visits, and upon the day our story has reached he determined to include
amongst them a call upon Richpin, and to submit him to a cautious
cross-examination. It was evident that at least four persons, all
perfectly familiar with his appearance, were under the impression that
they had seen him in the meadow, and his own statement upon the matter
would be at least worth hearing.
Richpin's home, however, was not the first one visited by Mr. Batchel
on that afternoon. His friendly relations with the boys has already
been mentioned, and it may now be added that this friendship was but
part of a generally keen sympathy with young people of all ages, and of
both sexes. Parents knew much less than he did of the love affairs of
their young people; and if he was not actually guilty of match-making,
he was at least a very sympathetic observer of the process. When lovers
had their little differences, or even their greater ones, it was Mr.
Batchel, in most cases, who adjusted them, and who suffered, if he
failed, hardly less than the lovers themselves.
It was a negotiation of this kind which, on this particular day, had
given precedence to another visit, and left Richpin until the later
part of the afternoon. But the matter of the Frenchman's Meadow had,
after all, not to wait for Richpin. Mr. Batchel was calculating how
long he should be in reaching it, when he found himself unexpectedly
there. Selina Broughton had been a favourite of his from her childhood;
she had been sufficiently good to please him, and naughty enough to
attract and challenge him; and when at length she began to walk out
with Bob Rockfort, who was another favourite, Mr. Batchel rubbed his
hands in satisfaction. Their present difference, which now brought
him to the Broughtons' cottage, gave him but little anxiety. He had
brought Bob half-way towards reconciliation, and had no doubt of
his ability to lead Selina to the same place. They would finish the
journey, happily enough, together.
But what has this to do with the Frenchman's Meadow? Much every way.
The meadow was apt to be the rendezvous of such young people as desired
a higher degree of privacy than that afforded by the public paths; and
these two had gone there separately the night before, each to nurse
a grievance against the other. They had been at opposite ends, as it
chanced, of the field; and Bob, who believed himself to be alone there,
had been awakened from his reverie by a sudden scream. He had at once
run across the field, and found Selina sorely in need of him. Mr.
Batchel's work of reconciliation had been there and then anticipated,
and Bob had taken the girl home in a condition of great excitement to
her mother. All this was explained, in breathless sentences, by Mrs.
Broughton, by way of accounting for the fact that Selina was then lying
down in "the room."
There was no reason why Mr. Batchel should not see her, of course, and
he went in. His original errand had lapsed, but it was now replaced by
one of greater interest. Evidently there was Selina's testimony to add
to that of the other four; she was not a girl who would scream without
good cause, and Mr. Batchel felt that he knew how his question about
the cause would be answered, when he came to the point of asking it.
He was not quite prepared for the form of her answer, which she gave
without any hesitation. She had seen Mr. Richpin "looking for his
eyes." Mr. Batchel saved for another occasion the amusement to be
derived from the curiously illogical answer. He saw at once what had
suggested it. Richpin had until recently had an atrocious squint, which
an operation in London had completely cured. This operation, of which,
of course, he knew nothing, he had described, in his own way, to anyone
who would listen, and it was commonly believed that his eyes had ceased
to be fixtures. It was plain, however, that Selina had seen very much
what had been seen by the other four. Her information was precise, and
her story perfectly coherent. She preserved a maidenly reticence about
his trousers, if she had noticed them; but added a new fact, and a
terrible one, in her description of the eyeless sockets. No wonder she
had screamed. It will be observed that Mr. Richpin was still searching,
if not looking, for something upon the ground.
Mr. Batchel now proceeded to make his remaining visit. Richpin lived
in a little cottage by the church, of which cottage the Vicar was the
indulgent landlord. Richpin's creditors were obliged to shew some
indulgence, because his income was never regular and seldom sufficient.
He got on in life by what is called "rubbing along," and appeared to
do it with surprisingly little friction. The small duties about the
church, assigned to him out of charity, were overpaid. He succeeded in
attracting to himself all the available gifts of masculine clothing,
of which he probably received enough and to sell, and he had somehow
wooed and won a capable, if not very comely, wife, who supplemented
his income by her own labour, and managed her house and husband to
admiration.
Richpin, however, was not by any means a mere dependent upon charity.
He was, in his way, a man of parts. All plants, for instance,
were his friends, and he had inherited, or acquired, great skill
with fruit-trees, which never failed to reward his treatment with
abundant crops. The two or three vines, too, of the neighbourhood,
he kept in fine order by methods of his own, whose merit was proved
by their success. He had other skill, though of a less remunerative
kind, in fashioning toys out of wood, cardboard, or paper; and every
correctly-behaving child in the parish had some such product of his
handiwork. And besides all this, Richpin had a remarkable aptitude for
making music. He could do something upon every musical instrument that
came in his way, and, but for his voice, which was like that of the
peahen, would have been a singer. It was his voice that had secured him
the situation of organ-blower, as one remote from all incitement to
join in the singing in church.
Like all men who have not wit enough to defend themselves by argument,
Richpin had a plaintive manner. His way of resenting injury was to
complain of it to the next person he met, and such complaints as he
found no other means of discharging, he carried home to his wife, who
treated his conversation just as she treated the singing of the canary,
and other domestic sounds, being hardly conscious of it until it ceased.
The entrance of Mr. Batchel, soon after his interview with Selina,
found Richpin engaged in a loud and fluent oration. The fluency was
achieved mainly by repetition, for the man had but small command of
words, but it served none the less to shew the depth of his indignation.
"I aren't bin in Frenchman's Meadow, am I?" he was saying in appeal to
his wife--this is the Stoneground way with auxiliary verbs--"What am
I got to go there for?" He acknowledged Mr. Batchel's entrance in no
other way than by changing to the third person in his discourse, and he
continued without pause--"if she'd let me out o' nights, I'm got better
places to go to than Frenchman's Meadow. Let policeman stick to where I
am bin, or else keep his mouth shut. What call is he got to say I'm bin
where I aren't bin?"
From this, and much more to the same effect, it was clear that the
matter of the meadow was being noised abroad, and even receiving
official attention. Mr. Batchel was well aware that no question he
could put to Richpin, in his present state, would change the flow of
his eloquence, and that he had already learned as much as he was likely
to learn. He was content, therefore, to ascertain from Mrs. Richpin
that her husband had indeed spent all his evenings at home, with the
single exception of the one hour during which Mr. Batchel had employed
him at the organ. Having ascertained this, he retired, and left Richpin
to talk himself out.
No further doubt about the story was now possible. It was not
twenty-four hours since Mr. Batchel had heard it from the boys at the
club, and it had already been confirmed by at least two unimpeachable
witnesses. He thought the matter over, as he took his tea, and was
chiefly concerned in Richpin's curious connexion with it. On his
account, more than on any other, it had become necessary to make
whatever investigation might be feasible, and Mr. Batchel determined,
of course, to make the next stage of it in the meadow itself.
The situation of "Frenchman's Meadow" made it more conspicuous than
any other enclosure in the neighbourhood. It was upon the edge of
what is locally known as "high land"; and though its elevation was
not great, one could stand in the meadow and look sea-wards over many
miles of flat country, once a waste of brackish water, now a great
chess-board of fertile fields bounded by straight dykes of glistening
water. The point of view derived another interest from looking down
upon a long straight bank which disappeared into the horizon many
miles away, and might have been taken for a great railway embankment
of which no use had been made. It was, in fact, one of the great works
of the Dutch Engineers in the time of Charles I., and it separated the
river basin from a large drained area called the "Middle Level," some
six feet below it. In this embankment, not two hundred yards below
"Frenchman's Meadow," was one of the huge water gates which admitted
traffic through a sluice, into the lower level, and the picturesque
thatched cottage of the sluice-keeper formed a pleasing addition to
the landscape. It was a view with which Mr. Batchel was naturally
very familiar. Few of his surroundings were pleasant to the eye, and
this was about the only place to which he could take a visitor whom
he desired to impress favourably. The way to the meadow lay through a
short lane, and he could reach it in five minutes: he was frequently
there.
It was, of course, his intention to be there again that evening: to
spend the night there, if need be, rather than let anything escape
him. He only hoped he should not find half the parish there also. His
best hope of privacy lay in the inclemency of the weather; the day was
growing colder, and there was a north-east wind, of which Frenchman's
Meadow would receive the fine edge.
Mr. Batchel spent the next three hours in dealing with some arrears
of correspondence, and at nine o'clock put on his thickest coat and
boots, and made his way to the meadow. It became evident, as he walked
up the lane, that he was to have company. He heard many voices, and
soon recognised the loudest amongst them. Jim Lallement was boasting of
the accuracy of his aim: the others were not disputing it, but were
asserting their own merits in discordant chorus. This was a nuisance,
and to make matters worse, Mr. Batchel heard steps behind him.
A voice soon bade him "Good evening." To Mr. Batchel's great relief it
proved to be the policeman, who soon overtook him. The conversation
began on his side.
"Curious tricks, sir, these of Richpin's."
"What tricks?" asked Mr. Batchel, with an air of innocence.
"Why, he's been walking about Frenchman's Meadow these three nights,
frightening folk and what all."
"Richpin has been at home every night, and all night long," said Mr.
Batchel.
"I'm talking about where he was, not where he says he was," said the
policeman. "You can't go behind the evidence."
"But Richpin has evidence too. I asked his wife."
"You know, sir, and none better, that wives have got to obey. Richpin
wants to be took for a ghost, and we know that sort of ghost. Whenever
we hear there's a ghost, we always know there's going to be turkeys
missing."
"But there are real ghosts sometimes, surely?" said Mr. Batchel.
"No," said the policeman, "me and my wife have both looked, and there's
no such thing."
"Looked where?" enquired Mr. Batchel.
"In the 'Police Duty' Catechism. There's lunatics, and deserters, and
dead bodies, but no ghosts."
Mr. Batchel accepted this as final. He had devised a way of ridding
himself of all his company, and proceeded at once to carry it into
effect. The two had by this time reached the group of boys.
"These are all stone-throwers," said he, loudly.
There was a clatter of stones as they dropped from the hands of the
boys.
"These boys ought all to be in the club instead of roaming about here
damaging property. Will you take them there, and see them safely in? If
Richpin comes here, I will bring him to the station."
The policeman seemed well pleased with the suggestion. No doubt he had
overstated his confidence in the definition of the "Police Duty." Mr.
Batchel, on his part, knew the boys well enough to be assured that they
would keep the policeman occupied for the next half-hour, and as the
party moved slowly away, felt proud of his diplomacy.
There was no sign of any other person about the field gate, which he
climbed readily enough, and he was soon standing in the highest part of
the meadow and peering into the darkness on every side.
It was possible to see a distance of about thirty yards; beyond that
it was too dark to distinguish anything. Mr. Batchel designed a
zig-zag course about the meadow, which would allow of his examining
it systematically and as rapidly as possible, and along this course
he began to walk briskly, looking straight before him as he went, and
pausing to look well about him when he came to a turn. There were no
beasts in the meadow--their owners had taken the precaution of removing
them; their absence was, of course, of great advantage to Mr. Batchel.
In about ten minutes he had finished his zig-zag path and arrived at
the other corner of the meadow; he had seen nothing resembling a man.
He then retraced his steps, and examined the field again, but arrived
at his starting point, knowing no more than when he had left it. He
began to fear the return of the policeman as he faced the wind and set
upon a third journey.
The third journey, however, rewarded him. He had reached the end of his
second traverse, and was looking about him at the angle between that
and the next, when he distinctly saw what looked like Richpin crossing
his circle of vision, and making straight for the sluice. There was
no gate on that side of the field; the hedge, which seemed to present
no obstacle to the other, delayed Mr. Batchel considerably, and still
retains some of his clothing, but he was not long through before he
had again marked his man. It had every appearance of being Richpin.
It went down the slope, crossed the plank that bridged the lock, and
disappeared round the corner of the cottage, where the entrance lay.
Mr. Batchel had had no opportunity of confirming the gruesome
observation of Selina Broughton, but had seen enough to prove that the
others had not been romancing. He was not a half-minute behind the
figure as it crossed the plank over the lock--it was slow going in the
darkness--and he followed it immediately round the corner of the house.
As he expected, it had then disappeared.
Mr. Batchel knocked at the door, and admitted himself, as his custom
was. The sluice-keeper was in his kitchen, charring a gate post. He was
surprised to see Mr. Batchel at that hour, and his greeting took the
form of a remark to that effect.
"I have been taking an evening walk," said Mr. Batchel. "Have you seen
Richpin lately?"
"I see him last Saturday week," replied the sluice-keeper, "not since."
"Do you feel lonely here at night?"
"No," replied the sluice-keeper, "people drop in at times. There was a
man in on Monday, and another yesterday."
"Have you had no one to-day?" said Mr. Batchel, coming to the point.
The answer showed that Mr. Batchel had been the first to enter the door
that day, and after a little general conversation he brought his visit
to an end.
It was now ten o'clock. He looked in at Richpin's cottage, where he saw
a light burning, as he passed. Richpin had tired himself early, and had
been in bed since half-past eight. His wife was visibly annoyed at the
rumours which had upset him, and Mr. Batchel said such soothing words
as he could command, before he left for home.
He congratulated himself, prematurely, as he sat before the fire in his
study, that the day was at an end. It had been cold out of doors, and
it was pleasant to think things over in the warmth of the cheerful fire
his housekeeper never failed to leave for him. The reader will have no
more difficulty than Mr. Batchel had in accounting for the resemblance
between Richpin and the man in the meadow. It was a mere question of
family likeness. That the ancestor had been seen in the meadow at some
former time might perhaps be inferred from its traditional name. The
reason for his return, then and now, was a matter of mere conjecture,
and Mr. Batchel let it alone.
The next incident has, to some, appeared incredible, which only means,
after all, that it has made demands upon their powers of imagination
and found them bankrupt.
Critics of story-telling have used severe language about authors
who avail themselves of the short-cut of coincidence. "That must
be reserved, I suppose," said Mr. Batchel, when he came to tell of
Richpin, "for what really happens; and that fiction is a game which
must be played according to the rules."
"I know," he went on to say, "that the chances were some millions to
one against what happened that night, but if that makes it incredible,
what is there left to believe?"
It was thereupon remarked by someone in the company, that the credible
material would not be exhausted.
"I doubt whether anything happens," replied Mr. Batchel in his dogmatic
way, "without the chances being a million to one against it. Why did
they choose such a word? What does 'happen' mean?"
There was no reply: it was clearly a rhetorical question.
"Is it incredible," he went on, "that I put into the plate last Sunday
the very half-crown my uncle tipped me with in 1881, and that I spent
next day?"
"Was that the one you put in?" was asked by several.
"How do I know?" replied Mr. Batchel, "but if I knew the history of the
half-crown I did put in, I know it would furnish still more remarkable
coincidences."
All this talk arose out of the fact that at midnight on the eventful
day, whilst Mr. Batchel was still sitting by his study fire, he had
news that the cottage at the sluice had been burnt down. The thatch had
been dry; there was, as we know, a stiff east-wind, and an hour had
sufficed to destroy all that was inflammable. The fire is still spoken
of in Stoneground with great regret. There remains only one building in
the place of sufficient merit to find its way on to a postcard.
It was just at midnight that the sluice-keeper rung at Mr.
Batchel's door. His errand required no apology. The man had found a
night-fisherman to help him as soon as the fire began, and with two
long sprits from a lighter they had made haste to tear down the thatch,
and upon this had brought down, from under the ridge at the South end,
the bones and some of the clothing of a man. Would Mr. Batchel come
down and see?
Mr. Batchel put on his coat and returned to the place. The people whom
the fire had collected had been kept on the further side of the water,
and the space about the cottage was vacant. Near to the smouldering
heap of ruin were the remains found under the thatch. The fingers of
the right hand still firmly clutched a sheep bone which had been gnawed
as a dog would gnaw it.
"Starved to death," said the sluice-keeper, "I see a tramp like that
ten years ago."
They laid the bones decently in an outhouse, and turned the key, Mr.
Batchel carried home in his hand a metal cross, threaded upon a cord.
He found an engraved figure of Our Lord on the face of it, and the name
of Pierre Richepin upon the back. He went next day to make the matter
known to the nearest Priest of the Roman Faith, with whom he left
the cross. The remains, after a brief inquest, were interred in the
cemetery, with the rites of the Church to which the man had evidently
belonged.
Mr. Batchel's deductions from the whole circumstances were curious, and
left a great deal to be explained. It seemed as if Pierre Richepin had
been disturbed by some premonition of the fire, but had not foreseen
that his mortal remains would escape; that he could not return to his
own people without the aid of his map, but had no perception of the
interval that had elapsed since he had lost it. This map Mr. Batchel
put into his pocket-book next day when he went to Thomas Richpin for
certain other information about his surviving relatives.
Richpin had a father, it appeared, living a few miles away in Jakesley
Fen, and Mr. Batchel concluded that he was worth a visit. He mounted
his bicycle, therefore, and made his way to Jakesley that same
afternoon.
Mr. Richpin was working not far from home, and was soon brought in. He
and his wife shewed great courtesy to their visitor, whom they knew
well by repute. They had a well-ordered house, and with a natural and
dignified hospitality, asked him to take tea with them. It was evident
to Mr. Batchel that there was a great gulf between the elder Richpin
and his son; the former was the last of an old race, and the latter
the first of a new. In spite of the Board of Education, the latter was
vastly the worse.
The cottage contained some French kickshaws which greatly facilitated
the enquiries Mr. Batchel had come to make. They proved to be family
relics.
"My grandfather," said Mr. Richpin, as they sat at tea, "was a
prisoner--he and his brother."
"Your grandfather was Pierre Richepin?" asked Mr. Batchel.
"No! Jules," was the reply. "Pierre got away."
"Shew Mr. Batchel the book," said his wife.
The book was produced. It was a Book of Meditations, with the name
of Jules Richepin upon the title-page. The fly-leaf was missing. Mr.
Batchel produced the map from his pocket-book. It fitted exactly. The
slight indentures along the torn edge fell into their place, and Mr.
Batchel left the leaf in the book, to the great delight of the old
couple, to whom he told no more of the story than he thought fit.
IV.
THE EASTERN WINDOW.
It may well be that Vermuyden and the Dutchmen who drained the fens did
good, and that it was interred with their bones. It is quite certain
that they did evil and that it lives after them. The rivers, which
these men robbed of their water, have at length silted up, and the
drainage of one tract of country is proving to have been achieved by
the undraining of another.
Places like Stoneground, which lie on the banks of these defrauded
rivers, are now become helpless victims of Dutch engineering. The water
which has lost its natural outlet, invades their lands. The thrifty
cottager who once had the river at the bottom of his garden, has his
garden more often in these days, at the bottom of the river, and a
summer flood not infrequently destroys the whole produce of his ground.
Such a flood, during an early year in the 20th century, had been
unusually disastrous to Stoneground, and Mr. Batchel, who, as
a gardener, was well able to estimate the losses of his poorer
neighbours, was taking some steps towards repairing them.
Money, however, is never at rest in Stoneground, and it turned out
upon this occasion that the funds placed at his command were wholly
inadequate to the charitable purpose assigned to them. It seemed as if
those who had lost a rood of potatoes could be compensated for no more
than a yard.
It was at this time, when he was oppressed in mind by the failure
of his charitable enterprise, that Mr. Batchel met with the happy
adventure in which the Eastern window of the Church played so singular
a part.
The narrative should be prefaced by a brief description of the window
in question. It is a large painted window, of a somewhat unfortunate
period of execution. The drawing and colouring leave everything to be
desired. The scheme of the window, however, is based upon a wholesome
tradition. The five large lights in the lower part are assigned to
five scenes in the life of Our Lord, and the second of these, counting
from the North, contains a bold erect figure of St. John Baptist, to
whom the Church is dedicated. It is this figure alone, of all those
contained in the window, that is concerned in what we have to relate.