_L.C.J._ Come, Mr Attorney, we are not set here to listen to tales of

Christmas parties in taverns. I would not interrupt you, but sure you

have more weighty matters than this. You will be telling us next what

tune they danced to.

_Att._ My lord, I would not take up the time of the court with what is

not material: but we reckon it to be material to show how this unlikely

acquaintance begun: and as for the tune, I believe, indeed, our evidence

will show that even that hath a bearing on the matter in hand.

_L.C.J._ Go on, go on, in God's name: but give us nothing that is

impertinent.

_Att._ Indeed, my lord, I will keep to my matter. But, gentlemen, having

now shown you, as I think, enough of this first meeting between the

murdered person and the prisoner, I will shorten my tale so far as to say

that from then on there were frequent meetings of the two: for the young

woman was greatly tickled with having got hold (as she conceived it) of

so likely a sweetheart, and he being once a week at least in the habit of

passing through the street where she lived, she would be always on the

watch for him; and it seems they had a signal arranged: he should whistle

the tune that was played at the tavern: it is a tune, as I am informed,

well known in that country, and has a burden, '_Madam, will you walk,

will you talk with me?_'

_L.C.J._ Ay, I remember it in my own country, in Shropshire. It runs

somehow thus, doth it not? [Here his lordship whistled a part of a tune,

which was very observable, and seemed below the dignity of the court. And

it appears he felt it so himself, for he said:] But this is by the mark,

and I doubt it is the first time we have had dance-tunes in this court.

The most part of the dancing we give occasion for is done at Tyburn.

[Looking at the prisoner, who appeared very much disordered.] You said

the tune was material to your case, Mr Attorney, and upon my life I think

Mr Martin agrees with you. What ails you, man? staring like a player that

sees a ghost!

_Pris._ My lord, I was amazed at hearing such trivial, foolish things as

they bring against me.

_L.C.J._ Well, well, it lies upon Mr Attorney to show whether they be

trivial or not: but I must say, if he has nothing worse than this he has

said, you have no great cause to be in amaze. Doth it not lie something

deeper? But go on, Mr Attorney.

_Att._ My lord and gentlemen--all that I have said so far you may indeed

very reasonably reckon as having an appearance of triviality. And, to be

sure, had the matter gone no further than the humouring of a poor silly

girl by a young gentleman of quality, it had been very well. But to

proceed. We shall make it appear that after three or four weeks the

prisoner became contracted to a young gentlewoman of that country, one

suitable every way to his own condition, and such an arrangement was on

foot that seemed to promise him a happy and a reputable living. But

within no very long time it seems that this young gentlewoman, hearing of

the jest that was going about that countryside with regard to the

prisoner and Ann Clark, conceived that it was not only an unworthy

carriage on the part of her lover, but a derogation to herself that he

should suffer his name to be sport for tavern company: and so without

more ado she, with the consent of her parents, signified to the prisoner

that the match between them was at an end. We shall show you that upon

the receipt of this intelligence the prisoner was greatly enraged against

Ann Clark as being the cause of his misfortune (though indeed there was

nobody answerable for it but himself), and that he made use of many

outrageous expressions and threatenings against her, and subsequently

upon meeting with her both abused her and struck at her with his whip:

but she, being but a poor innocent, could not be persuaded to desist from

her attachment to him, but would often run after him testifying with

gestures and broken words the affection she had to him: until she was

become, as he said, the very plague of his life. Yet, being that affairs

in which he was now engaged necessarily took him by the house in which

she lived, he could not (as I am willing to believe he would otherwise

have done) avoid meeting with her from time to time. We shall further

show you that this was the posture of things up to the 15th day of May in

this present year. Upon that day the prisoner comes riding through the

village, as of custom, and met with the young woman: but in place of

passing her by, as he had lately done, he stopped, and said some words to

her with which she appeared wonderfully pleased, and so left her; and

after that day she was nowhere to be found, notwithstanding a strict

search was made for her. The next time of the prisoner's passing through

the place, her relations inquired of him whether he should know anything

of her whereabouts; which he totally denied. They expressed to him their

fears lest her weak intellects should have been upset by the attention he

had showed her, and so she might have committed some rash act against her

own life, calling him to witness the same time how often they had

beseeched him to desist from taking notice of her, as fearing trouble

might come of it: but this, too, he easily laughed away. But in spite of

this light behaviour, it was noticeable in him that about this time his

carriage and demeanour changed, and it was said of him that he seemed a

troubled man. And here I come to a passage to which I should not dare to

ask your attention, but that it appears to me to be founded in truth, and

is supported by testimony deserving of credit. And, gentlemen, to my

judgement it doth afford a great instance of God's revenge against

murder, and that He will require the blood of the innocent.

[Here Mr Attorney made a pause, and shifted with his papers: and it was

thought remarkable by me and others, because he was a man not easily

dashed.]

_L.C.J._ Well, Mr Attorney, what is your instance?

_Att._ My lord, it is a strange one, and the truth is that, of all the

cases I have been concerned in, I cannot call to mind the like of it. But

to be short, gentlemen, we shall bring you testimony that Ann Clark was

seen after this 15th of May, and that, at such time as she was so seen,

it was impossible she could have been a living person.

[Here the people made a hum, and a good deal of laughter, and the Court

called for silence, and when it was made]--

_L.C.J._ Why, Mr Attorney, you might save up this tale for a week; it

will be Christmas by that time, and you can frighten your cook-maids with

it [at which the people laughed again, and the prisoner also, as it

seemed]. God, man, what are you prating of--ghosts and Christmas jigs and

tavern company--and here is a man's life at stake! [To the prisoner]: And

you, sir, I would have you know there is not so much occasion for you to

make merry neither. You were not brought here for that, and if I know Mr

Attorney, he has more in his brief than he has shown yet. Go on, Mr

Attorney. I need not, mayhap, have spoken so sharply, but you must

confess your course is something unusual.

_Att._ Nobody knows it better than I, my lord: but I shall bring it to an

end with a round turn. I shall show you, gentlemen, that Ann Clark's body

was found in the month of June, in a pond of water, with the throat cut:

that a knife belonging to the prisoner was found in the same water: that

he made efforts to recover the said knife from the water: that the

coroner's quest brought in a verdict against the prisoner at the bar, and

that therefore he should by course have been tried at Exeter: but that,

suit being made on his behalf, on account that an impartial jury could

not be found to try him in his own country, he hath had that singular

favour shown him that he should be tried here in London. And so we will

proceed to call our evidence.

Then the facts of the acquaintance between the prisoner and Ann Clark

were proved, and also the coroner's inquest. I pass over this portion of

the trial, for it offers nothing of special interest.

Sarah Arscott was next called and sworn.

_Att._ What is your occupation?

_S._ I keep the New Inn at--.

_Att._ Do you know the prisoner at the bar?

_S._ Yes: he was often at our house since he come first at Christmas of

last year.

_Att._ Did you know Ann Clark?

_S._ Yes, very well.

_Att._ Pray, what manner of person was she in her appearance?

_S._ She was a very short thick-made woman: I do not know what else you

would have me say.

_Att._ Was she comely?

_S._ No, not by no manner of means: she was very uncomely, poor child!

She had a great face and hanging chops and a very bad colour like a

puddock.

_L.C.J._ What is that, mistress? What say you she was like?

_S._ My lord, I ask pardon; I heard Esquire Martin say she looked like a

puddock in the face; and so she did.

_L.C.J._ Did you that? Can you interpret her, Mr Attorney?

_Att._ My lord, I apprehend it is the country word for a toad.

_L.C.J._ Oh, a hop-toad! Ay, go on.

_Att._ Will you give an account to the jury of what passed between you

and the prisoner at the bar in May last?

_S._ Sir, it was this. It was about nine o'clock the evening after that

Ann did not come home, and I was about my work in the house; there was no

company there only Thomas Snell, and it was foul weather. Esquire Martin

came in and called for some drink, and I, by way of pleasantry, I said to

him, "Squire, have you been looking after your sweetheart?" and he flew

out at me in a passion and desired I would not use such expressions. I

was amazed at that, because we were accustomed to joke with him about

her.

_L.C.J._ Who, her?

_S._ Ann Clark, my lord. And we had not heard the news of his being

contracted to a young gentlewoman elsewhere, or I am sure I should have

used better manners. So I said nothing, but being I was a little put out,

I begun singing, to myself as it were, the song they danced to the first

time they met, for I thought it would prick him. It was the same that he

was used to sing when he came down the street; I have heard it very

often: '_Madam, will you walk, will you talk with me?_' And it fell out

that I needed something that was in the kitchen. So I went out to get it,

and all the time I went on singing, something louder and more bold-like.

And as I was there all of a sudden I thought I heard someone answering

outside the house, but I could not be sure because of the wind blowing so

high. So then I stopped singing, and now I heard it plain, saying, '_Yes,

sir, I will walk, I will talk with you_,' and I knew the voice for Ann

Clark's voice.

_Att._ How did you know it to be her voice?

_S._ It was impossible I could be mistaken. She had a dreadful voice, a

kind of a squalling voice, in particular if she tried to sing. And there

was nobody in the village that could counterfeit it, for they often

tried. So, hearing that, I was glad, because we were all in an anxiety to

know what was gone with her: for though she was a natural, she had a good

disposition and was very tractable: and says I to myself, 'What, child!

are you returned, then?' and I ran into the front room, and said to

Squire Martin as I passed by, 'Squire, here is your sweetheart back

again: shall I call her in?' and with that I went to open the door; but

Squire Martin he caught hold of me, and it seemed to me he was out of his

wits, or near upon. 'Hold, woman,' says he, 'in God's name!' and I know

not what else: he was all of a shake. Then I was angry, and said I,

'What! are you not glad that poor child is found?' and I called to Thomas

Snell and said, 'If the Squire will not let me, do you open the door and

call her in.' So Thomas Snell went and opened the door, and the wind

setting that way blew in and overset the two candles that was all we had

lighted: and Esquire Martin fell away from holding me; I think he fell

down on the floor, but we were wholly in the dark, and it was a minute or

two before I got a light again: and while I was feeling for the fire-box,

I am not certain but I heard someone step 'cross the floor, and I am sure

I heard the door of the great cupboard that stands in the room open and

shut to. Then, when I had a light again, I see Esquire Martin on the

settle, all white and sweaty as if he had swounded away, and his arms

hanging down; and I was going to help him; but just then it caught my eye

that there was something like a bit of a dress shut into the cupboard

door, and it came to my mind I had heard that door shut. So I thought it

might be some person had run in when the light was quenched, and was

hiding in the cupboard. So I went up closer and looked: and there was a

bit of a black stuff cloak, and just below it an edge of a brown stuff

dress, both sticking out of the shut of the door: and both of them was

low down, as if the person that had them on might be crouched down

inside.

_Att._ What did you take it to be?

_S._ I took it to be a woman's dress.

_Att._ Could you make any guess whom it belonged to? Did you know anyone

who wore such a dress?

_S._ It was a common stuff, by what I could see. I have seen many women

wearing such a stuff in our parish.

_Att._ Was it like Ann Clark's dress?

_S._ She used to wear just such a dress: but I could not say on my oath

it was hers.

_Att._ Did you observe anything else about it?

_S_. I did notice that it looked very wet: but it was foul weather

outside.

_L.C.J._ Did you feel of it, mistress?

_S._ No, my lord, I did not like to touch it.

_L.C.J._ Not like? Why that? Are you so nice that you scruple to feel of

a wet dress?

_S._ Indeed, my lord, I cannot very well tell why: only it had a nasty

ugly look about it.

_L.C.J._ Well, go on.

_S_. Then I called again to Thomas Snell, and bid him come to me and

catch anyone that come out when I should open the cupboard door, 'for,'

says I, 'there is someone hiding within, and I would know what she

wants.' And with that Squire Martin gave a sort of a cry or a shout and

ran out of the house into the dark, and I felt the cupboard door pushed

out against me while I held it, and Thomas Snell helped me: but for all

we pressed to keep it shut as hard as we could, it was forced out against

us, and we had to fall back.

_L.C.J._ And pray what came out--a mouse?

_S._ No, my lord, it was greater than a mouse, but I could not see what

it was: it fleeted very swift over the floor and out at the door.

_L.C.J._ But come; what did it look like? Was it a person?

_S._ My lord, I cannot tell what it was, but it ran very low, and it was

of a dark colour. We were both daunted by it, Thomas Snell and I, but we

made all the haste we could after it to the door that stood open. And we

looked out, but it was dark and we could see nothing.

_L.C.J._ Was there no tracks of it on the floor? What floor have you

there?

_S._ It is a flagged floor and sanded, my lord, and there was an

appearance of a wet track on the floor, but we could make nothing of it,

neither Thomas Snell nor me, and besides, as I said, it was a foul night.

_L.C.J._ Well, for my part, I see not--though to be sure it is an odd

tale she tells--what you would do with this evidence.

_Att._ My lord, we bring it to show the suspicious carriage of the

prisoner immediately after the disappearance of the murdered person: and

we ask the jury's consideration of that; and also to the matter of the

voice heard without the house.

Then the prisoner asked some questions not very material, and Thomas

Snell was next called, who gave evidence to the same effect as Mrs

Arscott, and added the following:

_Att._ Did anything pass between you and the prisoner during the time Mrs

Arscott was out of the room?

_Th._ I had a piece of twist in my pocket.

_Att._ Twist of what?

_Th._ Twist of tobacco, sir, and I felt a disposition to take a pipe of

tobacco. So I found a pipe on the chimney-piece, and being it was twist,

and in regard of me having by an oversight left my knife at my house, and

me not having over many teeth to pluck at it, as your lordship or anyone

else may have a view by their own eyesight--

_L.C.J._ What is the man talking about? Come to the matter, fellow! Do

you think we sit here to look at your teeth?

_Th._ No, my lord, nor I would not you should do, God forbid! I know your

honours have better employment, and better teeth, I would not wonder.

_L.C.J._ Good God, what a man is this! Yes, I _have_ better teeth, and

that you shall find if you keep not to the purpose.

_Th._ I humbly ask pardon, my lord, but so it was. And I took upon me,

thinking no harm, to ask Squire Martin to lend me his knife to cut my

tobacco. And he felt first of one pocket and then of another and it was

not there at all. And says I, 'What! have you lost your knife, Squire?'

And up he gets and feels again and he sat down, and such a groan as he

gave. 'Good God!' he says, 'I must have left it there.' 'But,' says I,

'Squire, by all appearance it is _not_ there. Did you set a value on it,'

says I, 'you might have it cried.' But he sat there and put his head

between his hands and seemed to take no notice to what I said. And then

it was Mistress Arscott come tracking back out of the kitchen place.

Asked if he heard the voice singing outside the house, he said 'No,' but

the door into the kitchen was shut, and there was a high wind: but says

that no one could mistake Ann Clark's voice.

Then a boy, William Reddaway, about thirteen years of age, was called,

and by the usual questions, put by the Lord Chief Justice, it was

ascertained that he knew the nature of an oath. And so he was sworn. His

evidence referred to a time about a week later.

_Att._ Now, child, don't be frighted: there is no one here will hurt you

if you speak the truth.

_L.C.J._ Ay, if he speak the truth. But remember, child, thou art in the

presence of the great God of heaven and earth, that hath the keys of

hell, and of us that are the king's officers, and have the keys of

Newgate; and remember, too, there is a man's life in question; and if

thou tellest a lie, and by that means he comes to an ill end, thou art no

better than his murderer; and so speak the truth.

_Att._ Tell the jury what you know, and speak out. Where were you on the

evening of the 23rd of May last?

_L.C.J._ Why, what does such a boy as this know of days. Can you mark the

day, boy?

_W._ Yes, my lord, it was the day before our feast, and I was to spend

sixpence there, and that falls a month before Midsummer Day.

_One of the Jury._ My lord, we cannot hear what he says.

_L.C.J._ He says he remembers the day because it was the day before the

feast they had there, and he had sixpence to lay out. Set him up on the

table there. Well, child, and where wast thou then?

_W._ Keeping cows on the moor, my lord.

But, the boy using the country speech, my lord could not well apprehend

him, and so asked if there was anyone that could interpret him, and it

was answered the parson of the parish was there, and he was accordingly

sworn and so the evidence given. The boy said:

'I was on the moor about six o'clock, and sitting behind a bush of furze

near a pond of water: and the prisoner came very cautiously and looking

about him, having something like a long pole in his hand, and stopped a

good while as if he would be listening, and then began to feel in the

water with the pole: and I being very near the water--not above five

yards--heard as if the pole struck up against something that made a

wallowing sound, and the prisoner dropped the pole and threw himself on

the ground, and rolled himself about very strangely with his hands to his

ears, and so after a while got up and went creeping away.'

Asked if he had had any communication with the prisoner, 'Yes, a day or

two before, the prisoner, hearing I was used to be on the moor, he asked

me if I had seen a knife laying about, and said he would give sixpence to

find it. And I said I had not seen any such thing, but I would ask about.

Then he said he would give me sixpence to say nothing, and so he did.'

_L.C.J._ And was that the sixpence you were to lay out at the feast?

_W._ Yes, if you please, my lord.

Asked if he had observed anything particular as to the pond of water, he

said, 'No, except that it begun to have a very ill smell and the cows

would not drink of it for some days before.'

Asked if he had ever seen the prisoner and Ann Clark in company together,

he began to cry very much, and it was a long time before they could get

him to speak intelligibly. At last the parson of the parish, Mr Matthews,

got him to be quiet, and the question being put to him again, he said he

had seen Ann Clark waiting on the moor for the prisoner at some way off,

several times since last Christmas.

_Att._ Did you see her close, so as to be sure it was she?

_W._ Yes, quite sure.

_L.C.J._ How quite sure, child?

_W._ Because she would stand and jump up and down and clap her arms like

a goose [which he called by some country name: but the parson explained

it to be a goose]. And then she was of such a shape that it could not be

no one else.

_Att._ What was the last time that you so saw her?

Then the witness began to cry again and clung very much to Mr Matthews,

who bid him not be frightened. And so at last he told this story: that

on the day before their feast (being the same evening that he had before

spoken of) after the prisoner had gone away, it being then twilight and

he very desirous to get home, but afraid for the present to stir from

where he was lest the prisoner should see him, remained some few minutes

behind the bush, looking on the pond, and saw something dark come up out

of the water at the edge of the pond farthest away from him, and so up

the bank. And when it got to the top where he could see it plain against

the sky, it stood up and flapped the arms up and down, and then run off

very swiftly in the same direction the prisoner had taken: and being

asked very strictly who he took it to be, he said upon his oath that it

could be nobody but Ann Clark.

Thereafter his master was called, and gave evidence that the boy had

come home very late that evening and been chided for it, and that he

seemed very much amazed, but could give no account of the reason.

_Att._ My lord, we have done with our evidence for the King.

Then the Lord Chief Justice called upon the prisoner to make his defence;

which he did, though at no great length, and in a very halting way,

saying that he hoped the jury would not go about to take his life on the

evidence of a parcel of country people and children that would believe

any idle tale; and that he had been very much prejudiced in his trial; at

which the L.C.J. interrupted him, saying that he had had singular favour

shown to him in having his trial removed from Exeter, which the prisoner

acknowledging, said that he meant rather that since he was brought to

London there had not been care taken to keep him secured from

interruption and disturbance. Upon which the L.C.J. ordered the Marshal

to be called, and questioned him about the safe keeping of the prisoner,

but could find nothing: except the Marshal said that he had been informed

by the underkeeper that they had seen a person outside his door or going

up the stairs to it: but there was no possibility the person should have

got in. And it being inquired further what sort of person this might be,

the Marshal could not speak to it save by hearsay, which was not allowed.

And the prisoner, being asked if this was what he meant, said no, he knew

nothing of that, but it was very hard that a man should not be suffered

to be at quiet when his life stood on it. But it was observed he was very

hasty in his denial. And so he said no more, and called no witnesses.

Whereupon the Attorney-General spoke to the jury. [A full report of what

he said is given, and, if time allowed, I would extract that portion in

which he dwells on the alleged appearance of the murdered person: he

quotes some authorities of ancient date, as St Augustine _de cura pro

mortuis gerenda_ (a favourite book of reference with the old writers on

the supernatural) and also cites some cases which may be seen in

Glanvil's, but more conveniently in Mr Lang's books. He does not,

however, tell us more of those cases than is to be found in print.]

The Lord Chief Justice then summed up the evidence for the jury. His

speech, again, contains nothing that I find worth copying out: but he was

naturally impressed with the singular character of the evidence, saying

that he had never heard such given in his experience; but that there was

nothing in law to set it aside, and that the jury must consider whether

they believed these witnesses or not.

And the jury after a very short consultation brought the prisoner in

Guilty.

So he was asked whether he had anything to say in arrest of judgement,

and pleaded that his name was spelt wrong in the indictment, being Martin

with an I, whereas it should be with a Y. But this was overruled as not

material, Mr Attorney saying, moreover, that he could bring evidence to

show that the prisoner by times wrote it as it was laid in the

indictment. And, the prisoner having nothing further to offer, sentence

of death was passed upon him, and that he should be hanged in chains upon

a gibbet near the place where the fact was committed, and that execution

should take place upon the 28th December next ensuing, being Innocents'

Day.

Thereafter the prisoner being to all appearance in a state of

desperation, made shift to ask the L.C.J. that his relations might be

allowed to come to him during the short time he had to live.

_L.C.J._ Ay, with all my heart, so it be in the presence of the keeper;

and Ann Clark may come to you as well, for what I care.

At which the prisoner broke out and cried to his lordship not to use such

words to him, and his lordship very angrily told him he deserved no

tenderness at any man's hands for a cowardly butcherly murderer that had

not the stomach to take the reward of his deeds: 'and I hope to God,'

said he, 'that she _will_ be with you by day and by night till an end is

made of you.' Then the prisoner was removed, and, so far as I saw, he was

in a swound, and the Court broke up.

I cannot refrain from observing that the prisoner during all the time of

the trial seemed to be more uneasy than is commonly the case even in

capital causes: that, for example, he was looking narrowly among the

people and often turning round very sharply, as if some person might be

at his ear. It was also very noticeable at this trial what a silence the

people kept, and further (though this might not be otherwise than natural

in that season of the year), what a darkness and obscurity there was in

the court room, lights being brought in not long after two o'clock in the

day, and yet no fog in the town.

* * * * *

It was not without interest that I heard lately from some young men who

had been giving a concert in the village I speak of, that a very cold

reception was accorded to the song which has been mentioned in this

narrative: '_Madam, will you walk?_' It came out in some talk they had

next morning with some of the local people that that song was regarded

with an invincible repugnance; it was not so, they believed, at North

Tawton, but here it was reckoned to be unlucky. However, why that view

was taken no one had the shadow of an idea.

MR HUMPHREYS AND HIS INHERITANCE

About fifteen years ago, on a date late in August or early in September,

a train drew up at Wilsthorpe, a country station in Eastern England. Out

of it stepped (with other passengers) a rather tall and reasonably

good-looking young man, carrying a handbag and some papers tied up in a

packet. He was expecting to be met, one would say, from the way in which

he looked about him: and he was, as obviously, expected. The

stationmaster ran forward a step or two, and then, seeming to recollect

himself, turned and beckoned to a stout and consequential person with a

short round beard who was scanning the train with some appearance of

bewilderment. 'Mr Cooper,' he called out,--'Mr Cooper, I think this is

your gentleman'; and then to the passenger who had just alighted, 'Mr

Humphreys, sir? Glad to bid you welcome to Wilsthorpe. There's a cart

from the Hall for your luggage, and here's Mr Cooper, what I think you

know.' Mr Cooper had hurried up, and now raised his hat and shook hands.

'Very pleased, I'm sure,' he said, 'to give the echo to Mr Palmer's kind

words. I should have been the first to render expression to them but for

the face not being familiar to me, Mr Humphreys. May your residence among

us be marked as a red-letter day, sir.' 'Thank you very much, Mr Cooper,'

said Humphreys, 'for your good wishes, and Mr Palmer also. I do hope very

much that this change of--er--tenancy--which you must all regret, I am

sure--will not be to the detriment of those with whom I shall be brought

in contact.' He stopped, feeling that the words were not fitting

themselves together in the happiest way, and Mr Cooper cut in, 'Oh, you

may rest satisfied of that, Mr Humphreys. I'll take it upon myself to

assure you, sir, that a warm welcome awaits you on all sides. And as to

any change of propriety turning out detrimental to the neighbourhood,

well, your late uncle--' And here Mr Cooper also stopped, possibly in

obedience to an inner monitor, possibly because Mr Palmer, clearing his

throat loudly, asked Humphreys for his ticket. The two men left the

little station, and--at Humphreys' suggestion--decided to walk to Mr

Cooper's house, where luncheon was awaiting them.

The relation in which these personages stood to each other can be

explained in a very few lines. Humphreys had inherited--quite

unexpectedly--a property from an uncle: neither the property nor the

uncle had he ever seen. He was alone in the world--a man of good ability

and kindly nature, whose employment in a Government office for the last

four or five years had not gone far to fit him for the life of a country

gentleman. He was studious and rather diffident, and had few out-of-door

pursuits except golf and gardening. To-day he had come down for the first

time to visit Wilsthorpe and confer with Mr Cooper, the bailiff, as to

the matters which needed immediate attention. It may be asked how this

came to be his first visit? Ought he not in decency to have attended his

uncle's funeral? The answer is not far to seek: he had been abroad at the

time of the death, and his address had not been at once procurable. So he

had put off coming to Wilsthorpe till he heard that all things were ready

for him. And now we find him arrived at Mr Cooper's comfortable house,

facing the parsonage, and having just shaken hands with the smiling Mrs

and Miss Cooper.

During the minutes that preceded the announcement of luncheon the party

settled themselves on elaborate chairs in the drawing-room, Humphreys,

for his part, perspiring quietly in the consciousness that stock was

being taken of him.

'I was just saying to Mr Humphreys, my dear,' said Mr Cooper, 'that I

hope and trust that his residence among us here in Wilsthorpe will be

marked as a red-letter day.'

'Yes, indeed, I'm sure,' said Mrs Cooper heartily, 'and many, many of

them.'

Miss Cooper murmured words to the same effect, and Humphreys attempted a

pleasantry about painting the whole calendar red, which, though greeted

with shrill laughter, was evidently not fully understood. At this point

they proceeded to luncheon.

'Do you know this part of the country at all, Mr Humphreys?' said Mrs

Cooper, after a short interval. This was a better opening.

'No, I'm sorry to say I do _not_,' said Humphreys. 'It seems very

pleasant, what I could see of it coming down in the train.'

'Oh, it _is_ a pleasant part. Really, I sometimes say I don't know a

nicer district, for the country; and the people round, too: such a

quantity always going on. But I'm afraid you've come a little late for

some of the better garden parties, Mr Humphreys.'

'I suppose I have; dear me, what a pity!' said Humphreys, with a gleam of

relief; and then, feeling that something more could be got out of this

topic, 'But after all, you see, Mrs Cooper, even if I could have been

here earlier, I should have been cut off from them, should I not? My poor

uncle's recent death, you know--'

'Oh dear, Mr Humphreys, to be sure; what a dreadful thing of me to say!'

(And Mr and Miss Cooper seconded the proposition inarticulately.) 'What

must you have thought? I _am_ sorry so: you must really forgive me.'

'Not at all, Mrs Cooper, I assure you. I can't honestly assert that my

uncle's death was a great grief to me, for I had never seen him. All I

meant was that I supposed I shouldn't be expected to take part for some

little time in festivities of that kind.'

'Now, really it's very kind of you to take it in that way, Mr Humphreys,

isn't it, George? And you _do_ forgive me? But only fancy! You never saw

poor old Mr Wilson!'

'Never in my life; nor did I ever have a letter from him. But, by the

way, you have something to forgive _me_ for. I've never thanked you,

except by letter, for all the trouble you've taken to find people to look

after me at the Hall.'

'Oh, I'm sure that was nothing, Mr Humphreys; but I really do think that

you'll find them give satisfaction. The man and his wife whom we've got

for the butler and housekeeper we've known for a number of years: such a

nice respectable couple, and Mr Cooper, I'm sure, can answer for the men

in the stables and gardens.'

'Yes, Mr Humphreys, they're a good lot. The head gardener's the only one

who's stopped on from Mr Wilson's time. The major part of the employees,

as you no doubt saw by the will, received legacies from the old gentleman

and retired from their posts, and as the wife says, your housekeeper and

butler are calculated to render you every satisfaction.'

'So everything, Mr Humphreys, is ready for you to step in this very day,

according to what I understood you to wish,' said Mrs Cooper.

'Everything, that is, except company, and there I'm afraid you'll find

yourself quite at a standstill. Only we did understand it was your

intention to move in at once. If not, I'm sure you know we should have

been only too pleased for you to stay here.'

'I'm quite sure you would, Mrs Cooper, and I'm very grateful to you. But

I thought I had really better make the plunge at once. I'm accustomed to

living alone, and there will be quite enough to occupy my

evenings--looking over papers and books and so on--for some time to come,

I thought if Mr Cooper could spare the time this afternoon to go over the

house and grounds with me--'

'Certainly, certainly, Mr Humphreys. My time is your own, up to any hour

you please.'

'Till dinner-time, father, you mean,' said Miss Cooper. 'Don't forget

we're going over to the Brasnetts'. And have you got all the garden

keys?'

'Are you a great gardener, Miss Cooper?' said Mr Humphreys. 'I wish you

would tell me what I'm to expect at the Hall.'

'Oh, I don't know about a _great_ gardener, Mr Humphreys: I'm very fond

of flowers--but the Hall garden might be made quite lovely, I often say.

It's very old-fashioned as it is: and a great deal of shrubbery. There's

an old temple, besides, and a maze.'

'Really? Have you explored it ever?'

'No-o,' said Miss Cooper, drawing in her lips and shaking her head. 'I've

often longed to try, but old Mr Wilson always kept it locked. He wouldn't

even let Lady Wardrop into it. (She lives near here, at Bentley, you

know, and she's a _great_ gardener, if you like.) That's why I asked

father if he had all the keys.'

'I see. Well, I must evidently look into that, and show you over it when

I've learnt the way.'

'Oh, thank you so much, Mr Humphreys! Now I shall have the laugh of Miss

Foster (that's our rector's daughter, you know; they're away on their

holiday now--such nice people). We always had a joke between us which

should be the first to get into the maze.'

'I think the garden keys must be up at the house,' said Mr Cooper, who

had been looking over a large bunch. 'There is a number there in the

library. Now, Mr Humphreys, if you're prepared, we might bid goodbye to

these ladies and set forward on our little tour of exploration.'

* * * * *

As they came out of Mr Cooper's front gate, Humphreys had to run the

gauntlet--not of an organized demonstration, but of a good deal of

touching of hats and careful contemplation from the men and women who had

gathered in somewhat unusual numbers in the village street. He had,

further, to exchange some remarks with the wife of the lodge-keeper as

they passed the park gates, and with the lodge-keeper himself, who was

attending to the park road. I cannot, however, spare the time to report

the progress fully. As they traversed the half-mile or so between the

lodge and the house, Humphreys took occasion to ask his companion some

question which brought up the topic of his late uncle, and it did not

take long before Mr Cooper was embarked upon a disquisition.

'It is singular to think, as the wife was saying just now, that you

should never have seen the old gentleman. And yet--you won't

misunderstand me, Mr Humphreys, I feel confident, when I say that in my

opinion there would have been but little congeniality betwixt yourself

and him. Not that I have a word to say in deprecation--not a single word.

I can tell you what he was,' said Mr Cooper, pulling up suddenly and

fixing Humphreys with his eye. 'Can tell you what he was in a nutshell,

as the saying goes. He was a complete, thorough valentudinarian. That

describes him to a T. That's what he was, sir, a complete

valentudinarian. No participation in what went on around him. I did

venture, I think, to send you a few words of cutting from our local

paper, which I took the occasion to contribute on his decease. If I

recollect myself aright, such is very much the gist of them. But don't,

Mr Humphreys,' continued Cooper, tapping him impressively on the

chest,--'don't you run away with the impression that I wish to say aught

but what is most creditable--_most_ creditable--of your respected uncle

and my late employer. Upright, Mr Humphreys--open as the day; liberal to

all in his dealings. He had the heart to feel and the hand to

accommodate. But there it was: there was the stumbling-block--his

unfortunate health--or, as I might more truly phrase it, his _want_ of

health.'

'Yes, poor man. Did he suffer from any special disorder before his last

illness--which, I take it, was little more than old age?'

'Just that, Mr Humphreys--just that. The flash flickering slowly away in

the pan,' said Cooper, with what he considered an appropriate

gesture,--'the golden bowl gradually ceasing to vibrate. But as to your

other question I should return a negative answer. General absence of

vitality? yes: special complaint? no, unless you reckon a nasty cough he

had with him. Why, here we are pretty much at the house. A handsome

mansion, Mr Humphreys, don't you consider?'

It deserved the epithet, on the whole: but it was oddly proportioned--a

very tall red-brick house, with a plain parapet concealing the roof

almost entirely. It gave the impression of a town house set down in the

country; there was a basement, and a rather imposing flight of steps

leading up to the front door. It seemed also, owing to its height, to

desiderate wings, but there were none. The stables and other offices were

concealed by trees. Humphreys guessed its probable date as 1770 or

thereabouts.

The mature couple who had been engaged to act as butler and

cook-housekeeper were waiting inside the front door, and opened it as

their new master approached. Their name, Humphreys already knew, was

Calton; of their appearance and manner he formed a favourable impression

in the few minutes' talk he had with them. It was agreed that he should

go through the plate and the cellar next day with Mr Calton, and that Mrs

C. should have a talk with him about linen, bedding, and so on--what

there was, and what there ought to be. Then he and Cooper, dismissing the

Caltons for the present, began their view of the house. Its topography is

not of importance to this story. The large rooms on the ground floor were

satisfactory, especially the library, which was as large as the

dining-room, and had three tall windows facing east. The bedroom prepared

for Humphreys was immediately above it. There were many pleasant, and a

few really interesting, old pictures. None of the furniture was new, and

hardly any of the books were later than the seventies. After hearing of

and seeing the few changes his uncle had made in the house, and

contemplating a shiny portrait of him which adorned the drawing-room,

Humphreys was forced to agree with Cooper that in all probability there

would have been little to attract him in his predecessor. It made him

rather sad that he could not be sorry--_dolebat se dolere non posse_--for

the man who, whether with or without some feeling of kindliness towards

his unknown nephew, had contributed so much to his well-being; for he

felt that Wilsthorpe was a place in which he could be happy, and

especially happy, it might be, in its library.

And now it was time to go over the garden: the empty stables could wait,

and so could the laundry. So to the garden they addressed themselves, and

it was soon evident that Miss Cooper had been right in thinking that

there were possibilities. Also that Mr Cooper had done well in keeping on

the gardener. The deceased Mr Wilson might not have, indeed plainly had

not, been imbued with the latest views on gardening, but whatever had

been done here had been done under the eye of a knowledgeable man, and

the equipment and stock were excellent. Cooper was delighted with the

pleasure Humphreys showed, and with the suggestions he let fall from time

to time. 'I can see,' he said, 'that you've found your meatear here, Mr

Humphreys: you'll make this place a regular signosier before very many

seasons have passed over our heads. I wish Clutterham had been

here--that's the head gardener--and here he would have been of course,

as I told you, but for his son's being horse doover with a fever, poor

fellow! I should like him to have heard how the place strikes you.'

'Yes, you told me he couldn't be here today, and I was very sorry to hear

the reason, but it will be time enough tomorrow. What is that white

building on the mound at the end of the grass ride? Is it the temple Miss

Cooper mentioned?'

'That it is, Mr Humphreys--the Temple of Friendship. Constructed of

marble brought out of Italy for the purpose, by your late uncle's

grandfather. Would it interest you perhaps to take a turn there? You get

a very sweet prospect of the park.'

The general lines of the temple were those of the Sibyl's Temple at

Tivoli, helped out by a dome, only the whole was a good deal smaller.

Some ancient sepulchral reliefs were built into the wall, and about it

all was a pleasant flavour of the grand tour. Cooper produced the key,

and with some difficulty opened the heavy door. Inside there was a

handsome ceiling, but little furniture. Most of the floor was occupied by

a pile of thick circular blocks of stone, each of which had a single

letter deeply cut on its slightly convex upper surface. 'What is the

meaning of these?' Humphreys inquired.

'Meaning? Well, all things, we're told, have their purpose, Mr Humphreys,

and I suppose these blocks have had theirs as well as another. But what

that purpose is or was [Mr Cooper assumed a didactic attitude here], I,

for one, should be at a loss to point out to you, sir. All I know of

them--and it's summed up in a very few words--is just this: that they're

stated to have been removed by your late uncle, at a period before I

entered on the scene, from the maze. That, Mr Humphreys, is--'

'Oh, the maze!' exclaimed Humphreys. 'I'd forgotten that: we must have a

look at it. Where is it?'

Cooper drew him to the door of the temple, and pointed with his stick.

'Guide your eye,' he said (somewhat in the manner of the Second Elder in

Handel's 'Susanna'--

Far to the west direct your straining eyes

Where yon tall holm-tree rises to the skies)

'Guide your eye by my stick here, and follow out the line directly

opposite to the spot where we're standing now, and I'll engage, Mr

Humphreys, that you'll catch the archway over the entrance. You'll see it

just at the end of the walk answering to the one that leads up to this

very building. Did you think of going there at once? because if that be

the case, I must go to the house and procure the key. If you would walk

on there, I'll rejoin you in a few moments' time.'

Accordingly Humphreys strolled down the ride leading to the temple, past

the garden-front of the house, and up the turfy approach to the archway

which Cooper had pointed out to him. He was surprised to find that the

whole maze was surrounded by a high wall, and that the archway was

provided with a padlocked iron gate; but then he remembered that Miss

Cooper had spoken of his uncle's objection to letting anyone enter this

part of the garden. He was now at the gate, and still Cooper came not.

For a few minutes he occupied himself in reading the motto cut over the

entrance, _Secretum meum mihi et filiis domus meae_, and in trying to

recollect the source of it. Then he became impatient and considered the

possibility of scaling the wall. This was clearly not worth while; it

might have been done if he had been wearing an older suit: or could the

padlock--a very old one--be forced? No, apparently not: and yet, as he

gave a final irritated kick at the gate, something gave way, and the lock

fell at his feet. He pushed the gate open, inconveniencing a number of

nettles as he did so, and stepped into the enclosure.

It was a yew maze, of circular form, and the hedges, long untrimmed, had

grown out and upwards to a most unorthodox breadth and height. The walks,

too, were next door to impassable. Only by entirely disregarding

scratches, nettle-stings, and wet, could Humphreys force his way along

them; but at any rate this condition of things, he reflected, would make

it easier for him to find his way out again, for he left a very visible

track. So far as he could remember, he had never been in a maze before,

nor did it seem to him now that he had missed much. The dankness and

darkness, and smell of crushed goosegrass and nettles were anything but

cheerful. Still, it did not seem to be a very intricate specimen of its

kind. Here he was (by the way, was that Cooper arrived at last? No!) very

nearly at the heart of it, without having taken much thought as to what

path he was following. Ah! there at last was the centre, easily gained.

And there was something to reward him. His first impression was that the

central ornament was a sundial; but when he had switched away some

portion of the thick growth of brambles and bindweed that had formed over

it, he saw that it was a less ordinary decoration. A stone column about

four feet high, and on the top of it a metal globe--copper, to judge by

the green patina--engraved, and finely engraved too, with figures in

outline, and letters. That was what Humphreys saw, and a brief glance at

the figures convinced him that it was one of those mysterious things

called celestial globes, from which, one would suppose, no one ever yet

derived any information about the heavens. However, it was too dark--at

least in the maze--for him to examine this curiosity at all closely, and

besides, he now heard Cooper's voice, and sounds as of an elephant in the

jungle. Humphreys called to him to follow the track he had beaten out,

and soon Cooper emerged panting into the central circle. He was full of

apologies for his delay; he had not been able, after all, to find the

key. 'But there!' he said, 'you've penetrated into the heart of the

mystery unaided and unannealed, as the saying goes. Well! I suppose it's

a matter of thirty to forty years since any human foot has trod these

precincts. Certain it is that I've never set foot in them before. Well,

well! what's the old proverb about angels fearing to tread? It's proved

true once again in this case.' Humphreys' acquaintance with Cooper,

though it had been short, was sufficient to assure him that there was no

guile in this allusion, and he forbore the obvious remark, merely

suggesting that it was fully time to get back to the house for a late cup

of tea, and to release Cooper for his evening engagement. They left the

maze accordingly, experiencing well-nigh the same ease in retracing their

path as they had in coming in.

'Have you any idea,' Humphreys asked, as they went towards the house,

'why my uncle kept that place so carefully locked?'

Cooper pulled up, and Humphreys felt that he must be on the brink of a

revelation.

'I should merely be deceiving you, Mr Humphreys, and that to no good

purpose, if I laid claim to possess any information whatsoever on that

topic. When I first entered upon my duties here, some eighteen years

back, that maze was word for word in the condition you see it now, and

the one and only occasion on which the question ever arose within my

knowledge was that of which my girl made mention in your hearing. Lady

Wardrop--I've not a word to say against her--wrote applying for admission

to the maze. Your uncle showed me the note--a most civil note--everything

that could be expected from such a quarter. "Cooper," he said, "I wish

you'd reply to that note on my behalf." "Certainly, Mr Wilson," I said,

for I was quite inured to acting as his secretary, "what answer shall I

return to it?" "Well," he said, "give Lady Wardrop my compliments, and

tell her that if ever that portion of the grounds is taken in hand I

shall be happy to give her the first opportunity of viewing it, but that

it has been shut up now for a number of years, and I shall be grateful to

her if she kindly won't press the matter." That, Mr Humphreys, was your

good uncle's last word on the subject, and I don't think I can add

anything to it. Unless,' added Cooper, after a pause, 'it might be just

this: that, so far as I could form a judgement, he had a dislike (as

people often will for one reason or another) to the memory of his

grandfather, who, as I mentioned to you, had that maze laid out. A man of

peculiar teenets, Mr Humphreys, and a great traveller. You'll have the

opportunity, on the coming Sabbath, of seeing the tablet to him in our

little parish church; put up it was some long time after his death.'

'Oh! I should have expected a man who had such a taste for building to

have designed a mausoleum for himself.'

'Well, I've never noticed anything of the kind you mention; and, in fact,

come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that his resting-place is within

our boundaries at all: that he lays in the vault I'm pretty confident is

not the case. Curious now that I shouldn't be in a position to inform you

on that heading! Still, after all, we can't say, can we, Mr Humphreys,

that it's a point of crucial importance where the pore mortal coils are

bestowed?'

At this point they entered the house, and Cooper's speculations were

interrupted.

Tea was laid in the library, where Mr Cooper fell upon subjects

appropriate to the scene. 'A fine collection of books! One of the finest,

I've understood from connoisseurs, in this part of the country; splendid

plates, too, in some of these works. I recollect your uncle showing me

one with views of foreign towns--most absorbing it was: got up in

first-rate style. And another all done by hand, with the ink as fresh as

if it had been laid on yesterday, and yet, he told me, it was the work of

some old monk hundreds of years back. I've always taken a keen interest

in literature myself. Hardly anything to my mind can compare with a good

hour's reading after a hard day's work; far better than wasting the whole

evening at a friend's house--and that reminds me, to be sure. I shall be

getting into trouble with the wife if I don't make the best of my way

home and get ready to squander away one of these same evenings! I must be

off, Mr Humphreys.'

'And that reminds _me_,' said Humphreys, 'if I'm to show Miss Cooper the

maze tomorrow we must have it cleared out a bit. Could you say a word

about that to the proper person?'

'Why, to be sure. A couple of men with scythes could cut out a track

tomorrow morning. I'll leave word as I pass the lodge, and I'll tell

them, what'll save you the trouble, perhaps, Mr Humphreys, of having to

go up and extract them yourself: that they'd better have some sticks or a

tape to mark out their way with as they go on.'

'A very good idea! Yes, do that; and I'll expect Mrs and Miss Cooper in

the afternoon, and yourself about half-past ten in the morning.'

'It'll be a pleasure, I'm sure, both to them and to myself, Mr Humphreys.

Good night!'

* * * * *

Humphreys dined at eight. But for the fact that it was his first evening,

and that Calton was evidently inclined for occasional conversation, he

would have finished the novel he had bought for his journey. As it was,

he had to listen and reply to some of Calton's impressions of the

neighbourhood and the season: the latter, it appeared, was seasonable,

and the former had changed considerably--and not altogether for the

worse--since Calton's boyhood (which had been spent there). The village

shop in particular had greatly improved since the year 1870. It was now

possible to procure there pretty much anything you liked in reason: which

was a conveniency, because suppose anythink was required of a suddent

(and he had known such things before now), he (Calton) could step down

there (supposing the shop to be still open), and order it in, without he

borrered it of the Rectory, whereas in earlier days it would have been

useless to pursue such a course in respect of anything but candles, or

soap, or treacle, or perhaps a penny child's picture-book, and nine times

out of ten it'd be something more in the nature of a bottle of whisky

_you'd_ be requiring; leastways--On the whole Humphreys thought he would

be prepared with a book in future.

The library was the obvious place for the after-dinner hours. Candle in

hand and pipe in mouth, he moved round the room for some time, taking

stock of the titles of the books. He had all the predisposition to take

interest in an old library, and there was every opportunity for him here

to make systematic acquaintance with one, for he had learned from Cooper

that there was no catalogue save the very superficial one made for

purposes of probate. The drawing up of a _catalogue raisonné_ would be a

delicious occupation for winter. There were probably treasures to be

found, too: even manuscripts, if Cooper might be trusted.

As he pursued his round the sense came upon him (as it does upon most of

us in similar places) of the extreme unreadableness of a great portion of

the collection. 'Editions of Classics and Fathers, and Picart's

_Religious Ceremonies_, and the _Harleian Miscellany_, I suppose are all

very well, but who is ever going to read Tostatus Abulensis, or Pineda on

Job, or a book like this?' He picked out a small quarto, loose in the

binding, and from which the lettered label had fallen off; and observing

that coffee was waiting for him, retired to a chair. Eventually he opened

the book. It will be observed that his condemnation of it rested wholly

on external grounds. For all he knew it might have been a collection of

unique plays, but undeniably the outside was blank and forbidding. As a

matter of fact, it was a collection of sermons or meditations, and

mutilated at that, for the first sheet was gone. It seemed to belong to

the latter end of the seventeenth century. He turned over the pages till

his eye was caught by a marginal note: '_A Parable of this Unhappy

Condition_,' and he thought he would see what aptitudes the author might

have for imaginative composition. 'I have heard or read,' so ran the

passage, 'whether in the way of _Parable_ or true _Relation_ I leave my

Reader to judge, of a Man who, like _Theseus_, in the _Attick Tale_,

should adventure himself, into a _Labyrinth_ or _Maze_: and such an one

indeed as was not laid out in the Fashion of our _Topiary_ artists of

this Age, but of a wide compass, in which, moreover, such unknown

Pitfalls and Snares, nay, such ill-omened Inhabitants were commonly

thought to lurk as could only be encountered at the Hazard of one's very

life. Now you may be sure that in such a Case the Disswasions of Friends

were not wanting. "Consider of such-an-one" says a Brother "how he went

the way you wot of, and was never seen more." "Or of such another" says

the Mother "that adventured himself but a little way in, and from that

day forth is so troubled in his Wits that he cannot tell what he saw, nor

hath passed one good Night." "And have you never heard" cries a Neighbour

"of what Faces have been seen to look out over the _Palisadoes_ and

betwixt the Bars of the Gate?" But all would not do: the Man was set upon

his Purpose: for it seems it was the common fireside Talk of that Country

that at the Heart and Centre of this _Labyrinth_ there was a Jewel of

such Price and Rarity that would enrich the Finder thereof for his life:

and this should be his by right that could persever to come at it. What

then? _Quid multa?_ The Adventurer pass'd the Gates, and for a whole

day's space his Friends without had no news of him, except it might be by

some indistinct Cries heard afar off in the Night, such as made them turn

in their restless Beds and sweat for very Fear, not doubting but that

their Son and Brother had put one more to the _Catalogue_ of those

unfortunates that had suffer'd shipwreck on that Voyage. So the next day

they went with weeping Tears to the Clark of the Parish to order the Bell

to be toll'd. And their Way took them hard by the gate of the

_Labyrinth_: which they would have hastened by, from the Horrour they had

of it, but that they caught sight of a sudden of a Man's Body lying in

the Roadway, and going up to it (with what Anticipations may be easily

figured) found it to be him whom they reckoned as lost: and not dead,

though he were in a Swound most like Death. They then, who had gone forth

as Mourners came back rejoycing, and set to by all means to revive their

Prodigal. Who, being come to himself, and hearing of their Anxieties and

their Errand of that Morning, "Ay" says he "you may as well finish what

you were about: for, for all I have brought back the Jewel (which he

shew'd them, and 'twas indeed a rare Piece) I have brought back that with

it that will leave me neither Rest at Night nor Pleasure by Day."

Whereupon they were instant with him to learn his Meaning, and where his

Company should be that went so sore against his Stomach. "O" says he

"'tis here in my Breast: I cannot flee from it, do what I may." So it

needed no Wizard to help them to a guess that it was the Recollection of

what he had seen that troubled him so wonderfully. But they could get no

more of him for a long Time but by Fits and Starts. However at long and

at last they made shift to collect somewhat of this kind: that at first,

while the Sun was bright, he went merrily on, and without any Difficulty

reached the Heart of the _Labyrinth_ and got the Jewel, and so set out on

his way back rejoycing: but as the Night fell, _wherein all the Beasts of

the Forest do move_, he begun to be sensible of some Creature keeping

Pace with him and, as he thought, _peering and looking upon him_ from the

next Alley to that he was in; and that when he should stop, this

Companion should stop also, which put him in some Disorder of his

Spirits. And, indeed, as the Darkness increas'd, it seemed to him that

there was more than one, and, it might be, even a whole Band of such

Followers: at least so he judg'd by the Rustling and Cracking that they

kept among the Thickets; besides that there would be at a Time a Sound of

Whispering, which seem'd to import a Conference among them. But in regard

of who they were or what Form they were of, he would not be persuaded to

say what he thought. Upon his Hearers asking him what the Cries were

which they heard in the Night (as was observ'd above) he gave them this

Account: That about Midnight (so far as he could judge) he heard his Name

call'd from a long way off, and he would have been sworn it was his

Brother that so call'd him. So he stood still and hilloo'd at the Pitch

of his Voice, and he suppos'd that the _Echo_, or the Noyse of his

Shouting, disguis'd for the Moment any lesser sound; because, when there

fell a Stillness again, he distinguish'd a Trampling (not loud) of

running Feet coming very close behind him, wherewith he was so daunted

that himself set off to run, and that he continued till the Dawn broke.

Sometimes when his Breath fail'd him, he would cast himself flat on his

Face, and hope that his Pursuers might over-run him in the Darkness, but

at such a Time they would regularly make a Pause, and he could hear them

pant and snuff as it had been a Hound at Fault: which wrought in him so

extream an Horrour of mind, that he would be forc'd to betake himself

again to turning and doubling, if by any Means he might throw them off

the Scent. And, as if this Exertion was in itself not terrible enough, he

had before him the constant Fear of falling into some Pit or Trap, of

which he had heard, and indeed seen with his own Eyes that there were

several, some at the sides and other in the Midst of the Alleys. So that

in fine (he said) a more dreadful Night was never spent by Mortal

Creature than that he had endur'd in that _Labyrinth_; and not that Jewel

which he had in his Wallet, nor the richest that was ever brought out of

the _Indies_, could be a sufficient Recompence to him for the Pains he

had suffered.

'I will spare to set down the further Recital of this Man's Troubles,

inasmuch as I am confident my Reader's Intelligence will hit the

_Parallel_ I desire to draw. For is not this Jewel a just Emblem of the

Satisfaction which a Man may bring back with him from a Course of this

World's Pleasures? and will not the _Labyrinth_ serve for an Image of the

World itself wherein such a Treasure (if we may believe the common Voice)

is stored up?'

At about this point Humphreys thought that a little Patience would be an

agreeable change, and that the writer's 'improvement' of his Parable

might be left to itself. So he put the book back in its former place,

wondering as he did so whether his uncle had ever stumbled across that

passage; and if so, whether it had worked on his fancy so much as to make

him dislike the idea of a maze, and determine to shut up the one in the

garden. Not long afterwards he went to bed.

The next day brought a morning's hard work with Mr Cooper, who, if

exuberant in language, had the business of the estate at his fingers'

ends. He was very breezy this morning, Mr Cooper was: had not forgotten

the order to clear out the maze--the work was going on at that moment:

his girl was on the tentacles of expectation about it. He also hoped that

Humphreys had slept the sleep of the just, and that we should be favoured

with a continuance of this congenial weather. At luncheon he enlarged on

the pictures in the dining-room, and pointed out the portrait of the

constructor of the temple and the maze. Humphreys examined this with

considerable interest. It was the work of an Italian, and had been

painted when old Mr Wilson was visiting Rome as a young man. (There was,

indeed, a view of the Colosseum in the background.) A pale thin face and

large eyes were the characteristic features. In the hand was a partially

unfolded roll of paper, on which could be distinguished the plan of a

circular building, very probably the temple, and also part of that of a

labyrinth. Humphreys got up on a chair to examine it, but it was not

painted with sufficient clearness to be worth copying. It suggested to

him, however, that he might as well make a plan of his own maze and hang

it in the hall for the use of visitors.

This determination of his was confirmed that same afternoon; for when Mrs

and Miss Cooper arrived, eager to be inducted into the maze, he found

that he was wholly unable to lead them to the centre. The gardeners had

removed the guide-marks they had been using, and even Clutterham, when

summoned to assist, was as helpless as the rest. 'The point is, you see,

Mr Wilson--I should say 'Umphreys--these mazes is purposely constructed

so much alike, with a view to mislead. Still, if you'll foller me, I

think I can put you right. I'll just put my 'at down 'ere as a

starting-point.' He stumped off, and after five minutes brought the party

safe to the hat again. 'Now that's a very peculiar thing,' he said, with

a sheepish laugh. 'I made sure I'd left that 'at just over against a

bramble-bush, and you can see for yourself there ain't no bramble-bush

not in this walk at all. If you'll allow me, Mr Humphreys--that's the

name, ain't it, sir?--I'll just call one of the men in to mark the place

like.'

William Crack arrived, in answer to repeated shouts. He had some

difficulty in making his way to the party. First he was seen or heard in

an inside alley, then, almost at the same moment, in an outer one.

However, he joined them at last, and was first consulted without effect

and then stationed by the hat, which Clutterham still considered it

necessary to leave on the ground. In spite of this strategy, they spent

the best part of three-quarters of an hour in quite fruitless wanderings,

and Humphreys was obliged at last, seeing how tired Mrs Cooper was

becoming, to suggest a retreat to tea, with profuse apologies to Miss

Cooper. 'At any rate you've won your bet with Miss Foster,' he said; 'you

have been inside the maze; and I promise you the first thing I do shall

be to make a proper plan of it with the lines marked out for you to go

by.' 'That's what's wanted, sir,' said Clutterham, 'someone to draw out a

plan and keep it by them. It might be very awkward, you see, anyone

getting into that place and a shower of rain come on, and them not able

to find their way out again; it might be hours before they could be got

out, without you'd permit of me makin' a short cut to the middle: what my

meanin' is, takin' down a couple of trees in each 'edge in a straight

line so as you could git a clear view right through. Of course that'd do

away with it as a maze, but I don't know as you'd approve of that.'

'No, I won't have that done yet: I'll make a plan first, and let you have

a copy. Later on, if we find occasion, I'll think of what you say.'

Humphreys was vexed and ashamed at the fiasco of the afternoon, and could

not be satisfied without making another effort that evening to reach the

centre of the maze. His irritation was increased by finding it without a

single false step. He had thoughts of beginning his plan at once; but the

light was fading, and he felt that by the time he had got the necessary

materials together, work would be impossible.

Next morning accordingly, carrying a drawing-board, pencils, compasses,

cartridge paper, and so forth (some of which had been borrowed from the

Coopers and some found in the library cupboards), he went to the middle

of the maze (again without any hesitation), and set out his materials. He

was, however, delayed in making a start. The brambles and weeds that had

obscured the column and globe were now all cleared away, and it was for

the first time possible to see clearly what these were like. The column

was featureless, resembling those on which sundials are usually placed.

Not so the globe. I have said that it was finely engraved with figures

and inscriptions, and that on a first glance Humphreys had taken it for a

celestial globe: but he soon found that it did not answer to his

recollection of such things. One feature seemed familiar; a winged

serpent--_Draco_--encircled it about the place which, on a terrestrial

globe, is occupied by the equator: but on the other hand, a good part of

the upper hemisphere was covered by the outspread wings of a large figure

whose head was concealed by a ring at the pole or summit of the whole.

Around the place of the head the words _princeps tenebrarum_ could be

deciphered. In the lower hemisphere there was a space hatched all over

with cross-lines and marked as _umbra mortis_. Near it was a range of

mountains, and among them a valley with flames rising from it. This was

lettered (will you be surprised to learn it?) _vallis filiorum Hinnom_.

Above and below _Draco_ were outlined various figures not unlike the

pictures of the ordinary constellations, but not the same. Thus, a nude

man with a raised club was described, not as _Hercules_ but as _Cain_.

Another, plunged up to his middle in earth and stretching out despairing

arms, was _Chore_, not _Ophiuchus_, and a third, hung by his hair to a

snaky tree, was _Absolon_. Near the last, a man in long robes and high

cap, standing in a circle and addressing two shaggy demons who hovered

outside, was described as _Hostanes magus_ (a character unfamiliar to

Humphreys). The scheme of the whole, indeed, seemed to be an assemblage

of the patriarchs of evil, perhaps not uninfluenced by a study of Dante.

Humphreys thought it an unusual exhibition of his great-grandfather's

taste, but reflected that he had probably picked it up in Italy and had

never taken the trouble to examine it closely: certainly, had he set much

store by it, he would not have exposed it to wind and weather. He tapped

the metal--it seemed hollow and not very thick--and, turning from it,

addressed himself to his plan. After half an hour's work he found it was

impossible to get on without using a clue: so he procured a roll of twine

from Clutterham, and laid it out along the alleys from the entrance to

the centre, tying the end to the ring at the top of the globe. This

expedient helped him to set out a rough plan before luncheon, and in the

afternoon he was able to draw it in more neatly. Towards tea-time Mr

Cooper joined him, and was much interested in his progress. 'Now this--'

said Mr Cooper, laying his hand on the globe, and then drawing it away

hastily. 'Whew! Holds the heat, doesn't it, to a surprising degree, Mr

Humphreys. I suppose this metal--copper, isn't it?--would be an insulator

or conductor, or whatever they call it.'

'The sun has been pretty strong this afternoon,' said Humphreys, evading

the scientific point, 'but I didn't notice the globe had got hot. No--it

doesn't seem very hot to me,' he added.

'Odd!' said Mr Cooper. 'Now I can't hardly bear my hand on it. Something

in the difference of temperament between us, I suppose. I dare say you're

a chilly subject, Mr Humphreys: I'm not: and there's where the

distinction lies. All this summer I've slept, if you'll believe me,

practically _in statu quo_, and had my morning tub as cold as I could get

it. Day out and day in--let me assist you with that string.'

'It's all right, thanks; but if you'll collect some of these pencils and

things that are lying about I shall be much obliged. Now I think we've

got everything, and we might get back to the house.'

They left the maze, Humphreys rolling up the clue as they went.

The night was rainy.

Most unfortunately it turned out that, whether by Cooper's fault or not,

the plan had been the one thing forgotten the evening before. As was to

be expected, it was ruined by the wet. There was nothing for it but to

begin again (the job would not be a long one this time). The clue

therefore was put in place once more and a fresh start made. But

Humphreys had not done much before an interruption came in the shape of

Calton with a telegram. His late chief in London wanted to consult him.

Only a brief interview was wanted, but the summons was urgent. This was

annoying, yet it was not really upsetting; there was a train available in

half an hour, and, unless things went very cross, he could be back,

possibly by five o'clock, certainly by eight. He gave the plan to Calton

to take to the house, but it was not worth while to remove the clue.

All went as he had hoped. He spent a rather exciting evening in the

library, for he lighted tonight upon a cupboard where some of the rarer

books were kept. When he went up to bed he was glad to find that the

servant had remembered to leave his curtains undrawn and his windows

open. He put down his light, and went to the window which commanded a

view of the garden and the park. It was a brilliant moonlight night. In a

few weeks' time the sonorous winds of autumn would break up all this

calm. But now the distant woods were in a deep stillness; the slopes of

the lawns were shining with dew; the colours of some of the flowers could

almost be guessed. The light of the moon just caught the cornice of the

temple and the curve of its leaden dome, and Humphreys had to own that,

so seen, these conceits of a past age have a real beauty. In short, the

light, the perfume of the woods, and the absolute quiet called up such

kind old associations in his mind that he went on ruminating them for a

long, long time. As he turned from the window he felt he had never seen

anything more complete of its sort. The one feature that struck him with

a sense of incongruity was a small Irish yew, thin and black, which stood

out like an outpost of the shrubbery, through which the maze was

approached. That, he thought, might as well be away: the wonder was that

anyone should have thought it would look well in that position.

* * * * *

However, next morning, in the press of answering letters and going over

books with Mr Cooper, the Irish yew was forgotten. One letter, by the

way, arrived this day which has to be mentioned. It was from that Lady

Wardrop whom Miss Cooper had mentioned, and it renewed the application

which she had addressed to Mr Wilson. She pleaded, in the first place,

that she was about to publish a Book of Mazes, and earnestly desired to

include the plan of the Wilsthorpe Maze, and also that it would be a

great kindness if Mr Humphreys could let her see it (if at all) at an

early date, since she would soon have to go abroad for the winter months.

Her house at Bentley was not far distant, so Humphreys was able to send a

note by hand to her suggesting the very next day or the day after for her

visit; it may be said at once that the messenger brought back a most

grateful answer, to the effect that the morrow would suit her admirably.

The only other event of the day was that the plan of the maze was

successfully finished.

This night again was fair and brilliant and calm, and Humphreys lingered

almost as long at his window. The Irish yew came to his mind again as he

was on the point of drawing his curtains: but either he had been misled

by a shadow the night before, or else the shrub was not really so

obtrusive as he had fancied. Anyhow, he saw no reason for interfering

with it. What he _would_ do away with, however, was a clump of dark

growth which had usurped a place against the house wall, and was

threatening to obscure one of the lower range of windows. It did not look

as if it could possibly be worth keeping; he fancied it dank and

unhealthy, little as he could see of it.

Next day (it was a Friday--he had arrived at Wilsthorpe on a Monday) Lady

Wardrop came over in her car soon after luncheon. She was a stout elderly

person, very full of talk of all sorts and particularly inclined to make

herself agreeable to Humphreys, who had gratified her very much by his

ready granting of her request. They made a thorough exploration of the

place together; and Lady Wardrop's opinion of her host obviously rose

sky-high when she found that he really knew something of gardening. She

entered enthusiastically into all his plans for improvement, but agreed

that it would be a vandalism to interfere with the characteristic

laying-out of the ground near the house. With the temple she was

particularly delighted, and, said she, 'Do you know, Mr Humphreys, I

think your bailiff must be right about those lettered blocks of stone.

One of my mazes--I'm sorry to say the stupid people have destroyed it

now--it was at a place in Hampshire--had the track marked out in that

way. They were tiles there, but lettered just like yours, and the

letters, taken in the right order, formed an inscription--what it was I

forget--something about Theseus and Ariadne. I have a copy of it, as well

as the plan of the maze where it was. How people can do such things! I

shall never forgive you if you injure _your_ maze. Do you know, they're

becoming very uncommon? Almost every year I hear of one being grubbed up.

Now, do let's get straight to it: or, if you're too busy, I know my way

there perfectly, and I'm not afraid of getting lost in it; I know too

much about mazes for that. Though I remember missing my lunch--not so

very long ago either--through getting entangled in the one at Busbury.

Well, of course, if you _can_ manage to come with me, that will be all

the nicer.'

After this confident prelude justice would seem to require that Lady

Wardrop should have been hopelessly muddled by the Wilsthorpe maze.

Nothing of that kind happened: yet it is to be doubted whether she got

all the enjoyment from her new specimen that she expected. She was

interested--keenly interested--to be sure, and pointed out to Humphreys a

series of little depressions in the ground which, she thought, marked the

places of the lettered blocks. She told him, too, what other mazes

resembled his most closely in arrangement, and explained how it was

usually possible to date a maze to within twenty years by means of its

plan. This one, she already knew, must be about as old as 1780, and its

features were just what might be expected. The globe, furthermore,

completely absorbed her. It was unique in her experience, and she pored

over it for long. 'I should like a rubbing of that,' she said, 'if it

could possibly be made. Yes, I am sure you would be most kind about it,

Mr Humphreys, but I trust you won't attempt it on my account, I do

indeed; I shouldn't like to take any liberties here. I have the feeling

that it might be resented. Now, confess,' she went on, turning and facing

Humphreys, 'don't you feel--haven't you felt ever since you came in

here--that a watch is being kept on us, and that if we overstepped the

mark in any way there would be a--well, a pounce? No? _I_ do; and I don't

care how soon we are outside the gate.'

'After all,' she said, when they were once more on their way to the

house, 'it may have been only the airlessness and the dull heat of that

place that pressed on my brain. Still, I'll take back one thing I said.

I'm not sure that I shan't forgive you after all, if I find next spring

that that maze has been grubbed up.'

'Whether or no that's done, you shall have the plan, Lady Wardrop. I have

made one, and no later than tonight I can trace you a copy.'

'Admirable: a pencil tracing will be all I want, with an indication of

the scale. I can easily have it brought into line with the rest of my

plates. Many, many thanks.'

'Very well, you shall have that tomorrow. I wish you could help me to a

solution of my block-puzzle.'

'What, those stones in the summer-house? That _is_ a puzzle; they are in

no sort of order? Of course not. But the men who put them down must have

had some directions--perhaps you'll find a paper about it among your

uncle's things. If not, you'll have to call in somebody who's an expert

in ciphers.'

'Advise me about something else, please,' said Humphreys. 'That

bush-thing under the library window: you would have that away, wouldn't

you?'

'Which? That? Oh, I think not,' said Lady Wardrop. 'I can't see it very

well from this distance, but it's not unsightly.'

'Perhaps you're right; only, looking out of my window, just above it,

last night, I thought it took up too much room. It doesn't seem to, as

one sees it from here, certainly. Very well, I'll leave it alone for a

bit.'

Tea was the next business, soon after which Lady Wardrop drove off; but,

half-way down the drive, she stopped the car and beckoned to Humphreys,

who was still on the front-door steps. He ran to glean her parting words,

which were: 'It just occurs to me, it might be worth your while to look

at the underside of those stones. They _must_ have been numbered, mustn't

they? _Good_-bye again. Home, please.'

* * * * *

The main occupation of this evening at any rate was settled. The tracing

of the plan for Lady Wardrop and the careful collation of it with the

original meant a couple of hours' work at least. Accordingly, soon after

nine Humphreys had his materials put out in the library and began. It was

a still, stuffy evening; windows had to stand open, and he had more than

one grisly encounter with a bat. These unnerving episodes made him keep

the tail of his eye on the window. Once or twice it was a question

whether there was--not a bat, but something more considerable--that had a

mind to join him. How unpleasant it would be if someone had slipped

noiselessly over the sill and was crouching on the floor!

The tracing of the plan was done: it remained to compare it with the

original, and to see whether any paths had been wrongly closed or left

open. With one finger on each paper, he traced out the course that must

be followed from the entrance. There were one or two slight mistakes, but

here, near the centre, was a bad confusion, probably due to the entry of

the Second or Third Bat. Before correcting the copy he followed out

carefully the last turnings of the path on the original. These, at least,

were right; they led without a hitch to the middle space. Here was a

feature which need not be repeated on the copy--an ugly black spot about

the size of a shilling. Ink? No. It resembled a hole, but how should a

hole be there? He stared at it with tired eyes: the work of tracing had

been very laborious, and he was drowsy and oppressed... But surely this

was a very odd hole. It seemed to go not only through the paper, but

through the table on which it lay. Yes, and through the floor below that,

down, and still down, even into infinite depths. He craned over it,

utterly bewildered. Just as, when you were a child, you may have pored

over a square inch of counterpane until it became a landscape with wooded

hills, and perhaps even churches and houses, and you lost all thought of

the true size of yourself and it, so this hole seemed to Humphreys for

the moment the only thing in the world. For some reason it was hateful to

him from the first, but he had gazed at it for some moments before any

feeling of anxiety came upon him; and then it did come, stronger and

stronger--a horror lest something might emerge from it, and a really

agonizing conviction that a terror was on its way, from the sight of

which he would not be able to escape. Oh yes, far, far down there was a

movement, and the movement was upwards--towards the surface. Nearer and

nearer it came, and it was of a blackish-grey colour with more than one

dark hole. It took shape as a face--a human face--a _burnt_ human face:

and with the odious writhings of a wasp creeping out of a rotten apple

there clambered forth an appearance of a form, waving black arms prepared

to clasp the head that was bending over them. With a convulsion of

despair Humphreys threw himself back, struck his head against a hanging

lamp, and fell.

There was concussion of the brain, shock to the system, and a long

confinement to bed. The doctor was badly puzzled, not by the symptoms,

but by a request which Humphreys made to him as soon as he was able to

say anything. 'I wish you would open the ball in the maze.' 'Hardly room

enough there, I should have thought,' was the best answer he could summon

up; 'but it's more in your way than mine; my dancing days are over.' At

which Humphreys muttered and turned over to sleep, and the doctor

intimated to the nurses that the patient was not out of the wood yet.

When he was better able to express his views, Humphreys made his meaning

clear, and received a promise that the thing should be done at once. He

was so anxious to learn the result that the doctor, who seemed a little

pensive next morning, saw that more harm than good would be done by

saving up his report. 'Well,' he said, 'I am afraid the ball is done for;

the metal must have worn thin, I suppose. Anyhow, it went all to bits

with the first blow of the chisel.' 'Well? go on, do!' said Humphreys

impatiently. 'Oh! you want to know what we found in it, of course. Well,

it was half full of stuff like ashes.' 'Ashes? What did you make of them?'

'I haven't thoroughly examined them yet; there's hardly been time: but

Cooper's made up his mind--I dare say from something I said--that it's a

case of cremation... Now don't excite yourself, my good sir: yes, I must

allow I think he's probably right.'

The maze is gone, and Lady Wardrop has forgiven Humphreys; in fact, I

believe he married her niece. She was right, too, in her conjecture that

the stones in the temple were numbered. There had been a numeral painted

on the bottom of each. Some few of these had rubbed off, but enough

remained to enable Humphreys to reconstruct the inscription. It ran thus:

PENETRANS AD INTERIORA MORTIS

Grateful as Humphreys was to the memory of his uncle, he could not quite

forgive him for having burnt the journals and letters of the James Wilson

who had gifted Wilsthorpe with the maze and the temple. As to the

circumstances of that ancestor's death and burial no tradition survived;

but his will, which was almost the only record of him accessible,

assigned an unusually generous legacy to a servant who bore an Italian

name.

Mr Cooper's view is that, humanly speaking, all these many solemn events

have a meaning for us, if our limited intelligence permitted of our

disintegrating it, while Mr Calton has been reminded of an aunt now gone

from us, who, about the year 1866, had been lost for upwards of an hour

and a half in the maze at Covent Gardens, or it might be Hampton Court.

One of the oddest things in the whole series of transactions is that the

book which contained the Parable has entirely disappeared. Humphreys has

never been able to find it since he copied out the passage to send to

Lady Wardrop.