The Strand Magazine, Vol. 07, Issue 40, April, 1894 An Illustrated Monthly

The Queer Side of Things. "HE READ THE PASS." "Will they not know at once that I am not a true National Guardsman?" asked Otho. "Not if you hide your face as best as you can. They know not me. I came on last evening for the first time. I only entered the service yesterday; enlisted on purpose for this bit of work. Oh, God, send that it prove a success! Now, forward! march!" At the foot of the stairs was a door, which the zealous sentinel unlocked with a key taken from the pocket of the warder. As they were ready to step forth, he called out, imitating the gruff tones of the warder as closely as possible:— "There—off you go! and I thank you for your help!" "You are entirely welcome; but you've robbed me of nigh half an hour's sleep, nevertheless; good-night, M. Joubert." The last words were upon his lips as he stepped forth into the lower hall, and the sentinel there standing supposed, naturally enough, that he was addressing the warder of the above. "Now, comrade," said our experimenting guardsman, to the sentinel there stationed, "if you will let us out, we shall be grateful. M. Joubert has kept us to help him care for a prisoner who was inclined to be restive." "Certainly, comrade." And, without hesitation, the honest sentinel ushered the twain forth into the vestibule, whence they made way to the open court. "Now, my boy, mark me once more: I am Pierre Dubois; you are Julien Bizet—both of the National Guard. I have in my pocket a pass, signed by Colonel de Brèze—or it will answer for his signature. I think this will set us free. Come!" Boldly they entered the office of the night keeper, where Pierre exhibited his pass. Fortune favoured the adventurers at every turn. This keeper was a plethoric, heavy-eyed man, dull and sleepy. He read the pass and gave it back, and, with only a grunt and a growl at being disturbed, he got up and opened the way for the anxious twain to go free. In the uniform of the National Guard, and with the pass of Colonel Brèze, it was an easy matter for the fugitives to make their way to the outer fortifications, whence they had no difficulty in slipping through into the German lines, where they were received with great rejoicing. During the winter of 1875-76, Colonel Alphonse de Brèze was called, by business of State, to the Prussian capital, and while there he went to the theatre. The play advertised on the occasion of his first visit was called "The Guardsman," the leading character of which was a rollicking, fun-making soldier of the French National Guard, said character being enacted by a Berlin favourite, Martin Œsau. When the guardsman made his appearance on the stage, De Brèze was electrified. With the first effort of thought he recognised the man—his recruit of Rameau's wine-shop!—his zealous sentinel of La Force!—his Pierre Dubois! De Brèze could honour and respect brave men. A few days later he called upon M. Œsau at his home, and spent a pleasant hour; and not long thereafter he met Otho Maximilian at the same place. "My friends," the colonel said, as he put down his empty wine-glass, "had you seen and heard me on that November morning, five years ago, when my prisoner was demanded of me, and I found an empty cell and a sentinel missing, you would have been slow to believe that an event like this could ever enter into the story of our lives!" "Thank high Heaven for peace and for friendship!" was Œsau's fervent response. And they filled up and emptied their glasses to the sentiment. The Queer Side of Things. THE UNBELIEVERS' CLUB. There had been silence for twenty minutes in the circle of our weekly convivial at the "Chain-Harve." The last word had been "ghosts"—or, more accurately, "ghostes." During that twenty minutes' silence, broken only by the puffing of pipes and the setting down of mugs, Mr. Coffin (who had been an undertaker, or something of that sort, up at London, and was considered the leading mind of the convivial club) had sat twinkling his eyes at the kettle-crane in a way that told those who knew him that something was to come out presently. At the end of the twenty minutes Peter broke the silence with:— "He, he! Ghostes! Them's things as some folks thinks as ther' mebbe more in 'em ner is gen'ly thought—more'n wot some other folks thinks!" Mr. Coffin transferred his twinkle to Peter, and then spread it over the company. But the company were engaged in twinkling for themselves—or, rather, in blinking (which was their substitute for twinkling)—at the kettle-crane. Most of them were wagging their heads very slowly from side to side. "There's some as don't believe nothink," said old Billet. "An' 'ow about Mrs. Skindle and them there lights down in the Low Medder?" said Peter. "And 'ow about Master George's groom?" said Mr. Armstrong, of the Mill. "Ar!" murmured the company. Mr. Coffin had now completed the spreading of his twinkle over the company, and spoke:— "It seems to me, gentlemen, that this club has a sort of duty in this very matter of ghosts and things. There's a great deal too much ignorance and superstition about." The company, added to by the dropping in of occasional new arrivals, transferred their gaze—no longer a blink—to Mr. Coffin, in feeble surprise. Then, very gradually, the slow wag of the heads dissolved into a slow nod; as they said, very thoughtfully, "Ar!" "It isn't only ghosts," continued Mr. Coffin. "It's superstition generally that it's our duty to put our foot down against. There's all sorts of nonsense about ill-luck from going under ladders, and spilling salt, and crossing knives—it's a sheer disgrace to the century!" "Ar!" said the company, feebly. "I'm glad you agree with me," went on Mr. Coffin, "because I've always felt strongly about the foolishness of these superstitions. Now, I was reading the other day in the paper about a club they have in London—it was there in my time, too; but that brought it to my mind. That club was established to ridicule those very superstitions; and they go at it with a vengeance when they are at it—regularly perspire over it, you might say. Well, now—why shouldn't we—this club—take up this matter too, just to show the people round about how sensible we are—eh?" "Ar!" said the company. "Very well, then, we couldn't have a more suitable occasion to inaugurate the new proceedings than to-night. This is Hallowe'en, gentlemen, the one night of the year on which people have the best chance of seeing ghosts—witches' night, you know; and what's more, there are just thirteen of us present, and that's another lucky thing; and what's more, Mr. Puter's yard dog has been howling all the evening, which is supposed to be a sign that somebody in this house will die shortly; and, by the way, I heard the death-watch most distinctly ticking in your parlour wall when I came in to-day, Peter; so, if you're as eager about the subject as I feel sure you are, why, there's no reason why we shouldn't begin at once." "Why not?" murmured the company, very low and hesitatingly. "Very well, then—those who are in favour of the new departure will indicate the same in the usual manner, by holding up their hands," said Mr. Coffin. And he turned his eye on each of the company in turn, and as he did so, the one gazed at feebly held up his hand, and then dropped it as quickly as possible. They had failed to notice, before he pointed it out, that they numbered just thirteen. The attendance at the club varied from time to time, owing to some of the frequenters living in neighbouring villages, and to other reasons. So Mr. Coffin called for two knives and a salt-cellar; and then each one present was blindfolded in turn and made to go through a ceremony of initiation over the crossed knives and to spill some salt; after which Mr. Coffin entertained them with a discourse about ghosts, rising gravestones, banshees, corpse lights, and other things which it was the duty of the new club to ridicule. "The time is approaching when the landlord will request us to leave the premises," said Mr. Coffin; "and, as you are aware, the first of us to rise to depart must, according to the superstition, die within the year: a most laughable superstition, of course!" Mr. Coffin looked round. Each one whom he fixed with his eye chuckled feebly and whispered "Ar—o' course!" "Who volunteers to rise first?" asked Mr. Coffin, fixing his twinkle on the kettle-crane. "TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE." There was a dead silence, broken by a low, blood-curdling, tremulous moan from the yard; a moan which swelled into a howl so prolonged that it seemed as though it would never cease. Then another dead silence, broken by a dreadful grating death-cry from the woods; only the cry of the screech-owl. Then the landlord looked in and said: "Time, gentlemen, please." But no one stirred; Mr. Coffin's twinkle was still fixed upon the crane. "I propose, brother Unbelievers," he said, "that Peter, as being the person in whose house the death-watch is ticking at present, is the fittest person to rise. This will give him a great opportunity of showing his contempt for absurd superstitions." "That's right, any how—'ear! 'ear!" said the other eleven, quite heartily this time; and Peter desperately seized and emptied his glass of gin and water, and—pale as a sheet—slowly rose and buttoned his coat. As he did so, there resounded again, simultaneously, the howl of the yard dog and the death-cry of the screech-owl. Peter grinned a ghastly grin, wiped his brow, said tremulously, "Well—goo' night," and crawled out. Then Mr. Coffin removed his twinkle once more from the crane, and rose, and beamed round upon the company. "This is a magnificent opportunity for the display of our contempt for superstition!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "If I remember rightly, it was on a Hallowe'en, just seven years ago, that the tramp hanged himself to that oak at the turn of the road—your way home, by the way, Mr. Armstrong. Yes, it was Hallowe'en! How fortunate! And then there's Master George's groom who was thrown and broke his neck at the Squire's gate, and is said to haunt the avenue just inside so as to be seen from the road. Why, if he's to be seen any night, he's safe to be about on Hallowe'en—and that's on your road home, Mr. Billet; there's a chance for you ! Then some of you have to cross the Low Meadow where old Meg was drowned, in the time of William the Fourth, and where the corpse-lights are to be seen, eh? Why, there's some fun for every one of you. There's the churchyard, too, with a lot of queer stories about it. Don't you remember about Joe Watts seeing that grey thing sitting on the grave that had been opened, no one knew how? "Capital! I'll tell you what. Just come into my place and finish the evening, and then you can all start off in time to pass those places exactly at midnight. Come along; and I'll start you all off at the right time." "SPRANG OUT UPON PERSONS PASSING BY." Getting skilfully behind them all—(for Peter had been found hanging about just outside the door of the "Chain-Harve")—he edged them into his cottage like a collie showing sheep into a pen; and made them all sit down; and told them about an uncle of his who had gone by a haunted spot for all the world like the turn of the road where the tragedy of the tramp had occurred; and had heard something following him, though he could see nothing; and had felt a feeling like a dead fish sliding down his back; and had been unable to stir from the spot or to turn his head, although he felt a something behind him all the time; and had been found nearly dead in the morning. Then there was another tale of a maniac with blood on his nails, who lurked behind headstones in just such a churchyard as the one some of them had to pass through that night, and sprang out upon persons passing by; and was felt to be cold and slimy; and left those whom he touched paralyzed all down one side. And there was the story of the woman who saw a gravestone slowly rising—rising—rising of its own accord; and several other stories. Between the stories, in the dead silences, were heard the howls of the yard dog and the cries of the screech-owl: for Mr. Coffin lived close to the "Chain-Harve." "And now it's about time for some of you to be off," he said, rising. "You shall go one by one. Your road home lies by the Low Meadow, Peter; you'd better start now, and you'll just get there as the clock strikes twelve—you'll hear the church clock down there, so you can hang about a bit if you get there too soon. Good-night! Bless me, look at that thing in the elm tree! Doesn't it look like a man hanging there? Oh, of course, that's the light from my window on the leaves. Well, good-night, good-night all! Don't forget the rising gravestones, and the maniac, and the groom, and the dead fish!" When the last of them had got round the turn in the road, Mr. Coffin put on his coat and crept out after them, walking on the turf at the side of the road so that his steps could not be heard. Presently he made a short cut across Farmer Worripp's third field so as to head them. At the other end of the field was the tramp's corner, with the fatal tree, now thin as to leaves, standing out blurrily against the dark sky. There, behind the hedge, Mr. Coffin waited to observe how Mr. Armstrong would pass the spot; Armstrong had been started off in good time to pass the spot a little before twelve; but the watcher waited in vain—no Armstrong turned up. So Mr. Coffin started off again, across country, toward the churchyard, arriving there just before twelve, and hiding behind King John's Yew; he strained his ear for the sound of feet, but no sound of feet was to be heard. No one going by the road could possibly have arrived there before him. The clock struck twelve, but no one came; he waited until the quarter-past—still no one came. Then he started off, still across country, to a point on Peter's way home, some three-quarters of a mile beyond the Low Meadow—but no Peter was to be seen. So Mr. Coffin went home across the Low Meadow without meeting a soul—or a spirit. Even down at the Low Meadow he could hear the distant howl of the yard dog—a marrow-chilling sound enough; but Mr. Coffin had absolutely no nerves, and simply chuckled. How the members of the Unbelievers' Club got home that night nobody ever knew except themselves; but next morning Mr. Coffin was on his pony making the round of their dwelling or working places, and interviewing them. But they seemed very grumpy and short that morning (one and all): and on his ride home Mr. Coffin twinkled so at the hedges and the trees and the sky, and chuckled so incessantly that even his pony (who was used to his ways) several times stopped and turned a brown eye round at its rider in surprise and inquiry. All that day twelve out of the thirteen members of the Unbelievers' Club were morose and out of humour; and that evening the majority of them happened to drop in at the "Threshing Machine," at the other end of the district from the "Chain-Harve." They said very little beyond "Good evening," and sat in the tap-room looking sheepishly at the fire, the important subject of the newly-established club being strangely avoided. But reports of the prowess of the club on the previous night had been carefully spread by Mr. Coffin. He had told everybody he came across how Armstrong had sat and smoked right under the tramp's tree while the clock struck twelve, and how Billet had spent nearly an hour by the gate of the Squire's park, challenging the groom's ghost to show up, and making the avenue echo with his laughter; and so forth: so that the members of the new club had become heroes. Thus, one by one, the villagers were attracted to drop in at the "Threshing Machine" to gaze reverentially at the fearless ghost-defiers, and ask them all about it. "It must hav' give yer a bit of a creepy feelin' when the clock began to strike?" said the saddler. "Me? Golong with yer! 'Ope I ain't sech a turnip-liver as ter be frightened at bogies!" replied Armstrong, scornfully. "Yur! D'ye take us for a set o' babies?" asked Billet, witheringly. "Yah!" exclaimed Joe Murzle. "Wot next?" Then the admirers stood drinks to the heroes; and by the time the latter got up—with more or less difficulty—to go home, there wasn't one among them who would not have given a week's earnings to meet the most creepy ghost about. But the next morning they were silent once more; and Peter looked gloomily over the fence at Billet. "Mighty queer about this 'ere pig o' mine, that's wot it is!" said he. "Bin ailing, he has, ever since yesterday morning." "Hum!" said Billet. "We-el—if you ask me —I tell yer plain as I do b'leeve my roomatics come on wuss night afore last, and that's pat." Then they were silent, shaking their heads for several minutes. "I'll tell yer," said Peter. "'Umbug it may be; an' truck it may be; but there's things as is best let alone, and that I do think. Thur ain't no kind o' weak-mindyness nor credibility about me ; but I says, wot's the objeck o' goin' a-spillin' o' salt, an' crossin' knives, an' settin' down thirteen?" "MIGHTY QUEER ABOUT THIS 'ERE PIG O' MINE." "Ar!" said Billet, eagerly, "that's wot I ses—let sleepin' dogs lie, ses I; and then yer won't git bitten, I ses!" "I've got a kind o' notion as things are a-going somehow queerish like," said Armstrong, passing along the lane at that moment. "Do me if I can git the wind right way round into the mill-sails this mornin' nor yet yesterday; and what on earth shed make that there lot o' flour mouldy—well! That there pig's tail o' yourn don't look kind o' right—it's a-hangin' out straight as a dip. Wot's ailin'?" Peter and Billet looked at each other and shook their heads. Then Joe Maydew came along, and told how he had his doubts about them turkeys of his being quite as they should be, and how Jem Baker the carrier's horse had gone lame the day before; and how other suspicious things were happening. Now, as a fact, Peter's pig had been ailing over a week, and the mill had been refractory for five or six days—ever since the wind had been so choppy; and Baker's horse had gradually gone lame from a shoe-nail badly driven ten days previously. But the "Club" had not been nervously looking out for evil signs until some thirty hours ago, and so had failed to find any particular significance in the mishaps. "It strikes me ," said Maydew (one of the Unbelievers' Club), "that there's folks as is fools and folks as is bigger fools; and these 'ere last kind is them as must go a-sneerin', and unb'leevin', and defyin', and temptin' o' Providence. Wot's Providence provide bad luck for, if you ain't free to 'elp yerself to it? An' how are yer goin' to 'elp yerself to it if ther' ain't no proper reckernized means o' doing of it—hey?" "Do jest seem like throwin' away the gifts o' Providence, don't it?" said Peter. "And wot I ses, them as up and persuades others for to do that same, though bein' nameless, is got to answer to it," said Billet. "There's things as we knows about, and there's other things, as contrariwise, we don't; and when you ses unluck, and ghostes, and sech ——." "All tomfoolery, aren't they, Mr. Billet? and no one's more convinced of that than you and Peter," put in Mr. Coffin, who had come along unobserved, fixing his persuasive eye on Billet. The influence of Mr. Coffin's eye was remarkable: poor Billet and Peter stood on one foot and then on the other, and grinned feebly, while the other two stood scratching their chins; and, with a cheery wave of the hand, Mr. Coffin passed on; and when he was out of sight those four stuck their fists defiantly into the very bottoms of their pockets, and put their legs wide apart, and muttered: "Is got to arnswer for it; and it's a mercy if there ain't bad luck for them ." "HE SET FIRE TO HIS THATCH." For the rest of that week the Unbelievers spent their time in detecting signs of the ill-luck brought upon them by the rash proceedings of that fatal evening; for, in truth, they were as superstitious a set as one could well find. By the end of the week a thousand small misfortunes had happened, exactly on a footing with the small misfortunes which had been happening to them every week of their lives; but now these desperate deeds at the "Chain-Harve" caused everything. Peter's pig got so ill that Peter was forced to sell it at less than quarter value to the local butcher, who was forced to send the carcass to London to dispose of it; and then Peter—always feeble-minded—began to grow moody and to stand about brooding on ills to come; and while he stood brooding with a candle in his hand he set fire to his thatch and burned off half his roof. Then the evening came round for the weekly meeting of the "Unbelievers' Club," and Mr. Coffin sat in state in the club-room chair at the "Chain-Harve"; but at half-past seven (the regulation time for dropping in) not a member appeared, nor until a quarter past eight; and then Mr. Coffin set off for the other end of the parish, and found them all at the "Threshing Machine." "Ha! Good evening, gentlemen!" said he, taking a big chair by the fire. "So you've decided to hold our club meeting here for a change?" "'Ear! 'ear!" cried all those who were not of the fated twelve. Then came a ten minutes' silence. Then Armstrong said, doggedly:— "As to clubs, there's clubs as is all right; and there's clubs as is, what you might say, otherwise—an' that's all about it!" "Ar! That's jest where it is!" said old Billet. "An' take it or leave it!" added Joe Maydew. "Ar!" said the rest. Peter sat in a dark corner, behind a string of onions, muttering to himself. "Is it your pleasure, fellow Unbelievers, that we go into committee on the future programme of the club?" asked Mr. Coffin. "'Ear! 'ear!" cried the curious non-members, eagerly. But Armstrong rose and stuck his fists again into the bottoms of his pockets, and glared at the proposer. "W'y, if it comes to that, no, it ain't!" he said, fiercely. "And take it out o' that!" And with that he stamped out of the "Threshing Machine," followed by Joe Maydew. The non-members were terribly disappointed; Mr. Coffin's influence was powerless to set the proceedings going; the affair was a disastrous frost; and presently the party broke up. At the hour for closing Peter still sat in the dark corner behind the string of onions, rocking his chair on its two hind legs and glowering at his boots; and he had to be nudged three times before he started up and mechanically trudged out, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Next day, at the time for going to work, Peter sat in his living-room with his chin upon his chest, and refused to budge. He had not attempted to repair the thatch of his roof; and the rain had soaked his bed, and spoilt his one or two books, and the coloured prints on his wall and other things; but he merely gazed hopelessly round like one under an irremovable curse, and gave it up. He had left the cover off his little flour-tub, and the rain had soaked the flour, and a hen was scratching in it; but there he sat and glowered. Then he lost his employment at Farmer Worripp's, for the farmer could not wait his pleasure, and had to engage another hand instead; and so Peter had to go to the "house" for out-door relief. So he dragged on, wandering round his garden patch, with his head low, and glowering, and brooding, and waiting for the further developments of the ill-luck he had brought on himself by the proceedings at the "Club." Then his landlord grew tired of receiving no rent, and Peter had to leave his cottage, after selling his few "sticks" to his neighbours; or, rather, after his neighbours had come forward and given him a trifle for this and that article, which he would otherwise have left behind without an attempt to sell. And so he wandered out into the road, quietly, at dusk, when no one was observing, and stood for a moment at his gate, wavering which way to go; and then he turned at the sound of a dog barking, and went off slowly in the direction to which he had turned, with no pack—nothing but his clothes and the small amount from the sale in his pocket. As he passed the "Chain-Harve," his head still on his breast, Mr. Coffin (who had been away for ten days, and had not heard of Peter's latest straits) was standing in the doorway and caught sight of him. "Halloa, Master Peter," said Coffin. "Whither away now? Coming in to have half-a-pint?" Peter suddenly stopped in the light from the tap-room window, raised his head, and glared fiercely at the speaker: then spat on the ground before him, and disappeared into the darkness. The next morning, when Mr. Coffin heard all about Peter's recent troubles, he set off along the road the way he had gone, and searched for him high and low. Peter had been seen in the next village, and had bought a loaf and some cheese at the grocer's; but beyond this the seeker could not trace him. He tried the next day, and the next; but with no success. It was eight or nine weeks after this that, at sunset, Peter dragged himself from under a haystack where he had been asleep, and drew himself slowly up to a standing position. He was scarcely recognisable: his unwashed face was seared and lined with exposure, misery, and incessant brooding on the ill-luck which had long ago developed in his feeble mind into a crushing curse—a curse deliberately brought down upon himself by some awful and inexpiable blasphemy—for such was the phantasy which had evolved itself out of those harmless acts of spilling the salt and so forth at the inauguration of the Unbelievers' Club. Day and night—until he had fallen down with sheer inability to keep awake—he had wandered on, with his chin on his chest and his eyes on the road, brooding over the "blasphemy" and the "curse." He looked like a skeleton; his eyes had grey hollows all round; his clothes were in rags; and he had been wet through for many days. Suddenly, now, he glared at the setting sun; then sprang forward to a heap of flints on the roadside, and with trembling hand eagerly selected a large stone, and hugged it up inside the breast of his coat. Then he set off hurriedly—almost at a run—along the road; and walked, walked, at the same pace, into the dusk, into the darkness, under the stars. Now and again he would take out the flint and feel it caressingly; and once he suddenly stopped, and tore off a large piece of his coat, and wrapped the stone in it; and tied his old red handkerchief over that, and put the stone back in his coat. Stumbling along at the same pace, he arrived about ten o'clock at the window of the "Threshing Machine," and peered in; everyone was away that night at a merrymaking in the next village, and Mr. Coffin sat alone in the tap-room. Peter pushed open the tap-room door, and suddenly appeared before Mr. Coffin, who started up in surprise. After a few moments' scrutiny he recognised the changed figure, and advanced and touched its arm, and sat it down in a chair; and went out and returned with some bread and cheese and a mug of ale. Peter pushed away the food and swallowed the pint of ale at a gulp, then held out the mug to be refilled. It was strong ale, not "swipes." Mr. Coffin took the mug and set it down; and while his back was turned Peter seized his untouched glass of hot rum and water and swallowed the liquor. Not once did Peter speak, even in reply; but each time the other turned his back, he would bring out the flint in its wrappings and caress it, and glare at Mr. Coffin. Then suddenly Peter sprang up and tottered out; and Mr. Coffin, after a vain attempt to find him in the darkness outside, mounted his pony and set off for home. He took the lane for the Low Meadow; and after him, keeping on the grass or in the soft mud, crept Peter, caressing the flint stone. "HE WALKED INTO THE DARKNESS." Mr. Coffin did not return home that night, although his pony did; and the next day he was found on the Low Meadow with his skull fractured and a large sharp flint lying close by; and Peter was found lying face upwards, glaring at the sky through three feet of water, at the spot where tradition said that old Meg was drowned in the time of William the Fourth. The Low Meadow is triply haunted now; and the villagers avoid it after nightfall more carefully than ever. The Unbelievers' Club exists no longer. J. F. Sullivan. PAL'S PUZZLE PAGE. Transcriber's Notes: Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were silently corrected. Punctuation normalized. Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. Title page and table of contents added by transcriber. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STRAND MAGAZINE, VOL. 07, ISSUE 40, APRIL, 1894 *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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