The story hunter

“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.

There was no resisting this second appeal, so after a little delay in getting ready, they mounted their horses, and with a boy riding a pony and carrying a lantern in advance, they set off on their journey homeward.

The snow lay thick on hill and tree, and they made but slow progress. The lantern gave but little light; it bobbed about hither and thither like an ignis fatuus, and finally the boy’s pony stumbled, and boy, pony, and lantern were buried in a deep snow-drift. The boy scrambled out quickly, but by the squire’s orders did not light his lantern again. They crossed the bridge and picked their uncertain way along the snow-covered path by the torrent’s brink.

Suddenly the squire drew rein as a man rode quickly and silently past them, over the snow, going in the same direction as themselves.

“How like Old Maggie,” said the squire half aloud; “and if I did not know to the contrary, I could have sworn that the rider was poor Benwell!”

The squire supported Julia with his left arm as she rode by his side, cheering her as best he could.

“Who was that, father?” she asked. “How strange he did not speak as he passed us by.”

“It was indeed, my dear,” he rejoined; “but probably he was a stranger, and unaccustomed to our hearty West Country greetings. But see, he has stopped and dismounted.”

They beheld him in the moonlight standing by his horse’s side, but for some reason the squire’s horse and his daughter’s both stopped of their own accord, while the boy’s pony wheeled round and dashed back towards Stoke.

The strange horseman patted his steed’s neck, tightened the saddle-girth, and was about to remount, when another man suddenly bounded forward, with a drawn sword, and making a lunge at the unfortunate traveller, thrust him, from behind, right through the neck.

Then the murderer searched the dying man, taking a large bundle of papers from the saddle-bags, and transferring them to his own pockets.

Turning once more to his victim, who was not dead, but feebly struggling in the snow to regain his feet, he again stabbed him, this time clean through the heart. Then, with a malignant smile he turned away, strode to his own horse, which was tethered to a tree hard by, mounted, and in a trice galloped close past the spellbound onlookers.

As he galloped silently by, the squire beheld, to his astonishment, the features of Wynne Clarge!

Thus was re-enacted, in phantom-vision, the murder of Charles Benwell, as it took place twelve months before.

Trembling in every limb Mr. Simmonds turned to his daughter. But Julia was no more, his arm encircled her lifeless clay.

An old man and feeble was John Simmonds, when, two months after the above events, he left his bed, slowly recovering from brain fever; but although he was able occasionally to wander listlessly in his garden in the warm days of the summer, he lingered only till the first days of autumn tinged the foliage with gold and red, then drooped like the flowers, and like the flowers he died.

By his daughter’s side, upon that hillside in the west, the old man sleeps, and to this day their tombs are pointed out; the one known as “the Good Squire’s Tomb,” and the other is called “Julia’s Grave.”

When the next Christmas Eve came round, bold Will Rayner organized a little party to watch the spot where the murder took place. They did not keep their dread vigil in vain, for a little after darkness set in they all saw the phantom horseman ride up, dismount to tighten his saddle-girth, and pat his tired horse on the neck. They saw the dastardly rush of his rival: they saw the deed enacted before their eyes, as Mr. Simmonds and Julia had seen it in a marvellous manner, and Will had difficulty in restraining his comrades from rushing upon the murderous Wynne, although they knew him to be but the phantasm of a man.

Their purpose, however, in watching was to follow the ghost, and as it mounted its shadowy horse they all gave chase.

It was a wild sight to see these young men following the apparition, who pursued his course through the wild woods apparently unconscious that he was being followed.

For three miles he rode, and then drew rein by a low cliff which overhung the stream. He dismounted, took the bundle of papers from under his cloak, and hid them beneath the stump of a tree, whose roots flung themselves in fantastic shapes from the side of the cliff. Then he mounted his horse again, with a smile of triumph on his ghastly face, rode up the precipitous bank, and had nearly gained the brink, when his horse missed its footing, rolled over backwards with its rider, and both disappeared into the turbid water below.

The ghostly horse quickly emerged and galloped away, but the shade of Wynne Clarge, its rider, rose no more.

A search was made in the low cliff for the missing documents relating to the Benwell estate, and they were easily found; but having lain in a damp cavity impregnated with lime for two years, they fell to pieces as Rayner grasped them, and all that remained in his hand was an undecipherable pulp.