Chapter 2

Then, after
that, there was an interval in which he remembered being dreadfully
restless and miserable, and then there came another sort of picture, when
he was aware that he had come out of doors on a dark raw morning with a
little snow about. It was in a street, or at any rate among houses, and
he felt that there were numbers and numbers of people there too, and that
he was taken up some creaking wooden steps and stood on a sort of
platform, but the only thing he could actually see was a small fire
burning somewhere near him. Someone who had been holding his arm left
hold of it and went towards this fire, and then he said the fright he was
in was worse than at any other part of his dream, and if I had not
wakened him up he didn't know what would have become of him. A curious
dream for a child to have, wasn't it? Well, so much for that. It must
have been later in the year that Frank and I were here, and I was sitting
in the arbour just about sunset. I noticed the sun was going down, and
told Frank to run in and see if tea was ready while I finished a chapter
in the book I was reading. Frank was away longer than I expected, and the
light 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 inside
the arbour. The only words I could distinguish, or thought I could, were
something like "Pull, pull. I'll push, you pull."

'I started up in something of a fright. The voice--it was little more
than a whisper--sounded so hoarse and angry, and yet as if it came from a
long, long way off--just as it had done in Frank's dream. But, though I
was startled, I had enough courage to look round and try to make out
where the sound came from. And--this sounds very foolish, I know, but
still it is the fact--I made sure that it was strongest when I put my ear
to an old post which was part of the end of the seat. I was so certain of
this that I remember making some marks on the post--as deep as I could
with the scissors out of my work-basket. I don't know why. I wonder, by
the way, whether that isn't the very post itself.... Well, yes, it might
be: 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 that
both of us had had a fright in the arbour, and he went down there himself
one evening after dinner, and the arbour was pulled down at very short
notice. I recollect hearing my father talking about it to an old man who
used to do odd jobs in the place, and the old man saying, "Don't you fear
for that, sir: he's fast enough in there without no one don't take and
let him out." But when I asked who it was, I could get no satisfactory
answer. Possibly my father or mother might have told me more about it
when I grew up, but, as you know, they both died when we were still quite
children. I must say it has always seemed very odd to me, and I've often
asked the older people in the village whether they knew of anything
strange: but either they knew nothing or they wouldn't tell me. Dear,
dear, how I have been boring you with my childish remembrances! but
indeed 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 for
ourselves. Well, dear Mrs Anstruther, I must be leaving you now. We shall
meet in town this winter, I hope, shan't we?' etc., etc.

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

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

'My dear, I feel as if another of the same would turn me silly. You have
no idea of the dreams I had. I couldn't speak of them when I woke up, and
if this room wasn't so bright and sunny I shouldn't care to think of them
even now.'

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

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

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

'All right. I must tell you that it wasn't like other nightmares in one
way, 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. First
I was sitting, no, moving about, in an old-fashioned sort of panelled
room. 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 someone
else--a servant, I suppose, because I remember saying to him, "Horses, as
quick as you can," and then waiting a bit: and next I heard several
people coming upstairs and a noise like spurs on a boarded floor, and
then 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 a
dream. You either wake up or else everything goes black. That was what
happened 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 will
tell you afterwards.'

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

'What about?'

'Why, dates when I was at particular places, and letters I was supposed
to have written, and why I had destroyed some papers; and I recollect his
laughing at answers I made in a way that quite daunted me. It doesn't
sound much, but I can tell you, Mary, it was really appalling at the
time. I am quite certain there was such a man once, and a most horrible
villain he must have been. The things he said--'

'Thank you, I have no wish to hear them. I can go to the links any day
myself. How did it end?'

'Oh, against me; _he_ saw to that. I do wish, Mary, I could give you a
notion of the strain that came after that, and seemed to me to last for
days: waiting and waiting, and sometimes writing things I knew to be
enormously important to me, and waiting for answers and none coming, and
after 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 burning
somewhere 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 high
treason. I know I was laid on straw and jolted along most wretchedly, and
then had to go up some steps, and someone was holding my arm, and I
remember 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 and
hear the noise they make talking. However, mercifully, I didn't get to
the real business. The dream passed off with a sort of thunder inside my
head. But, Mary--'

'I know what you are going to ask. I suppose this is an instance of a
kind of thought-reading. Miss Wilkins called yesterday and told me of a
dream her brother had as a child when they lived here, and something did
no doubt make me think of that when I was awake last night listening to
those 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 speak
to the police about it); and so, I suppose, from my brain it must have
got into yours while you were asleep. Curious, no doubt, and I am sorry
it gave you such a bad night. You had better be as much in the fresh air
as you can to-day.'

'Oh, it's all right now; but I think I _will_ go over to the Lodge and
see 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 not
interrupted, 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 with
faint interest the site of the rose garden, where the uprooted post still
lay, and the hole it had occupied remained unfilled. Collins, upon
inquiry 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 done
nothing wrong clearing away them things. Mrs Collins added that there was
a 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 than
what other people had. But as to what they said no more could then be
ascertained than that it had quite upset Collins, and was a lot of
nonsense.

* * * * *

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

It was not a mask. It was a face--large, smooth, and pink. She remembers
the minute drops of perspiration which were starting from its forehead:
she remembers how the jaws were clean-shaven and the eyes shut. She
remembers also, and with an accuracy which makes the thought intolerable
to her, how the mouth was open and a single tooth appeared below the
upper 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 she
collapsed.

Mr and Mrs Anstruther had been for a week or more recruiting at Brighton
before they received a circular from the Essex Archaeological Society,
and a query as to whether they possessed certain historical portraits
which it was desired to include in the forthcoming work on Essex
Portraits, to be published under the Society's auspices. There was an
accompanying letter from the Secretary which contained the following
passage: 'We are specially anxious to know whether you possess the
original of the engraving of which I enclose a photograph. It represents
Sir ---- ----, Lord Chief Justice under Charles II, who, as you doubtless
know, retired after his disgrace to Westfield, and is supposed to have
died there of remorse. It may interest you to hear that a curious entry
has recently been found in the registers, not of Westfield but of Priors
Roothing, to the effect that the parish was so much troubled after his
death that the rector of Westfield summoned the parsons of all the
Roothings 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 the
west side." Perhaps you can let us know if any tradition to this effect
is current in your parish.'

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

Mr Anstruther, when he went down to Westfield to make the necessary
arrangements, not unnaturally told this story to the rector (an old
gentleman), who showed little surprise.

'Really I had managed to piece out for myself very much what must have
happened, partly from old people's talk and partly from what I saw in
your grounds. Of course we have suffered to some extent also. Yes, it was
bad at first: like owls, as you say, and men talking sometimes. One night
it 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 is
nothing in our registers except the entry of the burial, and what I for a
long time took to be the family motto: but last time I looked at it I
noticed that it was added in a later hand and had the initials of one of
our rectors quite late in the seventeenth century, A. C.--Augustine
Crompton. Here it is, you see--_quieta non movere_. I suppose-- Well, it
is rather hard to say exactly what I do suppose.'

THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH

Towards the end of an autumn afternoon an elderly man with a thin face
and grey Piccadilly weepers pushed open the swing-door leading into the
vestibule of a certain famous library, and addressing himself to an
attendant, stated that he believed he was entitled to use the library,
and inquired if he might take a book out. Yes, if he were on the list of
those to whom that privilege was given. He produced his card--Mr John
Eldred--and, the register being consulted, a favourable answer was given.
'Now, another point,' said he. 'It is a long time since I was here, and I
do not know my way about your building; besides, it is near closing-time,
and it is bad for me to hurry up and down stairs. I have here the title
of the book I want: is there anyone at liberty who could go and find it
for me?' After a moment's thought the doorkeeper beckoned to a young man
who was passing. 'Mr Garrett,' he said, 'have you a minute to assist this
gentleman?' 'With pleasure,' was Mr Garrett's answer. The slip with the
title was handed to him. 'I think I can put my hand on this; it happens
to be in the class I inspected last quarter, but I'll just look it up in
the catalogue to make sure. I suppose it is that particular edition that
you require, sir?' 'Yes, if you please; that, and no other,' said Mr
Eldred; 'I am exceedingly obliged to you.' 'Don't mention it I beg, sir,'
said Mr Garrett, and hurried off.

'I thought so,' he said to himself, when his finger, travelling down the
pages of the catalogue, stopped at a particular entry. 'Talmud: Tractate
Middoth, with the commentary of Nachmanides, Amsterdam, 1707. 11.3.34.
Hebrew class, of course. Not a very difficult job this.'

Mr Eldred, accommodated with a chair in the vestibule, awaited anxiously
the return of his messenger--and his disappointment at seeing an
empty-handed Mr Garrett running down the staircase was very evident. 'I'm
sorry to disappoint you, sir,' said the young man, 'but the book is out.'
'Oh dear!' said Mr Eldred, 'is that so? You are sure there can be no
mistake?' 'I don't think there is much chance of it, sir: but it's
possible, if you like to wait a minute, that you might meet the very
gentleman that's got it. He must be leaving the library soon, and I
_think_ I saw him take that particular book out of the shelf.' 'Indeed!
You didn't recognize him, I suppose? Would it be one of the professors or
one of the students?' 'I don't think so: certainly not a professor. I
should have known him; but the light isn't very good in that part of the
library at this time of day, and I didn't see his face. I should have
said he was a shortish old gentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a cloak. If
you could wait, I can easily find out whether he wants the book very
particularly.'

'No, no,' said Mr Eldred, 'I won't--I can't wait now, thank you--no. I
must be off. But I'll call again to-morrow if I may, and perhaps you
could find out who has it.'

'Certainly, sir, and I'll have the book ready for you if we--' But Mr
Eldred was already off, and hurrying more than one would have thought
wholesome for him.

Garrett had a few moments to spare; and, thought he, 'I'll go back to
that case and see if I can find the old man. Most likely he could put off
using the book for a few days. I dare say the other one doesn't want to
keep it for long.' So off with him to the Hebrew class. But when he got
there it was unoccupied, and the volume marked 11.3.34 was in its place
on the shelf. It was vexatious to Garrett's self-respect to have
disappointed an inquirer with so little reason: and he would have liked,
had it not been against library rules, to take the book down to the
vestibule then and there, so that it might be ready for Mr Eldred when he
called. However, next morning he would be on the look out for him, and he
begged the doorkeeper to send and let him know when the moment came. As a
matter of fact, he was himself in the vestibule when Mr Eldred arrived,
very soon after the library opened, and when hardly anyone besides the
staff were in the building.

'I'm very sorry,' he said; 'it's not often that I make such a stupid
mistake, but I did feel sure that the old gentleman I saw took out that
very book and kept it in his hand without opening it, just as people do,
you know, sir, when they mean to take a book out of the library and not
merely refer to it. But, however, I'll run up now at once and get it for
you this time.'

And here intervened a pause. Mr Eldred paced the entry, read all the
notices, consulted his watch, sat and gazed up the staircase, did all
that a very impatient man could, until some twenty minutes had run out.
At last he addressed himself to the doorkeeper and inquired if it was a
very long way to that part of the library to which Mr Garrett had gone.

'Well, I was thinking it was funny, sir: he's a quick man as a rule, but
to be sure he might have been sent for by the libarian, but even so I
think he'd have mentioned to him that you was waiting. I'll just speak
him up on the toob and see.' And to the tube he addressed himself. As he
absorbed the reply to his question his face changed, and he made one or
two supplementary inquiries which were shortly answered. Then he came
forward to his counter and spoke in a lower tone. 'I'm sorry to hear,
sir, that something seems to have 'appened a little awkward. Mr Garrett
has been took poorly, it appears, and the libarian sent him 'ome in a
cab the other way. Something of an attack, by what I can hear.' 'What,
really? Do you mean that someone has injured him?' 'No, sir, not violence
'ere, but, as I should judge, attacted with an attack, what you might
term it, of illness. Not a strong constitootion, Mr Garrett. But as to
your book, sir, perhaps you might be able to find it for yourself. It's
too bad you should be disappointed this way twice over--' 'Er--well, but
I'm so sorry that Mr Garrett should have been taken ill in this way while
he was obliging me. I think I must leave the book, and call and inquire
after him. You can give me his address, I suppose.' That was easily done:
Mr Garrett, it appeared, lodged in rooms not far from the station. 'And,
one other question. Did you happen to notice if an old gentleman, perhaps
a clergyman, in a--yes--in a black cloak, left the library after I did
yesterday. I think he may have been a--I think, that is, that he may be
staying--or rather that I may have known him.'

'Not in a black cloak, sir; no. There were only two gentlemen left later
than what you done, sir, both of them youngish men. There was Mr Carter
took out a music-book and one of the prefessors with a couple o' novels.
That's the lot, sir; and then I went off to me tea, and glad to get it.
Thank you, sir, much obliged.'

* * * * *

Mr Eldred, still a prey to anxiety, betook himself in a cab to Mr
Garrett's address, but the young man was not yet in a condition to
receive visitors. He was better, but his landlady considered that he must
have had a severe shock. She thought most likely from what the doctor
said that he would be able to see Mr Eldred to-morrow. Mr Eldred returned
to his hotel at dusk and spent, I fear, but a dull evening.

On the next day he was able to see Mr Garrett. When in health Mr Garrett
was a cheerful and pleasant-looking young man. Now he was a very white
and shaky being, propped up in an arm-chair by the fire, and inclined to
shiver and keep an eye on the door. If however, there were visitors whom
he was not prepared to welcome, Mr Eldred was not among them. 'It really
is I who owe you an apology, and I was despairing of being able to pay
it, for I didn't know your address. But I am very glad you have called. I
do dislike and regret giving all this trouble, but you know I could not
have foreseen this--this attack which I had.'

'Of course not; but now, I am something of a doctor. You'll excuse my
asking; you have had, I am sure, good advice. Was it a fall you had?'

'No. I did fall on the floor--but not from any height. It was, really, a
shock.'

'You mean something startled you. Was it anything you thought you saw?'

'Not much _thinking_ in the case, I'm afraid. Yes, it was something I
saw. You remember when you called the first time at the library?'

'Yes, of course. Well, now, let me beg you not to try to describe it--it
will not be good for you to recall it, I'm sure.'

'But indeed it would be a relief to me to tell anyone like yourself: you
might be able to explain it away. It was just when I was going into the
class where your book is--'

'Indeed, Mr Garrett, I insist; besides, my watch tells me I have but very
little time left in which to get my things together and take the train.
No--not another word--it would be more distressing to you than you
imagine, perhaps. Now there is just one thing I want to say. I feel that
I am really indirectly responsible for this illness of yours, and I think
I ought to defray the expense which it has--eh?'

But this offer was quite distinctly declined. Mr Eldred, not pressing it,
left almost at once: not, however, before Mr Garrett had insisted upon
his taking a note of the class-mark of the Tractate Middoth, which, as he
said, Mr Eldred could at leisure get for himself. But Mr Eldred did not
reappear at the library.

* * * * *

William Garrett had another visitor that day in the person of a
contemporary and colleague from the library, one George Earle. Earle had
been one of those who found Garrett lying insensible on the floor just
inside the 'class' or cubicle (opening upon the central alley of a
spacious gallery) in which the Hebrew books were placed, and Earle had
naturally been very anxious about his friend's condition. So as soon as
library hours were over he appeared at the lodgings. 'Well,' he said
(after other conversation), 'I've no notion what it was that put you
wrong, but I've got the idea that there's something wrong in the
atmosphere of the library. I know this, that just before we found you I
was coming along the gallery with Davis, and I said to him, "Did ever you
know such a musty smell anywhere as there is about here? It can't be
wholesome." Well now, if one goes on living a long time with a smell of
that kind (I tell you it was worse than I ever knew it) it must get into
the system and break out some time, don't you think?'

Garrett shook his head. 'That's all very well about the smell--but it
isn't always there, though I've noticed it the last day or two--a sort of
unnaturally strong smell of dust. But no--that's not what did for me. It
was something I _saw_. And I want to tell you about it. I went into that
Hebrew class to get a book for a man that was inquiring for it down
below. Now that same book I'd made a mistake about the day before. I'd
been for it, for the same man, and made sure that I saw an old parson in
a cloak taking it out. I told my man it was out: off he went, to call
again next day. I went back to see if I could get it out of the parson:
no parson there, and the book on the shelf. Well, yesterday, as I say, I
went again. This time, if you please--ten o'clock in the morning,
remember, and as much light as ever you get in those classes, and there
was my parson again, back to me, looking at the books on the shelf I
wanted. His hat was on the table, and he had a bald head. I waited a
second or two looking at him rather particularly. I tell you, he had a
very nasty bald head. It looked to me dry, and it looked dusty, and the
streaks of hair across it were much less like hair than cobwebs. Well, I
made a bit of a noise on purpose, coughed and moved my feet. He turned
round and let me see his face--which I hadn't seen before. I tell you
again, I'm not mistaken. Though, for one reason or another I didn't take
in the lower part of his face, I did see the upper part; and it was
perfectly dry, and the eyes were very deep-sunk; and over them, from the
eyebrows to the cheek-bone, there were _cobwebs_--thick.