstairs, followed by Mrs. Martin, raced to the edge of the stream. Lying on the bank, half in and half out of the water, was a body, the hair all loose about the shoulders, the cheeks ashy, the bodice torn and open, the skirt wound tightly round the legs, the stockings down, one of the boots burst! It had obviously been in the water some days, and had been disturbed from its original resting-place and washed aground by the storm—and that—that was how Eliza came home! P.S.—I pen these lines close beside the millwheel. There is no one living in the cottage now—the Martins left soon after the above incident, and even though it is daytime and the hot summer sun is almost vertically overhead, I am chilly. The place does not belie its evil reputation; river and mill are both haunted—haunted by something I intuitively feel is now at my back—the phantasm of poor, white-faced, stark-eyed Eliza.