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The Diary of Mr. Poynter The sale-room of an
old and famous firm of
book auctioneers in London is, of course, a great meeting-place for
collectors,
librarians, dealers: not only when an auction is in progress, but
perhaps even
more notably when books that are coming on for sale are upon view. It
was in
such a sale-room that the remarkable series of events began which were
detailed
to me not many months ago by the person whom they principally affected,
namely,
Mr. James Denton, M.A., F.S.A., etc., etc., some time of Trinity Hall,
now, or
lately, of Rendcomb Manor in the county of Warwick. He, on a certain
spring day not many years
since, was in London for a few days upon business connected principally
with
the furnishing of the house which he had just finished building at
Rendcomb. It
may be a disappointment to you to learn that Rendcomb Manor was new;
that I
cannot help. There had, no doubt, been an old house; but it was not
remarkable
for beauty or interest. Even had it been, neither beauty nor interest
would
have enabled it to resist the disastrous fire which about a couple of
years
before the date of my story had razed it to the ground. I am glad to
say that
all that was most valuable in it had been saved, and that it was fully
insured.
So that it was with a comparatively light heart that Mr. Denton was
able to
face the task of building a new and considerably more convenient
dwelling for
himself and his aunt who constituted his whole ménage. Being in London,
with time on his hands,
and not far from the sale-room at which I have obscurely hinted, Mr.
Denton
thought that he would spend an hour there upon the chance of finding,
among
that portion of the famous Thomas collection of MSS., which he knew to
be then
on view, something bearing upon the history or topography of his part
of
Warwickshire. He turned in
accordingly, purchased a
catalogue and ascended to the sale-room, where, as usual, the books
were
disposed in cases and some laid out upon the long tables. At the
shelves, or
sitting about at the tables, were figures, many of whom were familiar
to him.
He exchanged nods and greetings with several, and then settled down to
examine
his catalogue and note likely items. He had made good progress through
about
two hundred of the five hundred lots — every now and then rising to
take a
volume from the shelf and give it a cursory glance — when a hand was
laid on
his shoulder, and he looked up. His interrupter was one of those
intelligent
men with a pointed beard and a flannel shirt, of whom the last quarter
of the
nineteenth century was, it seems to me, very prolific. It is no part of my
plan to repeat the
whole conversation which ensued between the two. I must content myself
with
stating that it largely referred to common acquaintances, e.g., to the
nephew
of Mr. Denton’s friend who had recently married and settled in Chelsea,
to the
sister-inlaw of Mr. Denton’s friend who had been seriously indisposed,
but was
now better, and to a piece of china which Mr. Denton’s friend had
purchased
some months before at a price much below its true value. From which you
will
rightly infer that the conversation was rather in the nature of a
monologue. In
due time, however, the friend bethought himself that Mr. Denton was
there for a
purpose, and said he, “What are you looking out for in particular? I
don’t
think there’s much in this lot.” “Why, I thought there might be some
Warwickshire collections, but I don’t see anything under Warwick in the
catalogue.” “No, apparently not,” said the friend. “All the same, I
believe I
noticed something like a Warwickshire diary. What was the name again?
Drayton?
Potter? Painter — either a P or a D, I feel sure.” He turned over the
leaves
quickly. “Yes, here it is. Poynter. Lot 486. That might interest you.
There are
the books, I think: out on the table. Some one has been looking at
them. Well,
I must be getting on. Good-bye, you’ll look us up, won’t you? Couldn’t
you come
this afternoon? We’ve got a little music about four. Well, then, when
you’re
next in town.” He went off. Mr. Denton looked at his watch and found to
his
confusion that he could spare no more than a moment before retrieving
his
luggage and going for the train. The moment was just enough to show him
that
there were four largish volumes of the diary — that it concerned the
years
about 1710, and that there seemed to be a good many insertions in it of
various
kinds. It seemed quite worth while to leave a commission of five and
twenty
pounds for it, and this he was able to do, for his usual agent entered
the room
as he was on the point of leaving it. That evening he
rejoined his aunt at their
temporary abode, which was a small dower-house not many hundred yards
from the
Manor. On the following morning the two resumed a discussion that had
now
lasted for some weeks as to the equipment of the new house. Mr. Denton
laid
before his relative a statement of the results of his visit to town —
particulars of carpets, of chairs, of wardrobes, and of bedroom china.
“Yes,
dear,” said his aunt, “but I don’t see any chintzes here. Did you go to
——?”
Mr. Denton stamped on the floor (where else, indeed, could he have
stamped?).
“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said, “the one thing I missed. I am
sorry. The
fact is I was on my way there and I happened to be passing Robins’s.”
His aunt
threw up her hands. “Robins’s! Then the next thing will be another
parcel of
horrible old books at some outrageous price. I do think, James, when I
am
taking all this trouble for you, you might contrive to remember the one
or two
things which I specially begged you to see after. It’s not as if I was
asking
it for myself. I don’t know whether you think I get any pleasure out of
it, but
if so I can assure you it’s very much the reverse. The thought and
worry and
trouble I have over it you have no idea of, and you have simply
to go to
the shops and order the things.” Mr. Denton interposed a moan of
penitence.
“Oh, aunt ——” “Yes, that’s all very well, dear, and I don’t want to
speak
sharply, but you must know how very annoying it is:
particularly as it
delays the whole of our business for I can’t tell how long: here is
Wednesday —
the Simpsons come tomorrow, and you can’t leave them. Then on Saturday
we have
friends, as you know, coming for tennis. Yes, indeed, you spoke of
asking them
yourself, but, of course, I had to write the notes, and it is
ridiculous,
James, to look like that. We must occasionally be civil to our
neighbours: you
wouldn’t like to have it said we were perfect bears. What was I saying?
Well,
anyhow it comes to this, that it must be Thursday in next week at
least, before
you can go to town again, and until we have decided upon the chintzes
it is
impossible to settle upon one single other thing.” Mr. Denton ventured
to suggest that as the
paint and wallpapers had been dealt with, this was too severe a view:
but this
his aunt was not prepared to admit at the moment. Nor, indeed, was
there any
proposition he could have advanced which she would have found herself
able to
accept. However, as the day went on, she receded a little from this
position: examined
with lessening disfavour the samples and price lists submitted by her
nephew,
and even in some cases gave a qualified approval to his choice. As for him, he was
naturally somewhat
dashed by the consciousness of duty unfulfilled, but more so by the
prospect of
a lawn-tennis party, which, though an inevitable evil in August, he had
thought
there was no occasion to fear in May. But he was to some extent cheered
by the
arrival on the Friday morning of an intimation that he had secured at
the price
of £12 10s. the four volumes of Poynter’s manuscript diary, and still
more by
the arrival on the next morning of the diary itself. The necessity of
taking Mr. and Mrs.
Simpson for a drive in the car on Saturday morning and of attending to
his
neighbours and guests that afternoon prevented him from doing more than
open
the parcel until the party had retired to bed on the Saturday night. It
was
then that he made certain of the fact, which he had before only
suspected, that
he had indeed acquired the diary of Mr. William Poynter, Squire of
Acrington
(about four miles from his own parish)— that same Poynter who was for a
time a
member of the circle of Oxford antiquaries, the centre of which was
Thomas
Hearne, and with whom Hearne seems ultimately to have quarrelled — a
not
uncommon episode in the career of that excellent man. As is the case
with
Hearne’s own collections, the diary of Poynter contained a good many
notes from
printed books, descriptions of coins and other antiquities that had
been
brought to his notice, and drafts of letters on these subjects, besides
the
chronicle of everyday events. The description in the sale-catalogue had
given
Mr. Denton no idea of the amount of interest which seemed to lie in the
book,
and he sat up reading in the first of the four volumes until a
reprehensibly
late hour. On the Sunday
morning, after church, his
aunt came into the study and was diverted from what she had been going
to say
to him by the sight of the four brown leather quartos on the table.
“What are
these?” she said suspiciously. “New, aren’t they? Oh! are these the
things that
made you forget my chintzes? I thought so. Disgusting. What did you
give for
them, I should like to know? Over Ten Pounds? James, it is really
sinful. Well,
if you have money to throw away on this kind of thing, there can
be no
reason why you should not subscribe — and subscribe handsomely — to my
anti-Vivisection League. There is not, indeed, James, and I shall be
very
seriously annoyed if ——. Who did you say wrote them? Old Mr. Poynter,
of Acrington?
Well, of course, there is some interest in getting together old papers
about
this neighbourhood. But Ten Pounds!” She picked up one of the volumes —
not
that which her nephew had been reading — and opened it at random,
dashing it to
the floor the next instant with a cry of disgust as a earwig fell from
between
the pages. Mr. Denton picked it up with a smothered expletive and said,
“Poor
book! I think you’re rather hard on Mr. Poynter.” “Was I, my dear? I
beg his
pardon, but you know I cannot abide those horrid creatures. Let me see
if I’ve
done any mischief.” “No, I think all’s well: but look here what you’ve
opened
him on.” “Dear me, yes, to be sure! how very interesting. Do unpin it,
James,
and let me look at it.” It was a piece of
patterned stuff about the
size of the quarto page, to which it was fastened by an old-fashioned
pin.
James detached it and handed it to his aunt, carefully replacing the
pin in the
paper. Now, I do not know
exactly what the fabric
was; but it had a design printed upon it, which completely fascinated
Miss
Denton. She went into raptures over it, held it against the wall, made
James do
the same, that she might retire to contemplate it from a distance: then
pored
over it at close quarters, and ended her examination by expressing in
the
warmest terms her appreciation of the taste of the ancient Mr. Poynter
who had
had the happy idea of preserving this sample in his diary. “It is a
most
charming pattern,” she said, “and remarkable too. Look, James, how
delightfully
the lines ripple. It reminds one of hair, very much, doesn’t it. And
then these
knots of ribbon at intervals. They give just the relief of colour that
is
wanted. I wonder ——” “I was going to say,” said James with deference,
“I wonder
if it would cost much to have it copied for our curtains.” “Copied? how
could
you have it copied, James?” “Well, I don’t know the details, but I
suppose that
is a printed pattern, and that you could have a block cut from it in
wood or
metal.” “Now, really, that is a capital idea, James. I am almost
inclined to be
glad that you were so — that you forgot the chintzes on Monday. At any
rate,
I’ll promise to forgive and forget if you get this lovely old
thing
copied. No one will have anything in the least like it, and mind,
James, we
won’t allow it to be sold. Now I must go, and I’ve totally
forgotten
what it was I came in to say: never mind, it’ll keep.” After his aunt had
gone James Denton
devoted a few minutes to examining the pattern more closely than he had
yet had
a chance of doing. He was puzzled to think why it should have struck
Miss
Benton so forcibly. It seemed to him not specially remarkable or
pretty. No
doubt it was suitable enough for a curtain pattern: it ran in vertical
bands,
and there was some indication that these were intended to converge at
the top.
She was right, too, in thinking that these main bands resembled
rippling —
almost curling — tresses of hair. Well, the main thing was to find out
by means
of trade directories, or otherwise, what firm would undertake the
reproduction of
an old pattern of this kind. Not to delay the reader over this portion
of the
story, a list of likely names was made out, and Mr. Denton fixed a day
for
calling on them, or some of them, with his sample. The first two visits
which he paid were
unsuccessful: but there is luck in odd numbers. The firm in Bermondsey
which
was third on his list was accustomed to handling this line. The
evidence they
were able to produce justified their being entrusted with the job. “Our
Mr.
Cattell” took a fervent personal interest in it. “It’s ‘eartrending,
isn’t it,
sir,” he said, “to picture the quantity of reelly lovely medeevial
stuff of
this kind that lays well-nigh unnoticed in many of our residential
country
‘ouses: much of it in peril, I take it, of being cast aside as so much
rubbish.
What is it Shakespeare says — unconsidered trifles. Ah, I often say he
‘as a
word for us all, sir. I say Shakespeare, but I’m well aware all don’t
‘old with
me there — I ‘ad something of an upset the other day when a gentleman
came in-a
titled man, too, he was, and I think he told me he’d wrote on the
topic, and I
‘appened to cite out something about ‘Ercules and the painted cloth.
Dear me,
you never see such a pother. But as to this, what you’ve kindly
confided to us,
it’s a piece of work we shall take a reel enthusiasm in achieving it
out to the
very best of our ability. What man ‘as done, as I was observing only a
few
weeks back to another esteemed client, man can do, and in three to four
weeks’
time, all being well, we shall ‘ope to lay before you evidence to that
effect,
sir. Take the address, Mr. ‘Iggins, if you please.” Such was the general
drift of Mr. Cattell’s
observations on the occasion of his first interview with Mr. Denton.
About a
month later, being advised that some samples were ready for his
inspection, Mr.
Denton met him again, and had, it seems, reason to be satisfied with
the
faithfulness of the reproduction of the design. It had been finished
off at the
top in accordance with the indication I mentioned, so that the vertical
bands
joined. But something still needed to be done in the way of matching
the colour
of the original. Mr. Cattell had suggestions of a technical kind to
offer, with
which I need not trouble you. He had also views as to the general
desirability
of the pattern which were vaguely adverse. “You say you don’t wish this
to be
supplied excepting to personal friends equipped with a authorization
from
yourself, sir. It shall be done. I quite understand your wish to keep
it
exclusive: lends it a catchit, does it not, to the suite? What’s every
man’s,
it’s been said, is no man’s.” “Do you think it
would be popular if it
were generally obtainable?” asked Mr. Denton. “I ‘ardly think it,
sir,” said Cattell,
pensively clasping his beard. “I ‘ardly think it. Not popular: it
wasn’t
popular with the man that cut the block, was it, Mr. ‘Iggins?” “Did he find it a
difficult job?” “He’d no call to do
so, sir; but the fact
is that the artistic temperament — and our men are artists, sir, every
man of
them — true artists as much as many that the world styles by that term
— it’s
apt to take some strange ‘ardly accountable likes or dislikes, and here
was an
example. The twice or thrice that I went to inspect his progress:
language I
could understand, for that’s ‘abitual to him, but reel distaste for
what I
should call a dainty enough thing, I did not, nor am I now able to
fathom. It
seemed,” said Mr. Cattell, looking narrowly upon Mr. Denton, “as if the
man
scented something almost Hevil in the design.” “Indeed? did he tell
you so? I can’t say I
see anything sinister in it myself.” “Neether can I, sir.
In fact I said as
much. ‘Come, Gatwick,’ I said, ‘what’s to do here? What’s the reason of
your
prejudice — for I can call it no more than that?’ But, no! no
explanation was
forthcoming. And I was merely reduced, as I am now, to a shrug of the
shoulders, and a cui bono. However, here it is,” and with that
the
technical side of the question came to the front again. The matching of the
colours for the
background, the hem, and the knots of ribbon was by far the longest
part of the
business, and necessitated many sendings to and fro of the original
pattern and
of new samples. During part of August and September, too, the Dentons
were away
from the Manor. So that it was not until October was well in that a
sufficient
quantity of the stuff had been manufactured to furnish curtains for the
three
or four bedrooms which were to be fitted up with it. On the feast of
Simon and Jude the aunt and
nephew returned from a short visit to find all completed, and their
satisfaction at the general effect was great. The new curtains, in
particular,
agreed to admiration with their surroundings. When Mr. Denton was
dressing for
dinner, and took stock of his room, in which there was a large amount
of the
chintz displayed, he congratulated himself over and over again on the
luck
which had first made him forget his aunt’s commission and had then put
into his
hands this extremely effective means of remedying his mistake. The
pattern was,
as he said at dinner, so restful and yet so far from being dull. And
Miss
Denton — who, by the way, had none of the stuff in her own room — was
much
disposed to agree with him. At breakfast next
morning he was induced to
qualify his satisfaction to some extent — but very slightly. “There is
one
thing I rather regret,” he said, “that we allowed them to join up the
vertical
bands of the pattern at the top. I think it would have been better to
leave
that alone.” “Oh?” said his aunt
interrogatively. “Yes: as I was
reading in bed last night
they kept catching my eye rather. That is, I found myself looking
across at
them every now and then. There was an effect as if some one kept
peeping out
between the curtains in one place or another, where there was no edge,
and I
think that was due to the joining up of the bands at the top. The only
other
thing that troubled me was the wind.” “Why, I thought it
was a perfectly still
night.” “Perhaps it was only
on my side of the
house, but there was enough to sway my curtains and rustle them more
than I wanted.” That night a
bachelor friend of James
Denton’s came to stay, and was lodged in a room on the same floor as
his host,
but at the end of a long passage, halfway down which was a red baize
door, put
there to cut off the draught and intercept noise. The party of three
had separated. Miss
Denton a good first, the two men at about eleven. James Denton, not yet
inclined for bed, sat him down in an arm-chair and read for a time.
Then he
dozed, and then he woke, and bethought himself that his brown spaniel,
which
ordinarily slept in his room, had not come upstairs with him. Then he
thought
he was mistaken: for happening to move his hand which hung down over
the arm of
the chair within a few inches of the floor, he felt on the back of it
just the
slightest touch of a surface of hair, and stretching it out in that
direction
he stroked and patted a rounded something. But the feel of it, and
still more
the fact that instead of a responsive movement, absolute stillness
greeted his
touch, made him look over the arm. What he had been touching rose to
meet him.
It was in the attitude of one that had crept along the floor on its
belly, and
it was, so far as could be collected, a human figure. But of the face
which was
now rising to within a few inches of his own no feature was
discernible, only
hair. Shapeless as it was, there was about it so horrible an air of
menace that
as he bounded from his chair and rushed from the room he heard himself
moaning
with fear: and doubtless he did right to fly. As he dashed into the
baize door
that cut the passage in two, and — forgetting that it opened towards
him — beat
against it with all the force in him, he felt a soft ineffectual
tearing at his
back which, all the same, seemed to be growing in power, as if the
hand, or
whatever worse than a hand was there, were becoming more material as
the
pursuer’s rage was more concentrated. Then he remembered the trick of
the door
— he got it open — he shut it behind him — he gained his friend’s room,
and
that is all we need know. It seems curious
that, during all the time
that had elapsed since the purchase of Poynter’s diary, James Denton
should not
have sought an explanation of the presence of the pattern that had been
pinned
into it. Well, he had read the diary through without finding it
mentioned, and
had concluded that there was nothing to be said. But, on leaving
Rendcomb Manor
(he did not know whether for good), as he naturally insisted upon doing
on the
day after experiencing the horror I have tried to put into words, he
took the
diary with him. And at his seaside lodgings he examined more narrowly
the
portion whence the pattern had been taken. What he remembered having
suspected
about it turned out to be correct. Two or three leaves were pasted
together,
but written upon, as was patent when they were held up to the light.
They
yielded easily to steaming, for the paste had lost much of its
strength, and
they contained something relevant to the pattern. The entry was made
in 1707. “Old Mr. Casbury, of
Acrington, told me
this day much of young Sir Everard Charlett, whom he remember’d
Commoner of
University College, and thought was of the same Family as Dr. Arthur
Charlett,
now master of ye Coll. This Charlett was a personable young gent., but
a loose
atheistical companion, and a great Lifter, as they then call’d the hard
drinkers, and for what I know do so now. He was noted, and subject to
severall
censures at different times for his extravagancies: and if the full
history of
his debaucheries had bin known, no doubt would have been expell’d ye
Coll.,
supposing that no interest had been imploy’d on his behalf, of which
Mr.
Casbury had some suspicion. He was a very beautiful person, and
constantly wore
his own Hair, which was very abundant, from which, and his loose way of
living,
the cant name for him was Absalom, and he was accustom’d to say that
indeed he
believ’d he had shortened old David’s days, meaning his father, Sir Job
Charlett, an old worthy cavalier. “Note that Mr.
Casbury said that he
remembers not the year of Sir Everard Charlett’s death, but it was 1692
or 3.
He died suddenly in October. [Several lines describing his unpleasant
habits
and reputed delinquencies are omitted.] Having seen him in such topping
spirits
the night before, Mr. Casbury was amaz’d when he learn’d the death. He
was
found in the town ditch, the hair as was said pluck’d clean off his
head. Most
bells in Oxford rung out for him, being a nobleman, and he was buried
next
night in St. Peter’s in the East. But two years after, being to be
moved to his
country estate by his successor, it was said the coffin, breaking by
mischance,
proved quite full of Hair: which sounds fabulous, but yet I believe
precedents
are upon record, as in Dr. Plot’s History of Staffordshire. “His chambers being
afterwards stripp’d,
Mr. Casbury came by part of the hangings of it, which ’twas said this
Charlett
had design’d expressly for a memorial of his Hair, giving the Fellow
that drew
it a lock to work by, and the piece which I have fasten’d in here was
parcel of
the same, which Mr. Casbury gave to me. He said he believ’d there was a
subtlety in the drawing, but had never discover’d it himself, nor much
liked to
pore upon it.” The money spent upon
the curtains might as
well have been thrown into the fire, as they were. Mr. Cattell’s
comment upon
what he heard of the story took the form of a quotation from
Shakespeare. You
may guess it without difficulty. It began with the words “There are
more
things.” |