Part 14
The doctor was put to bed, well fed for two or three days, at the end of which time he could stand, and even walk a short distance alone; and within three weeks was able to form one of the members of our shooting-parties, and although fifty-eight years of age, was as strong and hearty a man as any of us.
* * * * *
Spring at last came, and by July we had a full cargo; consequently, on the last of that month, we steered south-west, homeward bound for bonny Scotland and the relatives we had been parted from so long.
The doctor, of whom we had grown fond, was a very cheery companion, and looked a strange figure as he walked about the deck, with his carefully-combed and brushed hair and beard coiled neatly round his waist, and usually fastened off with a bit of scarlet bunting.
The wildness of his hilarity seemed at times to point to an unhinged mind, and as the good ship _White Swan_ neared her destination, he became so excited that pronounced symptoms of madness appeared. These symptoms increased so rapidly, that when within about five hundred miles of Aberdeen, the poor doctor had to be locked in the captain’s cabin. He refused all food, and when it was placed inside the door instantly flung it into the sea from the stern windows.
“Only one more night and part of a day,” said the skipper, “and we shall be in Aberdeen, if this breeze holds, when we will immediately have a doctor on board to see to our poor friend and companion, Sinclair.”
But it was not to be so; for next morning, when the captain went to the cabin to ask the doctor how he fared, as was his custom several times during the day, although he only got abuse for his pains, and even threats of violence, he received no answer.
He knocked and knocked again without obtaining a reply, and mounting the companion peered into the cabin through the skylight; but not a trace of Doctor Sinclair was to be seen.
Finally the cabin door was burst open, and to the regret of all it was found that the doctor had disappeared. There was no mystery about it, for it was a clear case of self-destruction while of unsound mind: he had leaped out of one of the stern windows and drowned himself.
On reaching port our yarn was soon spread abroad, but of course laughed at by every one, as we had no proof that Doctor Angus Sinclair had ever existed, except in our imagination. True, we had the three bottles and the parchment, and these were in due time sent to the College of Physicians in London, where they were analyzed and commented upon in the medical journals.
What little remained of the “Suspender of Animation” was given to rabbits and dogs, and it really had such a soporific power that they could not be awakened, and, as long as they were kept in an atmosphere below 25°, they remained without signs of decay, even for years after.
Unfortunately, we had used, in restoring the old doctor to animation, all the contents of the blue bottle--three drops excepted. The contents of the red bottle proved, on analysis, to be a concentrated quintessence of brandy, which accounts for the doctor requiring it to be mixed with hot water before being administered.
His idea was that animation might often be usefully suspended in the case of persons out of work, on a voyage, or in embarrassed circumstances; that many, who wished to skip over, as it were, a few years of life,--either for the purpose of evading creditors, or escaping the nagging tongue of a contentious wife--would welcome his discovery and hail it, indeed, as the greatest of all possible boons.
Certain it is that had the doctor lived to patent his idea, he would have completely revolutionized the social world. If our skipper had only clapped on the “darbies” when he put the doctor in his cabin, we might now be living in strangely-altered times.
Just pause and deliberate on what wonders might have happened, but for the untimely madness and death of Doctor Angus Sinclair.
You, gentle reader, will probably come to the conclusion that my yarn is like Heathen mythology--very fair reading, but without much to recommend it in the way of truth.
If, however, you should require further proof of the authenticity of my story, you have only to fit out a suitable yacht, sail for Spitzbergen, hunt about for South Island, and having found it, you will probably also find the hut just as I have described it, perched half-way up the cliffs, in a bay (on the south of the island, mind you); and if you enter the said hut and search on the shelf over the wooden berth, you will find all that remains of Doctor Angus Sinclair; a relic that we in our hurry left behind; a relic that will prove my yarn to be strictly true, for the memento consists of the grand old doctor’s wonderful eyebrows.
* * * * *
Strange to say, amid the scores of stories which I heard in all parts of England, but few of them were connected with ghosts, visions, or apparitions, and from this paucity of tales of the supernatural, I have come to the conclusion that the majority of such stories are somewhat mythical and usually mere hearsay, not even second-hand versions of something that has really happened, but stories told by the fireside in the first place, and afterwards handed from mouth to mouth with numerous additions and alterations to suit places and individuals, until at length they become so changed and distorted that their inventors would not recognize the offspring of their own imagination, should they at any subsequent period listen to their recital.
Usually, after a story had been told, if I put the question, “Did you see this?” the answer would be, “Oh, no; John Williams told me about it, and I believe he heard it from Tom Smith.” A search for Tom Smith would only result in the fact that he had heard it from Harry Jones, etc., so that, strive as one might, the actual participator in the gruesome adventure one wished to fathom could never be discovered.
One very cold December day I happened to be passing through North Somersetshire, and whilst in the vicinity of Minehead, made the acquaintance of a farmer who was also a blacksmith. My stove had broken down, and one or two odd jobs of ironwork required to be done, so I procured the services of my new acquaintance, and when the various little repairs had been finished, invited him to share my evening meal, and join me in a pipe and hand at cards.
He was nothing loath, and stayed. Of course my usual ghoulish thirst for a story possessed me, and I endeavoured to obtain one from my guest, but he affirmed that he could no more tell a story than I could put him to sleep. Nothing memorable, he averred, had ever occurred during his life, so how could he tell of what had never happened?
Then we fell to speaking of farming and crops, horses and fields, and among other items he mentioned that his best crops were obtained from the field in which my van was then located, called the Haunted Field.
“What,” thought I, “the haunted field! this must be seen into.”
And see into it I did, for five minutes later my guest was in a hypnotic trance, and from his lips I gathered the following very Christmassy story.
X.
THE PHANTOM RIDERS.
“Once upon a time” might fittingly be the initial words of this story, for the terrible events of which it is a narration took place long, long years ago; in fact, at the end of the seventeenth century.
To be precise, the day on which the stirring narrative commences was December 23, 1695, two hundred years ago this very Christmas, but heaven protect us from such a dreadful Christmastide as that.
The old Manor House at Minehead, in Somersetshire, no longer exists, for the legends attached to it were of such a terrifying nature, that no one dare rent it after the death of John Simmonds in 1696, so that being uncared for, the old house lingered and decayed till it looked an ideal picture of “desolation.”
Haunted or no, there was something so uncanny in the appearance of the old gables, fast tottering to ruin, that even in the crepuscular light of early evening, persons would hurry by it with a shudder, while later at night, many would go a long way round rather than pass its weather-worn walls. The very air that blew past the ruin seemed to gather a deathly fragrance, which was doubtless due to the fast-rotting timbers of the floors and ceilings.
Be that as it may, the evil repute of the old house grew so great, and such dreadful stories were current concerning its sights and sounds, that it was some years ago pulled down, the ground ploughed up, and crops now flourish where, for generations, owls and bats held their habitation undisturbed.
Minehead Manor House was an Elizabethan red-brick structure, with tall twisted chimneys, curved gables, and dormer windows peeping out from the red clay tiles. Its grounds were extensive, its gardens prim, and its fish-pond well stocked with carp, eel, and pike; for John Simmonds, the owner, was fond of wandering about and improving his domain. His gardens and fish-pond were his hobbies, and so fully occupied his entire time that he was seldom seen in the village, where he was greatly respected and admired for his kindness to the poor, while his grand old English appearance had all the stateliness of a typical country squire.
He had an only daughter, Julia, an accomplished young lady as accomplishments went in those days. She could sing and accompany herself upon the spinet, could embroider beautifully, spin, and generally comport herself as a young lady of twenty-three should, who has a whole household on her shoulders.
Of lady friends she had few, and her gentlemen friends were even still more scarce. One young gentleman, Wynne Clarge (a distant relative), who lived near, assumed, probably because of the non-existence of any rival, that he should some day claim her for his wife, but he was very apathetic in the matter. There was little real _love_ between them; they were passable friends, and that was all; he looked upon Julia as he did upon his horse--they were both nice in their way, and ministered to his wants; for the rest he took everything as a matter of course, simply because he had no rival.
Things were running in their usual groove, when one day, early in December, a gentleman was announced, who had called to pay his respects to Mr. Simmonds.
It was soon explained that he was Charles Benwell, the son of Mr. Simmonds’ sister, who had for many years resided in Virginia.
The cousins (for Charles was invited to stay at the Manor House for a few weeks) fell in love with each other at first sight, and the love was so sincere and intense, that ere three weeks had passed, Mr. Simmonds was solicited for Julia’s hand.
“Quick work, my boy,” quoth the genial old man. “Why, you have scarcely had time to know each other yet. It puts me in mind of Julius Cæsar, does this visit of yours, ‘He came, he saw, he conquered,’ and so have you, apparently. Well, well, we shall see. But you must not expect a fat dowry with her, for she can sing, ‘My face is my fortune,’ like the maid in the song; but still she will not be penniless--no, no! I will see that she has a suitable maintenance.”
“As to that, Mr. Simmonds, you know I am over here for the purpose of selling the property which my poor mother--your sister--has left me. There are three estates of considerable size, amounting in the aggregate to something like twelve hundred acres, besides several houses, the documents appertaining to which I have left at the solicitor’s at Dulverton.
“Now, Mr. Simmonds, tell me, have you any objection to my looking upon your daughter as my affianced bride?”
Mr. Simmonds had no objection, but being a very cautious business man, would like just a glance at the documents empowering Charles to sell his late mother’s estates, simply as a matter of precaution, and to ascertain if there were a flaw anywhere that might cause any delay in the disposal of the property.
“As to that,” rapturously vociferated Benwell, “the papers shall be in your hands by this time to-morrow, so that you may search them through, and then on glorious Christmas Eve give your sanction and blessing to our engagement.”
“Only fancy being engaged on Christmas Eve, Julia!” exclaimed Charles. “How romantic! It is like the beginning of a story-book.”
* * * * *
From the day of Benwell’s arrival, Wynne Clarge had roamed about the house and grounds, snarling at every one and everything. He had treated Julia very rudely, and one day suddenly asked her--
“What is that fellow dangling about after you for? I will not have it, Julia.”
“But, Wynne,” his fair cousin replied, “it can surely be no business of yours if he wishes to pay me attention; he is my cousin, and who knows but he may make me a proposal before he leaves Minehead?”
All this was said coquettishly, but looking up at Wynne she was frightened at the look of hatred she perceived on his face.
“A proposal he _may_ make, but your husband he shall never be while I wear this by my side,” and he touched the hilt of his rapier significantly, as he strode off down the garden path.
From that day he sought to quarrel with young Benwell, and his relations with Mr. Simmonds became so strained, that the old gentleman grew alarmed at his manner, and quietly but firmly forbade him the house.
“It is not your house or lands I want,” exclaimed the irate Wynne; “but hark ye, old man, Julia shall be my wife and no other’s; willy-nilly she _shall_ be mine. I have waited for years, and will not be baulked by this sallow-faced American loon! Let him have his holiday, and go as he came, and leave Julia in my hands, or--I will know the reason why!”
* * * * *
It was Christmas Eve, and Squire Simmonds had invited a few of the neighbouring gentry to spend the evening sociably together under his roof. Wynne had been invited with the rest, for at Christmastide the squire could not be at variance with any man; but in the evening no Wynne appeared. This gave rise to some little comments among the guests, who good-naturedly twitted pretty Julia with having two strings to her bow.
She blushed and bore it, only looking anxiously now and again at the face of the old clock at the end of the dining-room, for it was past the hour when Charley had promised he would return; for he had gone over to Dulverton in the morning to fetch the required documents. He had promised to be back by six o’clock, and it was now eight, and both Julia and her father began to exchange glances of alarm.
At nine o’clock the guests also became anxious, and Mr. Simmonds tried to persuade both himself and those present that all was right.
“You see, it is fifteen miles from here to Dulverton,” said Mr. Simmonds. “Possibly he did not start till six o’clock; then he had to make a _détour_, so as to call at Stoke Pero and deliver a message to one of Julia’s friends, and that would make his homeward journey eighteen or twenty miles, and thirty-five miles there and back is a longish ride. Besides, his horse, Old Maggie, is none too good for a long trot over this hilly country. Fill up, my friends! Here’s to our future squire, Charles Benwell!”
He raised the goblet to his lips, but had not commenced to quaff, when looking towards the door, he saw the absent Charley advancing toward the table, looking extremely pale. All in the room rose in greeting, but he turned from them, and unbuckling the clasp of his riding-cloak, walked to an alcove, formerly an immense fire-place, but now used as a closet for hanging outdoor coats, wraps, and accoutrements, a curtain being drawn across it.
To their surprise, every one present noticed, as he turned, that his deep white collar (which was the fashion of those days) was saturated with blood, and as they noted this, and had the words on their lips to speak to him about it, he disappeared into the alcove by walking, as it seemed, _right through the curtain_, and not drawing it aside in the usual way!
The assembled guests stood aghast.
What could it mean?
For a long time not a man stirred. But at length the spell was broken by a young fellow named William Rayner advancing to the curtain sword in hand: he snatched it suddenly aside.
_The recess was empty!_
Charles Benwell had apparently vanished through the solid wall!
The curtain fell from Rayner’s grasp as he stood immovable with amazement. Then came another long pause; a consultation; a replenishment of glasses; and finally the conclusion was arrived at that it was the apparition of Julia’s lover they had seen.
Fear now settled on them all, and as they sat, talking in hushed tones and glancing nervously about, the curtain guarding the alcove was seen to move.
It bulged out slightly as if caught by a draught of air, and then again its long, sombre folds trailed upon the floor and were still again.
No one moved from the spot where he happened to be sitting or standing, but all eyes were fixed in horror on the agitated tapestry.
_Again it swayed._
This time the bold Will Rayner rose, and drawing his sword, was joined by some of the others, also sword in hand. Rapidly they advanced across the intervening space, and Rayner, plucking hold of the fabric with his left hand, drew it aside with a quick jerk.
Wonder of wonders, in place of the white-faced Benwell there stood his scowling rival, Wynne Clarge.
His right wrist was bared, and his sword point, which was advanced towards the spectators, was seen to be covered with blood.
As they looked with startled eyes, the blood slowly dripped to the floor, drip--drip--drip!
“How now, Master Clarge, think you to frighten us with such tomfoolery?” exclaimed Will Rayner. “Get thee gone with thy mummery, or my sword shall teach thee a lesson not to make fools of thy betters.”
Then, rushing forward, he attempted to beat the sword out of Wynne’s hand with his own, but to his amazement no clang of steel sounded as their weapons met.
“Here’s at thee, Wynne,” cried the now enraged man; and suiting the action to the word, he made a deadly thrust at his opponent’s breast: the blade pierced the figure without any resistance, and struck the wall so violently that it was knocked out of his hand and rolled clattering on the floor.
At the attack and thrust Wynne looked straight at his assailant, smiled sardonically, and--_slowly melted away_.
* * * * *
The guests stayed all night, sleeping where they best could, at least those whose eyelids had the power to close; while the more nervous scarce dare move from the room for fear of encountering one or other of their ghostly visitors.
It was useless trying to search the wild country between Minehead and Dulverton while it was yet dark, but with the first grey light of a dull morning--Christmas Day--a party of eight gentlemen rode off in search of the missing Charles Benwell.
Through Selworthy they silently rode, and turning to the left entered the lovely woods of Korner. Hills rose to a great height on either side of the valley up which they travelled; hills that seemed to touch--aye, and really did touch--the low-lying dun-coloured snow-clouds. There was a rough kind of path, which ran beside the brook--now swollen to a mountain torrent--but at best it was a mere cattle track, and was now fast becoming obliterated by the silently falling snow.
The men rode on, scarcely speaking a word; the only sound that was heard was the roar of the turbulent torrent as it tore through its rocky bed on its way to the sea at Porlock.
Presently they heard a horse neigh, and making at once towards the sound, quickly found poor Old Maggie grazing at the foot of Dunkery Beacon near the village of Stoke Pero.
The snow was now falling so fast that not the sharpest eye could perceive the summit of the Beacon, which towered sixteen hundred feet above them.
“Coup! coup! Maggie,” coaxingly cried Will Rayner, and the mare, whinnying, trotted to him. She was still saddled, and they found, as they feared to find, both upon the saddle and back, stains of blood.
“Follow up, friends,” said Will, “as rapidly as possible, for if I mistake not, our poor friend lies not far away, and if we make not the best of our way, the snow may hide from us that which we seek.”
They accordingly travelled on much quicker, and as they turned to cross the rustic bridge, at the foot of the hill from which Stoke Pero looks dreamily down, they found poor Benwell, lying on his face, dead, frozen stark and stiff, and partly covered with snow as with a winding-sheet.
They dismounted, and examined the murdered man, discovering to their amazement and horror that he had been run through the base of the neck from _behind_, by some cowardly hand.
The body was laid over the back of a horse, and four of the gentlemen returned with it to the Manor House, while Will and the other three friends prosecuted their search for Wynne Clarge.
This search, however, was in vain; no signs of him could be found, and after wandering about in the snow for a long time they returned to Minehead.
It was indeed a sad Christmas Day for the good folks of the Manor House, which instead of being a place of rejoicing was now a house of the deepest sorrow.
Poor Julia was inconsolable.
No papers relating to the property were found on the body, and this gave some clue to Wynne’s reason for waylaying the poor young fellow.
Benwell was buried in the churchyard which lies high upon the hill, a churchyard surrounded by walls that look out over the quiet town like the ramparts of a fortress dominating a city.
A week later, a great commotion was caused by the news being brought, that Wynne’s body had been discovered in the trout pool, which lies nearly hidden under the great hill near Stoke Pero.
True it was, and for him too--murderer as well as murdered--a resting-place was found in the quiet hill-top churchyard.
* * * * *
The missing papers could not be discovered, although the woods had been searched in all directions, and as the unusually cold winter gave place to the genial early spring, people began to look upon the tragedy as a thing of the past, and talked no more of it.
Poor Julia drooped and faded; but with the advent of the lovely warm May days she revived, and, by and by, became her own sweet self again; not quite so tuneful in her songs as of yore, but still her father’s own little warbling bird, for he delighted in music and in singing, particularly the songs his daughter sang to him of an evening.
Summer came with its flowers, and autumn with its grain and fruit, and then--then came cold dreary winter once more.
Christmas approached, but this year, instead of the usual jovial party at the Manor House, Julia and her father accepted an invitation to spend a few days with the sporting rector of Stoke Pero. They arrived at the Rectory on the 22nd of December (a Monday), and were invited to stay over Christmas Day, which was on the Thursday.
Julia was not at all in good spirits, and was evidently thinking of the dreadful Christmas a year ago and her lost love. She brooded so that, as Christmas Eve approached, she was positively unable to hide her state of intense nervousness and melancholy, and at noon on the 24th she felt herself so unwell that she implored her father to take her home.
Mr. Simmonds and the worthy parson took counsel together, and as Julia appeared in a high state of nervous excitement bordering on fever, they gave her a sleeping draught, placing her in the chimney corner in the Rector’s great arm-chair. There she slept for three hours, but when she awoke, again implored her father to take her home, as she felt so ill and did not wish to give her kind hosts trouble.