The Story of a Skull

A quarter of a century ago there were still to be seen in the outer
suburbs of London many good old roomy houses, standing in their own
ample and occasionally park-like grounds, which have now ceased to
exist. They were old manor-houses, mostly of the Georgian period, some
earlier, and some, too, were fine large farmhouses which a century or
more ago had been turned into private residences of city merchants and
other persons of means. Any middle-aged Londoner can recall a house or
perhaps several houses of this description, and in one of those that
were best known to me I met with the skull, the story of which I wish
to tell.

It was a very old-looking, long, low red-brick building, with a
verandah in front, and being well within the grounds, sheltered by old
oak, elm, ash and beech trees, could hardly be seen from the road. The
lawns and gardens were large, and behind them were two good-sized grass
fields. Within the domain one had the feeling that he was far away in
the country in one of its haunts of ancient peace, and yet all round
it, outside of its old hedges and rows of elms, the ground had been
built over, mostly with good-sized brick houses standing in their own
gardens. It was a favourite suburb with well-to-do persons in the city,
rents were high and the builders had long been coveting and trying to
get possession of all this land which was "doing no good," in a
district where haunts of ancients peace were distinctly out of place
and not wanted. But the owner (aged ninety-eight) refused to sell.

Not only the builders, but his own sons and sons' sons had represented
to him that the rent he was getting for this property was nothing but
an old song compared to what it would bring in, if he would let it on a
long building lease. There was room there for thirty or forty good
houses with big gardens. And his answer invariably was: "It shan't be
touched! I was born in that house, and though I'm too old ever to go
and see it again, it must not be pulled down--not a brick of it, not a
tree cut, while I'm alive. When I'm gone you can do what you like,
because then I shan't know what you are doing."

My friends and relations, who were in occupation of the house, and
loved it, hoped that he would go on living many, many years: but alas!
the visit of the feared dark angel was to them and not to the old
owner, who was perhaps "too old to die"; the dear lady of the house and
its head was taken away and the family broken up, and from that day to
this I have never ventured to revisit that sweet spot, nor sought to
know what has been done to it.

At that time it used to be my week-end home, and on one of my early
visits I noticed the skull of an animal nailed to the wall