lay some heavy articles which Mr. Batchel did not disturb. He saw the
bases of two candlesticks. He had tried to lift the box, as it lay,
by means of a chain passing through two handles in the sides, but had
found it too heavy. It was by this chain that the men had been carrying
it. The heavier articles, therefore, he determined to leave where they
were until morning. His interest in them was small compared with that
which the other contents of the box had excited, for on the top of
these articles was folded "a paynted cloth," and upon this lay the two
gilded censers.
It was the discovery Mr. Batchel had dreamed of for years. His
excitement hardly allowed him to think of the strange manner in which
it had been made. He glanced nervously around him to see whether there
might be any sign of the occupants of the boat, and, seeing nothing, he
placed his broad-brimmed hat upon the ground, carefully laid in it the
two censers, closed the box again, and carried his treasure delicately
into the house. The occurrences of the last hour have not occupied
long in the telling; they occupied much longer in the happening. It
was now past midnight, and Mr. Batchel, after making fast the house,
went at once upstairs, carrying with him the hat and its precious
contents, just as he had brought it from the garden. The censers were
not exactly "black-scrap," as Mr. Wardle had anticipated, or pretended
to anticipate, but they were much discoloured, and very fragile. He
spread a clean handkerchief upon the chest of drawers in his bedroom,
and, removing the vessels with the utmost care, laid them upon it. Then
after spending some minutes in admiration of their singularly beautiful
form and workmanship, he could not deny himself the pleasure of calling
Wardle to look.
The guest-room was close at hand. Mr. Wardle, having been already
disturbed by the locking up of the house, was fully awakened by the
entrance of his host into the room with a candle in his hand. The look
of excitement on Mr. Batchel's face could not escape the observation
even of a man still yawning, and Mr. Wardle at once exclaimed "What's
up?"
"I have got them," said Mr. Batchel, in a hushed voice.
His guest, who had forgotten all about the censers, began by
interpreting "them" to mean a nervous disorder that is plural by
nature, and so was full of sympathy and counsel. When, however, his
host had made him understand the facts, he became merely impatient.
"Won't you come and look?" said Mr. Batchel.
"Not I," said Wardle, "I shall do where I am."
"They are in excellent preservation," said Mr. Batchel.
"Then they will keep till morning," was the answer.
"But just come and tell me what you think of them," said Mr. Batchel,
making a last attempt.
"I could tell you what I think of them," answered Wardle, "without
leaving my bed, which I have no intention of leaving; but I have to
leave Stoneground to-morrow, and I don't want to hurt your feelings,
so 'Good-night.'" Upon this, he turned over in bed and gave a loud
snore, which Mr. Batchel accepted as a manifesto. He has never ceased
to regret that he did not compel his guest to see the censers, but
he did not then foresee the sore need he would have of a witness. He
answered his friend's good-night, and returned to his own room. Once
more he admired the two censers as their graceful outlines stood out,
sharp and clear, against the white handkerchief, and having done this,
he was soon in bed and asleep. To the men in the boat he had not given
another thought, since he became possessed of the box they had left
behind; of the other contents of the box he had thought as little,
since he had secured the chief treasures of which he had been so long
in search.
Now, Mr. Wardle, when he arose in the morning, felt somewhat ashamed of
his surliness of the preceding night. His repudiation of all interest
in the censers had not been quite sincere, for beneath his affectation
of unconcern there lay a genuine curiosity about his friend's
discovery. Before he had finished dressing, therefore, he crossed over
into Mr. Batchel's room. The censers, to his surprise, were nowhere
to be seen. His host, less to his surprise, was still fast asleep.
Mr. Wardle opened the drawers, one by one, in search of the censers,
but the drawers proved to be all quite full of clothing. He looked
with no more success into every other place where they might have been
bestowed. His mind was always ready with a grotesque idea, "Blest if he
hasn't taken them to bed with him," he said aloud, and at the sound of
his voice Mr. Batchel awoke.
His eyes, as soon as they were open, turned to the chest of drawers;
and what he saw there, or rather, what he failed to see, caused him,
without more ado, to leap out of bed.
"What have you done with them?" he cried out.
The serious alarm of Mr. Batchel was so evident as to check the
facetious reply which Wardle was about to frame. He contented himself
with saying that he had not touched or seen the things.
"Where are they?" again cried Mr. Batchel, ignoring the disclaimer.
"You ought not to have touched them, they will not bear handling. Where
are they?"
Mr. Wardle turned away in disgust. "I expect," he said, "they're where
they've been this three hundred and fifty years." Upon that he returned
to his room, and went on with his dressing.
Mr. Batchel immediately followed him, and looked eagerly round the
room. He proceeded to open drawers, and to search, in a frenzied
manner, in every possible, and in many an impossible, place of
concealment. His distress was so patent that his friend soon ceased to
trifle with it. By a few minutes serious conversation he made it clear
that there had been no practical joking, and Mr. Batchel returned to
his room in tears. "Look here, Batchel," said Mr. Wardle as he left,
"you want a holiday."
Within a few minutes Mr. Batchel returned fully dressed. "You seem
to think, Wardle," he said, "that I have been dreaming about these
censers. Come out into the garden and let me shew you the box and the
other things."
Mr. Wardle was quite willing to assent to anything, if only out of
pity, and the two went together into the garden, Mr. Batchel leading
the way. Going at a great pace, they soon came to the path upon which
the box had lain. The marks it had left upon the soft gravel were plain
enough, and Mr. Batchel eagerly appealed to his friend to notice them.
Of the box and its contents, however, there was no other trace. The
whole adventure was described--the strange behaviour and subsequent
flight of the terrier--the men with averted faces--the boat--and the
opening of the box. Mr. Batchel tried to shake the obvious incredulity
of his guest by pointing to the chisel which still lay beside the path.
Mr. Wardle only replied, "You want a holiday, Batchel! Let's go in to
breakfast."
Breakfast on that morning was not the cheerful meal it was wont to
be. During the few minutes of waiting for it Mr. Batchel stood at
the window of his dining-room looking out upon the site of the well
which the gardener had now covered in. He rehearsed the whole of the
adventure from first to last, wondering whether the new place of safety
would ever be discovered. But he said no more to his guest; his heart
was too full.
The two breakfasted almost in silence, and the meal was scarcely over
when the cab arrived to take Mr. Wardle to his train. Mr. Batchel bade
him farewell, and saw him depart with genuine regret; he was returning
sadly into the house when he heard his name called. It was Wardle,
leaning out of the window of his cab as it drove away, and waving his
hand, "Batchel," he cried again, "mind you take a holiday."
IX.
THE KIRK SPOOK.
Before many years have passed it will be hard to find a person who has
ever seen a Parish Clerk. The Parish Clerk is all but extinct. Our
grandfathers knew him well--an oldish, clean-shaven man, who looked as
if he had never been young, who dressed in rusty black, bestowed upon
him, as often as not, by the Rector, and who usually wore a white tie
on Sundays, out of respect for the seriousness of his office. He it was
who laid out the Rector's robes, and helped him to put them on; who
found the places in the large Bible and Prayer Book, and indicated them
by means of decorous silken bookmarkers; who lighted and snuffed the
candles in the pulpit and desk, and attended to the little stove in the
squire's pew; who ran busily about, in short, during the quarter-hour
which preceded Divine Service, doing a hundred little things, with all
the activity, and much of the appearance, of a beetle.
Just such a one was Caleb Dean, who was Clerk of Stoneground in the
days of William IV. Small in stature, he possessed a voice which
Nature seemed to have meant for a giant, and in the discharge of his
duties he had a dignity of manner disproportionate even to his voice.
No one was afraid to sing when he led the Psalm, so certain was it that
no other voice could be noticed, and the gracious condescension with
which he received his meagre fees would have been ample acknowledgment
of double their amount.
Man, however, cannot live by dignity alone, and Caleb was glad enough
to be sexton as well as clerk, and to undertake any other duties by
which he might add to his modest income. He kept the Churchyard tidy,
trimmed the lamps, chimed the bells, taught the choir their simple
tunes, turned the barrel of the organ, and managed the stoves.
It was this last duty in particular, which took him into Church "last
thing," as he used to call it, on Saturday night. There were people
in those days, and may be some in these, whom nothing would induce
to enter a Church at midnight; Caleb, however, was so much at home
there that all hours were alike to him. He was never an early man on
Saturdays. His wife, who insisted upon sitting up for him, would often
knit her way into Sunday before he appeared, and even then would find
it hard to get him to bed. Caleb, in fact, when off duty, was a genial
little fellow; he had many friends, and on Saturday evenings he knew
where to find them.
It was not, therefore, until the evening was spent that he went to
make up his fires; and his voice, which served for other singing than
that of Psalms, could usually be heard, within a little of midnight,
beguiling the way to Church with snatches of convivial songs. Many a
belated traveller, homeward bound, would envy him his spirits, but
no one envied him his duties. Even such as walked with him to the
neighbourhood of the Churchyard would bid him "Good night" whilst still
a long way from the gate. They would see him disappear into the gloom
amongst the graves, and shudder as they turned homewards.
Caleb, meanwhile, was perfectly content. He knew every stone in the
path; long practice enabled him, even on the darkest night, to thrust
his huge key into the lock at the first attempt, and on the night we
are about to describe--it had come to Mr. Batchel from an old man
who heard it from Caleb's lips--he did it with a feeling of unusual
cheerfulness and contentment.
Caleb always locked himself in. A prank had once been played upon
him, which had greatly wounded his dignity; and though it had been no
midnight prank, he had taken care, ever since, to have the Church to
himself. He locked the door, therefore, as usual, on the night we speak
of, and made his way to the stove. He used no candle. He opened the
little iron door of the stove, and obtained sufficient light to shew
him the fuel he had laid in readiness; then, when he had made up his
fire, he closed this door again, and left the Church in darkness. He
never could say what induced him upon this occasion to remain there
after his task was done. He knew that his wife was sitting up, as
usual, and that, as usual, he would have to hear what she had to say.
Yet, instead of making his way home, he sat down in the corner of the
nearest seat. He supposed that he must have felt tired, but had no
distinct recollection of it.
The Church was not absolutely dark. Caleb remembered that he could make
out the outlines of the windows, and that through the window nearest
to him he saw a few stars. After his eyes had grown accustomed to the
gloom he could see the lines of the seats taking shape in the darkness,
and he had not long sat there before he could dimly see everything
there was. At last he began to distinguish where books lay upon the
shelf in front of him. And then he closed his eyes. He does not admit
having fallen asleep, even for a moment. But the seat was restful, the
neighbouring stove was growing warm, he had been through a long and
joyous evening, and it was natural that he should at least close his
eyes.
He insisted that it was only for a moment. Something, he could not say
what, caused him to open his eyes again immediately. The closing of
them seemed to have improved what may be called his dark sight. He saw
everything in the Church quite distinctly, in a sort of grey light. The
pulpit stood out, large and bulky, in front. Beyond that, he passed his
eyes along the four windows on the north side of the Church. He looked
again at the stars, still visible through the nearest window on his
left hand as he was sitting. From that, his eyes fell to the further
end of the seat in front of him, where he could even see a faint gleam
of polished wood. He traced this gleam to the middle of the seat, until
it disappeared in black shadow, and upon that his eye passed on to the
seat he was in, and there he saw a man sitting beside him.
Caleb described the man very clearly. He was, he said, a pale,
old-fashioned looking man, with something very churchy about him.
Reasoning also with great clearness, he said that the stranger had not
come into the Church either with him or after him, and that therefore
he must have been there before him. And in that case, seeing that the
Church had been locked since two in the afternoon, the stranger must
have been there for a considerable time.
Caleb was puzzled; turning therefore, to the stranger, he asked, "How
long have you been here?"
The stranger answered at once, "Six hundred years."
"Oh! come!" said Caleb.
"Come where?" said the stranger.
"Well, if you come to that, come out," said Caleb.
"I wish I could," said the stranger, and heaved a great sigh.
"What's to prevent you?" said Caleb. "There's the door, and here's the
key."
"That's it," said the other.
"Of course it is," said Caleb. "Come along."
With that he proceeded to take the stranger by the sleeve, and then it
was that he says you might have knocked him down with a feather. His
hand went right into the place where the sleeve seemed to be, and Caleb
distinctly saw two of the stranger's buttons on the top of his own
knuckles.
He hastily withdrew his hand, which began to feel icy cold, and sat
still, not knowing what to say next. He found that the stranger was
gently chuckling with laughter, and this annoyed him.
"What are you laughing at?" he enquired peevishly.
"It's not funny enough for two," answered the other.
"Who are you, anyhow?" said Caleb.
"I am the kirk spook," was the reply.
Now Caleb had not the least notion what a "kirk spook" was. He was not
willing to admit his ignorance, but his curiosity was too much for his
pride, and he asked for information.
"Every Church has a spook," said the stranger, "and I am the spook of
this one."
"Oh," said Caleb, "I've been about this Church a many years, but I've
never seen you before."
"That," said the spook, "is because you've always been moving about.
I'm very flimsy--very flimsy indeed--and I can only keep myself
together when everything is quite still."
"Well," said Caleb, "you've got your chance now. What are you going to
do with it?"
"I want to go out," said the spook, "I'm tired of this Church, and I've
been alone for six hundred years. It's a long time."
"It does seem rather a long time," said Caleb, "but why don't you go if
you want to? There's three doors."
"That's just it," said the spook, "They keep me in."
"What?" said Caleb, "when they're open."
"Open or shut," said the spook, "it's all one."
"Well, then," said Caleb, "what about the windows?"
"Every bit as bad," said the spook, "They're all pointed."
Caleb felt out of his depth. Open doors and windows that kept a person
in--if it was a person--seemed to want a little understanding. And the
flimsier the person, too, the easier it ought to be for him to go where
he wanted. Also, what could it matter whether they were pointed or not?
The latter question was the one which Caleb asked first.
"Six hundred years ago," said the spook, "all arches were made round,
and when these pointed things came in I cursed them. I hate new-fangled
things."
"That wouldn't hurt them much," said Caleb.
"I said I would never go under one of them," said the spook.
"That would matter more to you than to them," said Caleb.
"It does," said the spook, with another great sigh.
"But you could easily change your mind," said Caleb.
"I was tied to it," said the spook, "I was told that I never more
should go under one of them, whether I would or not."
"Some people will tell you anything," answered Caleb.
"It was a Bishop," explained the spook.
"Ah!" said Caleb, "that's different, of course."
The spook told Caleb how often he had tried to go under the pointed
arches, sometimes of the doors, sometimes of the windows, and how
a stream of wind always struck him from the point of the arch, and
drifted him back into the Church. He had long given up trying.
"You should have been outside," said Caleb, "before they built the last
door."
"It was my Church," said the spook, "and I was too proud to leave."
Caleb began to sympathise with the spook. He had a pride in the Church
himself, and disliked even to hear another person say Amen before him.
He also began to be a little jealous of this stranger who had been six
hundred years in possession of the Church in which Caleb had believed
himself, under the Vicar, to be master. And he began to plot.
"Why do you want to get out?" he asked.
"I'm no use here," was the reply, "I don't get enough to do to keep
myself warm. And I know there are scores of Churches now without any
kirk-spooks at all. I can hear their cheap little bells dinging every
Sunday."
"There's very few bells hereabouts," said Caleb.
"There's no hereabouts for spooks," said the other. "We can hear any
distance you like."
"But what good are you at all?" said Caleb.
"Good!" said the spook. "Don't we secure proper respect for Churches,
especially after dark? A Church would be like any other place if it
wasn't for us. You must know that."
"Well, then," said Caleb, "you're no good here. This Church is all
right. What will you give me to let you out?"
"Can you do it?" asked the spook.
"What will you give me?" said Caleb.
"I'll say a good word for you amongst the spooks," said the other.
"What good will that do me?" said Caleb.
"A good word never did anybody any harm yet," answered the spook.
"Very well then, come along," said Caleb.
"Gently then," said the spook; "don't make a draught."
"Not yet," said Caleb, and he drew the spook very carefully (as one
takes a vessel quite full of water) from the seat.
"I can't go under pointed arches," cried the spook, as Caleb moved off.
"Nobody wants you to," said Caleb. "Keep close to me."
He led the spook down the aisle to the angle of the wall where a small
iron shutter covered an opening into the flue. It was used by the
chimney sweep alone, but Caleb had another use for it now. Calling to
the spook to keep close, he suddenly removed the shutter.
The fires were by this time burning briskly. There was a strong
up-draught as the shutter was removed. Caleb felt something rush across
his face, and heard a cheerful laugh away up in the chimney. Then he
knew that he was alone. He replaced the shutter, gave another look at
his stoves, took the keys, and made his way home.
He found his wife asleep in her chair, sat down and took off his boots,
and awakened her by throwing them across the kitchen.
"I've been wondering when you'd wake," he said.
"What?" she said, "Have you been in long?"
"Look at the clock," said Caleb. "Half after twelve."
"My gracious," said his wife. "Let's be off to bed."
"Did you tell her about the spook?" he was naturally asked.
"Not I," said Caleb. "You know what she'd say. Same as she always does
of a Saturday night."
* * * * *
This fable Mr. Batchel related with reluctance. His attitude towards
it was wholly deprecatory. Psychic phenomena, he said, lay outside the
province of the mere humourist, and the levity with which they had been
treated was largely responsible for the presumptuous materialism of the
age.
He said more, as he warmed to the subject, than can here be repeated.
The reader of the foregoing tales, however, will be interested to know
that Mr. Batchel's own attitude was one of humble curiosity. He refused
even to guess why the _revenant_ was sometimes invisible, and at other
times partly or wholly visible; sometimes capable of using physical
force, and at other times powerless. He knew that they had their
periods, and that was all.
There is room, he said, for the romancer in these matters; but for
the humourist, none. Romance was the play of intelligence about the
confines of truth. The invisible world, like the visible, must have its
romancers, its explorers, and its interpreters; but the time of the
last was not yet come.
Criticism, he observed in conclusion, was wholesome and necessary.
But of the idle and mischievous remarks which were wont to pose as
criticism, he held none in so much contempt as the cheap and irrational
POOH-POOH.
PRINTED BY
W. HEFFER AND SONS LTD.
104 HILLS ROAD, CAMBRIDGE.
Transcriber's note
Text in italics has been surrounded with _underscores_, and small
capitals changed to all capitals.
A few punctuation errors were corrected and on page 106 "lode" was
changed to "Lode". Otherwise the original has been preserved, including
inconsistent hyphenation.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Stoneground Ghost Tales, by E. G. Swain