by M. R. James
He retraced his steps to a wall map he had noticed, and made out that Ilbridge House was in Coxham Parish. Coxham was, as it happened, one of the parishes of which he had retained the name when he glanced over the file of printed registers, and it was not long before he found in them the record of the burial of Roger Milford, age 76, on the 11th of September, 1757, and of Roger and Elizabeth Merewether, age 9 and 7, on the 19th of the same month.
It seemed worthwhile to follow up this clue, frail as it was, and in the afternoon he drove out to Coxham.
The east-end of the north aisle of the church is a Milford chapel, and on its north wall are tablets to the same persons: Roger, the elder, it seems, was distinguished by all the qualities which adorn the Father, the Magistrate and the Man. The memorial was erected by his attached daughter Elizabeth, who did not long survive the loss of a parent ever solicitous for her welfare, and of two amiable children. The last sentence was plainly an addition to the original inscription.
A yet later slab told of James Merewether, husband of Elizabeth, who in the dawn of life practiced, not without success, those arts which, had he continued their exercise, might in the opinion of the most competent judges have earned for him the name of the British Vitruvius: but who, overwhelmed by the visitation which deprived him of an affectionate partner and a blooming offspring, passed his Prime and Age in a secluded yet elegant Retirement: his grateful Nephew and Heir indulges a pious sorrow by this too brief recital of his excellences.
The children were more simply commemorated. Both died on the night of the 12th of September.
Mr. Dillet felt sure that in Ilbridge House he had found the scene of his drama. In some old sketchbook, possibly in some old print, he may yet find convincing evidence that he is right.
But the Ilbridge House of today is not that which he sought: it is an Elizabethan erection of the forties, in red brick with stone quoins and dressings. A quarter of a mile from it, in a low part of the park, backed by ancient, stag-horned, ivy-strangled trees and thick undergrowth, are marks of a terraced platform overgrown with rough grass. A few stone balusters lie here and there, and a heap or two, covered with nettles and ivy, of wrought stones with badly-carved crockets. This, someone told Mr. Dillet, was the site of an older house.
As he drove out of the village, the hall clock struck four, and Mr. Dillet started up and clapped his hands to his ears. It was not the first time he had heard that bell.
Awaiting an offer from the other side of the Atlantic, the dolls’ house still reposes, carefully sheeted, in a loft over Mr. Dillet’s stables, whither Collins conveyed it on the day when Mr. Dillet started for the sea coast.
[It will be said, perhaps, and not unjustly, that this is no more than a variation on a former story of mine called “The Mezzotint.” I can only hope that there is enough of variation in the setting to make the repetition of the motif tolerable.]
A Neighbor’s Landmark
THOSE WHO SPEND the greater part of their time in reading or writing books are, of course, apt to take rather particular notice of accumulations of books when they come across them.
They will not pass a stall, a shop, or even a bedroom-shelf without reading some title, and if they find themselves in an unfamiliar library, no host need trouble himself further about their entertainment.
The putting of dispersed sets of volumes together, or the turning right way up of those which the dusting housemaid has left in an apoplectic condition, appeals to them as one of the lesser Works of Mercy.
Happy in these employments, and in occasionally opening an 18th-century octavo, to see “what it is all about,” and to conclude after five minutes that it deserves the seclusion it now enjoys, I had reached the middle of a wet August afternoon at Betton Court—
“You begin in a deeply Victorian manner,” I said. “Is this to continue?”
“Remember, if you please,” said my friend, looking at me over his spectacles, “that I am a Victorian by birth and education, and that the Victorian tree may not unreasonably be expected to bear Victorian fruit.
“Further, remember that an immense quantity of clever and thoughtful Rubbish is now being written about the Victorian age. Now,” he went on, laying his papers on his knee, “that article, ‘The Stricken Years,’ in The Times Literary Supplement the other day—able? Of course it is able, but, oh!—my soul and body—do just hand it over here, will you? It’s on the table by you.”
“I thought you were to read me something you had written,” I said, without moving, “but, of course—”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “Very well, then, I’ll do that first. But I should like to show you afterward what I mean. However—” And he lifted the sheets of paper and adjusted his spectacles.
—at Betton Court, where, generations back, two country-house libraries had been fused together, and no descendant of either stock had ever faced the task of picking them over or getting rid of duplicates.
Now I am not setting out to tell of rarities I may have discovered, of Shakespeare quartos bound up in volumes of political tracts, or anything of that kind, but of an experience which befell me in the course of my search—an experience which I cannot either explain away or fit into the scheme of my ordinary life.
It was, I said, a wet August afternoon, rather windy, rather warm. Outside the window great trees were stirring and weeping. Between them were stretches of green and yellow country (for the Court stands high on a hillside), and blue hills far off, veiled with rain. Up above was a very restless and hopeless movement of low clouds traveling northwest.
I had suspended my work—if you call it work—for some minutes to stand at the window and look at these things, and at the greenhouse roof on the right with the water sliding off it, and the Church tower that rose behind that. It was all in favor of my going steadily on—no likelihood of a clearing up for hours to come.
I, therefore, returned to the shelves, lifted out a set of eight or nine volumes, lettered “Tracts,” and conveyed them to the table for closer examination.
They were for the most part of the reign of Anne. There was a good deal of The Late Peace, The Late War, The Conduct of the Allies. There were also Letters to a Convocation Man; Sermons Preached at St. Michael’s, Queenhithe; Inquiries into a Late Charge of the Rt. Rev. the Lord Bishop of Winchester (or more probably Winton) to His Clergy—things all very lively once, and indeed still keeping so much of their old sting that I was tempted to betake myself into an armchair in the window, and give them more time than I had intended.
Besides, I was somewhat tired by the day. The Church clock struck four, and it really was four, for in 1889 there was no saving of daylight.
So I settled myself. And first I glanced over some of the War pamphlets, and pleased myself by trying to pick out Swift by his style from among the undistinguished. But the War pamphlets needed more knowledge of the geography of the Low Countries than I had.
I turned to the Church, and read several pages of what the Dean of Canterbury said to the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge on the occasion of their anniversary meeting in 1711.
When I turned over to a Letter from a Beneficed Clergyman in the Country to the Bishop of C——r, I was becoming languid, and I gazed for some moments at the following sentence without surprise:
This Abuse (for I think myself justified in calling it by that name) is one which I am persuaded Your Lordship would (if ’twere known to you) exert your utmost efforts to do away. But I am also persuaded that you know no more of its existence than (in the words of the Country Song)
“That which walks in Betton Wood
Knows why it walks or why it cries.”
Then indeed I did sit up in my chair, and run my finger along the lines to make sure that I had read them right.
There was no mistake.
Nothing more was to be gathered from the rest of the pamphlet. The next paragraph definitely changed the subject: “But I have said enough upon this Topick” were its opening words.
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So discreet, too, was the namelessness of the Beneficed Clergyman that he refrained even from initials, and had his letter printed in London.
The riddle was of a kind that might faintly interest anyone. To me, who have dabbled a good deal in works of folklore, it was really exciting. I was set upon solving it—on finding out, I mean, what story lay behind it. And, at least, I felt myself lucky in one point, that, whereas I might have come on the paragraph in some College Library far away, here I was at Betton, on the very scene of action.
The Church clock struck five, and a single stroke on a gong followed. This, I knew, meant tea. I heaved myself out of the deep chair, and obeyed the summons.
My host and I were alone at the Court. He came in soon, wet from a round of landlord’s errands, and with pieces of local news which had to be passed on before I could make an opportunity of asking whether there was a particular place in the parish that was still known as Betton Wood.
“Betton Wood,” he said, “was a short mile away, just on the crest of Betton Hill, and my father stubbed up the last bit of it when it paid better to grow corn than scrub oaks.
“Why do you want to know about Betton Wood?”
“Because,” I said, “in an old pamphlet I was reading just now, there are two lines of a country song which mention it, and they sound as if there was a story belonging to them. Someone says that someone else knows no more of whatever it may be:
‘Than that which walks in Betton Wood
Knows why it walks or why it cries.’”
“Goodness,” said Philipson, “I wonder whether that was why … I must ask old Mitchell.” He muttered something else to himself, and took some more tea, thoughtfully.
“Whether that was why—?” I said.
“Yes, I was going to say, whether that was why my father had the Wood stubbed up. I said just now it was to get more plow-land, but I don’t really know if it was.
“I don’t believe he ever broke it up: it’s rough pasture at this moment. But there’s one old chap at least who’d remember something of it—old Mitchell.” He looked at his watch. “Blest if I don’t go down there and ask him. I don’t think I’ll take you,” he went on. “He’s not so likely to tell anything he thinks is odd if there’s a stranger by.”
“Well, mind you remember every single thing he does tell. As for me, if it clears up, I shall go out, and if it doesn’t, I shall go on with the books.”
It did clear up, sufficiently at least to make me think it worthwhile to walk up the nearest hill and look over the country. I did not know the lie of the land. It was the first visit I had paid to Philipson, and this was the first day of it.
So I went down the garden and through the wet shrubberies with a very open mind, and offered no resistance to the indistinct impulse—was it, however, so very indistinct?—which kept urging me to bear to the left whenever there was a forking of the path.
The result was that after ten minutes or more of dark going between dripping rows of box and laurel and privet, I was confronted by a stone arch in the Gothic style set in the stone wall which encircled the whole demesne.
The door was fastened by a spring-lock, and I took the precaution of leaving this on the jar as I passed out into the road. That road I crossed, and entered a narrow lane between hedges which led upward. And that lane I pursued at a leisurely pace for as much as half-a-mile, and went on to the field to which it led.
I was now on a good point of vantage for taking in the situation of the Court, the village, and the environment, and I leaned upon a gate and gazed westward and downward.
I think we must all know the landscapes—are they by Birket Foster, or somewhat earlier?—which, in the form of woodcuts, decorate the volumes of poetry that lay on the drawing room tables of our fathers and grandfathers—volumes in “Art Cloth, embossed bindings”: that strikes me as being the right phrase.
I confess myself an admirer of them, and especially of those which show the peasant leaning over a gate in a hedge and surveying, at the bottom of a downward slope, the village church spire—embosomed amid venerable trees, and a fertile plain intersected by hedgerows, and bounded by distant hills, behind which the orb of day is sinking (or it may be rising) amid level clouds illumined by his dying (or nascent) ray.
The expressions employed here are those which seem appropriate to the pictures I have in mind. And were there opportunity, I would try to work in the Vale, the Grove, the Cot, and the Flood.
Anyhow, they are beautiful to me, these landscapes, and it was just such a one that I was now surveying. It might have come straight out of Gems of Sacred Song, Selected by a Lady and given as a birthday present to Eleanor Philipson in 1852 by her attached friend Millicent Graves.
All at once I turned as if I had been stung. There thrilled into my right ear and pierced my head a note of incredible sharpness, like the shriek of a bat, only ten times intensified—the kind of thing that makes one wonder if something has not given way in one’s brain.
I held my breath, and covered my ear, and shivered. Something in the circulation. Another minute or two, I thought, and I return home. But I must fix the view a little more firmly in my mind.
Only, when I turned to it again, the taste was gone out of it.
The sun was down behind the hill, and the light was off the fields, and when the clock bell in the Church tower struck seven, I thought no longer of kind mellow evening hours of rest, and scents of flowers and woods on evening air; and of how someone on a farm a mile or two off would be saying “How clear Betton bell sounds tonight after the rain!.”
But instead images came to me of dusty beams and creeping spiders and savage owls up in the tower, and forgotten graves and their ugly contents below, and of flying Time and all it had taken out of my life. And just then into my left ear—close as if lips had been put within an inch of my head, the frightful scream came thrilling again.
There was no mistake possible now. It was from outside. “With no language but a cry” was the thought that flashed into my mind.
Hideous it was beyond anything I had heard or have heard since, but I could read no emotion in it, and doubted if I could read any intelligence. All its effect was to take away every vestige, every possibility, of enjoyment, and make this no place to stay in one moment more.
Of course there was nothing to be seen: but I was convinced that, if I waited, the thing would pass me again on its aimless, endless beat, and I could not bear the notion of a third repetition.
I hurried back to the lane and down the hill. But when I came to the arch in the wall I stopped. Could I be sure of my way among those dank alleys, which would be danker and darker now! No, I confessed to myself that I was afraid: so jarred were all my nerves with the cry on the hill that I really felt I could not afford to be startled even by a little bird in a bush, or a rabbit.
I followed the road which followed the wall, and I was not sorry when I came to the gate and the lodge, and descried Philipson coming up toward it from the direction of the village.
“And where have you been?” said he.
“I took that lane that goes up the hill opposite the stone arch in the wall.”
“Oh! Did you? Then you’ve been very near where Betton Wood used to be: at least, if you followed it up to the top, and out into the field.”
And if the reader will believe it, that was the first time that I put two and two together.
Did I at once tell Philipson what had happened to me? I did not. I have not had other experiences of the kind which are called super-natural, or -normal, or -physical, but, though I knew very well I must speak of this one before long, I was not at all anxious to do so. And I think I have read that this is a common case.
So all I said was: “Did you see the old man you meant to?”
“Old Mitchell? Yes, I did. And got something of a story out of him. I’ll keep it till after dinner. It really is rather odd.”
So when we were settled after dinner he began to report, faithfully
, as he said, the dialogue that had taken place.
Mitchell, not far off eighty years old, was in his elbow-chair. The married daughter with whom he lived was in and out preparing for tea.
After the usual salutations: “Mitchell, I want you to tell me something about the Wood.”
“What Wood’s that, Master Reginald?”
“Betton Wood. Do you remember it?”
Mitchell slowly raised his hand and pointed an accusing forefinger. “It were your father done away with Betton Wood, Master Reginald, I can tell you that much.”
“Well, I know it was, Mitchell. You needn’t look at me as if it were my fault.”
“Your fault? No, I says it were your father done it, before your time.”
“Yes, and I dare say if the truth was known, it was your father that advised him to do it, and I want to know why.”
Mitchell seemed a little amused. “Well,” he said, “my father were woodman to your father and your grandfather before him, and if he didn’t know what belonged to his business, he’d oughter done. And if he did give advice that way, I suppose he might have had his reasons, mightn’t he now?”
“Of course he might, and I want you to tell me what they were.”
“Well now, Master Reginald, whatever makes you think as I know what his reasons might ’a been I don’t know how many year ago?”
“Well, to be sure, it is a long time, and you might easily have forgotten, if ever you knew. I suppose the only thing is for me to go and ask old Ellis what he can recollect about it.”
That had the effect I hoped for.
“Old Ellis!” he growled. “First time ever I hear anyone say old Ellis were any use for any purpose. I should ’a thought you know’d better than that yourself, Master Reginald. What do you suppose old Ellis can tell you better’n what I can about Betton Wood, and what call have he got to be put afore me, I should like to know.
