Ghost Stories of an Antiquary Part 2: More Ghost Stories, Page 2

  THE ROSE GARDEN

  Mr and Mrs Anstruther were at breakfast in the parlour of Westfield Hall,in the county of Essex. They were arranging plans for the day.

  'George,' said Mrs Anstruther, 'I think you had better take the car toMaldon and see if you can get any of those knitted things I was speakingabout which would do for my stall at the bazaar.'

  'Oh well, if you wish it, Mary, of course I can do that, but I had halfarranged to play a round with Geoffrey Williamson this morning. Thebazaar isn't till Thursday of next week, is it?'

  'What has that to do with it, George? I should have thought you wouldhave guessed that if I can't get the things I want in Maldon I shall haveto write to all manner of shops in town: and they are certain to sendsomething quite unsuitable in price or quality the first time. If youhave actually made an appointment with Mr Williamson, you had better keepit, but I must say I think you might have let me know.'

  'Oh no, no, it wasn't really an appointment. I quite see what you mean.I'll go. And what shall you do yourself?'

  'Why, when the work of the house is arranged for, I must see about layingout my new rose garden. By the way, before you start for Maldon I wishyou would just take Collins to look at the place I fixed upon. You knowit, of course.'

  'Well, I'm not quite sure that I do, Mary. Is it at the upper end,towards the village?'

  'Good gracious no, my dear George; I thought I had made that quite clear.No, it's that small clearing just off the shrubbery path that goestowards the church.'

  'Oh yes, where we were saying there must have been a summer-house once:the place with the old seat and the posts. But do you think there'senough sun there?'

  'My dear George, do allow me _some_ common sense, and don't credit mewith all your ideas about summer-houses. Yes, there will be plenty of sunwhen we have got rid of some of those box-bushes. I know what you aregoing to say, and I have as little wish as you to strip the place bare.All I want Collins to do is to clear away the old seats and the posts andthings before I come out in an hour's time. And I hope you will manage toget off fairly soon. After luncheon I think I shall go on with my sketchof the church; and if you please you can go over to the links, or--'

  'Ah, a good idea--very good! Yes, you finish that sketch, Mary, and Ishould be glad of a round.'

  'I was going to say, you might call on the Bishop; but I suppose it is nouse my making _any_ suggestion. And now do be getting ready, or half themorning will be gone.'

  Mr Anstruther's face, which had shown symptoms of lengthening, shorteneditself again, and he hurried from the room, and was soon heard givingorders in the passage. Mrs Anstruther, a stately dame of some fiftysummers, proceeded, after a second consideration of the morning'sletters, to her housekeeping.

  Within a few minutes Mr Anstruther had discovered Collins in thegreenhouse, and they were on their way to the site of the projected rosegarden. I do not know much about the conditions most suitable to thesenurseries, but I am inclined to believe that Mrs Anstruther, though inthe habit of describing herself as 'a great gardener', had not been welladvised in the selection of a spot for the purpose. It was a small, dankclearing, bounded on one side by a path, and on the other by thickbox-bushes, laurels, and other evergreens. The ground was almost bare ofgrass and dark of aspect. Remains of rustic seats and an old andcorrugated oak post somewhere near the middle of the clearing had givenrise to Mr Anstruther's conjecture that a summer-house had once stoodthere.

  Clearly Collins had not been put in possession of his mistress'sintentions with regard to this plot of ground: and when he learnt themfrom Mr Anstruther he displayed no enthusiasm.

  'Of course I could clear them seats away soon enough,' he said. 'Theyaren't no ornament to the place, Mr Anstruther, and rotten too. Look'ere, sir,'--and he broke off a large piece--'rotten right through. Yes,clear them away, to be sure we can do that.'

  'And the post,' said Mr Anstruther, 'that's got to go too.'

  Collins advanced, and shook the post with both hands: then he rubbed hischin.

  'That's firm in the ground, that post is,' he said. 'That's been there anumber of years, Mr Anstruther. I doubt I shan't get that up not quite sosoon as what I can do with them seats.'

  'But your mistress specially wishes it to be got out of the way in anhour's time,' said Mr Anstruther.

  Collins smiled and shook his head slowly. 'You'll excuse me, sir, but youfeel of it for yourself. No, sir, no one can't do what's impossible to'em, can they, sir? I could git that post up by after tea-time, sir, butthat'll want a lot of digging. What you require, you see, sir, if you'llexcuse me naming of it, you want the soil loosening round this post 'ere,and me and the boy we shall take a little time doing of that. But now,these 'ere seats,' said Collins, appearing to appropriate this portion ofthe scheme as due to his own resourcefulness, 'why, I can get the barrerround and 'ave them cleared away in, why less than an hour's time fromnow, if you'll permit of it. Only--'

  'Only what, Collins?'

  'Well now, ain't for me to go against orders no more than what it is foryou yourself--or anyone else' (this was added somewhat hurriedly), 'butif you'll pardon me, sir, this ain't the place I should have picked outfor no rose garden myself. Why look at them box and laurestinus, 'ow theyreg'lar preclude the light from--'

  'Ah yes, but we've got to get rid of some of them, of course.'

  'Oh, indeed, get rid of them! Yes, to be sure, but--I beg your pardon, MrAnstruther--'

  'I'm sorry, Collins, but I must be getting on now. I hear the car at thedoor. Your mistress will explain exactly what she wishes. I'll tell her,then, that you can see your way to clearing away the seats at once, andthe post this afternoon. Good morning.'

  Collins was left rubbing his chin. Mrs Anstruther received the reportwith some discontent, but did not insist upon any change of plan.

  By four o'clock that afternoon she had dismissed her husband to his golf,had dealt faithfully with Collins and with the other duties of the day,and, having sent a campstool and umbrella to the proper spot, had justsettled down to her sketch of the church as seen from the shrubbery, whena maid came hurrying down the path to report that Miss Wilkins hadcalled.

  Miss Wilkins was one of the few remaining members of the family from whomthe Anstruthers had bought the Westfield estate some few years back. Shehad been staying in the neighbourhood, and this was probably a farewellvisit. 'Perhaps you could ask Miss Wilkins to join me here,' said MrsAnstruther, and soon Miss Wilkins, a person of mature years, approached.

  'Yes, I'm leaving the Ashes to-morrow, and I shall be able to tell mybrother how tremendously you have improved the place. Of course he can'thelp regretting the old house just a little--as I do myself--but thegarden is really delightful now.'

  'I am so glad you can say so. But you mustn't think we've finished ourimprovements. Let me show you where I mean to put a rose garden. It'sclose by here.'

  The details of the project were laid before Miss Wilkins at some length;but her thoughts were evidently elsewhere.

  'Yes, delightful,' she said at last rather absently. 'But do you know,Mrs Anstruther, I'm afraid I was thinking of old times. I'm _very_ gladto have seen just this spot again before you altered it. Frank and I hadquite a romance about this place.'

  'Yes?' said Mrs Anstruther smilingly; 'do tell me what it was. Somethingquaint and charming, I'm sure.'

  'Not so very charming, but it has always seemed to me curious. Neither ofus would ever be here alone when we were children, and I'm not sure thatI should care about it now in certain moods. It is one of those thingsthat can hardly be put into words--by me at least--and that sound ratherfoolish if they are not properly expressed. I can tell you after afashion what it was that gave us--well, almost a horror of the place whenwe were alone. It was towards the evening of one very hot autumn day,when Frank had disappeared mysteriously about the grounds, and I waslooking for him to fetch him to tea, and going down this path I suddenlysaw him, not hiding in the bushes, as I rather expected, but sitting onthe
bench in the old summer-house--there was a wooden summer-house here,you know--up in the corner, asleep, but with such a dreadful look on hisface that I really thought he must be ill or even dead. I rushed at himand shook him, and told him to wake up; and wake up he did, with ascream. I assure you the poor boy seemed almost beside himself withfright. He hurried me away to the house, and was in a terrible state allthat night, hardly sleeping. Someone had to sit up with him, as far as Iremember. He was better very soon, but for days I couldn't get him to saywhy he had been in such a condition. It came out at last that he hadreally been asleep and had had a very odd disjointed sort of dream. Henever _saw_ much of what was around him, but he _felt_ the scenes mostvividly. First he made out that he was standing in a large room with anumber of people in it, and that someone was opposite to him who was"very powerful", and he was being asked questions which he felt to bevery important, and, whenever he answered them, someone--either theperson opposite to him, or someone else in the room--seemed to be, as hesaid, making something up against him. All the voices sounded to him verydistant, but he remembered bits of the things that were said: "Where wereyou on the 19th of October?" and "Is this your handwriting?" and so on. Ican see now, of course, that he was dreaming of some trial: but we werenever allowed to see the papers, and it was odd that a boy of eightshould have such a vivid idea of what went on in a court. All the time hefelt, he said, the most intense anxiety and oppression and hopelessness(though I don't suppose he used such words as that to me). Then, afterthat, there was an interval in which he remembered being dreadfullyrestless and miserable, and then there came another sort of picture, whenhe was aware that he had come out of doors on a dark raw morning with alittle snow about. It was in a street, or at any rate among houses, andhe felt that there were numbers and numbers of people there too, and thathe was taken up some creaking wooden steps and stood on a sort ofplatform, but the only thing he could actually see was a small fireburning somewhere near him. Someone who had been holding his arm lefthold of it and went towards this fire, and then he said the fright he wasin was worse than at any other part of his dream, and if I had notwakened him up he didn't know what would have become of him. A curiousdream for a child to have, wasn't it? Well, so much for that. It musthave been later in the year that Frank and I were here, and I was sittingin the arbour just about sunset. I noticed the sun was going down, andtold Frank to run in and see if tea was ready while I finished a chapterin the book I was reading. Frank was away longer than I expected, and thelight was going so fast that I had to bend over my book to make it out.All at once I became conscious that someone was whispering to me insidethe arbour. The only words I could distinguish, or thought I could, weresomething like "Pull, pull. I'll push, you pull."

  'I started up in something of a fright. The voice--it was little morethan a whisper--sounded so hoarse and angry, and yet as if it came from along, long way off--just as it had done in Frank's dream. But, though Iwas startled, I had enough courage to look round and try to make outwhere the sound came from. And--this sounds very foolish, I know, butstill it is the fact--I made sure that it was strongest when I put my earto an old post which was part of the end of the seat. I was so certain ofthis that I remember making some marks on the post--as deep as I couldwith the scissors out of my work-basket. I don't know why. I wonder, bythe way, whether that isn't the very post itself.... Well, yes, it mightbe: there _are_ marks and scratches on it--but one can't be sure. Anyhow,it was just like that post you have there. My father got to know thatboth of us had had a fright in the arbour, and he went down there himselfone evening after dinner, and the arbour was pulled down at very shortnotice. I recollect hearing my father talking about it to an old man whoused to do odd jobs in the place, and the old man saying, "Don't you fearfor that, sir: he's fast enough in there without no one don't take andlet him out." But when I asked who it was, I could get no satisfactoryanswer. Possibly my father or mother might have told me more about itwhen I grew up, but, as you know, they both died when we were still quitechildren. I must say it has always seemed very odd to me, and I've oftenasked the older people in the village whether they knew of anythingstrange: but either they knew nothing or they wouldn't tell me. Dear,dear, how I have been boring you with my childish remembrances! butindeed that arbour did absorb our thoughts quite remarkably for a time.You can fancy, can't you, the kind of stories that we made up forourselves. Well, dear Mrs Anstruther, I must be leaving you now. We shallmeet in town this winter, I hope, shan't we?' etc., etc.

  The seats and the post were cleared away and uprooted respectively bythat evening. Late summer weather is proverbially treacherous, and duringdinner-time Mrs Collins sent up to ask for a little brandy, because herhusband had took a nasty chill and she was afraid he would not be able todo much next day.

  Mrs Anstruther's morning reflections were not wholly placid. She was suresome roughs had got into the plantation during the night. 'And anotherthing, George: the moment that Collins is about again, you must tell himto do something about the owls. I never heard anything like them, and I'mpositive one came and perched somewhere just outside our window. If ithad come in I should have been out of my wits: it must have been a verylarge bird, from its voice. Didn't you hear it? No, of course not, youwere sound asleep as usual. Still, I must say, George, you don't look asif your night had done you much good.'

  'My dear, I feel as if another of the same would turn me silly. You haveno idea of the dreams I had. I couldn't speak of them when I woke up, andif this room wasn't so bright and sunny I shouldn't care to think of themeven now.'

  'Well, really, George, that isn't very common with you, I must say. Youmust have--no, you only had what I had yesterday--unless you had tea atthat wretched club house: did you?'

  'No, no; nothing but a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I shouldreally like to know how I came to put my dream together--as I suppose onedoes put one's dreams together from a lot of little things one has beenseeing or reading. Look here, Mary, it was like this--if I shan't beboring you--'

  'I _wish_ to hear what it was, George. I will tell you when I have hadenough.'

  'All right. I must tell you that it wasn't like other nightmares in oneway, because I didn't really _see_ anyone who spoke to me or touched me,and yet I was most fearfully impressed with the reality of it all. FirstI was sitting, no, moving about, in an old-fashioned sort of panelledroom. I remember there was a fireplace and a lot of burnt papers in it,and I was in a great state of anxiety about something. There was someoneelse--a servant, I suppose, because I remember saying to him, "Horses, asquick as you can," and then waiting a bit: and next I heard severalpeople coming upstairs and a noise like spurs on a boarded floor, andthen the door opened and whatever it was that I was expecting happened.'

  'Yes, but what was that?'

  'You see, I couldn't tell: it was the sort of shock that upsets you in adream. You either wake up or else everything goes black. That was whathappened to me. Then I was in a big dark-walled room, panelled, I think,like the other, and a number of people, and I was evidently--'

  'Standing your trial, I suppose, George.'

  'Goodness! yes, Mary, I was; but did you dream that too? How very odd!'

  'No, no; I didn't get enough sleep for that. Go on, George, and I willtell you afterwards.'

  'Yes; well, I _was_ being tried, for my life, I've no doubt, from thestate I was in. I had no one speaking for me, and somewhere there was amost fearful fellow--on the bench I should have said, only that he seemedto be pitching into me most unfairly, and twisting everything I said, andasking most abominable questions.'

  'What about?'

  'Why, dates when I was at particular places, and letters I was supposedto have written, and why I had destroyed some papers; and I recollect hislaughing at answers I made in a way that quite daunted me. It doesn'tsound much, but I can tell you, Mary, it was really appalling at thetime. I am quite certain there was such a man once, and a most horriblevillain he must have been. The things he said--'

&
nbsp; 'Thank you, I have no wish to hear them. I can go to the links any daymyself. How did it end?'

  'Oh, against me; _he_ saw to that. I do wish, Mary, I could give you anotion of the strain that came after that, and seemed to me to last fordays: waiting and waiting, and sometimes writing things I knew to beenormously important to me, and waiting for answers and none coming, andafter that I came out--'

  'Ah!'

  'What makes you say that? Do you know what sort of thing I saw?'

  'Was it a dark cold day, and snow in the streets, and a fire burningsomewhere near you?'

  'By George, it was! You _have_ had the same nightmare! Really not? Well,it is the oddest thing! Yes; I've no doubt it was an execution for hightreason. I know I was laid on straw and jolted along most wretchedly, andthen had to go up some steps, and someone was holding my arm, and Iremember seeing a bit of a ladder and hearing a sound of a lot of people.I really don't think I could bear now to go into a crowd of people andhear the noise they make talking. However, mercifully, I didn't get tothe real business. The dream passed off with a sort of thunder inside myhead. But, Mary--'

  'I know what you are going to ask. I suppose this is an instance of akind of thought-reading. Miss Wilkins called yesterday and told me of adream her brother had as a child when they lived here, and something didno doubt make me think of that when I was awake last night listening tothose horrible owls and those men talking and laughing in the shrubbery(by the way, I wish you would see if they have done any damage, and speakto the police about it); and so, I suppose, from my brain it must havegot into yours while you were asleep. Curious, no doubt, and I am sorryit gave you such a bad night. You had better be as much in the fresh airas you can to-day.'

  'Oh, it's all right now; but I think I _will_ go over to the Lodge andsee if I can get a game with any of them. And you?'

  'I have enough to do for this morning; and this afternoon, if I am notinterrupted, there is my drawing.'

  'To be sure--I want to see that finished very much.'

  No damage was discoverable in the shrubbery. Mr Anstruther surveyed withfaint interest the site of the rose garden, where the uprooted post stilllay, and the hole it had occupied remained unfilled. Collins, uponinquiry made, proved to be better, but quite unable to come to his work.He expressed, by the mouth of his wife, a hope that he hadn't donenothing wrong clearing away them things. Mrs Collins added that there wasa lot of talking people in Westfield, and the hold ones was the worst:seemed to think everything of them having been in the parish longer thanwhat other people had. But as to what they said no more could then beascertained than that it had quite upset Collins, and was a lot ofnonsense.

  * * * * *

  Recruited by lunch and a brief period of slumber, Mrs Anstruther settledherself comfortably upon her sketching chair in the path leading throughthe shrubbery to the side-gate of the churchyard. Trees and buildingswere among her favourite subjects, and here she had good studies of both.She worked hard, and the drawing was becoming a really pleasant thing tolook upon by the time that the wooded hills to the west had shut off thesun. Still she would have persevered, but the light changed rapidly, andit became obvious that the last touches must be added on the morrow. Sherose and turned towards the house, pausing for a time to take delight inthe limpid green western sky. Then she passed on between the darkbox-bushes, and, at a point just before the path debouched on the lawn,she stopped once again and considered the quiet evening landscape, andmade a mental note that that must be the tower of one of the Roothingchurches that one caught on the sky-line. Then a bird (perhaps) rustledin the box-bush on her left, and she turned and started at seeing what atfirst she took to be a Fifth of November mask peeping out among thebranches. She looked closer.

  It was not a mask. It was a face--large, smooth, and pink. She remembersthe minute drops of perspiration which were starting from its forehead:she remembers how the jaws were clean-shaven and the eyes shut. Sheremembers also, and with an accuracy which makes the thought intolerableto her, how the mouth was open and a single tooth appeared below theupper lip. As she looked the face receded into the darkness of the bush.The shelter of the house was gained and the door shut before shecollapsed.

  Mr and Mrs Anstruther had been for a week or more recruiting at Brightonbefore they received a circular from the Essex Archaeological Society,and a query as to whether they possessed certain historical portraitswhich it was desired to include in the forthcoming work on EssexPortraits, to be published under the Society's auspices. There was anaccompanying letter from the Secretary which contained the followingpassage: 'We are specially anxious to know whether you possess theoriginal of the engraving of which I enclose a photograph. It representsSir ---- ----, Lord Chief Justice under Charles II, who, as you doubtlessknow, retired after his disgrace to Westfield, and is supposed to havedied there of remorse. It may interest you to hear that a curious entryhas recently been found in the registers, not of Westfield but of PriorsRoothing to the effect that the parish was so much troubled after hisdeath that the rector of Westfield summoned the parsons of all theRoothings to come and lay him; which they did. The entry ends by saying:"The stake is in a field adjoining to the churchyard of Westfield, on thewest side." Perhaps you can let us know if any tradition to this effectis current in your parish.'

  The incidents which the 'enclosed photograph' recalled were productive ofa severe shock to Mrs Anstruther. It was decided that she must spend thewinter abroad.

  Mr Anstruther, when he went down to Westfield to make the necessaryarrangements, not unnaturally told his story to the rector (an oldgentleman), who showed little surprise.

  'Really I had managed to piece out for myself very much what must havehappened, partly from old people's talk and partly from what I saw inyour grounds. Of course we have suffered to some extent also. Yes, it wasbad at first: like owls, as you say, and men talking sometimes. One nightit was in this garden, and at other times about several of the cottages.But lately there has been very little: I think it will die out. There isnothing in our registers except the entry of the burial, and what I for along time took to be the family motto: but last time I looked at it Inoticed that it was added in a later hand and had the initials of one ofour rectors quite late in the seventeenth century, A. C.--AugustineCrompton. Here it is, you see--_quieta non movere_. I suppose-- Well, itis rather hard to say exactly what I do suppose.'