The Headless Cavalier

The Headless Cavalier By Henry F. Kirkham As a boy just entering on the teen age, I liked best of all to listen to stories of a ghostly nature. Especially was this true on cold and blustry nights when the winter wind rattled the doors and windows and the open fire place cast flickering shadows on the walls and ceiling. Then I would draw close to mother and beg for a story that sent .the chills down my spinal cord, for this was romance in the Nth degree. One such ghostly tale I remember to this day. It might, for want of a more suitable title, be properly dubbed, "The Headless Cavalier," for it dealt with a remote period in English his- tory when those gallant heroes still abode in the affairs of men. And, al- though such romantic figures had ceased to exist long before my mother's time, they had left behind innumerable legends of love and ad- venture that were still recounted in the little village in which my mother was born. In Cromwell's reign — or perhaps in some of the wars of the Pretenders — a great battle was fought near the spot of the little English parish. Among the soldiers of the contending armies was a certain valiant cavalier. He was young and dashing, gaining, in the brief period that the conflict waged thereabouts, much renown in feats of arms. He also found time to enter the lists of love between the clash of battle. So successfully in truth that he completely won the heart of one of the local belles. This beautiful maiden yielded to his passionate suit all the affection her young life could give, and many were the whispered dreams of bliss they mutually exchanged of those days, when, the cruel conflict ended, they might wed. But, alas, this dream of bliss was never to be! The stern fortunes of war finally rolled against the party for which the brave cavalier fought. In- deed, within a few short weeks our hero himself was captured by the enemy and ignominious death by the executioner's axe was his unhappy end. As a crowning infamy the gory head of the cavalier was hung upon the village gate as a warning to all other prospective rebels. Such was the public statement of the victor, but some con- tended that personal malice played a part in the deed, for the winning chief- tain was known to have entertained an ardor for the village belle that she had never reciprocated. At any rate you may imagine the dreadful anguish of the young and tender maiden as she was forced to look upon the bloody countenance of her lover. How she lamented the blasting of all her fond hopes! Indeed, so poignant was her sorrow that she had no longer the desire to live. One last service she could perform, how- ever, and this she did. On bended knees she begged the victor for the body of her lover and he, moved by her flood of tears, at last, consented. Tenderly she laid away the mutilated remains within the shelter of the par- ish churchyard, minus, of course, the gory head that the victor insisted should remain fixed upon the village gate. It is said that she tended the hallowed grave for many years until, in fact, a grey and withered old wom- an, she finally died, stretched upon the grassy mound. But now comes the ghostly part of the story. Let my mother tell it as once she told it to me as I lay cuddled before the open fire. "On that particular night I had been until late at the home of a friend celebrating Hallowe'en. The evening

1026 IMPROVEMENT ERA Oct., 1929 had been one of merriment in which many games of a ghostly nature had been indulged. Naturally my head had been filled with silly notions of hobgoblins and other weird creatures, so that when the time came for going home I did not venture forth in any too bold a spirit. Although I was ac- companied by a boy friend, I had no great relish for the stretch of road to my home that passed close to the ancient village churchyard. The path was dark and eerie on any night but especially so on a night when billowy ghosts were said to walk the earth. I might add, also, that my friend, in spite of all his attempts at masculine boldness, was in no better spirits than was I. "I remember that night very vivid- ly. The moon was partly full but shone only fitfully through dark banks of sailing clouds. Even perfectly familiar spots looked eerie enough under the magic of the hour, so that my friend and I walked close together for mutual comfort. We needed all our courage, indeed, when we pres- ently came abreast of the old iron fence that bounded the ancient yard in which reposed countless generations of the dead. The white stones that mark- ed the resting place gleamed weirdly beneath the dim moonlight and our courage certainly sank to zero as we hurried past them. The very wind moaned as it swept across the silent tombs, and it seemed to us that we should never reach the tall rock gate that marked the end of the iron fence. "But reached it we did and hurried by with a sigh of positive relief. Sud- denly we heard the sullen clang of the great gate swinging open. We turned in alarm, an alarm that grew into a panic as out of the gate there issued two ghostly figures! The two were clothed in garments of long ago, a jeweled sword girded to the side of the man, the woman in all the finery of another age. Slowly they passed without the gate, arm in arm, as lovers sometimes walk together and came di- rectly towards us. But as we stood spellbound staring at the strange, ghostly pair we both saw what al- most caused our hearts to stand still. The man had no head! Plain as day we could see all the remainder of his body up to the ruffled collar that en- closed his neck, but of the head there was not a trace. We shrank against the fence as they advanced, too terror- stricken even to run. But when they had passed beyond and vanished into the gloom again, we did run faster, I believe, than ever we did again, nor paused for breath until we had ar- rived at my father's home." Now as a grown man I sometimes ponder over that story of the "Head- less Cavalier," I wonder if the dead do occasionally walk the earth. At any rate, the vision, imaginary or otherwise, of that fair pair walking beneath the misty light of a graveyard moon, is a boyhood story I shall not soon forget. The flickering embers of a dying fire and the blustering wind without but adds to the remembered charm of that tale of long ago. At the present rate of progress America should have a complete network of concrete highways by the time everybody takes to the air. — Peru (Ind.) Tribune. Aviation has played havoc with the language. Planes land on water where there is no land in sight, and Zeppelins hop off without any hop at all. — Louisville Courier-Journal.