THE RETICULE
Between Norwich and Swaffham, low down in a little valley, there once
stood a mill. It is now a ruin, and all the people round studiously
avoid it after nightfall. It must be admitted that they have some
reason for doing so in view of the incidents I am about to relate.
Some years ago on an early autumn afternoon two ladies, Miss Smith and
Miss Raven, fashion designers to the firm of Kirsome & Gooting, Sloane
Street, London, set out from Norwich for a tramp into the country. Both
girls--for they were only girls--were typically modern; that is to say,
they were bonny and athletic, and, despite the sedentary nature of
their vocation, extremely fond of outdoor life. Miss Raven, the elder
of the two, was nice-looking without perhaps being actually pretty;
but Miss Smith was undeniably a beauty. Had she been a lady of title
or an actress, all the society papers would have been full of her.
She did not, however, crave for notoriety; she was quite content with
the homage of most of the young men whom she knew, and the unspoken
admiration of many men whom she did not know, but who looked at her
out of doors or sat near to her in theatres and restaurants.
She was much attached to Miss Raven, and as the two strode along,
swinging their arms, their tongues wagged merrily and without
intermission. On and on, down one hill and up another, past wood and
brook and hamlet they went, till a gradual fading of the light warned
them it was about time to think of turning back.
"We must go as far as that old ruin," Miss Raven said, pointing to a
tumble-down white building that nestled close to a winding stream.
"I've never seen anything quite so picturesque."
"And I've never seen anything quite so weird," Miss Smith replied. "I'm
not at all sure I like it. Besides, I'm desperately thirsty. I want my
tea. We'd much better go home."
They had an argument, and it was eventually agreed that they should go
on--but not beyond a certain point. "Not an inch farther, mind," Miss
Smith said, "or I'll turn back and leave you."
The ruin lay in a hollow, and as the two girls descended the slope
leading to it, a mist rose from the ground as if to greet them. They
quickened their steps, and, approaching nearer, perceived a mill
wheel--the barest skeleton, crowned with moss and ferns and dripping
with slime. The pool into which it dripped was overgrown in places with
reeds and chickweed, but was singularly bare and black in the centre,
and suggestive of very great depth. Weeping willows bordered the
stream, and their sloping, stunted forms were gradually growing more
and more indistinct in the oncoming mist.
The space in front of the house, once, no doubt, a prettily cultivated
garden, was now full of rank grass and weeds, and dotted here and there
with unsightly mounds consisting of fallen bricks and mortar. Some of
these mounds, long, low, and narrow, were unpleasantly suggestive of
graves, whilst the atmosphere of the place, the leaden-hued and mystic
atmosphere, charged to the utmost with the smell of decayed trees and
mouldy walls, might well have been that of an ancient churchyard.
A sense of insufferable gloom, utterly different from any they had ever
before experienced, took possession of the two girls.
"This place depresses me horribly. I don't know when I've felt so sad,"
Miss Smith observed. "It's very stupid of me, I know, but I can't help
thinking some great tragedy must have taken place here."
"I feel rather like that too," Miss Raven responded. "I've never seen
such dreariness. Do you see those shadows on the water? How strange
they are! There's nothing that I can see to account for them. There's
certainly nothing the least like them in the sedge. Besides, there
oughtn't to be any shadows there. There are none anywhere else. Look!
Oh, do look! They are changing. They are completely different now.
See, I'll throw a stone at them." Her throw, missing its mark, was so
characteristically girlish that Miss Smith, despite her leanings to
suffragism, laughed. Miss Raven threw again, and this time a deep
plomb announced her success. "There," she cried triumphantly. "Now do
you see it?"
"I see something," Miss Smith answered. Then, with sudden eagerness:
"Yes, you are right. The shadows are continually changing. They seem
to separate themselves from the sedge, and fall like live things into
the pool. By the way, the pool seems to be growing darker and bigger. I
don't like the place at all. For Heaven's sake let's get away from it!"
Miss Raven, however, was too fascinated. Stepping carefully, so as to
avoid the mud and long grass, she went right up to the pool and peered
into it.
"How fearfully deep and still it is," she said. "What a beastly place
to end one's days in." Then she gave a sudden cry. "Aileen! Here! Come
here, quick!"
Miss Smith hastened up to her. "What is it?" she said. "How you
frightened me!"
Miss Raven pointed excitedly at the water. It was no longer tranquil.
The chickweed round the edges began to oscillate, white bubbles formed
in the centre, and then, quite suddenly, the entire surface became a
seething, hissing, rushing, roaring whirlpool, which commenced rising
in the most hideous and menacing manner. Seizing Miss Raven by the
arm, Miss Smith dragged her back, and the two fled in terror. The fog,
however, was so thick that they missed their way. They failed to strike
the road, and, instead, found themselves plunging deeper and deeper
into a fearful quagmire of mud and the rankest compound of rushes,
weeds, and grass.
They were just despairing of ever extricating themselves when Miss
Smith felt a light tap on her shoulder, and swinging round, was almost
startled out of her senses at the sight of a very white face glaring at
her. Miss Raven, noticing that her companion had stopped, also turned
round; and she too received a shock. The face she saw was so very
white; the eyes--intently fixed on Miss Smith--so strangely luminous;
the head--covered with red, shaggy hair--so disproportionately
large; and the figure--that of a hunchback youth--as a whole so
extraordinarily grotesque.
He made no sound, but, signing to them to follow him, he began to
move away with a queer, shambling gait. The girls, thankful enough
to have found a guide, however strange, kept close at his heels, and
soon found themselves once again on the roadway. Here their conductor
came to a halt, and producing from under his coat what looked like a
lady's reticule, he was about to thrust it into Miss Smith's hand when
their eyes met, and, to her intense astonishment, he uttered a bitter
cry of disappointment and vanished. His action and disappearance were
so inexplicable that the girls, completely demoralised, took to their
heels and ran without stopping till the ruins were far in their rear,
and they were well on their way home.
They related their experience to the people with whom they were
staying, and were then told for the first time that the ruin was well
known to be haunted. "Nothing will persuade any of the villagers to
visit the mill pond after dusk," their hostess remarked, "especially at
this time of the year, when they declare the water suddenly rises and
follows them. The place has a most sinister reputation, and certainly
several people, to my knowledge, have committed suicide there. The last
to do so was Davy Dyer, the hunchback, whose ghost you must have just
seen. His was rather a sad case, as I have good reason to know. Would
you like to hear it?"
The girls eagerly assented, and their hostess told them as follows:
"Ten years ago there stood on the spot you visited this afternoon a
very picturesque house called the 'Gyp Mill.' It was then extremely
old, and as its foundations were faulty, it was thought a severe storm
would, sooner or later, completely demolish it. Partly for this reason,
and partly because the mill pool was said to be haunted, it stood for
a long time untenanted. At last it was taken by a widow named Dyer.
Mrs. Dyer was quite a superior kind of person. She had at one time, I
believe, kept a fairly good class girls' school in Bury St. Edmunds,
but losing her connection through illness, she had been obliged to
think of some other means of gaining a livelihood. When she came to the
Gyp Mill she cultivated the garden and sold its produce; provided teas
for picnic parties in the summer; and let out rooms, chiefly to artists.
"She had one son, Davy, a very intelligent boy of about eighteen,
but hopelessly deformed. He was not only hunchbacked but he had an
abnormally large head; and what was quite unpardonable in the eyes
of the village children, who tormented him shamefully, a mass of the
brightest red hair.
"Well, one day, a girl whom I will call Beryl Denver, came to stay with
me. Beryl was extremely pretty and horribly spoilt. She had gone on the
stage against her parents' wishes and had been an immediate success. At
the time I am speaking of she had just had an offer of marriage from a
duke, and it was to hear what I had to say about it--for I am, I think,
the only person from whom she ever asks advice--that she was paying
me this visit. After being with me three days, however, and changing
her mind with regard to the duke's offer at least a dozen times, she
suddenly announced that she must seek some more countrified place to
stay in. 'I want to go right away from everywhere,' she said, 'so that
I can forget--forget that there is such a place as London. Don't you
know of any pretty cottage or picturesque old farm, near here, that I
could stay at?'
"I suggested the Gyp Mill, and she started off at once to look at it.
"She came back full of enthusiasm. 'It's a delightful spot,' she said.
'I'm glad I went to see it--the flowers are lovely, and the old woman's
a dear--but I couldn't stay there. I couldn't stand that hunchback son
of hers. His white face and big dark eyes alarmed me horribly. I don't
think it's at all right he should be at large.'
"'Poor Davy,' I remarked. 'His appearance is certainly against him, but
I can assure you he is absolutely harmless. I know him well.'
"Beryl shook her head. 'You know my views, Aunty,' she said (she always
calls me Aunty although I am not related to her in any way). 'All
ugly people have a kink of badness in them somewhere. They must be
either cruel, or spiteful, or treacherous, or, in some way or other,
evilly disposed. I am quite certain that looks reflect the mind. No, I
couldn't endure that boy. I can't stay there.'
"In the morning, however, as I had fully anticipated, she changed her
mind. A fly was sent for, and she drove off to the Gyp Mill, taking all
her luggage with her. How Mrs. Dyer ever got it up her narrow staircase
I can't think, but she must have managed it somehow, for Beryl stayed
and, contrary to my expectations, for more than one night.
"Davy, she afterwards informed me, soon got on her nerves. Always when
she went out she caught him covertly peeping at her from behind the
window curtain of the little front parlour; and if ever she stood for
a moment to chat with his mother, she could see him slyly watching her
through a chink in the doorway. She had seldom, so far, met him out of
doors; but as she was returning from a walk one afternoon, she came
across a group of village children shouting at and jostling someone
very roughly in their midst, and approaching nearer saw that the
object of their abuse was Davy, and that, in addition to pushing and
pummelling him, they were tormenting him with stinging nettles--a very
favourite device of the children in this district. Filled with disgust,
rather than pity (Beryl, like most modern girls, is wanting in real
sentiment, and in this instance simply hated to think that anyone could
derive amusement from so ungainly a creature), she interfered.
"'You abominable little wretches!' she cried. 'Leave him alone at once.
Do you hear?'
"Had a bomb fallen, the children could not have been more surprised.
One or two of the boys were inclined to be rude, but on the rest the
effect of Beryl's looks and clothes (the latter in particular) was
magical. Gazing at her open-mouthed, they drew back and allowed Davy to
continue his way.
"After this, Davy peeped more than ever, and Beryl, losing patience,
determined to put a stop to it. Catching him in the act of following
her through the fields one morning, she turned on him in a fury.
"'How dare you?' she demanded. 'How dare you annoy me like this? Go
home at once.'
"'This is my home, lady,' Davy replied, his eyes on the ground and his
cheeks crimson.
"'Then you must choose some other route,' Beryl retorted; 'and for
goodness' sake don't be everlastingly looking at me. I can't stand
it. No wonder those children rounded on you, you----' She was going
to call him some very strong name--for Beryl when roused didn't stick
at trifles--but suddenly checked herself. She began to realise that
this queer, distorted little object was in love with her. Now no girl
in London, probably, had more admirers than Beryl. Peers, politicians,
authors, men of all vocations and classes had succumbed to her beauty,
and she had deemed herself pretty well blasé. But here was a novelty.
A poor, ostracised rustic hunchback--the incarnation of ugliness and
simplicity. 'You know how the horrible often fascinates one,' she
said to me later, 'for instance, a nasty tooth, or some other equally
horrible defect in a person's face, which one keeps on looking at
however much one tries not to--well, it was a fascination of this kind
that possessed me now. I felt I must see more of the hunchback and egg
him on to the utmost.'
"Apparently it was owing to this fascination that Beryl, changing her
tactics, encouraged Davy to talk to her, and assuming an interest in
the garden, which she knew was his one hobby, gradually drew him out.
Very shy and embarrassed at first, he could only very briefly answer
her questions; but soon deceived by her manner--for Beryl could act
just as cleverly off the stage as on it--he grew bolder, and talked
well on his favourite subject, natural history. He really knew a
great deal, and Beryl, despite the fact that she could hardly tell
the difference between a hollyhock and marigold, couldn't help being
impressed.
"She walked home with him that day; and for days afterwards she was
often to be seen in his company.
"'He'll miss you dreadfully when you go, ma'am,' Mrs. Dyer said to
her. 'He thinks the world of you. He told me last night that he only
wished he could do something to show you how grateful he is for your
kindness to him.' Of course, Mrs. Dyer did not say that Davy was in
love--but Beryl knew it. She knew that to him she was a deified being
and that he absolutely adored her. Thus matters stood, when a letter
from the duke made Beryl decide to leave Gyp Mill at once and return
with all speed to London. She walked to the post office to dispatch a
telegram, and Davy went with her. Beryl knew that this would be the
last time, in all probability, that she would ever walk with him; and
feeling that she must find out how far his love for her had progressed
she agreed to his proposal that they should return home by a rather
longer route. He wished, he said, to show her a garden which was by
far the prettiest in all the country round, and it would not take
them more than a quarter of a mile or so out of their way. Of course
Beryl looked upon this suggestion as a mere pretext on Davy's part for
prolonging the walk, and she wondered whether he would say anything,
or whether his passion would be held in check by his natural respect
for her superior social position. She was disappointed. Although she
saw love for her shining more brightly than ever in his eyes, he did
not speak of it; he talked only of flowers and of the great beauties
of nature. Bored to distraction, she at last cut him short, and,
declaring that she had no time to waste, hurried on. It was not until
they had reached home that she discovered she had lost her reticule,
containing not only a purse full of sovereigns but the letter she had
just received from the duke. She distinctly remembered having it with
her, she said, when Davy was prosing over the stupid flowers, and she
supposed she must have left it somewhere in the garden, probably on
the seat where they had sat for a few minutes. Davy, of course, went
back at once to look for it, but when he returned an hour or so later
and in crestfallen tones told her that he could not find it, her anger
knew no bounds. She did not actually call him a fool, but she made him
clearly understand she thought him one; and he set off again almost
immediately to have another look for it. He did not come back this time
till close on midnight, and he had not the courage to tell her of his
failure. His mother did it for him. Beryl went away early the following
morning, too indignant to shake hands with either Mrs. Dyer or her son.
'If Davy didn't actually take the reticule,' she wrote to me some days
later, 'it was all owing to him--to his bothering me to see that rotten
garden--that I lost it; but I firmly believe he has it. Ugly faces, you
know, are indicative of ugly minds--of a bad kink somewhere.'
"Of course the affair of the reticule soon became public property.
It was advertised for in the local papers, and the woman in the post
office told everybody that she remembered seeing it in Beryl's hand
when she left the shop. 'Davy,' she said, 'was with Miss Denver at the
time, and I particularly noticed that he walked very close to her and
watched her in a peculiarly furtive manner.'
"Now the villagers, with whom the Dyers had always been unpopular, were
not slow in taking up the cue, and consequently Davy, now waylaid by
armies of children calling him thief, and even beating him, never had a
moment's peace.
"At last he was found one morning in the mill-pond drowned, and it
was generally believed that remorse for his sins had made him commit
suicide. His mother alone thought otherwise. I did not see Beryl nor
hear anything of her for at least two years after Davy's death, when
to my surprise she drove up to the door one day with her usual pile of
luggage.
"'Who is it this time?' I said, after we had exchanged greetings. 'The
duke again!'
"'Oh dear no,' Beryl replied. 'I broke it off definitely with him
long ago. He was too boring for words, always dangling after me and
never letting me go out with anyone else. If he had been tolerably
good-looking I might have stood it, but he wasn't. He was hopelessly
plain. However, I made some use of him, and he certainly gave me good
presents. I have been engaged several times since, and I've come now to
ask your advice about the Earl of C----'s eldest son. Shall I marry him
or not? Do you think he's worth it?'
"I did not answer her at once, but let her ramble on, till she suddenly
turned to me and said, 'Do you remember the last time I was here? Two
years ago! You know I stayed at that delightful old mill house--the
Gyp something, and lost my reticule. Well, I found it some time
afterwards in my hat-box. I hadn't taken it out with me that day after
all. And I could have sworn I had. Wasn't it funny?'
"'Extraordinary, perhaps,' I remarked, with rather more severity in my
voice than I had ever used to her before, 'but hardly funny.' And I
was about to relate to her all that had occurred in the interim, when
something checked me. After all, I thought, it would be just as well
for this spoilt, heartless little London actress to go to the Gyp Mill
and find out for herself.
"'Oh, I suppose I ought to have written to the people and let them
know,' she said carelessly, 'but I was really too busy. I always have
such lots to do. Such heaps of correspondence to attend to, and so
many visits to make. If it's a fine day to-morrow I'll walk over and
explain.'
"I did not, of course, expect Beryl would go, but greatly to my
surprise, soon after luncheon, she came into my bedroom in her hat and
coat. 'I'm off,' she said. 'I think the walk will do me good. And, look
here, don't wait dinner for me, because in all probability I'll stay
the night. It all depends upon how I feel. If I'm not back by eight you
need not expect me till to-morrow. Bye-bye.'
"She stole to my side and kissed me, and, armed with an umbrella and
mackintosh, set off up the street. I watched her till she turned the
corner. Then I lay down and wondered what sort of a reception she would
meet with at the hands of Mrs. Dyer. As the afternoon waned the sky
grew ominously dark, and the wind rose. Presently big drops of rain
spluttered against the window, and there was every indication of a very
severe storm. Had Beryl been on good terms with Mrs. Dyer my mind would
have been at rest, as she would have been able to take refuge at the
Mill, but, knowing Mrs. Dyer's feelings towards her, I doubted very
much if Mrs. Dyer would allow her to set foot within the house; and she
would have some distance to walk before she could reach another shelter.
"Down came the rain in grim earnest, and that night witnessed the worst
storm Norwich had known for many years. Beryl did not return. I sat up
till twelve wondering what had become of her--for despite this wayward
child's many faults I was much attached to her--and slept very little
for the rest of the night. In the morning my maid came into my room in
a breathless state of excitement.
"'Oh, mum,' she exclaimed, 'the storm has destroyed half Norfolk.'
(This, of course, I knew to be an exaggeration.) 'What do you think!
Simkins' Store is blowed down, nearly all the chimneypots are off in
Fore Street, and the milkman has just told me the Gyp Mill is under
water and Mrs. Dyer is drowned!'
"'What!' I shrieked. 'The Gyp Mill under water! Are you sure? Miss
Denver was staying there last night. Call a cab--I must go there at
once.'
"The maid flew; and I was feverishly scrambling into my clothes, when,
to my utmost relief, in walked Beryl.
"'So you've heard,' she said, looking rather pale, but otherwise quite
composed. 'The Gyp Mill valley is under water, and old Mrs. Dyer is
drowned. It was rather lucky for me that I didn't go there after all,
wasn't it? Quite a narrow escape, in fact.'
"'Thank God, you're safe!' I exclaimed, drawing her into my arms and
kissing her frantically. 'Tell me all about it.'
"'Oh, there isn't much to tell,' she said. 'When I got a mile or two on
the road I found I had quite forgotten the way, so I inquired of the
first person I met, a labourer, and he said, "When you come to the duck
pond bear sharply to your left." Well, I trudged on and on, and I am
sure I must have gone miles, but no duck pond; and I was beginning to
despair of ever seeing it, when a sudden swerve in the road revealed it
to me. The sky was very dark and threatening, and the wind--you know
how I detest wind--sorely tried my temper. It was perfectly fiendish.
Well, when I got to the pond I found there were two roads and I had
quite forgotten which of them I had to take. I was standing there
shivering, feeling horribly bored, when to my joy a figure suddenly
hove in view. It had grown so dark that I could not make out whether
the stranger was a man or a woman. Besides, I couldn't see a face at
all, only a short, squat body clad in some sort of ill-fitting fustian
garment. I shouted out, "Can you tell me the way to the Gyp Mill?" but
could get no reply. The strange creature simply put out one hand,
and taking the road to the right, beckoned to me to follow. Then I
suddenly remembered that the other person--the labouring man--had told
me to take the road to the left, and I ran after the curious-looking
individual shouting, "The Gyp Mill.--Do you hear?--I want to go to the
Gyp Mill. Mrs. Dyer's." Again I got no response, but the hand waved me
on more vigorously than before.
"'It was now so dark that I could hardly see where I was treading, and
the wind was so strong that I had the greatest difficulty in keeping my
feet. I battled on, however, and after what seemed to me an eternity,
we eventually stopped outside a building that showed a twinkling light
in one of the windows. My conductor opened a wicket gate and, signing
to me to follow, walked me up a narrow winding path to the front door.
Here he halted and, turning suddenly round on me, showed his face. It
was the Dyer boy--Davy, I think they called him. Davy the hunchback.'
Here Beryl paused.
"'Are you quite sure?' I asked.
"'Absolutely,' she replied. 'I couldn't mistake him. There he
was--with his hunchback, huge head, cheeks looking whiter than
ever--and red hair. How I could see that it was red in the dark I
can't tell you, but all the same I could, and moreover, the colour
was very clear and distinct. Well, he stood and looked at me for
some seconds beseechingly, and then said something--but so quickly I
couldn't catch what it was. I told him so, and he repeated it, jabber,
jabber, jabber. Then I grew angry. "Why have you brought me here?" I
shouted. "I wanted to go to the Gyp Mill." He spoke again in the same
incomprehensible way, and holding out his hands as if to implore my
forgiveness, suddenly disappeared. Where he went to is a mystery. The
rain had now begun to fall in torrents, and to attempt to go on was
madness. Consequently, I rapped at the door and asked the woman who
opened it if she could put me up for the night. "Yes, miss," she said.
"We have a spare room, if you don't mind it's being rather small. The
gentleman that has been staying here left this morning. Did anyone
recommend you?" "Mr. Dyer brought me here," I said, "and, I believe, he
is somewhere outside." "Mr. Dyer!" the woman exclaimed, looking at me
in the oddest manner. "I don't know a Mr. Dyer. Who do you mean?" "Why,
Davy Dyer," I replied, "the son of the old woman who lives at the Mill.
Davy Dyer, the hunchback."
"'Then, to my amazement, the woman caught me by the arm. "Davy Dyer,
the hunchback!" she cried. "Why, miss, you must either be dreaming or
mad. Davy Dyer drowned himself in the Mill pool two years ago!"'"