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So what was the highwayman I had danced with on that fateful evening
Twilights Ghost
Uncanny was an exclamation used a lot by my grandPappa; I used to love to hear him say it, even though it was years before I knew its meaning. Uncanny is also the best word I can use to describe the following story:
I’m not sure if what follows is a true “ghost” story. I always thought of ghosts as being wispy things that people always talk about seeing, but never touching. And that’s another issue, I do not believe in ghosts, so why is it that people like me are the ones these type of things happen too. I couldn’t tell you the number of people who upon have heard this story exclaim, oh you saw a ghost, wish it had been me. The ones who want to believe never seem to ever actually see one.
As you can see, I have never placed much faith into supernatural occurrences. Even though my GrandPappa would tell some pretty spooky stories to my sisters, cousins , and I during late night fires around the hearth, I never really thought it could ever happen in real life. Now the romantic medieval tales of knights and princesses that my Móraí wove were another story, so to speak. Those I would fantasize about, and would desire strongly to become true, impressionable young lady that I was, and still am I’ll admit.
And that’s the rub.
The tale I am about to tell, really happened to me, many years ago. But as luck would have it, it favors my GrandPappas tales more so than my dear Móraí s.
GrandPappa was the dean of English Prose , Chatwick college, Surry, but it was my Móraí who was known for her stories, one of which was even published . They livedhappily on campus in a small stone cottage that once had been the livery for the historically old estate that now made up the College’s main campus. A medieval looking cottage made for lighting the imaginations of young girls.
One tale of my Móraí I can still recall vividly was about a local highwayman for whom Abbot‘s Chase, the road bordering the campus, was supposedly named. Craig Abbot supposedly held up the coach that my grandmothers great grand aunt Sarah had been a passenger in You could almost taste the suspense on the air as the highwayman courteously ( for a highwayman) had Sarah hand over her jewels, when my Móraí reached the part where Aunt Sarah had her hand kissed and had pleaded with him not to take her emerald ring, which had been a family keepsake she had received on her 18st birthday, She would have us spellbound with apprehension as to what would happen next( although we would hear the story many times over, and knew the outcome, it was always the same feeling). The highwayman had smile, slipping off Aunt Sarah’s rings, but allowed her to keep the emerald’s she wore around her throat. Poor Aunt Sarah had loved that ring, and it was not a family secret of the grief it caused her to lose it. But, romance always would overshadow reality, and my sisters and I would talk through the evening wondering what had become of such a dashing figure as my grandmothers masked highwayman. But it still remained a story, and nothing more. I had always hoped that I would dream myself into one of my Móraí’s tales, but no dashing prince, or romantic highwayman ever did.
It was years later that I would learn that my romantic highwayman had met his fate by the old bridge on Abbots Chase and had been hung. Legend had it that he was buried in the ancient cemetery that could still be found in those days, and maybe still there, in a small wooded corner of the campus estate.
Years later, after my grandparents had both passed on, and their old stone cottage a distant, but still warm memory, I attended Chatwick college with no direct plans or purpose to be there, other than to walk the same halls as my grandfather.
My experience happened one evening as I was attending a Masque Ball for charity on a blustery Halloween‘s eve. The Ball was being held at the posh old Ryder house in Chatwick Parish . My Girlfriend, Tallie, did not want to go alone, as friends are want to do, and convinced, or rather conned, me into going. I found an old green satin gown with a matching sash, from which a long brooch dangled, It had been a relic from a cousins wedding. I removed the satin sash and bow and it became a rather respectable little gown. I was also sporting the shiny emerald necklace that we had found among my Grandmother’s things. It was pretty, with glittery emeralds surrounding a petite diamond pendant that sparkled like the real thing.
So anyway, there I was, all dressed up, bored to tears as the saying quite correctly goes,, and of course no male seemed to notice me, and I was too shy to ask someone to dance. I remember watching my, friend off dancing with a , handsome bloke in , of course, a prince charming outfit. As I was snickering to myself over an image placed in my mind concerning his green nylon pantaloons, someone stepped onto the hem of my long gown. Turning around I tripped into a tall, bearded saturnine man sporting a black hood and mask. He caught my fall, and twirled me onto the dance floor. He was really light on his feet and had these intense, icy eyes staring from his mask An executioner I joked to him, knowing full well he was dressed like my Móraí’s quixotic highwayman. He did not answer, only looked me over with those wistful eyes. Silent type I remember remarking to him, trying to force a smile, but it did not work. He just grinned, remaining mute and mysterious Thinking back I realized that he had never really said anything the whole time we danced. He spoke to me through his eyes, sad and morose; it said everything that I had needed to know. And It had been enough.
He kissed my hand when the dance was finished, and still not uttering a word, turned and made his way towards the black oak doors leading to the English Gardens. On a sudden whim, I followed him
He stopped at the steps outside; an turning , looked back at me, then led me down the stairs. The walk through the deserted moonlit Garden was surreal, like being in one of my Móraí’s romantic tales. Coming to a break in the hedge , he went through. I followed, walking right into a low hanging cobweb spanning the opening. I bent over to free my long hair of the sticky web, I looked around, that quickly he had deserted me. My highwayman was gone, like a phantom in the night, or more likely a will o wisp of my imagination. But he had seemed real enough, so I did not dwell on the subject, just turned and headed back inside, my skirts swishing along the cobblestone.
I walked back to the hall and rejoined my girlfriend, who was sitting with her frog prince. As she introduced me to him she stopped, and placed a hand to my throat, asking me where my necklace had gotten off to. With a start I realized that it was gone, and we spent the rest of the evening fruitlessly tracking it down. But it, like the masked highwayman, did not reappear.
Now, as I said in the beginning, I was never one to have dreams, and even if I did, none save one, ever remained with me. That one dream I still vividly recall came later that evening... I had declined my friends offer to join her and her boyfriend Charles( forever the frog prince to me), to go out after the party. Instead I went back to my room, and still in the gown, picked up a text that some professor actually thought a normal being could make sense of, and stated to half heatedly study. I found my thoughts drifting to the party and wondering if the mysterious highwayman would come back into my life.
Suddenly I was alone, walking along a misted Abbots Chase , my long gown again swishing along the stones. Just ahead of me sat a misty shrouded mounted figure, outlined in darkness. Steam emits into the chilly night air from his horses’ flared nostrils. It shakes its head awaiting its masters orders. The cloaked figure looks left, then look down into a tree lined valley. The distant sound of horses carries up, and a lone coach comes into view
The carriage horses have just strained to come up from a small valley, the driver cracks his whip to keep them moving. He does not hear what they do, and he assumes their neighs are in answer to his whip. So he is totally unprepared when the horseman, clocked and masked, rides out from the trees and points a sword at him. He pulls to a jerking stop. “Stand and deliver” is the command he hears, The man’s voice muffled from beneath his mask.
Dismounting, the rider strolls casually up to the carriage door, and invites the occupants to step out. They do so, a gentleman first, An older man with the detached look of a sour judge. A bright gold chain encircling his waist, diamond cufflinks glint in the moonlight. Behind him, in the shadows of the carriage, emits the pleasing, to the masked figure, sounds of a rustling dress.
Behind the Judge, the open carriage door is bathed in moonlight. A whisper of satin precedes the pretty lady that enters into view. Easy does it the masked rider says as he helps her down, his words rolling pleasantly with a kindly English accent. I shall, she answers, head held proudly.
His eyes focus on her necklace as it lays glistening along her throat. In my dream, the same necklace That I had found in my Móraí’s jewel case. She steps down into a pool of moon light, revealing the shimmering silver frock that adorns her pretty figure, the gowns long skirts come cascading out as she steps down to the ground. Her hair is up, and a set of drippy emerald earrings sway freely, twinkling merrily about its forlorn wearer. Diamond rings, one a bright emerald sparkle along her slender gloved fingers.
” Nice of you to come dressed up this lovely evening, my pretty lass.” He smiles gallantly in her eyes, she blushes . What do you want,” the judge asks in a commanding voice. With a twinkle in his eyes, the bandit answers, “Well that’s the problem you see, my steed I need your valuables to purchase his feed. That right rapskellian, he says to the horse behind him, who snorts upon hearing his name and tosses his head, mane flowing. His words come across in an almost embarrassed apology. The Highwayman approaches the Judge, his horse waiting patiently in the background.
The figure walks up to him, and holds out his hand, fingers beckoning. At a sign of hesitation, the sword is produced and pointed at his waist. He hands over his fat wallet, gold watch and chain. His diamond cufflinks and emerald pin are also given over.. The booty is placed in a pocket of the the highway man’s cloak . Thank you sir, the highwayman says in an almost civil manner.
The Highwayman moves to the pretty lady in silver. The moon is seen behind her, framing her face casting a light through so very soft long hair.
With puppy sad eyes she looks into his, her heart melting. He moves forward, his sword drawn, and he brings up his gloved hand, lifting her necklace from her throat . Yes, he whispers genially, this for starters now please raise your hands. The look he is giving the area where her diamonds lay upon her throat, just above her ample bosom, is one of lustful desire.
Your jewels, then, miss, he asks her with a daunting voice. Her mouth pursed in a whimper, she sadly lowers her hands , reaches behind and fumbled for her earrings, they explodes into dazzling light as she pulls them reluctantly free and lays them upon the outstretched palm. She slides the bracelets off each wrist, then looking sadly at her shimmering rings, she pulls off the two diamond ones from her gloved fingers. She stops at the emerald ring, she looks up at him, please sir, may I keep it. My lady he says , taking her hand up in his. I cannot let you keep it, though I can tell it has meaning to you. He pulls it off. I will let you keep your necklace however my lady, so that you may sparkle this evening. Realizing he will not bargain, she steps back and watches miserably as her pile of jewelry glistens in his palm.
The horse comes back into view, his head moving up and down, snorting. The highwayman, sheathing his sword, leaves the group and walks backwards to the horse. “I thank you my good gentleman and fine lady, your contribution this evening is greatly appreciated.” The Judge looks at him with scorn, the pretty lady smiles a sad little smile The figure on foot remounts, and rides off.
Suddenly a cold wind comes howling down the road, I tried to wake, but felt myself paralyzed as The Highwayman road off, soon after soldiers on horseback come thundering after him down the road. He is far ahead and I see him cross the bridge, he dismounts and slapping rapskellianon the flank, now rider less, the horse gallops off down Abbots Chase. The masked highwayman darts under the bridge. As the soldiers cross the bridge in hot pursuit, he salutes them from his hiding spot. As I watch, he then goes up and works on of the flagstones loose on the bottom of the bridge, creating a little hallow. It is here that he places his ill-gotten gains, moving the stone back in place he moves onto the road, suddenly he turns around, looking back. I start to look also, but then am aware of a key in my door. Reluctantly I tried to hold onto my dream as I hear my roommates call. As I woke, I found my hand searching in vain for the necklace I had lost, the one he had said I could keep in my dream,.
The next day I discussed my dream with my girlfriend and her boyfriend after lecture. He suggested we should visit the old bridge and look for the loose flagstone. I chided him for his silliness; it was only a dream after all, a remnant of one of my Móraí’s stories. But after they left, I had a sort of odd, haunting feeling. I remember feeling my throat again for the necklace that I had worn. I rose and walked along campus until I reached Abbots Chase. It was almost surreal as I walked down it .The sun disappeared under some blustery autumn clouds, it grew colder, everything around me took on a colorless pale. Off to one side I soon saw the old cemetery, and for the first time in my life I went into it, looking over its crumbling gravestones, reading faint names of those long ago forgotten. I found it, off in a corner by itself. A long tall stone, with carved writing, faint with age ; Craig Abbot was written, and below what looked like the word hung. With a start I realized that the date he had departed from this earth was the very date I had gone to the dance, and chillingly, the date of last evening when I had my dream. I ran my fingers along the etchings, and then still in somewhat of a daze, I went back to the old road and drifted to the bride a short ways off. Upon reaching it, I remembered in vivid detail the stone he had pried away in my dream. I went to it and moved it. It did not budge at first, but to my surprise, stated to wobble, then it come down, exposing a small cavity. Wondering what it meant, I reached inside and felt around. My fingers curled around a small, cold object. Pulling it out I discovered it was a ring, upon further examination it was an emerald ring, one just like the one taken from the pretty young lady in my dream, similar to the one my Móraí had said my Aunt Sarah Had lost to Craig Abbot.
As I finally write this down from my memory, I am wearing the ring I discovered hidden away.. It is very old, and very pretty. What connection, if any it has with my story, I am unsure, but obviously there are many to be made. So was the highwayman I had danced with on that fateful evening I had lost my necklace : a ghost, a figment of my dream, some materialization of the late, hung Craig Abbot. Or merely a flesh and blood rogue whose identity I never will discover? And the ring I am now wearing, could it possibly be Aunt Sarah’s? Much like a ghost, the real answer may never be found.
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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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