[Illustration]
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO., LTD.
THE STONEGROUND
GHOST TALES
COMPILED FROM THE RECOLLECTIONS OF
THE REVEREND ROLAND BATCHEL,
VICAR OF THE PARISH.
BY
E. G. SWAIN
CAMBRIDGE:
W. HEFFER & SONS LTD.
1912
TO
MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES
(LITT.D., HON. LITT.D. DUBLIN,
HON. LL.D. ST. ANDR., F.B.A., F.S.A., ETC.)
PROVOST OF KING'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,
FOR TWENTY PLEASANT YEARS MR. BATCHEL'S FRIEND,
AND THE INDULGENT PARENT OF SUCH TASTES
AS THESE PAGES INDICATE.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I.--THE MAN WITH THE ROLLER 1
II.--BONE TO HIS BONE 19
III.--THE RICHPINS 35
IV.--THE EASTERN WINDOW 63
V.--LUBRIETTA 83
VI.--THE ROCKERY 103
VII.--THE INDIAN LAMP SHADE 123
VIII.--THE PLACE OF SAFETY 147
IX.--THE KIRK SPOOK 175
I.
THE MAN WITH THE ROLLER.
On the edge of that vast tract of East Anglia, which retains its
ancient name of the Fens, there may be found, by those who know where
to seek it, a certain village called Stoneground. It was once a
picturesque village. To-day it is not to be called either a village,
or picturesque. Man dwells not in one "house of clay," but in two, and
the material of the second is drawn from the earth upon which this and
the neighbouring villages stood. The unlovely signs of the industry
have changed the place alike in aspect and in population. Many who have
seen the fossil skeletons of great saurians brought out of the clay
in which they have lain from pre-historic times, have thought that
the inhabitants of the place have not since changed for the better.
The chief habitations, however, have their foundations not upon clay,
but upon a bed of gravel which anciently gave to the place its name,
and upon the highest part of this gravel stands, and has stood for
many centuries, the Parish Church, dominating the landscape for miles
around.
Stoneground, however, is no longer the inaccessible village, which in
the middle ages stood out above a waste of waters. Occasional floods
serve to indicate what was once its ordinary outlook, but in more
recent times the construction of roads and railways, and the drainage
of the Fens, have given it freedom of communication with the world from
which it was formerly isolated.
The Vicarage of Stoneground stands hard by the Church, and is renowned
for its spacious garden, part of which, and that (as might be expected)
the part nearest the house, is of ancient date. To the original plot
successive Vicars have added adjacent lands, so that the garden has
gradually acquired the state in which it now appears.
The Vicars have been many in number. Since Henry de Greville was
instituted in the year 1140 there have been 30, all of whom have lived,
and most of whom have died, in successive vicarage houses upon the
present site.
The present incumbent, Mr. Batchel, is a solitary man of somewhat
studious habits, but is not too much enamoured of his solitude to
receive visits, from time to time, from schoolboys and such. In the
summer of the year 1906 he entertained two, who are the occasion of
this narrative, though still unconscious of their part in it, for
one of the two, celebrating his 15th birthday during his visit to
Stoneground, was presented by Mr. Batchel with a new camera, with which
he proceeded to photograph, with considerable skill, the surroundings
of the house.
One of these photographs Mr. Batchel thought particularly pleasing. It
was a view of the house with the lawn in the foreground. A few small
copies, such as the boy's camera was capable of producing, were sent
to him by his young friend, some weeks after the visit, and again Mr.
Batchel was so much pleased with the picture, that he begged for the
negative, with the intention of having the view enlarged.
The boy met the request with what seemed a needlessly modest plea.
There were two negatives, he replied, but each of them had, in the same
part of the picture, a small blur for which there was no accounting
otherwise than by carelessness. His desire, therefore, was to discard
these films, and to produce something more worthy of enlargement, upon
a subsequent visit.
Mr. Batchel, however, persisted in his request, and upon receipt of the
negative, examined it with a lens. He was just able to detect the blur
alluded to; an examination under a powerful glass, in fact revealed
something more than he had at first detected. The blur was like the
nucleus of a comet as one sees it represented in pictures, and seemed
to be connected with a faint streak which extended across the negative.
It was, however, so inconsiderable a defect that Mr. Batchel resolved
to disregard it. He had a neighbour whose favourite pastime was
photography, one who was notably skilled in everything that pertained
to the art, and to him he sent the negative, with the request for an
enlargement, reminding him of a long-standing promise to do any such
service, when as had now happened, his friend might see fit to ask it.
This neighbour who had acquired such skill in photography was one Mr.
Groves, a young clergyman, residing in the Precincts of the Minster
near at hand, which was visible from Mr. Batchel's garden. He lodged
with a Mrs. Rumney, a superannuated servant of the Palace, and a
strong-minded vigorous woman still, exactly such a one as Mr. Groves
needed to have about him. For he was a constant trial to Mrs. Rumney,
and but for the wholesome fear she begot in him, would have converted
his rooms into a mere den. Her carpets and tablecloths were continually
bespattered with chemicals; her chimney-piece ornaments had been
unceremoniously stowed away and replaced by labelled bottles; even the
bed of Mr. Groves was, by day, strewn with drying films and mounts, and
her old and favourite cat had a bald patch on his flank, the result of
a mishap with the pyrogallic acid.
Mrs. Rumney's lodger, however, was a great favourite with her, as
such helpless men are apt to be with motherly women, and she took no
small pride in his work. A life-size portrait of herself, originally a
peace-offering, hung in her parlour, and had long excited the envy of
every friend who took tea with her.
"Mr. Groves," she was wont to say, "is a nice gentleman, AND a
gentleman; and chemical though he may be, I'd rather wait on him for
nothing than what I would on anyone else for twice the money."
Every new piece of photographic work was of interest to Mrs. Rumney,
and she expected to be allowed both to admire and to criticise. The
view of Stoneground Vicarage, therefore, was shown to her upon its
arrival. "Well may it want enlarging," she remarked, "and it no
bigger than a postage stamp; it looks more like a doll's house than a
vicarage," and with this she went about her work, whilst Mr. Groves
retired to his dark room with the film, to see what he could make of
the task assigned to him.
Two days later, after repeated visits to his dark room, he had made
something considerable; and when Mrs. Rumney brought him his chop for
luncheon, she was lost in admiration. A large but unfinished print
stood upon his easel, and such a picture of Stoneground Vicarage was in
the making as was calculated to delight both the young photographer and
the Vicar.
Mr. Groves spent only his mornings, as a rule, in photography. His
afternoons he gave to pastoral work, and the work upon this enlargement
was over for the day. It required little more than "touching up,"
but it was this "touching up" which made the difference between
the enlargements of Mr. Groves and those of other men. The print,
therefore, was to be left upon the easel until the morrow, when it
was to be finished. Mrs. Rumney and he, together, gave it an admiring
inspection as she was carrying away the tray, and what they agreed in
admiring most particularly was the smooth and open stretch of lawn,
which made so excellent a foreground for the picture. "It looks," said
Mrs. Rumney, who had once been young, "as if it was waiting for someone
to come and dance on it."
Mr. Groves left his lodgings--we must now be particular about the
hours--at half-past two, with the intention of returning, as usual,
at five. "As reg'lar as a clock," Mrs. Rumney was wont to say, "and a
sight more reg'lar than some clocks I knows of."
Upon this day he was, nevertheless, somewhat late, some visit had
detained him unexpectedly, and it was a quarter-past five when he
inserted his latch-key in Mrs. Rumney's door.
Hardly had he entered, when his landlady, obviously awaiting him,
appeared in the passage: her face, usually florid, was of the colour
of parchment, and, breathing hurriedly and shortly, she pointed at the
door of Mr. Groves' room.
In some alarm at her condition, Mr. Groves hastily questioned her; all
she could say was: "The photograph! the photograph!" Mr. Groves could
only suppose that his enlargement had met with some mishap for which
Mrs. Rumney was responsible. Perhaps she had allowed it to flutter into
the fire. He turned towards his room in order to discover the worst,
but at this Mrs. Rumney laid a trembling hand upon his arm, and held
him back. "Don't go in," she said, "have your tea in the parlour."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Groves, "if that is gone we can easily do another."
"Gone," said his landlady, "I wish to Heaven it was."
The ensuing conversation shall not detain us. It will suffice to say
that after a considerable time Mr. Groves succeeded in quieting his
landlady, so much so that she consented, still trembling violently, to
enter the room with him. To speak truth, she was as much concerned for
him as for herself, and she was not by nature a timid woman.
The room, so far from disclosing to Mr. Groves any cause for
excitement, appeared wholly unchanged. In its usual place stood every
article of his stained and ill-used furniture, on the easel stood the
photograph, precisely where he had left it; and except that his tea was
not upon the table, everything was in its usual state and place.
But Mrs. Rumney again became excited and tremulous, "It's there," she
cried. "Look at the lawn."
Mr. Groves stepped quickly forward and looked at the photograph. Then
he turned as pale as Mrs. Rumney herself.
There was a man, a man with an indescribably horrible suffering face,
rolling the lawn with a large roller.
Mr. Groves retreated in amazement to where Mrs. Rumney had remained
standing. "Has anyone been in here?" he asked.
"Not a soul," was the reply, "I came in to make up the fire, and
turned to have another look at the picture, when I saw that dead-alive
face at the edge. It gave me the creeps," she said, "particularly from
not having noticed it before. If that's anyone in Stoneground, I said
to myself, I wonder the Vicar has him in the garden with that awful
face. It took that hold of me I thought I must come and look at it
again, and at five o'clock I brought your tea in. And then I saw him
moved along right in front, with a roller dragging behind him, like you
see."
Mr. Groves was greatly puzzled. Mrs. Rumney's story, of course, was
incredible, but this strange evil-faced man had appeared in the
photograph somehow. That he had not been there when the print was made
was quite certain.
The problem soon ceased to alarm Mr. Groves; in his mind it was
investing itself with a scientific interest. He began to think of
suspended chemical action, and other possible avenues of investigation.
At Mrs. Rumney's urgent entreaty, however, he turned the photograph
upon the easel, and with only its white back presented to the room, he
sat down and ordered tea to be brought in.
He did not look again at the picture. The face of the man had about it
something unnaturally painful: he could remember, and still see, as
it were, the drawn features, and the look of the man had unaccountably
distressed him.
He finished his slight meal, and having lit a pipe, began to brood over
the scientific possibilities of the problem. Had any other photograph
upon the original film become involved in the one he had enlarged? Had
the image of any other face, distorted by the enlarging lens, become
a part of this picture? For the space of two hours he debated this
possibility, and that, only to reject them all. His optical knowledge
told him that no conceivable accident could have brought into his
picture a man with a roller. No negative of his had ever contained such
a man; if it had, no natural causes would suffice to leave him, as it
were, hovering about the apparatus.
His repugnance to the actual thing had by this time lost its freshness,
and he determined to end his scientific musings with another inspection
of the object. So he approached the easel and turned the photograph
round again. His horror returned, and with good cause. The man with
the roller had now advanced to the middle of the lawn. The face was
stricken still with the same indescribable look of suffering. The man
seemed to be appealing to the spectator for some kind of help. Almost,
he spoke.
Mr. Groves was naturally reduced to a condition of extreme nervous
excitement. Although not by nature what is called a nervous man, he
trembled from head to foot. With a sudden effort, he turned away
his head, took hold of the picture with his outstretched hand, and
opening a drawer in his sideboard thrust the thing underneath a folded
tablecloth which was lying there. Then he closed the drawer and took up
an entertaining book to distract his thoughts from the whole matter.
In this he succeeded very ill. Yet somehow the rest of the evening
passed, and as it wore away, he lost something of his alarm. At ten
o'clock, Mrs. Rumney, knocking and receiving answer twice, lest by any
chance she should find herself alone in the room, brought in the cocoa
usually taken by her lodger at that hour. A hasty glance at the easel
showed her that it stood empty, and her face betrayed her relief. She
made no comment, and Mr. Groves invited none.
The latter, however, could not make up his mind to go to bed. The face
he had seen was taking firm hold upon his imagination, and seemed to
fascinate him and repel him at the same time. Before long, he found
himself wholly unable to resist the impulse to look at it once more.
He took it again, with some indecision, from the drawer and laid it
under the lamp.
The man with the roller had now passed completely over the lawn, and
was near the left of the picture.
The shock to Mr. Groves was again considerable. He stood facing the
fire, trembling with excitement which refused to be suppressed. In
this state his eye lighted upon the calendar hanging before him, and
it furnished him with some distraction. The next day was his mother's
birthday. Never did he omit to write a letter which should lie upon
her breakfast-table, and the pre-occupation of this evening had
made him wholly forgetful of the matter. There was a collection of
letters, however, from the pillar-box near at hand, at a quarter before
midnight, so he turned to his desk, wrote a letter which would at least
serve to convey his affectionate greetings, and having written it, went
out into the night and posted it.
The clocks were striking midnight as he returned to his room. We may be
sure that he did not resist the desire to glance at the photograph he
had left on his table. But the results of that glance, he, at any rate,
had not anticipated. The man with the roller had disappeared. The lawn
lay as smooth and clear as at first, "looking," as Mrs. Rumney had
said, "as if it was waiting for someone to come and dance on it."
The photograph, after this, remained a photograph and nothing more. Mr.
Groves would have liked to persuade himself that it had never undergone
these changes which he had witnessed, and which we have endeavoured to
describe, but his sense of their reality was too insistent. He kept
the print lying for a week upon his easel. Mrs. Rumney, although she
had ceased to dread it, was obviously relieved at its disappearance,
when it was carried to Stoneground to be delivered to Mr. Batchel.
Mr. Groves said nothing of the man with the roller, but gave the
enlargement, without comment, into his friend's hands. The work of
enlargement had been skilfully done, and was deservedly praised.
Mr. Groves, making some modest disclaimer, observed that the view, with
its spacious foreground of lawn, was such as could not have failed to
enlarge well. And this lawn, he added, as they sat looking out of the
Vicar's study, looks as well from within your house as from without.
It must give you a sense of responsibility, he added, reflectively, to
be sitting where your predecessors have sat for so many centuries and
to be continuing their peaceful work. The mere presence before your
window, of the turf upon which good men have walked, is an inspiration.
The Vicar made no reply to these somewhat sententious remarks. For
a moment he seemed as if he would speak some words of conventional
assent. Then he abruptly left the room, to return in a few minutes with
a parchment book.
"Your remark, Groves," he said as he seated himself again, "recalled to
me a curious bit of history: I went up to the old library to get the
book. This is the journal of William Longue who was Vicar here up to
the year 1602. What you said about the lawn will give you an interest
in a certain portion of the journal. I will read it."
Aug. 1, 1600.--I am now returned in haste from a journey to
Brightelmstone whither I had gone with full intention to
remain about the space of two months. Master Josiah Wilburton,
of my dear College of Emmanuel, having consented to assume
the charge of my parish of Stoneground in the meantime. But
I had intelligence, after 12 days' absence, by a messenger
from the Churchwardens, that Master Wilburton had disappeared
last Monday sennight, and had been no more seen. So here I am
again in my study to the entire frustration of my plans, and
can do nothing in my perplexity but sit and look out from my
window, before which Andrew Birch rolleth the grass with much
persistence. Andrew passeth so many times over the same place
with his roller that I have just now stepped without to demand
why he so wasteth his labour, and upon this he hath pointed out
a place which is not levelled, and hath continued his rolling.
Aug. 2.--There is a change in Andrew Birch since my absence, who
hath indeed the aspect of one in great depression, which is
noteworthy of so chearful a man. He haply shares our common
trouble in respect of Master Wilburton, of whom we remain
without tidings. Having made part of a sermon upon the seventh
Chapter of the former Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians
and the 27th verse, I found Andrew again at his task, and bade
him desist and saddle my horse, being minded to ride forth and
take counsel with my good friend John Palmer at the Deanery,
who bore Master Wilburton great affection.
Aug. 2 continued.--Dire news awaiteth me upon my return. The
Sheriff's men have disinterred the body of poor Master W. from
beneath the grass Andrew was rolling, and have arrested him on
the charge of being his cause of death.
Aug. 10--Alas! Andrew Birch hath been hanged, the Justice having
mercifully ordered that he should hang by the neck until he
should be dead, and not sooner molested. May the Lord have
mercy on his soul. He made full confession before me, that he
had slain Master Wilburton in heat upon his threatening to
make me privy to certain peculation of which I should not have
suspected so old a servant. The poor man bemoaned his evil
temper in great contrition, and beat his breast, saying that
he knew himself doomed for ever to roll the grass in the place
where he had tried to conceal his wicked fact.
"Thank you," said Mr. Groves. "Has that little negative got the date
upon it?" "Yes," replied Mr. Batchel, as he examined it with his glass.
The boy has marked it August 10. The Vicar seemed not to remark the
coincidence with the date of Birch's execution. Needless to say that it
did not escape Mr. Groves. But he kept silence about the man with the
roller, who has been no more seen to this day.
Doubtless there is more in our photography than we yet know of. The
camera sees more than the eye, and chemicals in a freshly prepared and
active state, have a power which they afterwards lose. Our units of
time, adopted for the convenience of persons dealing with the ordinary
movements of material objects, are of course conventional. Those who
turn the instruments of science upon nature will always be in danger of
seeing more than they looked for. There is such a disaster as that of
knowing too much, and at some time or another it may overtake each of
us. May we then be as wise as Mr. Groves in our reticence, if our turn
should come.
II.
BONE TO HIS BONE.
William Whitehead, Fellow of Emmanuel College, in the University of
Cambridge, became Vicar of Stoneground in the year 1731. The annals
of his incumbency were doubtless short and simple: they have not
survived. In his day were no newspapers to collect gossip, no Parish
Magazines to record the simple events of parochial life. One event,
however, of greater moment then than now, is recorded in two places.
Vicar Whitehead failed in health after 23 years of work, and journeyed
to Bath in what his monument calls "the vain hope of being restored."
The duration of his visit is unknown; it is reasonable to suppose that
he made his journey in the summer, it is certain that by the month of
November his physician told him to lay aside all hope of recovery.
Then it was that the thoughts of the patient turned to the comfortable
straggling vicarage he had left at Stoneground, in which he had hoped
to end his days. He prayed that his successor might be as happy there
as he had been himself. Setting his affairs in order, as became one
who had but a short time to live, he executed a will, bequeathing
to the Vicars of Stoneground, for ever, the close of ground he had
recently purchased because it lay next the vicarage garden. And by a
codicil, he added to the bequest his library of books. Within a few
days, William Whitehead was gathered to his fathers.
A mural tablet in the north aisle of the church, records, in Latin, his
services and his bequests, his two marriages, and his fruitless journey
to Bath. The house he loved, but never again saw, was taken down 40
years later, and re-built by Vicar James Devie. The garden, with Vicar
Whitehead's "close of ground" and other adjacent lands, was opened out
and planted, somewhat before 1850, by Vicar Robert Towerson. The aspect
of everything has changed. But in a convenient chamber on the first
floor of the present vicarage the library of Vicar Whitehead stands
very much as he used it and loved it, and as he bequeathed it to his
successors "for ever."
The books there are arranged as he arranged and ticketed them. Little
slips of paper, sometimes bearing interesting fragments of writing,
still mark his places. His marginal comments still give life to pages
from which all other interest has faded, and he would have but a dull
imagination who could sit in the chamber amidst these books without
ever being carried back 180 years into the past, to the time when the
newest of them left the printer's hands.
Of those into whose possession the books have come, some have doubtless
loved them more, and some less; some, perhaps, have left them severely
alone. But neither those who loved them, nor those who loved them not,
have lost them, and they passed, some century and a half after William
Whitehead's death, into the hands of Mr. Batchel, who loved them as a
father loves his children. He lived alone, and had few domestic cares
to distract his mind. He was able, therefore, to enjoy to the full what
Vicar Whitehead had enjoyed so long before him. During many a long
summer evening would he sit poring over long-forgotten books; and since
the chamber, otherwise called the library, faced the south, he could
also spend sunny winter mornings there without discomfort. Writing at
a small table, or reading as he stood at a tall desk, he would browse
amongst the books like an ox in a pleasant pasture.
There were other times also, at which Mr. Batchel would use the books.
Not being a sound sleeper (for book-loving men seldom are), he elected
to use as a bedroom one of the two chambers which opened at either
side into the library. The arrangement enabled him to beguile many a
sleepless hour amongst the books, and in view of these nocturnal visits
he kept a candle standing in a sconce above the desk, and matches
always ready to his hand.
There was one disadvantage in this close proximity of his bed to the
library. Owing, apparently, to some defect in the fittings of the room,
which, having no mechanical tastes, Mr. Batchel had never investigated,
there could be heard, in the stillness of the night, exactly such
sounds as might arise from a person moving about amongst the books.
Visitors using the other adjacent room would often remark at breakfast,
that they had heard their host in the library at one or two o'clock in
the morning, when, in fact, he had not left his bed. Invariably Mr.
Batchel allowed them to suppose that he had been where they thought
him. He disliked idle controversy, and was unwilling to afford an
opening for supernatural talk. Knowing well enough the sounds by which
his guests had been deceived, he wanted no other explanation of them
than his own, though it was of too vague a character to count as an
explanation. He conjectured that the window-sashes, or the doors, or
"something," were defective, and was too phlegmatic and too unpractical
to make any investigation. The matter gave him no concern.
Persons whose sleep is uncertain are apt to have their worst nights
when they would like their best. The consciousness of a special need
for rest seems to bring enough mental disturbance to forbid it. So on
Christmas Eve, in the year 1907, Mr. Batchel, who would have liked to
sleep well, in view of the labours of Christmas Day, lay hopelessly
wide awake. He exhausted all the known devices for courting sleep,
and, at the end, found himself wider awake than ever. A brilliant moon
shone into his room, for he hated window-blinds. There was a light
wind blowing, and the sounds in the library were more than usually
suggestive of a person moving about. He almost determined to have the
sashes "seen to," although he could seldom be induced to have anything
"seen to." He disliked changes, even for the better, and would submit
to great inconvenience rather than have things altered with which he
had become familiar.
As he revolved these matters in his mind, he heard the clocks strike
the hour of midnight, and having now lost all hope of falling asleep,
he rose from his bed, got into a large dressing gown which hung in
readiness for such occasions, and passed into the library, with the
intention of reading himself sleepy, if he could.
The moon, by this time, had passed out of the south, and the library
seemed all the darker by contrast with the moonlit chamber he had
left. He could see nothing but two blue-grey rectangles formed by the
windows against the sky, the furniture of the room being altogether
invisible. Groping along to where the table stood, Mr. Batchel felt
over its surface for the matches which usually lay there; he found,
however, that the table was cleared of everything. He raised his right
hand, therefore, in order to feel his way to a shelf where the matches
were sometimes mislaid, and at that moment, whilst his hand was in
mid-air, the matchbox was gently put into it!
Such an incident could hardly fail to disturb even a phlegmatic person,
and Mr. Batchel cried "Who's this?" somewhat nervously. There was no
answer. He struck a match, looked hastily round the room, and found
it empty, as usual. There was everything, that is to say, that he was
accustomed to see, but no other person than himself.
It is not quite accurate, however, to say that everything was in
its usual state. Upon the tall desk lay a quarto volume that he had
certainly not placed there. It was his quite invariable practice to
replace his books upon the shelves after using them, and what we may
call his library habits were precise and methodical. A book out of
place like this, was not only an offence against good order, but a
sign that his privacy had been intruded upon. With some surprise,
therefore, he lit the candle standing ready in the sconce, and
proceeded to examine the book, not sorry, in the disturbed condition in
which he was, to have an occupation found for him.
The book proved to be one with which he was unfamiliar, and this made
it certain that some other hand than his had removed it from its place.
Its title was "The Compleat Gard'ner" of M. de la Quintinye made
English by John Evelyn Esquire. It was not a work in which Mr. Batchel
felt any great interest. It consisted of divers reflections on various
parts of husbandry, doubtless entertaining enough, but too deliberate
and discursive for practical purposes. He had certainly never used the
book, and growing restless now in mind, said to himself that some boy
having the freedom of the house, had taken it down from its place in
the hope of finding pictures.
But even whilst he made this explanation he felt its weakness. To begin
with, the desk was too high for a boy. The improbability that any boy
would place a book there was equalled by the improbability that he
would leave it there. To discover its uninviting character would be
the work only of a moment, and no boy would have brought it so far from
its shelf.
Mr. Batchel had, however, come to read, and habit was too strong
with him to be wholly set aside. Leaving "The Compleat Gard'ner" on
the desk, he turned round to the shelves to find some more congenial
reading.
Hardly had he done this when he was startled by a sharp rap upon the
desk behind him, followed by a rustling of paper. He turned quickly
about and saw the quarto lying open. In obedience to the instinct of
the moment, he at once sought a natural cause for what he saw. Only a
wind, and that of the strongest, could have opened the book, and laid
back its heavy cover; and though he accepted, for a brief moment, that
explanation, he was too candid to retain it longer. The wind out of
doors was very light. The window sash was closed and latched, and, to
decide the matter finally, the book had its back, and not its edges,
turned towards the only quarter from which a wind could strike.
Mr. Batchel approached the desk again and stood over the book. With
increasing perturbation of mind (for he still thought of the matchbox)
he looked upon the open page. Without much reason beyond that he felt
constrained to do something, he read the words of the half completed
sentence at the turn of the page--
"at dead of night he left the house and passed into the
solitude of the garden."
But he read no more, nor did he give himself the trouble of discovering
whose midnight wandering was being described, although the habit was
singularly like one of his own. He was in no condition for reading,
and turning his back upon the volume he slowly paced the length of the
chamber, "wondering at that which had come to pass."
He reached the opposite end of the chamber and was in the act of
turning, when again he heard the rustling of paper, and by the time he
had faced round, saw the leaves of the book again turning over. In a
moment the volume lay at rest, open in another place, and there was no
further movement as he approached it. To make sure that he had not been
deceived, he read again the words as they entered the page. The author
was following a not uncommon practise of the time, and throwing common
speech into forms suggested by Holy Writ: "So dig," it said, "that ye
may obtain."
This passage, which to Mr. Batchel seemed reprehensible in its levity,
excited at once his interest and his disapproval. He was prepared to
read more, but this time was not allowed. Before his eye could pass
beyond the passage already cited, the leaves of the book slowly turned
again, and presented but a termination of five words and a colophon.
The words were, "to the North, an Ilex." These three passages, in which
he saw no meaning and no connection, began to entangle themselves
together in Mr. Batchel's mind. He found himself repeating them in
different orders, now beginning with one, and now with another. Any
further attempt at reading he felt to be impossible, and he was in
no mind for any more experiences of the unaccountable. Sleep was, of
course, further from him than ever, if that were conceivable. What he
did, therefore, was to blow out the candle, to return to his moonlit
bedroom, and put on more clothing, and then to pass downstairs with the
object of going out of doors.
It was not unusual with Mr. Batchel to walk about his garden at
night-time. This form of exercise had often, after a wakeful hour,
sent him back to his bed refreshed and ready for sleep. The convenient
access to the garden at such times lay through his study, whose French
windows opened on to a short flight of steps, and upon these he now
paused for a moment to admire the snow-like appearance of the lawns,
bathed as they were in the moonlight. As he paused, he heard the city
clocks strike the half-hour after midnight, and he could not forbear
repeating aloud
"At dead of night he left the house, and passed into the
solitude of the garden."
It was solitary enough. At intervals the screech of an owl, and now and
then the noise of a train, seemed to emphasise the solitude by drawing
attention to it and then leaving it in possession of the night. Mr.
Batchel found himself wondering and conjecturing what Vicar Whitehead,
who had acquired the close of land to secure quiet and privacy for
garden, would have thought of the railways to the west and north. He
turned his face northwards, whence a whistle had just sounded, and saw
a tree beautifully outlined against the sky. His breath caught at the
sight. Not because the tree was unfamiliar. Mr. Batchel knew all his
trees. But what he had seen was "to the north, an Ilex."
Mr. Batchel knew not what to make of it all. He had walked into the
garden hundreds of times and as often seen the Ilex, but the words out
of the "Compleat Gard'ner" seemed to be pursuing him in a way that made
him almost afraid. His temperament, however, as has been said already,
was phlegmatic. It was commonly said, and Mr. Batchel approved the
verdict, whilst he condemned its inexactness, that "his nerves were
made of fiddle-string," so he braced himself afresh and set upon his
walk round the silent garden, which he was accustomed to begin in a
northerly direction, and was now too proud to change. He usually passed
the Ilex at the beginning of his perambulation, and so would pass it
now.
He did not pass it. A small discovery, as he reached it, annoyed and
disturbed him. His gardener, as careful and punctilious as himself,
never failed to house all his tools at the end of a day's work. Yet
there, under the Ilex, standing upright in moonlight brilliant enough
to cast a shadow of it, was a spade.
Mr. Batchel's second thought was one of relief. After his extraordinary
experiences in the library (he hardly knew now whether they had been
real or not) something quite commonplace would act sedatively, and he
determined to carry the spade to the tool-house.
The soil was quite dry, and the surface even a little frozen, so Mr.
Batchel left the path, walked up to the spade, and would have drawn it
towards him. But it was as if he had made the attempt upon the trunk
of the Ilex itself. The spade would not be moved. Then, first with one
hand, and then with both, he tried to raise it, and still it stood
firm. Mr. Batchel, of course, attributed this to the frost, slight
as it was. Wondering at the spade's being there, and annoyed at its
being frozen, he was about to leave it and continue his walk, when
the remaining words of the "Compleat Gard'ner" seemed rather to utter
themselves, than to await his will--
"So dig, that ye may obtain."
Mr. Batchel's power of independent action now deserted him. He took the
spade, which no longer resisted, and began to dig. "Five spadefuls and
no more," he said aloud. "This is all foolishness."
Four spadefuls of earth he then raised and spread out before him in the
moonlight. There was nothing unusual to be seen. Nor did Mr. Batchel
decide what he would look for, whether coins, jewels, documents in
canisters, or weapons. In point of fact, he dug against what he deemed
his better judgment, and expected nothing. He spread before him the
fifth and last spadeful of earth, not quite without result, but with
no result that was at all sensational. The earth contained a bone. Mr.
Batchel's knowledge of anatomy was sufficient to show him that it was
a human bone. He identified it, even by moonlight, as the _radius_, a
bone of the forearm, as he removed the earth from it, with his thumb.
Such a discovery might be thought worthy of more than the very
ordinary interest Mr. Batchel showed. As a matter of fact, the presence
of a human bone was easily to be accounted for. Recent excavations
within the church had caused the upturning of numberless bones, which
had been collected and reverently buried. But an earth-stained bone is
also easily overlooked, and this _radius_ had obviously found its way
into the garden with some of the earth brought out of the church.
Mr. Batchel was glad, rather than regretful at this termination to
his adventure. He was once more provided with something to do. The
re-interment of such bones as this had been his constant care, and he
decided at once to restore the bone to consecrated earth. The time
seemed opportune. The eyes of the curious were closed in sleep, he
himself was still alert and wakeful. The spade remained by his side
and the bone in his hand. So he betook himself, there and then, to the
churchyard. By the still generous light of the moon, he found a place
where the earth yielded to his spade, and within a few minutes the bone
was laid decently to earth, some 18 inches deep.
The city clocks struck one as he finished. The whole world seemed
asleep, and Mr. Batchel slowly returned to the garden with his spade.
As he hung it in its accustomed place he felt stealing over him the
welcome desire to sleep. He walked quietly on to the house and ascended
to his room. It was now dark: the moon had passed on and left the room
in shadow. He lit a candle, and before undressing passed into the
library. He had an irresistible curiosity to see the passages in John
Evelyn's book which had so strangely adapted themselves to the events
of the past hour.
In the library a last surprise awaited him. The desk upon which the
book had lain was empty. "The Compleat Gard'ner" stood in its place
on the shelf. And then Mr. Batchel knew that he had handled a bone of
William Whitehead, and that in response to his own entreaty.
III.
THE RICHPINS.
Something of the general character of Stoneground and its people has
been indicated by stray allusions in the preceding narratives. We must
here add that of its present population only a small part is native,
the remainder having been attracted during the recent prosperous days
of brickmaking, from the nearer parts of East Anglia and the Midlands.
The visitor to Stoneground now finds little more than the signs of
an unlovely industry, and of the hasty and inadequate housing of the
people it has drawn together. Nothing in the place pleases him more
than the excellent train-service which makes it easy to get away. He
seldom desires a long acquaintance either with Stoneground or its
people.
The impression so made upon the average visitor is, however, unjust, as
first impressions often are. The few who have made further acquaintance
with Stoneground have soon learned to distinguish between the permanent
and the accidental features of the place, and have been astonished by
nothing so much as by the unexpected evidence of French influence.
Amongst the household treasures of the old inhabitants are invariably
found French knick-knacks: there are pieces of French furniture in what
is called "the room" of many houses. A certain ten-acre field is called
the "Frenchman's meadow." Upon the voters' lists hanging at the church
door are to be found French names, often corrupted; and boys who run
about the streets can be heard shrieking to each other such names as
Bunnum, Dangibow, Planchey, and so on.
Mr. Batchel himself is possessed of many curious little articles of
French handiwork--boxes deftly covered with split straws, arranged
ingeniously in patterns; models of the guillotine, built of carved
meat-bones, and various other pieces of handiwork, amongst them an
accurate road-map of the country between Stoneground and Yarmouth,
drawn upon a fly-leaf torn from some book, and bearing upon the other
side the name of Jules Richepin. The latter had been picked up,
according to a pencilled-note written across one corner, by a shepherd,
in the year 1811.
The explanation of this French influence is simple enough. Within five
miles of Stoneground a large barracks had been erected for the custody
of French prisoners during the war with Bonaparte. Many thousands were
confined there during the years 1808-14. The prisoners were allowed
to sell what articles they could make in the barracks; and many of
them, upon their release, settled in the neighbourhood, where their
descendants remain. There is little curiosity amongst these descendants
about their origin. The events of a century ago seem to them as remote
as the Deluge, and as immaterial. To Thomas Richpin, a weakly man who
blew the organ in church, Mr. Batchel shewed the map. Richpin, with a
broad, black-haired skull and a narrow chin which grew a little pointed
beard, had always a foreign look about him: Mr. Batchel thought it more
than possible that he might be descended from the owner of the book,
and told him as much upon shewing him the fly-leaf. Thomas, however,
was content to observe that "his name hadn't got no E," and shewed no
further interest in the matter. His interest in it, before we have done
with him, will have become very large.
For the growing boys of Stoneground, with whom he was on generally
friendly terms, Mr. Batchel formed certain clubs to provide them with
occupation on winter evenings; and in these clubs, in the interests
of peace and good-order, he spent a great deal of time. Sitting one
December evening, in a large circle of boys who preferred the warmth
of the fire to the more temperate atmosphere of the tables, he found
Thomas Richpin the sole topic of conversation.
"We seen Mr. Richpin in Frenchman's Meadow last night," said one.
"What time?" said Mr. Batchel, whose function it was to act as a sort
of fly-wheel, and to carry the conversation over dead points. He had
received the information with some little surprise, because Frenchman's
Meadow was an unusual place for Richpin to have been in, but his
question had no further object than to encourage talk.
"Half-past nine," was the reply.
This made the question much more interesting. Mr. Batchel, on the
preceding evening, had taken advantage of a warmed church to practise
upon the organ. He had played it from nine o'clock until ten, and
Richpin had been all that time at the bellows.
"Are you sure it was half-past nine?" he asked.
"Yes," (we reproduce the answer exactly), "we come out o' night-school
at quarter-past, and we was all goin' to the Wash to look if it was
friz."
"And you saw Mr. Richpin in Frenchman's Meadow?" said Mr. Batchel.
"Yes. He was looking for something on the ground," added another boy.
"And his trousers was tore," said a third.
The story was clearly destined to stand in no need of corroboration.
"Did Mr. Richpin speak to you?" enquired Mr. Batchel.
"No, we run away afore he come to us," was the answer.
"Why?"
"Because we was frit."
"What frightened you?"
"Jim Lallement hauled a flint at him and hit him in the face, and he
didn't take no notice, so we run away."
"Why?" repeated Mr. Batchel.
"Because he never hollered nor looked at us, and it made us feel so
funny."
"Did you go straight down to the Wash?"
They had all done so.
"What time was it when you reached home?"
They had all been at home by ten, before Richpin had left the church.
"Why do they call it Frenchman's Meadow?" asked another boy, evidently
anxious to change the subject.
Mr. Batchel replied that the meadow had probably belonged to a
Frenchman whose name was not easy to say, and the conversation after
this was soon in another channel. But, furnished as he was with an
unmistakeable _alibi_, the story about Richpin and the torn trousers,
and the flint, greatly puzzled him.
"Go straight home," he said, as the boys at last bade him good-night,
"and let us have no more stone-throwing." They were reckless boys, and
Richpin, who used little discretion in reporting their misdemeanours
about the church, seemed to Mr. Batchel to stand in real danger.
Frenchman's Meadow provided ten acres of excellent pasture, and the
owners of two or three hard-worked horses were glad to pay three
shillings a week for the privilege of turning them into it. One of
these men came to Mr. Batchel on the morning which followed the
conversation at the club.
"I'm in a bit of a quandary about Tom Richpin," he began.
This was an opening that did not fail to command Mr. Batchel's
attention. "What is it?" he said.
"I had my mare in Frenchman's Meadow," replied the man, "and Sam Bower
come and told me last night as he heard her gallopin' about when he was
walking this side the hedge."
"But what about Richpin?" said Mr. Batchel.
"Let me come to it," said the other. "My mare hasn't got no wind to
gallop, so I up and went to see to her, and there she was sure enough,
like a wild thing, and Tom Richpin walking across the meadow."
"Was he chasing her?" asked Mr. Batchel, who felt the absurdity of the
question as he put it.
"He was not," said the man, "but what he could have been doin' to put
the mare into that state, I can't think."
"What was he doing when you saw him?" asked Mr. Batchel.
"He was walking along looking for something he'd dropped, with his
trousers all tore to ribbons, and while I was catchin' the mare, he
made off."
"He was easy enough to find, I suppose?" said Mr. Batchel.
"That's the quandary I was put in," said the man. "I took the mare home
and gave her to my lad, and straight I went to Richpin's, and found Tom
havin' his supper, with his trousers as good as new."
"You'd made a mistake," said Mr. Batchel.
"But how come the mare to make it too?" said the other.
"What did you say to Richpin?" asked Mr. Batchel.
"Tom," I says, "when did you come in? 'Six o'clock,' he says, 'I bin
mendin' my boots'; and there, sure enough, was the hobbin' iron by his
chair, and him in his stockin'-feet. I don't know what to do."
"Give the mare a rest," said Mr. Batchel, "and say no more about it."
"I don't want to harm a pore creature like Richpin," said the man,
"but a mare's a mare, especially where there's a family to bring
up." The man consented, however, to abide by Mr. Batchel's advice,
and the interview ended. The evenings just then were light, and both
the man and his mare had seen something for which Mr. Batchel could
not, at present, account. The worst way, however, of arriving at an
explanation is to guess it. He was far too wise to let himself wander
into the pleasant fields of conjecture, and had determined, even before
the story of the mare had finished, upon the more prosaic path of
investigation.
Mr. Batchel, either from strength or indolence of mind, as the reader
may be pleased to determine, did not allow matters even of this
exciting kind, to disturb his daily round of duty. He was beginning
to fear, after what he had heard of the Frenchman's Meadow, that he
might find it necessary to preach a plain sermon upon the Witch of
Endor, for he foresaw that there would soon be some ghostly talk in
circulation. In small communities, like that of Stoneground, such talk
arises upon very slight provocation, and here was nothing at all to
check it. Richpin was a weak and timid man, whom no one would suspect,
whilst an alternative remained open, of wandering about in the dark;
and Mr. Batchel knew that the alternative of an apparition, if once
suggested, would meet with general acceptance, and this he wished, at
all costs, to avoid. His own view of the matter he held in reserve, for
the reasons already stated, but he could not help suspecting that there
might be a better explanation of the name "Frenchman's Meadow" than he
had given to the boys at their club.