A View from a Hill by M. R. James
How pleasant it can be, alone in a first-class
railway carriage, on
the first day of a holiday that is to be fairly
long, to dawdle
through a bit of English country that is unfamiliar,
stopping at every
station. You have a map open on your knee,
and you pick out the
villages that lie to right and left by their
church towers. You marvel
at the complete stillness that attends your
stoppage at the stations,
broken only by a footstep crunching the gravel.
Yet perhaps that is
best experienced after sundown, and the traveller
I have in mind was
making his leisurely progress on a sunny afternoon
in the latter half
of June.
He was in the depths of the country. I need
not particularize further
than to say that if you divided the map of
England into four quarters,
he would have been found in the south-western
of them.
He was a man of academic pursuits, and his
term was just over. He was
on his way to meet a new friend, older than
himself. The two of them
had met first on an official inquiry in town,
had found that they had
many tastes and habits in common, liked each
other, and the result was
an invitation from Squire Richards to Mr.
Fanshawe which was now
taking effect.
The journey ended about five o'clock. Fanshawe
was told by a cheerful
country porter that the car from the Hall
had been up to the station
and left a message that something had to be
fetched from half a mile
farther on, and would the gentleman please
to wait a few minutes till
it came back? "But I see," continued the porter,
"as you've got your
bysticle, and very like you'd find it pleasanter
to ride up to the
'All yourself. Straight up the road 'ere,
and then first turn to the
left – it ain't above two mile – and I'll
see as your things is put in
the car for you. You'll excuse me mentioning
it, only I thought it
were a nice evening for a ride. Yes, sir,
very seasonable weather for
the haymakers: let me see, I have your bike
ticket. Thank you, sir;
much obliged: you can't miss your road, etc.,
etc."
The two miles to the Hall were just what was
needed, after the day in
the train, to dispel somnolence and impart
a wish for tea. The Hall,
when sighted, also promised just what was
needed in the way of a quiet
resting-place after days of sitting on committees
and
college-meetings. It was neither excitingly
old nor depressingly new.
Plastered walls, sash-windows, old trees,
smooth lawns, were the
features which Fanshawe noticed as he came
up the drive. Squire
Richards, a burly man of sixty odd, was awaiting
him in the porch with
evident pleasure.
"Tea first," he said, "or would you like a
longer drink? No? All
right, tea's ready in the garden. Come along,
they'll put your machine
away. I always have tea under the lime-tree
by the stream on a day
like this."
Nor could you ask for a better place. Midsummer
afternoon, shade and
scent of a vast lime-tree, cool, swirling
water within five yards. It
was long before either of them suggested a
move. But about six, Mr.
Richards sat up, knocked out his pipe, and
said: "Look here, it's cool
enough now to think of a stroll, if you're
inclined? All right: then
what I suggest is that we walk up the park
and get on to the
hill-side, where we can look over the country.
We'll have a map, and
I'll show you where things are; and you can
go off on your machine, or
we can take the car, according as you want
exercise or not. If you're
ready, we can start now and be back well before
eight, taking it very
easy."
"I'm ready. I should like my stick, though,
and have you got any
field-glasses? I lent mine to a man a week
ago, and he's gone off Lord
knows where and taken them with him."
Mr. Richards pondered. "Yes," he said, "I
have, but they're not things
I use myself, and I don't know whether the
ones I have will suit you.
They're old-fashioned, and about twice as
heavy as they make 'em now.
You're welcome to have them, but I won't carry
them. By the way, what
do you want to drink after dinner?"
Protestations that anything would do were
overruled, and a
satisfactory settlement was reached on the
way to the front hall,
where Mr. Fanshawe found his stick, and Mr.
Richards, after
thoughtful pinching of his lower lip, resorted
to a drawer in the
hall-table, extracted a key, crossed to a
cupboard in the panelling,
opened it, took a box from the shelf, and
put it on the table. "The
glasses are in there," he said, "and there's
some dodge of opening it,
but I've forgotten what it is. You try." Mr.
Fanshawe accordingly
tried. There was no keyhole, and the box was
solid, heavy and smooth:
it seemed obvious that some part of it would
have to be pressed before
anything could happen. "The corners," said
he to himself, "are the
likely places; and infernally sharp corners
they are too," he added,
as he put his thumb in his mouth after exerting
force on a lower
corner.
"What's the matter?" said the Squire.
"Why, your disgusting Borgia box has scratched
me, drat it," said
Fanshawe. The Squire chuckled unfeelingly.
"Well, you've got it open,
anyway," he said.
"So I have! Well, I don't begrudge a drop
of blood in a good cause,
and here are the glasses. They _are_ pretty
heavy, as you said, but I
think I'm equal to carrying them."
"Ready?" said the Squire. "Come on then; we
go out by the garden."
So they did, and passed out into the park,
which sloped decidedly
upwards to the hill which, as Fanshawe had
seen from the train,
dominated the country. It was a spur of a
larger range that lay
behind. On the way, the Squire, who was great
on earthworks, pointed
out various spots where he detected or imagined
traces of war-ditches
and the like. "And here," he said, stopping
on a more or less level
plot with a ring of large trees, "is Baxter's
Roman villa." "Baxter?"
said Mr. Fanshawe.
"I forgot; you don't know about him. He was
the old chap I got those
glasses from. I believe he made them. He was
an old watch-maker down
in the village, a great antiquary. My father
gave him leave to grub
about where he liked; and when he made a find
he used to lend him a
man or two to help him with the digging. He
got a surprising lot of
things together, and when he died – I dare
say it's ten or fifteen
years ago – I bought the whole lot and gave
them to the town museum.
We'll run in one of these days, and look over
them. The glasses came
to me with the rest, but of course I kept
them. If you look at them,
you'll see they're more or less amateur work
– the body of them;
naturally the lenses weren't his making."
"Yes, I see they are just the sort of thing
that a clever workman in a
different line of business might turn out.
But I don't see why he made
them so heavy. And did Baxter actually find
a Roman villa here?"
"Yes, there's a pavement turfed over, where
we're standing: it was too
rough and plain to be worth taking up, but
of course there are
drawings of it: and the small things and pottery
that turned up were
quite good of their kind. An ingenious chap,
old Baxter: he seemed to
have a quite out-of-the-way instinct for these
things. He was
invaluable to our archæologists. He used
to shut up his shop for days
at a time, and wander off over the district,
marking down places,
where he scented anything, on the ordnance
map; and he kept a book
with fuller notes of the places. Since his
death, a good many of them
have been sampled, and there's always been
something to justify him."
"What a good man!" said Mr. Fanshawe.
"Good?" said the Squire, pulling up brusquely.
"I meant useful to have about the place,"
said Mr. Fanshawe. "But was
he a villain?"
"I don't know about that either," said the
Squire; "but all I can say
is, if he was good, he wasn't lucky. And he
wasn't liked: I didn't
like him," he added, after a moment.
"Oh?" said Fanshawe interrogatively.
"No, I didn't; but that's enough about Baxter:
besides, this is the
stiffest bit, and I don't want to talk and
walk as well."
Indeed it was hot, climbing a slippery grass
slope that evening. "I
told you I should take you the short way,"
panted the Squire, "and I
wish I hadn't. However, a bath won't do us
any harm when we get back.
Here we are, and there's the seat."
A small clump of old Scotch firs crowned the
top of the hill; and, at
the edge of it, commanding the cream of the
view, was a wide and solid
seat, on which the two disposed themselves,
and wiped their brows,
and regained breath.
"Now, then," said the Squire, as soon as he
was in a condition to talk
connectedly, "this is where your glasses come
in. But you'd better
take a general look round first. My word!
I've never seen the view
look better."
Writing as I am now with a winter wind flapping
against dark windows
and a rushing, tumbling sea within a hundred
yards, I find it hard to
summon up the feelings and words which will
put my reader in
possession of the June evening and the lovely
English landscape of
which the Squire was speaking.
Across a broad level plain they looked upon
ranges of great hills,
whose uplands – some green, some furred
with woods – caught the light of
a sun, westering but not yet low. And all
the plain was fertile,
though the river which traversed it was nowhere
seen. There were
copses, green wheat, hedges and pasture-land:
the little compact white
moving cloud marked the evening train. Then
the eye picked out red
farms and grey houses, and nearer home scattered
cottages, and then
the Hall, nestled under the hill. The smoke
of chimneys was very blue
and straight. There was a smell of hay in
the air: there were wild
roses on bushes hard by. It was the acme of
summer.
After some minutes of silent contemplation,
the Squire began to point
out the leading features, the hills and valleys,
and told where the
towns and villages lay. "Now," he said, "with
the glasses you'll be
able to pick out Fulnaker Abbey. Take a line
across that big green
field, then over the wood beyond it, then
over the farm on the knoll."
"Yes, yes," said Fanshawe. "I've got it. What
a fine tower!"
"You must have got the wrong direction," said
the Squire; "there's not
much of a tower about there that I remember,
unless it's Oldbourne
Church that you've got hold of. And if you
call that a fine tower,
you're easily pleased."
"Well, I do call it a fine tower," said Fanshawe,
the glasses still at
his eyes, "whether it's Oldbourne or any other.
And it must belong to
a largish church; it looks to me like a central
tower – four big
pinnacles at the corners, and four smaller
ones between. I must
certainly go over there. How far is it?"
"Oldbourne's about nine miles, or less," said
the Squire. "It's a long
time since I've been there, but I don't remember
thinking much of it.
Now I'll show you another thing."
Fanshawe had lowered the glasses, and was
still gazing in the
Oldbourne direction. "No," he said, "I can't
make out anything with
the naked eye. What was it you were going
to show me?"
"A good deal more to the left – it oughtn't
to be difficult to find. Do
you see a rather sudden knob of a hill with
a thick wood on top of it?
It's in a dead line with that single tree
on the top of the big
ridge."
"I do," said Fanshawe, "and I believe I could
tell you without much
difficulty what it's called."
"Could you now?" said the Squire. "Say on."
"Why, Gallows Hill," was the answer.
"How did you guess that?"
"Well, if you don't want it guessed, you shouldn't
put up a dummy
gibbet and a man hanging on it."
"What's that?" said the Squire abruptly. "There's
nothing on that hill
but wood."
"On the contrary," said Fanshawe, "there's
a largish expanse of grass
on the top and your dummy gibbet in the middle;
and I thought there
was something on it when I looked first. But
I see there's nothing – or
is there? I can't be sure."
"Nonsense, nonsense, Fanshawe, there's no
such thing as a dummy
gibbet, or any other sort, on that hill. And
it's thick wood – a fairly
young plantation. I was in it myself not a
year ago. Hand me the
glasses, though I don't suppose I can see
anything." After a pause:
"No, I thought not: they won't show a thing."
Meanwhile Fanshawe was scanning the hill – it
might be only two or
three miles away. "Well, it's very odd," he
said, "it does look
exactly like a wood without the glass." He
took it again. "That is
one of the oddest effects. The gibbet is perfectly
plain, and the
grass field, and there even seem to be people
on it, and carts, or a
cart, with men in it. And yet when I take
the glass away, there's
nothing. It must be something in the way this
afternoon light falls:
I shall come up earlier in the day when the
sun's full on it."
"Did you say you saw people and a cart on
that hill?" said the Squire
incredulously. "What should they be doing
there at this time of day,
even if the trees have been felled? Do talk
sense – look again."
"Well, I certainly thought I saw them. Yes,
I should say there were a
few, just clearing off. And now – by Jove,
it does look like something
hanging on the gibbet. But these glasses are
so beastly heavy I can't
hold them steady for long. Anyhow, you can
take it from me there's no
wood. And if you'll show me the road on the
map, I'll go there
to-morrow."
The Squire remained brooding for some little
time. At last he rose and
said, "Well, I suppose that will be the best
way to settle it. And now
we'd better be getting back. Bath and dinner
is my idea." And on the
way back he was not very communicative.
They returned through the garden, and went
into the front hall to
leave sticks, etc., in their due place. And
here they found the aged
butler Patten evidently in a state of some
anxiety. "Beg pardon,
Master Henry," he began at once, "but someone's
been up to mischief
here, I'm much afraid." He pointed to the
open box which had contained
the glasses.
"Nothing worse than that, Patten?" said the
Squire. "Mayn't I take out
my own glasses and lend them to a friend?
Bought with my own money,
you recollect? At old Baxter's sale, eh?"
Patten bowed, unconvinced. "Oh, very well,
Master Henry, as long as
you know who it was. Only I thought proper
to name it, for I didn't
think that box'd been off its shelf since
you first put it there; and,
if you'll excuse me, after what happened.
. . .". The voice was
lowered, and the rest was not audible to Fanshawe.
The Squire replied
with a few words and a gruff laugh, and called
on Fanshawe to come and
be shown his room. And I do not think that
anything else happened that
night which bears on my story.
Except, perhaps, the sensation which invaded
Fanshawe in the small
hours that something had been let out which
ought not to have been let
out. It came into his dreams. He was walking
in a garden which he
seemed half to know, and stopped in front
of a rockery made of old
wrought stones, pieces of window tracery from
a church, and even bits
of figures. One of these moved his curiosity:
it seemed to be a
sculptured capital with scenes carved on it.
He felt he must pull it
out, and worked away, and, with an ease that
surprised him, moved the
stones that obscured it aside, and pulled
out the block. As he did so,
a tin label fell down by his feet with a little
clatter. He picked it
up and read on it: "On no account move this
stone. Yours sincerely, J.
Patten." As often happens in dreams, he felt
that this injunction was
of extreme importance; and with an anxiety
that amounted to anguish he
looked to see if the stone had really been
shifted. Indeed it had; in
fact, he could not see it anywhere. The removal
had disclosed the
mouth of a burrow, and he bent down to look
into it. Something stirred
in the blackness, and then, to his intense
horror, a hand emerged – a
clean right hand in a neat cuff and coatsleeve,
just in the attitude
of a hand that means to shake yours. He wondered
whether it would not
be rude to let it alone. But, as he looked
at it, it began to grow
hairy and dirty and thin, and also to change
its pose and stretch out
as if to take hold of his leg. At that he
dropped all thought of
politeness, decided to run, screamed and woke
himself up.
This was the dream he remembered; but it seemed
to him (as, again, it
often does) that there had been others of
the same import before, but
not so insistent. He lay awake for some little
time, fixing the
details of the last dream in his mind, and
wondering in particular
what the figures had been which he had seen
or half seen on the carved
capital. Something quite incongruous, he felt
sure; but that was the
most he could recall.
Whether because of the dream, or because it
was the first day of his
holiday, he did not get up very early; nor
did he at once plunge into
the exploration of the country. He spent a
morning, half lazy, half
instructive, in looking over the volumes of
the County Archæological
Society's transactions, in which were many
contributions from Mr.
Baxter on finds of flint implements, Roman
sites, ruins of monastic
establishments – in fact, most departments
of archæology. They were
written in an odd, pompous, only half-educated
style. If the man had
had more early schooling, thought Fanshawe,
he would have been a very
distinguished antiquary; or he might have
been (he thus qualified his
opinion a little later), but for a certain
love of opposition and
controversy, and, yes, a patronizing tone
as of one possessing
superior knowledge, which left an unpleasant
taste. He might have been
a very respectable artist. There was an imaginary
restoration and
elevation of a priory church which was very
well conceived. A fine
pinnacled central tower was a conspicuous
feature of this; it reminded
Fanshawe of that which he had seen from the
hill, and which the Squire
had told him must be Oldbourne. But it was
not Oldbourne; it was
Fulnaker Priory. "Oh, well," he said to himself,
"I suppose Oldbourne
Church may have been built by Fulnaker monks,
and Baxter has copied
Oldbourne tower. Anything about it in the
letterpress? Ah, I see it
was published after his death – found among
his papers."
After lunch the Squire asked Fanshawe what
he meant to do.
"Well," said Fanshawe, "I think I shall go
out on my bike about four
as far as Oldbourne and back by Gallows Hill.
That ought to be a round
of about fifteen miles, oughtn't it?"
"About that," said the Squire, "and you'll
pass Lambsfield and
Wanstone, both of which are worth looking
at. There's a little glass
at Lambsfield and the stone at Wanstone."
"Good," said Fanshawe, "I'll get tea somewhere,
and may I take the
glasses? I'll strap them on my bike, on the
carrier."
"Of course, if you like," said the Squire.
"I really ought to have
some better ones. If I go into the town to-day,
I'll see if I can pick
up some."
"Why should you trouble to do that if you
can't use them yourself?"
said Fanshawe.
"Oh, I don't know; one ought to have a decent
pair; and – well, old
Patten doesn't think those are fit to use."
"Is he a judge?"
"He's got some tale: I don't know: something
about old Baxter. I've
promised to let him tell me about it. It seems
very much on his mind
since last night."
"Why that? Did he have a nightmare like me?"
"He had something: he was looking an old man
this morning, and he said
he hadn't closed an eye."
"Well, let him save up his tale till I come
back."
"Very well, I will if I can. Look here, are
you going to be late? If
you get a puncture eight miles off and have
to walk home, what then? I
don't trust these bicycles: I shall tell them
to give us cold things
to eat."
"I shan't mind that, whether I'm late or early.
But I've got things to
mend punctures with. And now I'm off."
* * * * *
It was just as well that the Squire had made
that arrangement about a
cold supper, Fanshawe thought, and not for
the first time, as he
wheeled his bicycle up the drive about nine
o'clock. So also the
Squire thought and said, several times, as
he met him in the hall,
rather pleased at the confirmation of his
want of faith in bicycles
than sympathetic with his hot, weary, thirsty,
and indeed haggard,
friend. In fact, the kindest thing he found
to say was: "You'll want a
long drink to-night? Cider-cup do? All right.
Hear that, Patten?
Cider-cup, iced, lots of it." Then to Fanshawe,
"Don't be all night
over your bath."
By half-past nine they were at dinner, and
Fanshawe was reporting
progress, if progress it might be called.
"I got to Lambsfield very smoothly, and saw
the glass. It is very
interesting stuff, but there's a lot of lettering
I couldn't read."
"Not with glasses?" said the Squire.
"Those glasses of yours are no manner of use
inside a church – or
inside anywhere, I suppose, for that matter.
But the only places I
took 'em into were churches."
"H'm! Well, go on," said the Squire.
"However, I took some sort of a photograph
of the window, and I dare
say an enlargement would show what I want.
Then Wanstone; I should
think that stone was a very out-of-the-way
thing, only I don't know
about that class of antiquities. Has anybody
opened the mound it
stands on?"
"Baxter wanted to, but the farmer wouldn't
let him."
"Oh, well, I should think it would be worth
doing. Anyhow, the next
thing was Fulnaker and Oldbourne. You know,
it's very odd about that
tower I saw from the hill. Oldbourne Church
is nothing like it, and of
course there's nothing over thirty feet high
at Fulnaker, though you
can see it had a central tower. I didn't tell
you, did I? that
Baxter's fancy drawing of Fulnaker shows a
tower exactly like the one
I saw."
"So you thought, I dare say," put in the Squire.
"No, it wasn't a case of thinking. The picture
actually _reminded_ me
of what I'd seen, and I made sure it was Oldbourne,
well before I
looked at the title."
"Well, Baxter had a very fair idea of architecture.
I dare say what's
left made it easy for him to draw the right
sort of tower."
"That may be it, of course, but I'm doubtful
if even a professional
could have got it so exactly right. There's
absolutely nothing left at
Fulnaker but the bases of the piers which
supported it. However, that
isn't the oddest thing."
"What about Gallows Hill?" said the Squire.
"Here, Patten, listen to
this. I told you what Mr. Fanshawe said he
saw from the hill."
"Yes, Master Henry, you did; and I can't say
I was so much surprised,
considering."
"All right, all right. You keep that till
afterwards. We want to hear
what Mr. Fanshawe saw to-day. Go on, Fanshawe.
You turned to come back
by Ackford and Thorfield, I suppose?"
"Yes, and I looked into both the churches.
Then I got to the turning
which goes to the top of Gallows Hill; I saw
that if I wheeled my
machine over the field at the top of the hill
I could join the home
road on this side. It was about half-past
six when I got to the top of
the hill, and there was a gate on my right,
where it ought to be,
leading into the belt of plantation."
"You hear that, Patten? A belt, he says."
"So I thought it was – a belt. But it wasn't.
You were quite right, and
I was hopelessly wrong. I _cannot_ understand
it. The whole top is
planted quite thick. Well, I went on into
this wood, wheeling and
dragging my bike, expecting every minute to
come to a clearing, and
then my misfortunes began. Thorns, I suppose;
first I realized that
the front tyre was slack, then the back. I
couldn't stop to do more
than try to find the punctures and mark them;
but even that was
hopeless. So I ploughed on, and the farther
I went, the less I liked
the place."
"Not much poaching in that cover, eh, Patten?"
said the Squire.
"No, indeed, Master Henry: there's very few
cares to go – – "
"No, I know: never mind that now. Go on, Fanshawe."
"I don't blame anybody for not caring to go
there. I know I had all
the fancies one least likes: steps crackling
over twigs behind me,
indistinct people stepping behind trees in
front of me, yes, and even
a hand laid on my shoulder. I pulled up very
sharp at that and looked
round, but there really was no branch or bush
that could have done it.
Then, when I was just about at the middle
of the plot, I was convinced
that there was someone looking down on me
from above – and not with any
pleasant intent. I stopped again, or at least
slackened my pace, to
look up. And as I did, down I came, and barked
my shins abominably on,
what do you think? a block of stone with a
big square hole in the top
of it. And within a few paces there were two
others just like it. The
three were set in a triangle. Now, do you
make out what they were put
there for?"
"I think I can," said the Squire, who was
now very grave and absorbed
in the story. "Sit down, Patten."
It was time, for the old man was supporting
himself by one hand, and
leaning heavily on it. He dropped into a chair,
and said in a very
tremulous voice, "You didn't go between them
stones, did you, sir?"
"I did _not_," said Fanshawe, emphatically.
"I dare say I was an ass,
but as soon as it dawned on me where I was,
I just shouldered my
machine and did my best to run. It seemed
to me as if I was in an
unholy evil sort of graveyard, and I was most
profoundly thankful that
it was one of the longest days and still sunlight.
Well, I had a
horrid run, even if it was only a few hundred
yards. Everything caught
on everything: handles and spokes and carrier
and pedals – caught in
them viciously, or I fancied so. I fell over
at least five times. At
last I saw the hedge, and I couldn't trouble
to hunt for the gate."
"There _is_ no gate on my side," the Squire
interpolated.
"Just as well I didn't waste time, then. I
dropped the machine over
somehow and went into the road pretty near
head-first; some branch or
something got my ankle at the last moment.
Anyhow, there I was out of
the wood, and seldom more thankful or more
generally sore. Then came
the job of mending my punctures. I had a good
outfit and I'm not at
all bad at the business; but this was an absolutely
hopeless case. It
was seven when I got out of the wood, and
I spent fifty minutes over
one tyre. As fast as I found a hole and put
on a patch, and blew it
up, it went flat again. So I made up my mind
to walk. That hill isn't
three miles away, is it?"
"Not more across country, but nearer six by
road."
"I thought it must be. I thought I couldn't
have taken well over the
hour over less than five miles, even leading
a bike. Well, there's my
story: where's yours and Patten's?"
"Mine? I've no story," said the Squire. "But
you weren't very far out
when you thought you were in a graveyard.
There must be a good few of
them up there, Patten, don't you think? They
left 'em there when they
fell to bits, I fancy."
Patten nodded, too much interested to speak.
"Don't," said Fanshawe.
"Now then, Patten," said the Squire, "you've
heard what sort of a time
Mr. Fanshawe's been having. What do you make
of it? Anything to do
with Mr. Baxter? Fill yourself a glass of
port, and tell us."
"Ah, that done me good, Master Henry," said
Patten, after absorbing
what was before him. "If you really wish to
know what were in my
thoughts, my answer would be clear in the
affirmative. Yes," he went
on, warming to his work, "I should say as
Mr. Fanshawe's experience of
to-day were very largely doo to the person
you named. And I think,
Master Henry, as I have some title to speak,
in view of me 'aving been
many years on speaking terms with him, and
swore in to be jury on the
Coroner's inquest near this time ten years
ago, you being then, if you
carry your mind back, Master Henry, travelling
abroad, and no one 'ere
to represent the family."
"Inquest?" said Fanshawe. "An inquest on Mr.
Baxter, was there?"
"Yes, sir, on – on that very person. The
facts as led up to that
occurrence was these. The deceased was, as
you may have gathered, a
very peculiar individual in 'is 'abits – in
my idear, at least, but all
must speak as they find. He lived very much
to himself, without
neither chick nor child, as the saying is.
And how he passed away his
time was what very few could orfer a guess
at."
"He lived unknown, and few could know when
Baxter ceased to be," said
the Squire to his pipe.
"I beg pardon, Master Henry, I was just coming
to that. But when I say
how he passed away his time – to be sure
we know 'ow intent he was in
rummaging and ransacking out all the 'istry
of the neighbourhood and
the number of things he'd managed to collect
together – well, it was
spoke of for miles round as Baxter's Museum,
and many a time when he
might be in the mood, and I might have an
hour to spare, have he
showed me his pieces of pots and what not,
going back by his account
to the times of the ancient Romans. However,
you know more about that
than what I do, Master Henry: only what I
was a-going to say was this,
as know what he might and interesting as he
might be in his talk,
there was something about the man – well,
for one thing, no one ever
remember to see him in church nor yet chapel
at service-time. And that
made talk. Our rector he never come in the
house but once. 'Never ask
me what the man said'; that was all anybody
could ever get out of
_him_. Then how did he spend his nights, particularly
about this
season of the year? Time and again the labouring
men'd meet him coming
back as they went out to their work, and he'd
pass 'em by without a
word, looking, they says, like someone straight
out of the asylum.
They see the whites of his eyes all round.
He'd have a fish-basket
with him, that they noticed, and he always
come the same road. And the
talk got to be that he'd made himself some
business, and that not the
best kind – well, not so far from where
you was at seven o'clock this
evening, sir.
"Well, now, after such a night as that, Mr.
Baxter he'd shut up the
shop, and the old lady that did for him had
orders not to come in; and
knowing what she did about his language, she
took care to obey them
orders. But one day it so happened, about
three o'clock in the
afternoon, the house being shut up as I said,
there come a most
fearful to-do inside, and smoke out of the
windows, and Baxter crying
out seemingly in an agony. So the man as lived
next door he run round
to the back premises and burst the door in,
and several others come
too. Well, he tell me he never in all his
life smelt such a
fearful – well, odour, as what there was
in that kitchen-place. It seem
as if Baxter had been boiling something in
a pot and overset it on his
leg. There he laid on the floor, trying to
keep back the cries, but it
was more than he could manage, and when he
seen the people come
in – oh, he was in a nice condition: if
his tongue warn't blistered
worse than his leg it warn't his fault. Well,
they picked him up, and
got him into a chair, and run for the medical
man, and one of 'em was
going to pick up the pot, and Baxter, he screams
out to let it alone.
So he did, but he couldn't see as there was
anything in the pot but a
few old brown bones. Then they says 'Dr. Lawrence'll
be here in a
minute, Mr. Baxter; he'll soon put you to
rights.' And then he was off
again. He must be got up to his room, he couldn't
have the doctor come
in there and see all that mess – they must
throw a cloth over
it – anything – the tablecloth out of
the parlour; well, so they did.
But that must have been poisonous stuff in
that pot, for it was pretty
near on two months afore Baxter were about
agin. Beg pardon, Master
Henry, was you going to say something?"
"Yes, I was," said the Squire. "I wonder you
haven't told me all this
before. However, I was going to say I remember
old Lawrence telling me
he'd attended Baxter. He was a queer card,
he said. Lawrence was up in
the bedroom one day, and picked up a little
mask covered with black
velvet, and put it on in fun and went to look
at himself in the glass.
He hadn't time for a proper look, for old
Baxter shouted out to him
from the bed: 'Put it down, you fool! Do you
want to look through a
dead man's eyes?' and it startled him so that
he did put it down, and
then he asked Baxter what he meant. And Baxter
insisted on him handing
it over, and said the man he bought it from
was dead, or some such
nonsense. But Lawrence felt it as he handed
it over, and he declared
he was sure it was made out of the front of
a skull. He bought a
distilling apparatus at Baxter's sale, he
told me, but he could never
use it: it seemed to taint everything, however
much he cleaned it. But
go on, Patten."
"Yes, Master Henry, I'm nearly done now, and
time, too, for I don't
know what they'll think about me in the servants'
'all. Well, this
business of the scalding was some few years
before Mr. Baxter was
took, and he got about again, and went on
just as he'd used. And one
of the last jobs he done was finishing up
them actual glasses what you
took out last night. You see he'd made the
body of them some long
time, and got the pieces of glass for them,
but there was somethink
wanted to finish 'em, whatever it was, I don't
know, but I picked up
the frame one day, and I says: 'Mr. Baxter,
why don't you make a job
of this?' And he says, 'Ah, when I've done
that, you'll hear news, you
will: there's going to be no such pair of
glasses as mine when they're
filled and sealed,' and there he stopped,
and I says: 'Why, Mr.
Baxter, you talk as if they was wine bottles:
filled and sealed – why,
where's the necessity for that?' 'Did I say
filled and sealed?' he
says. 'O, well, I was suiting my conversation
to my company.' Well,
then come round this time of year, and one
fine evening, I was passing
his shop on my way home, and he was standing
on the step, very pleased
with hisself, and he says: 'All right and
tight now: my best bit of
work's finished, and I'll be out with 'em
to-morrow.' 'What, finished
them glasses?' I says, 'might I have a look
at them ?' 'No, no,' he
says, 'I've put 'em to bed for to-night, and
when I do show 'em you,
you'll have to pay for peepin', so I tell
you.' And that, gentlemen,
were the last words I heard that man say.
"That were the 17th of June, and just a week
after, there was a funny
thing happened, and it was doo to that as
we brought in 'unsound mind'
at the inquest, for barring that, no one as
knew Baxter in business
could anyways have laid that against him.
But George Williams, as
lived in the next house, and do now, he was
woke up that same night
with a stumbling and tumbling about in Mr.
Baxter's premises, and he
got out o' bed, and went to the front window
on the street to see if
there was any rough customers about. And it
being a very light night,
he could make sure as there was not. Then
he stood and listened, and
he hear Mr. Baxter coming down his front stair
one step after another
very slow, and he got the idear as it was
like someone bein' pushed or
pulled down and holdin' on to everythin' he
could. Next thing he hear
the street door come open, and out come Mr.
Baxter into the street in
his day-clothes, 'at and all, with his arms
straight down by his
sides, and talking to hisself, and shakin'
his head from one side to
the other, and walking in that peculiar way
that he appeared to be
going as it were against his own will. George
Williams put up the
window, and hear him say: 'O mercy, gentlemen!'
and then he shut up
sudden as if, he said, someone clapped his
hand over his mouth, and
Mr. Baxter threw his head back, and his hat
fell off. And Williams see
his face looking something pitiful, so as
he couldn't keep from
calling out to him: 'Why, Mr. Baxter, ain't
you well?' and he was
goin' to offer to fetch Dr. Lawrence to him,
only he heard the answer:
''Tis best you mind your own business. Put
in your head.' But whether
it were Mr. Baxter said it so hoarse-like
and faint, he never could be
sure. Still there weren't no one but him in
the street, and yet
Williams was that upset by the way he spoke
that he shrank back from
the window and went and sat on the bed. And
he heard Mr. Baxter's step
go on and up the road, and after a minute
or more he couldn't help but
look out once more and he see him going along
the same curious way as
before. And one thing he recollected was that
Mr. Baxter never stopped
to pick up his 'at when it fell off, and yet
there it was on his head.
Well, Master Henry, that was the last anybody
see of Mr. Baxter,
leastways for a week or more. There was a
lot of people said he was
called off on business, or made off because
he'd got into some scrape,
but he was well known for miles round, and
none of the railway-people
nor the public-house people hadn't seen him;
and then ponds was looked
into and nothink found; and at last one evening
Fakes the keeper come
down from over the hill to the village, and
he says he seen the
Gallows Hill planting black with birds, and
that were a funny thing,
because he never see no sign of a creature
there in his time. So they
looked at each other a bit, and first one
says: 'I'm game to go up,'
and another says: 'So am I, if you are,' and
half a dozen of 'em set
out in the evening time, and took Dr. Lawrence
with them, and you
know, Master Henry, there he was between them
three stones with his
neck broke."
Useless to imagine the talk which this story
set going. It is not
remembered. But before Patten left them, he
said to Fanshawe: "Excuse
me, sir, but did I understand as you took
out them glasses with you
to-day? I thought you did; and might I ask,
did you make use of them
at all?"
"Yes. Only to look at something in a church."
"Oh, indeed, you took 'em into the church,
did you, sir?"
"Yes, I did; it was Lambsfield church. By
the way, I left them
strapped on to my bicycle, I'm afraid, in
the stable-yard."
"No matter for that, sir. I can bring them
in the first thing
to-morrow, and perhaps you'll be so good as
to look at 'em then."
Accordingly, before breakfast, after a tranquil
and well-earned sleep,
Fanshawe took the glasses into the garden
and directed them to a
distant hill. He lowered them instantly, and
looked at top and bottom,
worked the screws, tried them again and yet
again, shrugged his
shoulders and replaced them on the hall-table.
"Patten," he said, "they're absolutely useless.
I can't see a thing:
it's as if someone had stuck a black wafer
over the lens."
"Spoilt my glasses, have you?" said the Squire.
"Thank you: the only
ones I've got."
"You try them yourself," said Fanshawe, "I've
done nothing to them."
So after breakfast the Squire took them out
to the terrace and stood
on the steps. After a few ineffectual attempts,
"Lord, how heavy they
are!" he said impatiently, and in the same
instant dropped them on to
the stones, and the lens splintered and the
barrel cracked: a little
pool of liquid formed on the stone slab. It
was inky black, and the
odour that rose from it is not to be described.
"Filled and sealed, eh?" said the Squire.
"If I could bring myself to
touch it, I dare say we should find the seal.
So that's what came of
his boiling and distilling, is it? Old Ghoul!"
"What in the world do you mean?"
"Don't you see, my good man? Remember what
he said to the doctor about
looking through dead men's eyes? Well, this
was another way of it. But
they didn't like having their bones boiled,
I take it, and the end of
it was they carried him off whither he would
not. Well, I'll get a
spade, and we'll bury this thing decently."
As they smoothed the turf over it, the Squire,
handing the spade to
Patten, who had been a reverential spectator,
remarked to Fanshawe:
"It's almost a pity you took that thing into
the church: you might
have seen more than you did. Baxter had them
for a week, I make out,
but I don't see that he did much in the time."
"I'm not sure," said Fanshawe, "there is that
picture of Fulnaker
Priory Church."
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