Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story of an
adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name of Dennistoun,
during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum at Cambridge.
He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return to England;
but they could not fail to become known to a good many of his friends, and
among others to the gentleman who at that time presided over an art museum
at another University. It was to be expected that the story should make a
considerable impression on the mind of a man whose vocation lay in lines
similar to Dennistoun's, and that he should be eager to catch at any
explanation of the matter which tended to make it seem improbable that he
should ever be called upon to deal with so agitating an emergency. It was,
indeed, somewhat consoling to him to reflect that he was not expected to
acquire ancient MSS for his institution; that was the business of the
Shelburnian Library. The authorities of that might, if they pleased, ransack
obscure corners of the Continent for such matters. He was glad to be obliged
at the moment to confine his attention to enlarging the already unsurpassed
collection of English topographical drawings and engravings possessed by his
museum. Yet, as it turned out, even a department so homely and familiar as
this may have its dark corners, and to one of these Mr Williams was
unexpectedly introduced.
Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisition of
topographical pictures are aware that there is one London dealer whose aid
is indispensable to their researches. Mr J. W. Britnell publishes at short
intervals very admirable catalogues of a large and constantly changing stock
of engravings, plans, and old sketches of mansions, churches, and towns in
England and Wales. These catalogues were, of course, the ABC of his subject
to Mr Williams: but as his museum already contained an enormous accumulation
of topographical pictures, he was a regular, rather than a copious, buyer;
and he rather looked to Mr Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of
his collection than to supply him with rarities.
Now, in February of last year there appeared upon Mr Williams's desk at the
museum a catalogue from Mr Britnell's emporium, and accompanying it was a
typewritten communication from the dealer himself. This latter ran as
follows:
DEAR SIR, -
We beg to call your attention to No. 978 in our accompanying
catalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval.
Yours faithfully,
J. W. BRITNELL
To turn to No. 978 in the accompanying catalogue was with Mr Williams (as he
observed to himself) the work of a moment, and in the place indicated he
found the following entry:
'978. - Unknown. Interesting mezzotint: View of a manor-house, early part of
the century, 15 by 10 inches; black frame. £2 2s.'
It was not specially exciting, and the price seemed high. However, as Mr
Britnell, who knew his business and his customer, seemed to set store by it,
Mr Williams wrote a postcard asking for the article to be sent on approval,
along with some other engravings and sketches which appeared in the same
catalogue. And so he passed without much excitement of anticipation to the
ordinary labours of the day.
A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it, and that
of Mr Britnell proved, as I believe the right phrase goes, no exception to
the rule. It was delivered at the museum by the afternoon post of Saturday,
after Mr Williams had left his work, and it was accordingly brought round to
his rooms in college by the attendant, in order that he might not have to
wait over Sunday before looking through it and returning such of the
contents as he did not propose to keep. And here he found it when he came in
to tea, with a friend.
The only item with which I am concerned was the rather large, black-framed
mezzotint of which I have already quoted the short description given in Mr
Britnell's catalogue. Some more details of it will have to be given, though
I cannot hope to put before you the look of the picture as clearly as it is
present to my own eye. Very nearly the exact duplicate of it may be seen in
a good many old inn parlours, or in the passages of undisturbed country
mansions at the present moment. It was a rather indifferent mezzotint, and
an indifferent mezzotint is, perhaps, the worst form of engraving known. It
presented a full-face view of a not very large manor-house of the last
century, with three rows of plain sashed windows with rusticated masonry
about them, a parapet with balls or vases at the angles, and a small portico
in the centre. On either side were trees, and in front a considerable
expanse of lawn. The legend 'A. W. F. sculpsit' was engraved on the narrow
margin; and there was no further inscription. The whole thing gave the
impression that it was the work of an amateur. What in the world Mr Britnell
could mean by affixing the price of £2 2s. to such an object was more than
Mr Williams could imagine. He turned it over with a good deal of contempt;
upon the back was a paper label, the left-hand half of which had been torn
off. All that remained were the ends of two lines of writing: the first had
the letters --ngley Hall; the second, --ssex.
It would, perhaps, be just worth while to identify the place represented,
which he could easily do with the help of a gazetteer, and then he would
send it back to Mr Britnell, with some remarks reflecting upon the judgement
of that gentleman.
He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and supplied the
friend with whom he had been playing golf (for I believe the authorities of
the University I write of indulge in that pursuit by way of relaxation); and
tea was taken to the accompaniment of a discussion which golfing persons can
imagine for themselves, but which the conscientious writer has no right to
inflict upon any non-golfing persons.
The conclusion arrived at was that certain strokes might have been better,
and that in certain emergencies neither player had experienced that amount
of luck which a human being has a right to expect. It was now that the
friend - let us call him Professor Binks - took up the framed engraving, and
said:
'What's this place, Williams?'
'Just what I am going to try to find out,' said Williams, going to the shelf
for a gazetteer. 'Look at the back. Somethingley Hall, either in Sussex or
Essex. Half the name's gone, you see. You don't happen to know it, I
suppose?'
'It's from that man Britnell, I suppose, isn't it?' said Binks. 'Is it for
the museum?'
'Well, I think I should buy it if the price was five shillings,' said
Williams; 'but for some unearthly reason he wants two guineas for it. I
can't conceive why. It's a wretched engraving, and there aren't even any
figures to give it life.'
'It's not worth two guineas, I should think,' said Binks; 'but I don't think
it's so badly done. The moonlight seems rather good to me; and I should have
thought there were figures, or at least a figure, just on the edge in
front.'
'Let's look,' said Williams. 'Well, it's true the light is rather cleverly
given. Where's your figure? Oh yes! Just the head, in the very front of the
picture.'
And indeed there was - hardly more than a black blot on the extreme edge of
the engraving - the head of a man or woman, a good deal muffled up, the back
turned to the spectator, and looking towards the house.
Williams had not noticed it before.
'Still,' he said, 'though it's a cleverer thing than I thought, I can't
spend two guineas of museum money on a picture of a place I don't know.'
Professor Binks had his work to do, and soon went; and very nearly up to
Hall time Williams was engaged in a vain attempt to identify the subject of
his picture. 'If the vowel before the ng had only been left, it would have
been easy enough,' he thought; 'but as it is, the name may be anything from
Guestingley to Langley, and there are many more names ending like this than
I thought; and this rotten book has no index of terminations.'
Hall in Mr Williams's college was at seven. It need not be dwelt upon; the
less so as he met there colleagues who had been playing golf during the
afternoon, and words with which we have no concern were freely bandied
across the table - merely golfing words, I would hasten to explain.
I suppose an hour or more to have been spent in what is called common-room
after dinner. Later in the evening some few retired to Williams's rooms, and
I have little doubt that whist was played and tobacco smoked. During a lull
in these operations Williams picked up the mezzotint from the table without
looking at it, and handed it to a person mildly interested in art, telling
him where it had come from, and the other particulars which we already know.
The gentleman took it carelessly, looked at it, then said, in a tone of some
interest:
'It's really a very good piece of work, Williams; it has quite a feeling of
the romantic period. The light is admirably managed, it seems to me, and the
figure, though it's rather too grotesque, is somehow very impressive.'
'Yes, isn't it?' said Williams, who was just then busy giving
whisky-and-soda to others of the company, and was unable to come across the
room to look at the view again.
It was by this time rather late in the evening, and the visitors were on the
move. After they went Williams was obliged to write a letter or two and
clear up some odd bits of work. At last, some time past midnight, he was
disposed to turn in, and he put out his lamp after lighting his bedroom
candle. The picture lay face upwards on the table where the last man who
looked at it had put it, and it caught his eye as he turned the lamp down.
What he saw made him very nearly drop the candle on the floor, and he
declares now that if he had been left in the dark at that moment he would
have had a fit. But, as that did not happen, he was able to put down the
light on the table and take a good look at the picture. It was indubitable -
rankly impossible, no doubt, but absolutely certain. In the middle of the
lawn in front of the unknown house there was a figure where no figure had
been at five o'clock that afternoon. It was crawling on all-fours towards
the house, and it was muffled in a strange black garment with a white cross
on the back.
I do not know what is the ideal course to pursue in a situation of this
kind. I can only tell you what Mr Williams did. He took the picture by one
corner and carried it across the passage to a second set of rooms which he
possessed. There he locked it up in a drawer, sported the doors of both sets
of rooms, and retired to bed; but first he wrote out and signed an account
of the extraordinary change which the picture had undergone since it had
come into his possession.
Sleep visited him rather late; but it was consoling to reflect that the
behaviour of the picture did not depend upon his own unsupported testimony.
Evidently the man who had looked at it the night before had seen something
of the same kind as he had, otherwise he might have been tempted to think
that something gravely wrong was happening either to his eyes or his mind.
This possibility being fortunately precluded, two matters awaited him on the
morrow. He must take stock of the picture very carefully, and call in a
witness for the purpose, and he must make a determined effort to ascertain
what house it was that was represented. He would therefore ask his neighbour
Nisbet to breakfast with him, and he would subsequently spend a morning over
the gazetteer.
Nisbet was disengaged, and arrived about 9.30. His host was not quite
dressed, I am sorry to say, even at this late hour. During breakfast nothing
was said about the mezzotint by Williams, save that he had a picture on
which he wished for Nisbet's opinion. But those who are familiar with
University life can picture for themselves the wide and delightful range of
subjects over which the conversation of two Fellows of Canterbury College is
likely to extend during a Sunday morning breakfast. Hardly a topic was left
unchallenged, from golf to lawn-tennis. Yet I am bound to say that Williams
was rather distraught; for his interest naturally centred in that very
strange picture which was now reposing, face downwards, in the drawer in the
room opposite.
The morning pipe was at last lighted, and the moment had arrived for which
he looked. With very considerable - almost tremulous - excitement, he ran
across, unlocked the drawer, and, extracting the picture - still face
downwards - ran back, and put it into Nisbet's hands.
'Now,' he said, 'Nisbet, I want you to tell me exactly what you see in that
picture. Describe it, if you don't mind, rather minutely. I'll tell you why
afterwards.'
'Well,' said Nisbet, 'I have here a view of a country-house - English, I
presume - by moonlight.'
'Moonlight? You're sure of that?'
'Certainly. The moon appears to be on the wane, if you wish for details, and
there are clouds in the sky.'
'All right. Go on. I'll swear,' added Williams in an aside, 'there was no
moon when I saw it first.'
'Well, there's not much more to be said,' Nisbet continued. 'The house has
one - two - three rows of windows, five in each row, except at the bottom,
where there's a porch instead of the middle one, and - '
'But what about figures?' said Williams, with marked interest.
'There aren't any,' said Nisbet; 'but - '
'What! No figure on the grass in front?'
'Not a thing.'
'You'll swear to that?'
'Certainly I will. But there's just one other thing.'
'What?'
'Why, one of the windows on the ground floor - left of the door - is open.'
'Is it really? My goodness! he must have got in,' said Williams, with great
excitement; and he hurried to the back of the sofa on which Nisbet was
sitting, and, catching the picture from him, verified the matter for
himself.
It was quite true. There was no figure, and there was the open window.
Williams, after a moment of speechless surprise, went to the writing-table
and scribbled for a short time. Then he brought two papers to Nisbet, and
asked him first to sign one - it was his own description of the picture,
which you have just heard - and then to read the other which was Williams's
statement written the night before.
'What can it all mean?' said Nisbet.
'Exactly,' said Williams. 'Well, one thing I must do - or three things, now
I think of it. I must find out from Garwood' - this was his last night's
visitor - 'what he saw, and then I must get the thing photographed before it
goes further, and then I must find out what the place is.'
'I can do the photographing myself,' said Nisbet, 'and I will. But, you
know, it looks very much as if we were assisting at the working out of a
tragedy somewhere. The question is, Has it happened already, or is it going
to come off? You must find out what the place is. Yes,' he said, looking at
the picture again, 'I expect you're right: he has got in. And if I don't
mistake there'll be the devil to pay in one of the rooms upstairs.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Williams: 'I'll take the picture across to old
Green' (this was the senior Fellow of the College, who had been Bursar for
many years). 'It's quite likely he'll know it. We have property in Essex and
Sussex, and he must have been over the two counties a lot in his time.'
'Quite likely he will,' said Nisbet; 'but just let me take my photograph
first. But look here, I rather think Green isn't up today. He wasn't in Hall
last night, and I think I heard him say he was going down for the Sunday.'
'That's true, too,' said Williams; 'I know he's gone to Brighton. Well, if
you'll photograph it now, I'll go across to Garwood and get his statement,
and you keep an eye on it while I'm gone. I'm beginning to think two guineas
is not a very exorbitant price for it now.'
In a short time he had returned, and brought Mr Garwood with him. Garwood's
statement was to the effect that the figure, when he had seen it, was clear
of the edge of the picture, but had not got far across the lawn. He
remembered a white mark on the back of its drapery, but could not have been
sure it was a cross. A document to this effect was then drawn up and signed,
and Nisbet proceeded to photograph the picture.
'Now what do you mean to do?' he said. 'Are you going to sit and watch it
all day?'
'Well, no, I think not,' said Williams. 'I rather imagine we're meant to see
the whole thing. You see, between the time I saw it last night and this
morning there was time for lots of things to happen, but the creature only
got into the house. It could easily have got through its business in the
time and gone to its own place again; but the fact of the window being open,
I think, must mean that it's in there now. So I feel quite easy about
leaving it. And, besides, I have a kind of idea that it wouldn't change
much, if at all, in the daytime. We might go out for a walk this afternoon,
and come in to tea, or whenever it gets dark. I shall leave it out on the
table here) and sport the door. My skip can get in, but no one else.'
The three agreed that this would be a good plan; and, further, that if they
spent the afternoon together they would be less likely to talk about the
business to other people; for any rumour of such a transaction as was going
on would bring the whole of the Phasmatological Society about their ears.
We may give them a respite until five o'clock.
At or near that hour the three were entering Williams's staircase. They were
at first slightly annoyed to see that the door of his rooms was unsported;
but in a moment it was remembered that on Sunday the skips came for orders
an hour or so earlier than on week-days. However, a surprise was awaiting
them. The first thing they saw was the picture leaning up against a pile of
books on the table, as it had been left, and the next thing was Williams's
skip, seated on a chair opposite, gazing at it with undisguised horror. How
was this? Mr Filcher (the name is not my own invention) was a servant of
considerable standing, and set the standard of etiquette to all his own
college and to several neighbouring ones, and nothing could be more alien to
his practice than to be found sitting on his master's chair, or appearing to
take any particular notice of his master's furniture or pictures. Indeed, he
seemed to feel this himself. He started violently when the three men came
into the room, and got up with a marked effort. Then he said: 'I ask your
pardon, sir, for taking such a freedom as to set down.'
'Not at all, Robert,' interposed Mr Williams. 'I was meaning to ask you some
time what you thought of that picture.'
'Well, sir, of course I don't set up my opinion again yours, but it ain't
the pictur I should 'ang where my little girl could see it, sir.'
'Wouldn't you, Robert? Why not?'
'No, sir. Why, the pore child, I recollect once she see a Door Bible, with
pictures not 'alf what that is, and we 'ad to set up with her three or four
nights afterwards, if you'll believe me; and if she was to ketch a sight of
this skelinton here, or whatever it is, carrying off the pore baby, she
would be in a taking. You know 'ow it is with children; 'ow nervish they git
with a little thing and all. But what I should say, it don't seem a right
pictur to be laying about, sir, not where anyone that's liable to be
startled could come on it. Should you be wanting anything this evening, sir?
Thank you, sir.'
With these words the excellent man went to continue the round of his
masters, and you may be sure the gentlemen whom he left lost no time in
gathering round the engraving. There was the house, as before under the
waning moon and the drifting clouds. The window that had been open was shut,
and the figure was once more on the lawn: but not this time crawling
cautiously on hands and knees. Now it was erect and stepping swiftly, with
long strides, towards the front of the picture. The moon was behind it, and
the black drapery hung down over its face so that only hints of that could
be seen, and what was visible made the spectators profoundly thankful that
they could see no more than a white dome-like forehead and a few straggling
hairs. The head was bent down, and the arms were tightly clasped over an
object which could be dimly seen and identified as a child, whether dead or
living it was not possible to say. The legs of the appearance alone could be
plainly discerned, and they were horribly thin.
From five to seven the three companions sat and watched the picture by
turns. But it never changed. They agreed at last that it would be safe to
leave it, and that they would return after Hall and await further
developments.
When they assembled again, at the earliest possible moment, the engraving
was there, but the figure was gone, and the house was quiet under the
moonbeams. There was nothing for it but to spend the evening over gazetteers
and guide-books. Williams was the lucky one at last, and perhaps he deserved
it. At 11.30 p.m. he read from Murray's Guide to Essex the following lines:
'16½ miles, Anningley. The church has been an interesting building of Norman
date, but was extensively classicized in the last century. It contains the
tombs of the family of Francis, whose mansion, Anningley Hall, a solid Queen
Anne house, stands immediately beyond the churchyard in a park of about 80
acres. The family is now extinct, the last heir having disappeared
mysteriously in infancy in the year 1802. The father, Mr Arthur Francis, was
locally known as a talented amateur engraver in mezzotint. After his son's
disappearance he lived in complete retirement at the Hall, and was found
dead in his studio on the third anniversary of the disaster, having just
completed an engraving of the house, impressions of which are of
considerable rarity.'
This looked like business, and, indeed, Mr Green on his return at once
identified the house as Anningley Hall.
'Is there any kind of explanation of the figure, Green?' was the question
which Williams naturally asked.
' I don't know, I'm sure, Williams. What used to be said in the place when I
first knew it, which was before I came up here, was just this: old Francis
was always very much down on these poaching fellows, and whenever he got a
chance he used to get a man whom he suspected of it turned off the estate,
and by degrees he got rid of them all but one. Squires could do a lot of
things then that they daren't think of now. Well, this man that was left was
what you find pretty often in that country - the last remains of a very old
family. I believe they were Lords of the Manor at one time. I recollect just
the same thing in my own parish.'
'What, like the man in Tess of the D'Urbervilles?' Williams put in.
'Yes, I dare say; it's not a book I could ever read myself. But this fellow
could show a row of tombs in the church there that belonged to his
ancestors, and all that went to sour him a bit; but Francis, they said,
could never get at him - he always kept just on the right side of the law -
until one night the keepers found him at it in a wood right at the end of
the estate. I could show you the place now; it marches with some land that
used to belong to an uncle of mine. And you can imagine there was a row; and
this man Gawdy (that was the name, to be sure - Gawdy; I thought I should
get it - Gawdy), he was unlucky enough, poor chap! to shoot a keeper. Well,
that was what Francis wanted, and grand juries - you know what they would
have been then - and poor Gawdy was strung up in double-quick time; and I've
been shown the place he was buried in, on the north side of the church - you
know the way in that part of the world: anyone that's been hanged or made
away with themselves, they bury them that side. And the idea was that some
friend of Gawdy's - not a relation, because he had none, poor devil! he was
the last of his line: kind of spes ultima gentis - must have planned to get
hold of Francis's boy and put an end to his line, too. I don't know - it's
rather an out-of-the-way thing for an Essex poacher to think of - but, you
know, I should say now it looks, more as if old Gawdy had managed the job
himself. Booh! I hate to think of it! Have some whisky, Williams!'
The facts were communicated by Williams to Dennistoun, and by him to a mixed
company, of which I was one, and the Sadducean Professor of Ophiology
another. I am sorry to say that the latter, when asked what he thought of
it, only remarked: 'Oh, those Bridgeford people will say anything' - a
sentiment which met with the reception it deserved.
I have only to add that the picture is now in the Ashleian Museum; that it
has been treated with a view to discovering whether sympathetic ink has been
used in it, but without effect; that Mr Britnell knew nothing of it save
that he was sure it was uncommon; and that, though carefully watched, it has
never been known to change again.
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