Michael and All Angels. MDCCXXXIX


Of the date he was a little uncertain. The ‘Hand’ had lost its ‘n’ and
‘d’; and all the ‘Angels’ rain had erased. He was not quite sure even
of the ‘Stranger.’ There was a great rich ‘S,’ and the twisted tail of
a ‘g’; and, whether or not, Lawford smilingly thought, he is no
Stranger now. But how rare and how memorable a name! French evidently;
probably Huguenot. And the Huguenots, he remembered vaguely, were a
rather remarkable ‘crowd.’ He had, he thought, even played at
‘Huguenots’ once. What was the man’s name? Coligny; yes, of course,
Coligny. ‘And I suppose,’ Lawford continued, muttering to himself, ‘I
suppose this poor beggar was put here out of the way. They might, you
know,’ he added confidentially, raising the ferrule of his umbrella,
‘they might have stuck a stake through you, and buried you at the
crossroads.’ And again, a feeling of ennui, a faint disgust at his poor
little witticism, clouded over his mind. It was a pity thoughts always
ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches. ‘“Here lie ye bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier,”’ he began murmuring
again—‘merely bones, mind you; brains and heart are quite another
story. And it’s pretty certain the fellow had some kind of brains. Besides, poor devil! he killed himself. That seems to hint at brains...
Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ he cried out; so loud that the sound of his
voice alarmed even a robin that had perched on a twig almost within
touch, with glittering eye intent above its dim red breast on this
other and even rarer stranger. ‘I wonder if it is XXXIX. ; it might be LXXIX.’ Lawford cast a cautious
glance over his round grey shoulder, then laboriously knelt down beside
the stone, and peeped into the gaping cranny. There he encountered
merely the tiny, pale-green, faintly conspicuous eyes of a large
spider, confronting his own. It was for the moment an alarming, and yet
a faintly fascinating experience. The little almost colourless fires
remained so changeless. But still, even when at last they had actually
vanished into the recesses of that quiet habitation, Lawford did not
rise from his knees. An utterly unreasonable feeling of dismay, a
sudden weakness and weariness had come over him. ‘What is the good of it all?’ he asked himself inconsequently—this
monotonous, restless, stupid life to which he was soon to be returning,
and for good. He began to realize how ludicrous a spectacle he must be,
kneeling here amid the weeds and grass beneath the solemn cypresses. ‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ seemed loosely to express his
disquiet. He stared vacantly at the green and fretted gravestone, dimly aware
that his heart was beating with an unusual effort. He felt ill and
weak. He leant his hand on the stone and lifted himself on to the low
wooden seat nearby. He drew off his glove and thrust his bare hand
under his waistcoat, with his mouth a little ajar, and his eyes fixed
on the dark square turret, its bell sharply defined against the evening
sky. ‘Dead!’ a bitter inward voice seemed to break into speech; ‘Dead!’ The
viewless air seemed to be flocking with hidden listeners. The very
clearness and the crystal silence were their ambush. He alone seemed to
be the target of cold and hostile scrutiny. There was not a breath to
breathe in this crisp, pale sunshine. It was all too rare, too thin. The shadows lay like wings everlastingly folded. The robin that had
been his only living witness lifted its throat, and broke, as if from
the uttermost outskirts of reality, into its shrill, passionless song. Lawford moved heavy eyes from one object to another—bird—sun-gilded
stone—those two small earth-worn faces—his hands—a stirring in the
grass as of some creature labouring to climb up. It was useless to sit
here any longer. He must go back now. Fancies were all very well for a
change, but must be only occasional guests in a world devoted to
reality. He leaned his hand on the dark grey wood, and closed his eyes. The lids presently unsealed a little, momentarily revealing astonished,
aggrieved pupils, and softly, slowly they again descended.... The flaming rose that had swiftly surged from the west into the zenith,
dyeing all the churchyard grass a wild and vivid green, and the
stooping stones above it a pure faint purple, waned softly back like a
falling fountain into its basin. In a few minutes, only a faint orange
burned in the west, dimly illuminating with its band of light the
huddled figure on his low wood seat, his right hand still pressed
against a faintly beating heart. Dusk gathered; the first white stars
appeared; out of the shadowy fields a nightjar purred. But there was
only the silence of the falling dew among the graves. Down here, under
the ink-black cypresses, the blades of the grass were stooping with
cold drops; and darkness lay like the hem of an enormous cloak, whose
jewels above the breast of its wearer might be in the unfathomable
clearness the glittering constellations.... In his small cage of darkness Lawford shuddered and raised a furtive
head. He stood up and peered eagerly and strangely from side to side. He stayed quite still, listening as raptly as some wandering
night-beast to the indiscriminate stir and echoings of the darkness. He
cocked his head above his shoulder and listened again, then turned upon
the soundless grass towards the hill. He felt not the faintest
astonishment or strangeness in his solitude here; only a little
chilled, and physically uneasy; and yet in this vast darkness a faint
spiritual exaltation seemed to hover. He hastened up the narrow path, walking with knees a little bent, like
an old labourer who has lived a life of stooping, and came out into the
dry and dusty lane. One moment his instinct hesitated as to which turn
to take—only a moment; he was soon walking swiftly, almost trotting,
downhill with this vivid exaltation in the huge dark night in his
heart, and Sheila merely a little angry Titianesque cloud on a scarcely
perceptible horizon. He had no notion of the time; the golden hands of
his watch were indiscernible in the gloom. But presently, as he passed
by, he pressed his face close to the cold glass of a little
shop-window, and pierced that out by an old Swiss cuckoo-clock. He
would if he hurried just be home before dinner. He broke into a slow, steady trot, gaining speed as he ran on, vaguely
elated to find how well his breath was serving him. An odd smile
darkened his face at remembrance of the thoughts he had been thinking. There could be little amiss with the heart of a man who could shamble
along like this, taking even pleasure, an increasing pleasure in this
long, wolf-like stride. He turned round occasionally to look into the
face of some fellow-wayfarer whom he had overtaken, for he felt not
only this unusual animation, this peculiar zest, but that, like a boy
on some secret errand, he had slightly disguised his very presence, was
going masked, as it were.