BEHIND THE WALL.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2610, 18 September 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

BEHIND THE WALL.

(By Violet Jacob, Author of “The Shoepstealers,” etc.)

Friday evenings set Arthur Wickham lice from tho Government office in which his weeks were spent. By nature he was made for an active life, but circumstances had headed him off his natural path and tethered him to London. His friends—.and he had a good many—said that golf had spoilt him ; that they never saw him now; that it war, a great pity to be utter!y engrossed, body and soul, in one pursuit, and all sorts of things thao friends say when other 1 people’s doings do not exactly match their own. But two days of golf compensated him both for their opinions and for the loss of their company on Saturdays and Sundays.

Tlie golf-course at Shorne was a good one, lying on the high ground which sloped up behind the-town. The golfers could look down over the x-oofs ox the hudd.od streets—for Shorne was an ancient little place—to the curving beach beside which modern hotels and lodging? were disfiguring the sea wall. The town seemed to be drawing back in old-fashioned distinction from these second-rate to the security of the hill f rom which the square tower of the Shorne Church looked out towards tlie Romney Marshes. The golf-course tramped weekly by Wickham had flung its chain of smooth putting greens out among the humble farmhouses and woods which lie so close to the Kentish shore, and tho players could see (from their /elevation the chalk-scattered downs on one hand and the sea glittering towards Dungenoss on the other. Wickham liked the place better every time lie came to it. He had the happy temperament which is attracted bj- casual sights, and the gift of loitering; so he often strolled among tlie walled lanes, and under the ilex avenue flanking the massiveness of the church when the business of golf was over. Shorne was full of Georgian houses, and Wickham, who had a smattering of architectural knowledge in his head, liked Georgian houses. One evening, when he had sent back liis clubs to the inn in the High street, he whistled to his Aberdeen terrier. Skittles, and man and dog went strolling up towards the church. They took their way between the high garden walls which enclose the older houses, and, having no special goal, they turned at random into any by way, which happened to appeal to Wickham’s fancy. The little dog ran before his master in that perpetual search for imaginary adventure common to his kind. Tlie sun of the late June afternoon fell upon just and unjust; upon roof and foliage; upon brickwork and stem; and a late season had saved the greens of Nature from losing their translucent quality as thoj? sprang towards the blue alxive them. On either side of Wickham the high walls had a foreign air which translated him, mentally, into the suburbs of some French town. The one on his left was surmounted by a trellis which dripped with a fringe of wisteria; and above this, h© could see the tall head of a large acacia tree, which seemed to grow somewhere near the garden. To many minds there is no more suggastive sight 'than that of a door in a dead wall, and the young man stopped before the wooden one which broke the mellow expanse of masonary at his side. It was small and weatherstained and sqnk a brick’s depth in the surface; and it was old enough to have gained expression, as inanimate things not in constant use will gain it with the lapse of time. The secrecy of its look was enhanced by the absence of both handle and key.

Some paces further on the wisteria plant fell over the eopmg to tlie level of liis shoulder and lie paused again to sniff at the lumps of mauve blossom with which it was loaded. As his face came into contact with the leaves ho jkiw that they Covered a square cavity like an unglazed, window. Prejudices are strange things; though the particular assortment owned by him were silent as lie peeped between the steins. He pushed them aside with liis fingers. But, if he erred in his act, his punishment was swift. A few inches from his own a pair of eyes on the inner side of the wall were set on him with an expression which made him start back. There was no movement in them; they looked fixedly out of a pale face as absolutely still as themselves. The presence of the unknown person made no rustle behind the wisteria, and if he or she—for Wickham had no impression of sex—were annoyed by his curiosity there was neither sound nor sign to indicate the fact. He was liot sure whether the eyes were blind, and the thought made him shudder, though there could be nothing to warrant his doing so, 'were his suspicions correct. Ho walked on hurriedly. Skittles was at the next corner waiting to see which way his master would take. He turned up towards the church, losing the disagreeable feeling produced in him by tho little incident as he went along the. terrace of ilex and up the steps into the Churchyard. .The blue sea lay beyond the town, and tho crosses and monuments in their ordered rows were beginning to throw long shadows on the gross. The place was empty but for an old man who was clipping a ragged yew bush within the chain railing which encompassed an ordinary round-topped tombstone. Wickham’s glance fell on tho inscription as he passed it: "Anno Swaysland, born 1808, died 1865.” He had never seen the name before.

Ho entered tho great porch of the Norman church, bidding Skittles wait outsidej and went to tlic door leading to the tower, for it had occurred to him

that it he climbed it he would bo able to see into the garden with the acacia tree. Soon he was at the top of the stair, and coming out upon the tower he looked over the parapet. Skittles was mounting guard by bit stick, and the chopping of shears came up to him from Annie Sway.si end’s grave. He was above the level of the ilex trees and there was nothing to obstruct his view of the walled-in houses between himself and the High street. He found the one he wanted at once; a narrow-windowed brick house with a steep roof and stone facings.. To his surprise it had the dead look of an uninhabited building, and the lawn was under high grass. The acacia stood there where he had expected to find it and round its trunk were, the remains of a circular seat. A weed-grown path ran round the whole length of the lower wall by which he had lately passed, and he could see the hole which looked out on the lane. The wisteria hung round it on the inside also. It seemed to have been trained down purposely in that spot; but the person whose eyes had met his own had gone. While he watched, disappointed, from Ids isolated height, a -woman came out of the house and went quickly with an odd, shuffling gait into the alley of bushes running down one side of the garden. It was not only her walk that was strange, and Wickham’s lips parted in an astonishment which he could not have explained. He did not know whether it was her dress or her movements, but he leaned over the parapet to watch her emerge from the alley and go straight to the hole in the wall. He remained were he was, fascinated, as she stood, a black spot, in the same place, until the striking of the hour from the church reminded him of the futile nature of his occupation. The man below had put away his shears, and Skittles, who had at last discovered his whereabouts, was shivering and whining as he gazed at the silhouette made by his master’s head and shoulders against the sky. Wickham came down the tower stair. Perhaps it was his knowledge of what the woman’s eyes were like that made him endow her figure with some sinister quality. 110 went home to his inn, not sorry to he welcomed back to the commonplace by the company of his deg and the harmless gossip of a waiter to whom he was an established acquaintance.

Next day -was Sunday, and again W ickham left the golf-course in the evening to return to the Crown; the early train on tlic morrow would take him to London in good time for his office hour. Ho parted with various men he knew at the golf-house, for most of them stayed at the new- hotel on the esplanade, in preference to the old-fashioned inn which had become a familiar haunt to him. He made, as usual, for the church, and thence down to the High street, and where the lane between the garden walls crossed his way he. turned into it, impelled to pass once more by the half-hidden aperture at which he had seen the strange eyes. But this time he did not wish to look through. He was not anxious to moot those eyes at such close quarters

again. He liad almost reached the little wooden door further on when it opened. and the woman in black stepped out into the road a few paces in front of him. There had been no sound of footsteps in the garden to give warning of her approach. She drew the door to behind her, turning for the moment to face the young man. and her look struck his soul again with the shock of a blow. She was a middle-aged woman —almost old—the pallor of whose face was accentuated by the uncouth lines of a close bonnet. 'But ad detail was lost on Wickham by reason of her eyes. Ho was only conscious of them ana oT the straight eyelids which cut the iris, lying on the upper half as a band of cloud lies on the disc of the sinking sun. The still, dead malignity emanating from beneath that level line made him stop involuntarily, and step back a pace from her. Her lips were drawn back, perhaps in a smile, hut Wickham, could not have told whether she smiled or not. He realised nothing, neither then nor afterwards, but that stream of expression concentrated on him from unfocussed pupils. He felt there was nothing in it personal to himself and that ho merely stood, by hazard, in its way, as he might have stood in the way of a bull’s-eye lantern ; but his horror was not lessened because of that. She turned, away and his wits wore brought back by the fury of his dog, who had evidently been unprepared to see the figure emerge from the door, Skittles’ tail was between his legs and his growls and barking filled tlio lane. Which am was so much afraid that he would, persue the retreating woman that lie laid hold of his collar, and did not let it go till she had disappeared round the first corner which led down to the town. He had reached" the Crown before the little terrier had ceased to whine and protest. Skittles stopped and looked behind him, at intervals, the whole way down the High street. Chance brought Wickham back to Churn© the next week sooner than' he expected; for some repairs in his particular department of the office liberated the clerks on the following Thursday night. Friday morning found him once more in the train with his golf clubs, and by luncheon-time- he was sitting at his own table in the window j of the Crown dining-room looking into the medley of old houses and new shops which formed the narrow High street. There was more movement going on I than ho over remembered seeing in the little ulace; but those who caused it added 'nothing to. the liveliness of tho outlook. Some event had produced an i outbreak of blaclc-coated. and tail-hat-;

ted men, as warmth after a spell of summer cold will produce flies from hidden corners. All moved in one direction and all had the air of rising consciously to an occasion. The explanation could only he a funeral. “Who’s being buried?” inquired Wickham of his friend, the waiter. “Mr. Swaysland, sir; solicitor, sir," replied the man, whipping his napkin under his arm and going to the window as though he expected to see the deceased in the street. Wickham stared.

“Swaysland—Swaysland,” lie repeated, looking through the waiter’s head. Then he remembered Anne Swaysland’s tombstone and the man with the shears clipping the yew bush over her grave. “Acquainted with the family, ■ hazarded his companion. “No—no,” said Wickham. “I only noticed the name in the churchyard. I suppose they’re well-known people here?” “Lor, yes, sir, they’ve been here for nearly a hundred years. Two houses here Mr. Swaysland had, one at the bottom of this street and one between this and the church. But he lived in this small one down here, sir. He couldn’t abide to be in the other. Ho hasn’t gone inside the walls since Miss Anne’s death —his half-sister, sir. Fine garden it has, too.” Wickham picked up his ears. “You can’t see the 7 ouse from the road, the walls is that high. Old Mr. Swaysland—” “Is that the one with the acacia tree in the middle?” “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” replied the waiter, locking puzzled. Like most indoor servants he did not know one tree from another. “But there’s a door at the bottom of the garden—a little wooden door,” continued Wickham. “When you turn the corner of the wall, coining this way. you go straight up to the church.” “That’s it, sir.” The interest on Wickham’s face appeared to please Ins companion. He came close to the table and laid, his hand on the empty chair opposite the young man. “I expect you’ve heard something about it,” said ho. “Well, I was born in this town, and I’ve seen Miss Anne myself when I was a little brat of a boy. “I’m a good deal older than you, sir. if I may take the liberty of saying so.” “Miss Anne,” said Wickham, ‘Y know nothing about Miss Anne; I’ve never even heard the name Swaysland.” The waiter dropped his voice confidentially. “Twenty years, sir, she lived there. She was thirty-seven when they put her in that house, and she was fifty-seven when they took her out of it to lay her in the churchyard.” “How do you mean ‘put her in?’” asked Wickham, quickly; “was she mad?” “All, that's what nobody knows. But old Swaysland says so, and that was good enough for the doctors and lawyers. Her being mad meant a fine bit o’ money to her half-brother, you sec — Mr. Swaysland, that’s it.” “And do you mean that lie shut her up there?” “They did—between them,” said the waiter.* “She never came out of theiP wails again. There used to be a little square hole where she couid see into the road, and she used to sit there looking out day after day. That's when I saw her, sir, when I was a bov.”

Wickham laid down his knife and fork; lie leaned Across the table drinking in every word.

“He never wont that house again after Miss Anne’s death, Mr. Swaysland didn’t,” continued the man. “I was too young to understand anything about it when it ’appened, but I hoard enough about it when I grew older. Mv father's sister was kind of nurse hereabout, before them ladies in the white caps was invented (she's gone now, poor soul, too), and she was sent for to Miss Annie. Many’s tiro time I’ve heard her telling; mother about it. Mr. Swaysland came into the room the night, the lady died, but he kept out o’ sight of the bed till the doctor thought she was going, and beckoned to him. When he came close Miss Anne opened her eyes, and aunt used to say they were like the eyes of a serpent. ‘Richard,’, says she, looking at him, ‘your turn’ll come, as mine’s coming now, and when it does I’ll fetch you. You’ve kept me here foir twenty years,’ she says, 'but you won’t be able to keep me back—net then. I’ll come for you.’ And she died with her face turned to Mr. Swaysland. Here they are now, sir,” he added, looking down the street, “they’re obliged to go the longest way. The horses can’t get up the asphalted lanes to the church.”

But Wickham did not look out. He saw in his mind a stranger sight than that which occupied his companion; for he was standing again in recollection, by the doer of the wall.

“Can you tell me exactly when ‘Mr. Swaysland died ?” he said at last. “It was very sudden,” replied the waiter, who was now absorbed in the passing precession; “it was last Sunday evening about this time—a- little earlier perhaps.” AYlicn the last carriage had gone by lie turned again to the young inan. “People think of queer things some times,” lie observed, apologetically. “D’you know', sir, I’ve wondered two or three times since last Sunday whether tho poor Jady kept her word.” Wickham looked at him a moment in silence. “I think she did,” he said, with a curious smile I ,fancy :